Giant Men and Violent Women

Her First Mistake

PRESLEY ANN

It's not that I'm afraid. Heavens no. I'm not afraid of differences. I'm intrigued by them. That's why I can enjoy my prison workers instead of fearing them. I would not murder anyone. They would. That's the difference. That difference intrigues me. And so it is with Ashley. His and my differences fascinate me.

So, it's for this reason that I sit with Ashley in Bub Bar in Roxbury and sip a Bub Black Coffee, which isn't black at all. Cinnamon ice cream and a half-shot of tequila complete it. We received it in a clear mug with a cinnamon stick propped in it—tasty, beautiful, and festive. Not what I was expecting from Roxbury. Ashley sips one as well as we lean back in our chairs—wobbly-legged but sufficient.

The live music and the coffee are why we came. The bar is dark, and the music is blues. The crowd is mature, relaxed, and friendly. I know this because, periodically, a man will come to Ashley's and my table, excuse himself for interrupting our laughter, and then ask how much Ashley is charging per orange rosebud.

"Two dollars," Ashley says.

The man hands over two singles, and Ashley hands over an orange rosebud. Ashley then stuffs the loose bills in my coat pocket as we laugh all over ourselves. It's the tequila. Could be the coffee. The joy of the caffeinated energy and the inhibition of the tequila have created bliss for us tonight. No matter if we're talking about music—he loves reggae-folk, and I love blues-rock; food—he loves barbecued moose, and I love grilled lamb; or vacations—he loves San Francisco, and I love LA—everything is deliciously delirious as we find any and every reason to lean our bodies into each other and laugh.

Right now, his arm drapes around my shoulders, and I'm leaning into him. I've asked him about his lost years—the time during which he lived in Boston while attending St. Bernadette's Boarding School. Those are the years I only saw him at The Grand New Hampshire Christmas Ball and the Fourth of July picnics on Martha's Vineyard.

"I lived on the other side of town," Ashley says, pointing across the room to reiterate that the side of the city we sit in now is nothing like where he grew up. "St. Bernadette is on the other side of Boston. This long stone trail leads up to a set of iron gates that are manned by fifteen armed guards."

"Fifteen?"

"Well, you gotta figure, the children of presidents and governors and secretaries of states are boarding there. The school was always one ransom note away from war. Ya know? So, once you make it through the gates, you're transported back to eighteenth-century Darling where they tried to scare you to death with religion. You had the gargoyles on the roofs, the stone buildings with the crucifixes on them, the gas lanterns that flickered in the wind, the priests and nuns walking around with rosaries, and of

course, the occasional stray cat to bring it all together."

"I thought the Braggs went to St. Clemmons on Martha's Vineyard. So, when I heard you were going to St. Bernadette, I figured it was some kind of punishment or something."

"The story is, my parents and Mercer's parents decided to send their kids to Boston because, in their opinion, St. Clemmons was admitting anyone who was eligible."

"Ah...no exclusivity anymore."

He shrugs before taking a sip of his coffee. "You know how we are in New Hampshire."

I decide not to ask any more questions. For what I know of Ashley's great-grandmother, Minnie, I know that she's a tough cookie, but I'm not too familiar with Ashley's other family members. I know what most people know of them. I wasn't in their inner circle, just the outer one, so I was nowhere near the epicenter or force field of attraction. I wasn't privy to classified information or their family's nuclear codes.