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One of my principles has always been: if you're my friend's friend, then you're my friend. That is, until I met Ray's Grandma!
Let me put things into context. Ray is one of those "closer than a brother" [1] friends -- a quotation that good old Brother Jones managed to weave into most of his sermons, and that always brought a tear to his eye. Last year, on my 18th birthday, Ray gave me a card with these words: "To my only friend: Men in going through the world make many acquaintances, but out of these they have a few special objects of esteem, whom they call friends. If they think to have many friends, they are, probably, misusing the name" [2]. We were friends indeed -- his American enthusiasm seemed to form a perfect contrasting balance with my calm British dignity. It seemed as if nothing could spoil this friendship.
But last Sunday Ray called me to visit his old Grandma with him. Well, of course I accepted -- if she's Ray's Grandma, she's almost my Grandma. In blissful ignorance I rode into the jaws of death!
Mind you, she seemed genuinely happy to see me, and was very pleasant and courteous. She was small and frail, but had a surprisingly strong handshake. In almost every detail she seemed to be normal, bland, almost dull -- except for her eyes! The old Irish poets wrote about "eyes like a wild Irish sea", but they had never seen her eyes! She could have started a tsunami with those eyes, I'm telling you!
As I automatically started eating some peanuts from a tin on the table, she bent over and whispered ("hissed" would be a better word) to Ray: "How nice and English is your friend, Albert!" (whatever she meant by that!).
Ray gently corrected her: "I'm Ray, Granny."
"That's all right, dear." She was patting his hand as if he was a little schoolboy who hadn't done his homework properly. "I'm not like your parents -- I've come to accept these things, you know. And anyway, I've know since you were a little boy!" And she looked over at me with those deep, deep eyes of hers, as if we were all partners in crime, all three of us.
"Known what, Granny?" Ray asked, a humorous look on his face.
"Why, Albert, that you're gay."
The old witch was smiling gently, and only her eyes showed the sadistic pleasure she felt as Ray stammered and stuttered that "of course he was not a sinner in God's sight", and "how could you think that of me, Granny?" And when she turned to me again, because I'd chocked on the peanuts, it seemed as if her eyes were going to reach out and drown me in that terrible ocean!
"Are you all right, son?" I was still getting my breath back, but I managed to signal that I was "fine, thanks." I felt like screaming "And please stop looking at me with those eyes!"
Still smiling gently, she continued to torture me: "Have some more peanuts, dear."
But all I wanted was to leave as soon as possible. "No thanks" (I managed to sound calm and polite) "I'm finished."
"Oh, you went fishing! How nice. Only you and Albert, I suppose." And the old hag actually winked at me.
"No, no, I've had plenty", I replied, raising my voice a little.
"Oh, you caught twenty? Twenty fishes, I suppose." She was doing it on purpose, pretending to be deaf just to embarrass me.
I shouted now: "I'M FULL!"
"Goodness me, all in the one pool? That's splendid!"
By this time I was red in the face, my hands were trembling, and I think my whole body was shaking. I leaned as close to her ear as I dared, and yelled: "I don't like your stupid peanuts!"
The old gorgon laughed gently and delivered the knock-out blow: "Neither do I, son. Actually, after I lost my teeth I just suck the chocolate off them and leave them in that tin."
Ray can't understand why I bolted then, vomiting as I went. Oh well, maybe he is gay.
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Quotes:
[1] Proverbs 18:24 (from the Bible).
[2] Spurgeon, Charles H. The Spurgeon Collection, Vol 1, page 53. Emerald House, 1998.
