Their boyfriends, both of whom were from the city, had never visited Willy Mann’s Uncle’s House before and were chattering about sports cars—a little self-consciously, I thought—probably on account of the fact they knew hardly anyone in the place. Yet during a lull in their automotive conversation the novelty of their surroundings appeared suddenly to dawn on them, slicing through the confused haze of their social unease, significant egos, and shared automotive jargon.
“What’s this guy’s name again?” one of them asked me. “This guy’s uncle?”
“Yeah,” the other, taller, drunker one said. “Where exactly are we?”
“Don’t know, guys,” I said, shrugging. “No one’s ever really seen him, except maybe Willy Mann, I guess. He’s got a pretty cool house, though.”
To this they could not help but offer up their assent, and they looked about them—a little more comfortably, it seemed—before taking up their previous conversation. Turning my back on them, I winked at their dates before moving away across the room in search of a refill.
***
One of the great wonders of Willy Mann’s Uncle’s House lay in the menagerie of new faces it offered up week in week out. Some never-before-glimpsed set of features would drift in on a tide, as it were, only to find itself borne away by some invisible current, never to be seen again.
So it was that when I returned with a new drink the couples of my vague acquaintance were gone but in their place stood a girl of ripe and abundant charms who appeared lost, or, in any event, separated from anyone she knew. From the way she carried herself, it was obvious she was proud, as she had reason to be, of her breasts. She was shapely, dark, good-looking, yet it was not so much her prettiness that captivated me as the pronounced naturalness—the comfort with herself—which made her stand out, despite the uncertainty she was experiencing at that particular instant, among the more affected fellow party goers in her midst.
As I zigzagged toward her, evading swaying bodies and disarrayed furniture, I became aware of the familiar electric tremors moving within me and a slight pressure deep in my head. When she discerned my approach she appraised me flatly, and as I arrived at her side, said nothing, waiting instead for me to speak.
“Lost your people?” I inquired.
She nodded coolly but offered no comment.
“It happens,” I said. “This house has a tendency to swallow people. They go down a hallway or disappear into a room, and you just don’t see them again.”
She smiled at this, glanced around, and then spoke for the first time—a breathy voice with a slight twang. “I’ve never seen the like of it.”
I asked her where she was from.
“Nellysford. Born and raised.”
“That’s in the mountains.”
She nodded. “You?”
“This very county. Raised but not born.”
“Doesn’t count then,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“Richmond.”
She smiled. “Ah, city boy.”
I ignored the insult. “I was made there,” I explained. “A long time ago.”
“That’s an odd way to put it.”
I smiled at her, then nodded in agreement. “Best I can do, I’m afraid. Football. All those knocks on the head. Makes the slow ones like me even slower.”