Skin Deep

Eric Trujillo

Description

Before you can force yourself to put SKIN DEEP down, you will meet:
-a preacher’s wife and tele-evangelist’s daughter who can cuss like a sailor and punch like Ali,
-The Blue Lady, the Jelly Man, and the Atchafalaya Swamp Monster and her kid,
-A junior psychopath who kills cats and collects their eyes,
-A self-centered Jewish boy who grows up to be an anti-Semitic asshole, eschewing his heritage, his religion, and his people.
A white singer/television personality, dubbed “America’s Sweetheart” by the Press, who gives birth to a black baby in 1950’s Hollywood.
- Princess Margaret, a gorgeous silver Persian cat who must run for her life,
-America’s wealthiest black family whose billions put Oprah’s billions and Trump’s “millions” to shame.
-A mule named Caliste who saw Satan once and never wants to see him again!
And:
-Two teenaged boys, one black and one white, who meet, fall in love, lose touch, and reconnect years later to solve a cop’s murder.
You will also take a trip on an unpiloted wooden sailing ship on a rough sea and witness the stench, the rats, and the degradation of the Middle Passage from Africa.
SKIN DEEP introduces the reader to a coterie of characters: Pirates andPilgrims, satyrs and centaurs, handack trees, space colonists, and much, much more.
SKIN DEEP is a novel you will want to go on and on forever.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Work of Art: The Next Great Artist
• Skin Deep
• Adventure
• Fiction
• Action

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 09 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669846802
• Langue: English

Extrait

SKIN DEEP
 
VOLUME 2
 
 
 
 
 
 
Eric Trujillo
 
 
Copyright © 2022 by Eric Trujillo.
 
ISBN:
Softcover
978-1-6698-4681-9

eBook
978-1-6698-4680-2
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 11/03/2022
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
818036
CONTENTS
Will Eckland’s Story
Ciminee Sucks!
The Music Saved Me
The Legend Of Fernand Catash And The Devil
The Death Of Noly Catash
The Matangaland Saga (Part 2)
The Matangaland Saga (Part 3)
The Matangaland Saga (Part 4’)
The Matangaland Saga Continues
The Matangaland Saga (Continued)
The Matangaland Saga (Continued)
The Matangaland Saga—Part 5
Victor & Evangeline
Joe The Barber
Chris & Rochelle Pipsair
WILL ECKLAND’S STORY
The day Cletus left the Kirkwoods’ home for Memphis was little Willie’s liberation day. His life after that was less stressful and a whole lot happier but the damage of years of physical and sexual abuse, poor food, and psychological terror had already been done.
Dilsey and Ajax tried to undo what Cletus, Norb, and the other Ecklands had done but that was impossible. Willie had nightmares for years. He had to be taught that there were other ways of repaying favors than by offering sex in return for them. He also had to be taught the difference between “good” and “bad” touch.
Good food, Dilsey’s herbal concoctions, and a loving home and a safe harbor had taken the scrawny, scared boy and turned him into a muscular six-foot, six inch giant by the time he was eighteen, when he left home searching for his older brother, Jesse’s widow.
At eighteen, Will was the closest thing to a living god that the girls at Poinsett County High School had ever seen. He had grown an additional three inches, his hair was the color of old gold, and his eyes were the blue of lapis lazuli.
Everybody who knew Will liked him. He was still painfully shy and self-effacing, but his psychological problems had not really manifested themselves at that time. His coach and several faculty members now offered him a place to stay in their homes, rather than living with the Kirkwoods but he always refused, giving thanks but saying he was fine and comfortable where he was.
Everybody told him he should head directly for Hollywood once he got to California. No one even remembered calling him a white nigger now.
Dilsey, Ajax, and their children said a tearful good-bye to their foster son and brother and wished him well as he boarded the Greyhound bus bound for Los Angeles with a cardboard suitcase and a brown paper bag full of sandwiches and candy for his trip.
Will ended his story saying, they had to go but that they would be in Skylarville a few more days sorting through his brother’s things. “He had a considerable amount of money in the bank. As his only relative, I guess it goes to me.”
“You deserve it,” Andy said. “There’s one other thing. He had a small poodle named Wallace. I’ve been takin’ care of him since your brother was killed. I’d like to buy him from y‘all.”
“Keep him,” Will said. “We’re too busy to have a dog anyway. I can’t see Cletus having a poodle,” he laughed, shaking his head.
We parted from the Ecklunds after that, promising to meet them again before they returned to California.
“We’re at the Bayou Belle Fleur Motel in Skylarville, Room 108,” Will said, as they parted in their rented car.
****
Andy returned home to bathe and change clothes. I returned to Creswic House to do the same. We met at Andy’s house at six o’clock and at six-thirty; we started out for Belle Glade. I drove Andy’s Firebird rather than take two cars. Andy sat in the passenger’s seat, noticeably tense.
I liked the wonderful road feel of the midnight blue coupe. Besides, I thought that it fit Andy’s personality so well in that it was a very masculine, highly sensual automobile. This car just screamed “sex.”
I had noticed the mounting tension in Andy during the day and was glad that the meeting with the Ecklunds had lasted so long. It gave Andy a chance to think of something other than the forthcoming meeting with his father.
Jolie-Marie Bourgeois had urged her son not to tell his father about the relationship that he and Wayne had developed. “Just do whatever y’all want,” she said, “an’ don’t flaunt it.”
I thought that John Bourgeois should know about the two of us and be allowed to make his own adjustments to the reality of the situation but I told Andy that I would abide by whatever decision he chose.
Andy also felt that his father should be told about our relationship. He said he did not feel right keeping anything as important as this from his father. Also, he did not want it to seem like such a “dirty little secret” and that he was ashamed to tell his father about it. Still, he seemed to dread the actual meeting and probable confrontation between him, his father, and me.
As I drove, words were few and far between. I traveled the distance holding Andy’s hand when it was not occupied with the gear shift. I wanted Andy to know that he had my support in whatever may come. I, too, hated the impending confrontation.
We drove down the grade from the roadway and onto the short driveway. John Bourgeois’ van was parked under the carport. There’s no turning back now , I thought. “You know, you don’t have to tell him right now if you don’t want to,” I said, noticing his face and feeling the tension in his hand.
“I want to,” Andy replied. “I have to. Wish me luck.” He gave me a quick kiss and my hand a long, squeeze. I noticed that the hand had now become warmer and had begun to sweat, even in the Firebird’s blasting air-conditioning.
Andy licked his lips and mustered his courage to enter the home in which he had grown up.
“It’s show time,” I joked. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Andy said, opening the passenger-side door and stepping out into the sweltering inferno.
Jolie-Marie hurried out of the house to greet us when she heard the Firebird pull into the driveway. She wiped her hands nervously on a flimsy yellow and white apron. She held a large cooking spoon in her hand. She was about to say something when her husband appeared behind her.
“T-Beau?” he said. “I didn’t ‘spect to see you tonight. Som’pn the matter?” He stopped briefly to greet and shake hands with me but kept his eyes fixed on his only son. Worry lines appeared around his eyes and mouth. His wide brow knitted.
“No, Pa,” Andy said, “nut’in’s wrong.” His Cajun accent returned when he was around his parents. Andy shook hands with his father and tried to manage a smile. He then kissed his mother on the cheek. “Hi, Ma,” he said.
Jolie-Marie also greeted me and invited us to stay for supper, which, she said, was ready.
We filed into the house, Jolie-Marie, me, Andy, and, last, John. We took places at the small circular dinette set in the breakfast room off the kitchen.
“If I’da known y’all were coming, I’da set the big dining room table,” Jolie-Marie said. She brought in the food immediately. The chicken gumbo and the dirty rice entrée were excellent and I told her so. She smiled weakly and thanked me for the compliment.
“I thought you’d be back in Chicago by now, Ween,” John Bourgeois said.
“I decided to extend my stay,” I replied. “Andy’s helping me with the story I stumbled onto when I got here. It’s been a working vacation, really.”
“RC Eck’s murder?” John inquired.
I nodded. “Yes sir,”
“If I was you, I’d leave that one alone, yeah. Whoever killed Eck knew jus’ what the hell they was doin’. Me, I t’ink it was the Syndicate,” he said.
“You may be right but I can’t stop now. I need to know who did it and why,” I said. “I’m a newsman. That’s what I do for a living.”
“I don’ believe we ever lost no newspaper men in deese swamps, no, but I tell you what, mon fils , you keep pokin’ your nose where it don’ belong an’ you might be the first.”
“I’ll try not to be the first, Mr. Bourgeois, but those are the risks you take.”
Jolie-Marie brought out breaded veal cutlets and served each of us two. “Ween, you a big guy. I c’n make you an extra one if that’s not enough.”
“No thanks, Mrs. Bourgeois,” I said.
“What’s this?” John Bourgeois said, noticing our rings as we cut our meat. “Y’all both got on the same ring. Zale’s have a sale? Lemme see, T’Beau,” he demanded, perplexed. We both showed our left hands to him, sort of like two children caught playing some forbidden game.
“These are real pretty but why’d y’all got the same exact ring, an’ why they on y’all’s weddin’ fingers?” he asked, still not comprehending their significance.
Andy took a swig of beer and spoke. “Pa, we came here tonight ‘cuz we wanted you and Ma to know that we’ve decided to share our lives together.”
“Like Claire an’ Teri?” John asked as both full comprehension and naked truth stared him in the face.
“Yeah,