Windwhistle Bone

by Richard Trainor

  Ram remembered back to their childhood, when Fran’s fascination with things mechanical and constructed first enraptured him. He’d been given an Erector set for Christmas, the first Christmas the Le Doirs spent in Sagrada without the old man, and Fran fell in love with building things and making them function. There was certitude in it that seemed to comfort him, Ram remembered thinking at the time, and Fran would spend whole weekends constructing cranes and conveyor belts and other such machines, drawing into himself and away from the emotional storms of his mother and brothers, who tended to externalize their feelings.

  Fran looked up from the saw and saw Tor and Ram watching him. He had a blank look on his face, and then he smiled.

  “This band saw is unbelievable, Tor. The whole shop is, but this thing is remarkable. We’ll save a lot of money with this.”

  Tor nodded, lit a Pall Mall, and smiled. “I knew you’d like that one. I had Blair buy it at an auction in San Jose.”

  “Hey, Ram, I didn’t see you. How are you?”

  “Okay”

  “How was Mexico?”

  “Nice. How was Colorado? Where’d you go?”

  “A little town called Telluride.”

  “How was that?”

  “It was OK. Nice little town, sort of an Old West thing. The skiing was good.”

  “How long did you stay there?”

  “Ten days. Where’d you go in Mexico?”

  “Puerto Peñasco… I went to Sagrada first, bought a new car and drove it down there.”

  “What was Puerto Peñasco like?”

  “Pretty nice. Cheap.”

  “Come on, I’m starving,” said Boswell, leading the way down Mission Street with Ram followed by Fran in his truck. They stopped at The Tampico. Bochs and Doc were waiting for them. They took a table and ordered a pitcher of margaritas. Fran and Bochs and Doc were talking Endymion business while Tor went and called Suzie from the pay phone. Ram sat listening but not fully understanding the flow of the conversation. He downed his margarita and refilled his glass from the pitcher…

  The last scenes Ram played with Fran looped through the spool, the images flashed on the screen…

  …It rained heavily from Gila Bend through Yuma as they headed to San Diego, raindrops the size of golf balls, similar to the rain in Atlanta that day when they transited through there on their way from their dad’s home in Brooklyn heading to San Francisco after returning from Amsterdam. That was the last time they’d seen the old man. Now they’d been summoned by Old Fran’s wife, a Jewish nouveau riche grand dame full of airs and pretensions who Ram disliked and Fran tolerated. Her name was originally Florence Bildstein, a thrice-married New Yorker, and she’d been with the old man for nearly a decade. When she called the night before, it was to tell them that their father was fading fast from the cancer that had spread from his liver to his stomach.

  Ram was sick with fever so Fran did most of the driving. Past Yuma on the Anza Borrego, the rain stopped and Ram’s fever broke. The brothers switched positions just outside Alpine and Ram drove the rest of the way to the Navy hospital in Coronado where the old man was dying. When they got there, Peter and Kelly and Flo were all there, standing around Fran in his hospital bed.

  He was hooked up to catheters pumping liquids into him. A breathing tube was taped under his nose. Along the walls, a number of machines with electronic screens monitored his progress. He was sleeping when Ram and Fran entered the room. The wife hugged them both, as did Kelly. Peter grimaced as he shook hands. Peter asked Fran to come outside with him, leaving Ram alone with the old man when the women stepped outside.

  The old man was hardly recognizable. His skin was yellow-orange and his head was distended into an almost peanut shape, giving him a comic appearance, save for the tubes and screens suggesting otherwise. There was a weird smell in the room, strong and bitter, like cabbage that had gone off. The old man’s eyes opened and he saw Ram standing alongside his bed. “This is a helluva way to die,” he said. “Where’s Flo?”

  …It went on like that for ten days, ten days of vigil while the old man rotted from cancer, stinking like bad cabbage, ten days of unacknowledgment of his youngest son which Ram’s brothers and stepmother likewise imitated. Every evening when they returned to the old man’s condo alongside the golf course in Rancho Santa Fe, the rest of the family, including Old Fran’s just-arrived sister, Hazel, would gather at the dining room table to drink and discuss the old man’s deterioration while Ram sat nearby, reading Ladies and Gentleman, Lenny Bruce.

  They were all in the hospital room when the old man crossed over. He and Ram had exchanged maybe two dozen words between them by then. Before checking out, the old man reached his hand out to Ram. “You’re not really such a bad son,” he finally said.

  The family drove north from San Diego to Los Angeles for the funeral. They stopped in San Clemente for lunch at a fancy restaurant. Ram noticed Rose Mary Woods and Alexander Haig seated at a nearby table.

  The funeral was at some Catholic church in Santa Monica. The priest who conducted it didn’t know Old Fran from Adam. It was mercifully brief. Then they were on the lawn of Westwood Veterans Memorial. The grass was blinding green with a citron tinge that made it sickeningly bright. The honor guard was a bunch of guys in their sixties who’d been shanghaied from the local legion hall bar. They all had tremors like the old man did. Their noses were road maps of broken veins; their cheeks sallow with red gin blossoms. Around the grave, the dirt was ochre-colored. One of the old guys blew a gaseous Taps. The red-white-and-blue was folded into a triangle and handed to the old man’s widow. When the service was over, the vets bummed cigarettes from Ram and snuck off to the side where they had a flask. They all took a sip and offered it to Ram who accepted the flask and took a pull. Then they shoveled the dirt into the black hole in the field of citron green.

  Afterwards, they all went to someone’s house for a Le Doir style wake—thin on the food and thick on the booze. A couple hours later, Ram was at LAX, headed north to Sagrada where Jaime was waiting for him at the airport. Four days later, he was driving through the desert at 100 mph in his new Ford Ranchero heading to Mexico.

  …Fran was sitting opposite him holding a margarita. They continued sipping, waiting for Tor’s return. When he did, they drained their drinks and ordered another pitcher. When they finished it, Tor drove Ram back to Bracero where Ram napped long enough for the alcohol to wear off. When he awoke, he took a shower, had coffee, and drove back to Refugio heading toward the Union.

  It was a glorious afternoon, with scattered cirrus clouds tinged with rose and lemon and lavender at the edges. Turning left onto North Meridian, Ram passed Bee’s and the bell tower. He was lucky and found a parking place in front of the Union. It was noisy and packed when he entered. Above the din, Ram heard his name being called.

  “Yo, Ram, back here man. What’re you drinking?”

  Above the crowd, Ram could see Phil Sussman halfway down the bar.

  “I’ll take a Steam.”

  Ram shouldered through the crowd of men and women in their twenties to where Phil was standing. Behind him, Ram saw Milo and Cisco.

  “How long you guys been here?”

  “Since happy hour,” Milo said.

  “No, we been here three beers,” said Cisco. “And the first was before happy hour.”

  Phil shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ Cisco,” said Phil to Ram. “He should have been a fucking accountant.”

  Cisco laughed, patted his belly, and tugged on his handlebar. His eyes glowed merrily with the delight he took in being right. Milo stood gloomily alongside while Cisco basked. Ram sidled up to Milo and whispered. “Don’t let him get to you, Milo. He’d correct you if you asked what time it was and you said three o’clock. Cisco would say no, it’s 3:05. He’s an asshole sometimes, but don’t sweat it,” Ram said, giving Milo’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Milo laughed and Ram ordered a beer.

  “C’mon, we’re up,�
�� said Phil.

  The four moved to the pool table in the smoky room adjoining the bar. Phil racked, Cisco broke and sunk a stripe.

  “We got big ones, Le Doir,” said Cisco. “Eleven in the corner.” He lined it and drilled it home.

  “Uh-oh, Cisco’s on tonight,” said Phil.

  “I believe I am,” said Cisco. “Fourteen, side.”

  The cue ball lightly kissed the green stripe and the ball tumbled into the side pocket. Phil came over and stood next to Ram.

  “You gonna come to this party with us?”

  “I don’t even know what it is.”

  “Some theater thing over at Oscar’s house. I think it’s that Tuna Christ thing he’s doing,” Phil said smiling and rolling his eyes.

  “Oh, that,” said Ram. He knew about the play although he’d never seen it. This was the second year of its production and it was already becoming a legend. It was a hippified version of the passion play, with a black Christ and a real prostitute playing Mary Magdalene. It was lurid and scandalous with plenty of nudity. Audience participation was encouraged in the flogging and crucifixion finale.

  “We’re going to the clubhouse first,” said Phil. “Milo’s got something he wants to share, right?”

  Milo’s eyes beamed. He nodded. “Something primo,” he said.

  Cisco ran the rest of the table and drilled the eight into the corner on a cross bank. “That’s a buck from you and Milo,” Cisco said to Sussman.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Phil, peeling off two bills and laying them in Cisco’s hand.

  The trucks trailed one another through the dusk light of East Cliff, winding past the Boardwalk with its still dormant roller coaster and shuttered casino, climbing the bluffs on the other side of the river mouth, past the yacht harbor and the radio station on piers in the lagoon with red lights blinking. In the avenues, the fog was rolling in. When they reached Sally’s house out in the Point, it was so thick the place was barely visible from the road. Ram pulled into the driveway and parked on the left. Phil pulled into the right alongside him.

  “Kinda spooky, hey, Ram?” said Phil.

  Ram got out of the car and looked up. But there was nothing to look up to; the fog ceiling was directly above him. “Yeah, kinda.”

  Milo and Cisco started for the clubhouse, leaving Ram and Phil standing in the driveway.

  “It reminds me of something or some other day in another place,” Ram said, looking up. “But I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what that is.”

  “C’mon, you guys. Cisco’s about to crack one,” called Milo.

  Ram and Phil walked to the guest house, its windows flickering with candlelight. When they entered, Cisco was standing in the center with a bottle of one of his home brews.

  “This is a good one,” said Cisco. “It’s a Watney’s type ale. Kinda bitter but very rich and very strong,” he said, opening the bottle and pouring a sample into a glass that he handed to Ram.

  Ram tasted it. “It’s good,” he said.

  “Not like that,” Cisco said, pouring himself a sample and demonstrating the proper way the ale should be tasted. Then he was off on a dissertation of how a beer’s flavors and properties came into being. When he was fifteen minutes into it, Phil laughed and produced a joint and lit it. “Try some of this, Cisco, maybe it’ll mellow you out.”

  They stayed through another bottle and then got ready for the party. Ram dressed in his cowboy finest: a black satin Jizz shirt with red embroidered roses, Wrangler boot-cut jeans, brand-new Tony Lamas, and the 5X Bailey beaver with the feathered hat band he’d bought in Scottsdale.

  “Check out Le Doir,” said Milo admiringly. “The boy is stylin’ heavy.”

  “That’s right,” said Ram. “Read ’em and weep you filthy Phillies. Let’s saddle up and ride.”

  “I’m with you, Ram,” said Cisco.

  “No, Milo’s my shotgun,” said Ram. “He called it back at the Union,” Ram lied.

  Cisco’s smile dissolved as Phil steered him to his truck.

  “Thanks, Ram,” said Milo. “I was hopin’ to ride with you.”

  Ram started the Roacho and looked over to Milo. “Look at it this way, Milo. You saved me from another one of Cisco’s lectures, and I’ve heard enough of them.”

  The fog was all the way in now, the light entirely gone. It was dark of the moon and the night was gray-black, misty with rags of fog skittering in and out of the headlights. The two trucks snaked back along East Cliff and descended the bluff along the San Gregorio on the other side of the river. Directly opposite the roller coaster was a two-story Victorian where Oscar Sands’s girlfriend Emily lived. Ram and Phil parked on a side street and walked back to the house. From the street, they could hear the crowd inside as they approached. Ram smiled when he recognized the tune being played. Emily opened the door to admit Ram just as the first verse started: “If I were to gather, all my thoughts together, try to summarize them, the life I’ve led.”

  “You are looking fine, Ram Le Doir,” Emily said, smiling lusciously.

  “Thank you very much, Emily. You’re lookin’ mighty fine yourself,” said Ram, winking and giving her an up-and-down scan, leaning over to kiss her cheek and whisper into her ear. “My God, what an ass,” he said squeezing it.

  Emily threw her head back and laughed. “You could say that’s my best asset,” she grinned. She flashed Ram a flirtatious look and there was a moment between them. Then she recovered and took him by the hand, squeezing past the dancing couples toward the kitchen where Ram could see Oscar Sands in conversation with Timmy Mitchell, his black Jesus lead.

  “Look who just blew in,” said Emily, smiling broadly.

  Oscar looked up from his tête-à-tête with Mitchell and broke into a warm grin. “Well, well, well. Mr. Ram Le Doir, as I live and breathe,” Oscar said, coming over to Ram and hugging him tightly. “My God, you’re a handsome devil, and what a long drink of water, aren’t you?”

  Ram smiled uneasily. He liked Oscar and respected him but he was also a bit leery of him. Ram knew the rumors that floated around Refugio concerning him.

  “Oscar, it’s good to see you.”

  Ram surveyed the living room. Maybe ten couples were dancing and another twenty or so people were crowded onto couches. Another half-dozen or so were going up or down the stairs. Some disappeared into bathrooms or bedrooms, emerging flush-faced and energized with eyes dancing. Someone changed the music from Dan Hicks to Carmen McRae, distracting Ram from his observations of the passing parade. Then he heard a distinctive laugh—sharp and staccato but simultaneously appealing and sweet. He turned in the direction where it came from, searching for its source. Through the thick crowd, Ram scanned the room, searching for the laughter. He found nothing at first. Then came another burst, and through the human knot, Ram found its source.

  She was tall and willowy, dressed in a black floral print dress that displayed her lovely form without being salacious, dark-haired with tight curls whose strands catching the light were mahogany. But from his vantage point positioned diagonally opposite her in the crowded room, Ram couldn’t see her face, could only imagine it. He moved closer to see whether the image implanted through her laughter and form and aureole-like hair was near shouting distance of her real being.

  She far exceeded it. She was long-necked and red-lipped with deep roses on high cheekbones. Her mouth was beautifully formed with full cupid bow lips, her brow, high beneath the mahogany-tinged corkscrewed bangs that covered it. She was surrounded by a small knot of men and kept a number of conversations going simultaneously. She broke into a grin and laughed again, during the course of which, she turned toward Ram and caught him watching him watching her. Their eyes briefly locked and she smiled at him directly. Then she broke it off and reentered the conversations of the retinue surrounding her. When he recovered his composure, Ram looked through the crowd until he found Oscar and moved through it, approaching slowly and stiffly as though he was sleepwalking. He broke into O
scar’s conversation with a lovely young woman and pulled him aside toward the lone vacant corner of the room.

  “What is it Le Doir? What’s the matter?” Sands said, looking back in the direction of the abandoned young woman, winking at her and gesturing for her to wait. “This better be good because you’re keeping me from an appointment with Heaven sent destiny, if you catch my drift.” Sands winked once again at the girl and smiled.

  “That woman,” said Ram.

  “What woman, Ram? There are lots of women here.”

  “That woman,” said Ram, turning Oscar’s attention toward the sound of the staccato laughter issuing forth again from the scarlet lips.

  “Oh, that woman,” said Oscar. “That woman is Miss Vera Dubcek. The beautiful Vera Dubcek, the talented Vera Dubcek. She’s absolutely brilliant, stunningly sexy, often very sweet, but sometimes very difficult, and she’s very difficult to work with. She’s an actress and a director, Ram, one of the best I’ve ever worked with. Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “I would,” murmured Ram.

  Oscar took Ram by the arm and steered him through some dancers until they approached the outer rim of the women’s circle. When they reached it, Oscar steered Ram through the admirers and guided him to a place directly opposite the woman. Oscar paused to kiss her on both cheeks and then whispered something to the woman before bringing Ram forward to formally introduce him.