by Rex Pickett
“Hah, hah. What was she buying?”
“Case of Krug.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said, eyes widening. “What was the occasion?”
Graham started to respond, but abruptly halted midsentence, his eyes darting furtively over my shoulder in the vicinity of Jack.
I turned quickly and snatched a brief glimpse of Jack raking his hand through his mop of hair as if he had just short-circuited a gesture to Graham behind my back.
Getting the message, I said, “Okay, okay, I’m over it, all right? I’m a very happily single man. A glass of wine, a crusty piece of baguette, a good book, and I’m fine.”
Jack and Graham exchanged smirks, and refrained from digging the needle in any deeper. It had been over a year since the divorce, and I had to admit I missed the little things that marriage provided, the routines that kept my life in check and prevented me from going off the deep end.
“All right,” Jack said, sensing the seismic pitch in my mood. “This place is dead. Let’s get on the road.”
We dispatched Graham upstairs to fetch the case of Byron. For good measure, we augmented the purchase with a case of Veuve Clicquot. We said our good-byes to Graham and Carl and then headed out to the parking lot, each with a case weighing down our arms. We piled them into the back of my 4Runner, the vehicle we had designated for the trip. I started automatically for the driver’s side, but Jack grabbed hold of my shirt collar and yanked me around.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where’re you going? I’m driving, Homes.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to spend the first night bailing you out of the tank.”
“Give me a break. I’ve hardly wet my whistle.”
Jack exploded into laughter. “You’re sideways, brother. Scuffling with Jerry, asking Dani to come with us. Goodness gracious.”
“What’s wrong with asking Dani to come with us?”
“Give me the keys, Miles.” Jack extended his hand and cocked his head to the side. Chastened, I surrendered the keys, then circled around to the passenger side and climbed in.
Jack fired up my 4Runner, turned onto Seventh Street and headed north. I rolled down my window, poked out my head, and let it loll on my arm. It was an unseasonably warm evening. The sky was an uncursed expanse of deepening blue and the air was pungent with the smell of the ocean. We cruised through ritzy Brentwood, whose sprawling, tree-shaded homes depressingly reminded me of my station in life, then turned on to San Vicente Boulevard. My gaze followed the wide grass median, where entertainment people jogged back and forth to maintain their ageless physiques and vent their frustrations with the movie business. It fled past me in a blissful wine-hazy blur.
On Sunset Boulevard, we forded the overpass and looped onto the 405 North. The freeway was thick with weekenders heading off to B&B’s in Santa Barbara and other exclusive sybaritic hideaways north. We stayed in the slow-moving river of vehicles until we splintered off onto the 101 cloverleaf and made our way west. The sun was lowering in the sky, obscured by mist and smog. Its waning rays cast a harsh reflection on the mirrored and tinted fenestration of the city without end and beat mercilessly
“You’ve got to wash this windshield,” Jack said.
“I haven’t had time. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
Jack turned on the wipers and squirted cleaner fluid on the windshield. For a moment we were blinded by the water-smeared dirt and the blazing low-horizon sun. In those few blinding seconds, the traffic in front of us had slowed and Jack, recovering his field of vision, slammed on the brakes and angled sharply into the emergency lane to avoid a pileup.
“Jesus, Jack,” I said, rattled. “Jesus.”
“Relax,” he said, starting up again. “I got it under control. Think if you’d been driving.”
I shot him a reproving look, still upset about the scuffle with the dentist, the dark-headed woman’s apparent lack of interest in me, the mention of Victoria being sighted at Epicurus by foul-mouthed Graham, my landlord’s threatening words, and the beautiful buzz that was now diminishing.
“So, did you talk to your agent?” Jack asked, trying to kindle a conversation.
“Yeah. Evidently, there’s a flicker of interest from a publisher I’ve never heard of. Well, maybe more than a flicker. In fact, you’d be shocked to learn that I’m vaguely hopeful for once.”
Jack’s face relaxed and he broke into a smile. “Good. When will you know?”
“End of next week. You get married, I get a publishing deal. Life is sweet,” I said sarcastically.
“Well, you deserve something good to happen.”
I smiled and squinted through the sun at the road ahead. Jack and I had collaborated on an independent film more
The traffic thinned as we continued up the 101 bound for Santa Barbara, the highway ribboning out in front of us with the promise of fun and adventure. The sun had dipped below the edge of the horizon and the sky was growing violet. Headlights started to snap on and the surrounding landscape broke out in a burning neon-lit iridescence, bringing to life a traveling city of light.
“Hold the wheel a sec,” Jack said. I grabbed the wheel with my left hand and kept us on course as Jack reached behind the seat and rummaged around in his duffel bag. A moment later he produced a bottle of wine. He handed it to me proudly as he reclaimed control of the wheel.
I held the bottle up and my eyes widened when I saw the label: Chateau Latour—1982. “Where’d you steal this?”
“It was a gift from the lead on the show I’m directing. She gave one each to the entire staff. Is it any good?”
“Is it any good? It’s a fucking ’82 Latour. One of the great vintages of the last fifty years, from one of only six grands crus chateaus in Bordeaux, is it any good? The Wine Advocate rates it a hundred points. And it’s drinking beautifully right now, I understand—of course how would I know, right?”
“Open it up,” Jack said, unimpressed.
I turned to him with an openmouthed expression of shock. “Are you joking? This wine will get angry if you don’t open it in a dark, quiet room, decant it and pour it into proper stemware, and pair it with a slab of very rare prime rib. It might spit in your face at such inadvertent contempt of its greatness. Andrea Immer would burst an aneurysm.”
“Who’s Andrea Immer?”
“Wine guru I’m besotted with. Of course I’ve only met her on TV.”
“You and a million other wine geeks, probably,” Jack jested.
“When my book gets published I’ll be able to afford the rare Burgundies to romance her.”
Jack laughed. “Well, then open up a bottle of that Byron bubbly. I’ve got a mighty thirst that needs slaking.”
“On the freeway?”
“Fuck yes on the freeway.”
I clambered into the back and slipped a bottle out of one of the cases.
“There should be a couple of glasses back there,” Jack said.
I found two flutes, uncorked the Byron, filled them to overflowing and handed one to Jack. “It’s warm.”
“Who cares?” He held his glass back to me and we clinked. “Here’s to a great week.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“It will be,” Jack promised.
I stretched out in the back and sipped the Byron. “What do you think of this?” I asked.
“I like it,” Jack said. “If it’s a hundred percent Pinot, how come it’s not a rosé?”
“Jesus, Jackson, don’t ask questions like that up in the wine country. They’re going to think you’re a fucking philistine.”
“Just tell me, wiseass.”
“The juice is free run. Color comes from the skin. There’s no skin contact in the fermentation, i.e., no color.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” Jack said. “Damn, it’s delicious, though.” He drained his glass and reached it around for a refill. I obliged.
“We’ve got to make a quick stop in Montecito,” I announced.
“Montecito? What
the fuck for?”
“My mother’s.”
“Your mother’s? I didn’t know you had a mother,” he cracked.
“It’s her birthday today.”
“It’s your mother’s birthday today?”
“Yeah. That’s what I just said. It’s her birthday, and it would be remiss of me to drive right past her house, she being recently widowed and all and probably all alone on this special occasion, and not wish her a happy birthday.”
Jack softened. “Did you get her a present at least?”
“I’ll give her a bottle of the Veuve. She likes champagne.”
“That’s not a birthday present for your mother. Jesus, Miles. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”
“I can’t afford a real gift, okay? So don’t rub it in.”
“It’s going to be late when we get to Santa Ynez.”
“I know. I know.”
We continued west on 101, as the sky darkened to night. On our left, the Pacific glittered like crumpled tin foil under a waxing pale yellow moon. Approaching the eastern end of Santa Barbara, I directed Jack to an offramp that took us up into the hills of Montecito, an affluent bedroom community. In the commercial district, Jack searched around for a florist, grousing that it wasn’t right to show up for my mother’s birthday without flowers. He finally found a small corner shop, its entrance overflowing with flowers, parked the car in a loading zone, and marched in without me. Inside the brightly lit shop I watched Jack asking advice of a middle-aged man with a bushy moustache. My thoughts drifted desultorily to mostly unpleasant topics.
A moment later, Jack returned carrying a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses swaddled in green wax paper. He thrust them at me. “Here,” he said. “Tell her you love her.” He started up the car and slipped it into drive. “After all, she gave birth to you.”
“I’m supposed to thank her for that?” I deadpanned. Jack merged back into traffic. “You’re dyed-in-the-wool, brother. If you met Mr. Happiness he’d fold his tent and pack it in.”
“Mr. Happiness is an illusion created by pharmaceutical companies.”
Jack laughed, nearly losing it on a hairpin turn.
My mother lived a comfortable life in a small two-bedroom house on a terraced street that commanded a panoramic view of the ocean. The beautiful vista didn’t much matter to her anymore: after my father died of a stroke she hardly ventured outside at all. She no longer drove and I suspected that some weeks her only human
I was clutching the dozen roses and Jack had a bottle each of the Veuve and the Byron bubblies when my mother answered the door dressed in a nightie. She had once been a beautiful woman, vaguely reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman, but age and drink and loneliness had conspired to make her appearance a little frightening with her Bride of Frankenstein hairdo, pallid complexion, and rheumy eyes that didn’t move in tandem. It was only 7:30 when we showed up at her doorstep, but she was already a little sloppy, tottering in her nightgown and furry mules, and it took her a couple of seconds to recognize her only son.
“Mom. Happy Birthday!” I handed over the roses.
The flowers were almost too cumbersome for her and she pressed them clumsily to her chest. “Oh, they’re so beautiful, Miles,” she sang in a lilting voice. “Thank you.” She looked over and focused on Jack. “And champagne.”
“Veuve Clicquot,” I said. “Your favorite.”
“Oh, this is such a nice surprise. I didn’t think you were going to come.”
“I told you I was, Mom.”
“And I can’t remember you ever giving me flowers before.”
Jack sneaked one of his disapproving looks at me and shook his head in a tight motion. The excitement of new voices—any voices—startled my mother’s Yorkie into a yapping frenzy.
“Snapper, you be quiet,” my mother scolded her rambunctious
“Mom, this is Jack. He’s the one I told you was getting married.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Raymond?” Jack came forward and greeted her. “And Happy Birthday.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Oh, call me Phyllis, please, you make me sound so darn old.” She pushed the door open and stepped aside. “Come on in.” Snapper tilted his head up and barked once. She looked down and shook a finger at him. “Now, you be quiet. Go get your comida.” Snapper scampered away, barking up a storm.
We followed my mother inside. She moved dreamily as if she were a somnambulist, gliding along on her slippered feet. I hadn’t been to visit in a while, but her house had remained unchanged. The living room was sparsely furnished and impeccably neat. Her hardwood floors were so heavily waxed that her dog slid five feet every time he tried to apply the brakes. Along the darkened hallway leading into the kitchen I found the same pictures and mementos, representing a kind of loose chronology of the Raymond family, crowding the pastel-colored walls.
As my mother disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, Jack and I lingered over some of the family photos. Jack was particularly interested in a color-faded one of me, circa age twelve, posing in a blue and green Little League uniform and cradling a Louisville Slugger at an angle, buck teeth protruding forward in an unabashed wide-mouth smile.
“Is that you, Homes?” He liked to call me Homes. I could never quite pinpoint its origin, since I was white as a Swede, but no doubt it had sprung up one night when we’d had a few too many.
“Don’t laugh. I hit .450 that season and led the league with eleven home runs and made the All Stars.”
“You were still a scrawny punk. Thank God your parents had the presence of mind to fix those pearlies. Jesus, man, you look like a walrus.”
Eager for a drink, we caught up with my mother in the kitchen. She had rooted out three dusty Marie Antoinette glasses and said gaily, “Oh, let’s go out on the patio. It’s such a nice night.” The tone of her voice gave the impression that going out on the patio was an adventure for her.
I found a mop bucket, filled it with ice and water, and brought it outside where Jack and my mother were already seated around a glass-topped table, talking animatedly. I eased into a plastic chair that was hard on my ass, and I took in the scenery. My mother’s backyard featured a small, kidney-shaped swimming pool that glowed turquoise and emitted a miasma of steam, hot water that never really required heating since nobody ever swam in the forlorn thing. Bougainvillea crawled riotously helter-skelter up a high fence, hermetically sealing my mother off from the outside world. Cloistered in this little garden paradise, without my father around, she was quietly going insane, and I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness every time I visited her.
We let the champagne chill in the ice bath and made small talk. My mother wanted to know all about Jack’s upcoming wedding and he gave her an earful of maudlin rot.
When the bottles were decently cold I pulled out the Byron and removed the wire capsule. “The secret to opening Thfft emitted, as the cork came free.
“Oh, Miles,” my mother said. “Don’t be so crude.”
“Yeah,” Jack chimed in, laughing.
“Some French champagne expert once calculated the number of bubbles in a bottle and determined that the way most people open champagne they lose half of them in the uncorking alone.”
“Pour us a glass, Dom Pérignon, before you lose the bubbles,” Jack said, picking up a glass and extending it.
I filled the ghastly Marie Antoinette glasses right to the rim and we raised them in a toast, clinking them all around, wishing my mother more Happy Birthdays.
“What’s for dinner, Phyllis?” Jack asked.
“I’ve got a beeeuuutiful roast chicken,” my mother crooned, the champagne already starting to go to her head.
“Fantastic,” Jack said. “Are you expecting other company?”
“No,” my mother replied. “Just Snapper.”
Snapper heard his name and barked acknowledgment. A short back-and-forth ensued between him and my mother until he finally sat on his haunches and quieted.
“Well,
I’m glad we could make it,” Jack said. “You shouldn’t be alone on your birthday.”
“So, you’re really getting married?” she said to Jack, slurping her champagne none too daintily to ward off the emotion I could sense behind her eyes.
“Yep,” Jack replied. He leaned toward me and hooked an arm around my neck to yank me nearer to him. “And your Miles is going to be my best man.”
My mother raised her glass, losing about half her champagne in the process. Jack planted a wet kiss on my cheek. I recoiled and he released me. We sipped the Byron and refreshed our glasses as needed. Crickets chirred in the bougainvillea while shadows of palm fronds towering overhead swayed slowly across the brightly lighted pool. The sky had been sapped of its final spectrum of blue and had silently surrendered to a faint scintillation of stars that appeared like the eyes of nocturnal wildlife watching us from the dark.
My mother, susceptible to even the tiniest amounts of alcohol, began to grow animated. “I was down in San José del Cabo with my girlfriends,” she was saying. She stopped, put a finger to her lips, looked all around, then whispered conspiratorially, “Now, don’t tell your father this, Miles.”
“Dad’s dead, Mom,” I said solemnly, hoping to hoist her back to reality.
She gazed heavenward. “Oh, he hears what we’re saying.” She crooked a finger at his hovering spirit. “I know. Doesn’t he, Snapper?”
Jack and I exchanged raised eyebrows, then Jack silently mouthed: let it go. When I looked down I noticed that Snapper, who had come out to rejoin the party, was also looking up at the sky, rapt in my mother’s dottiness.
“Tell us the story, Mom,” I prodded, “before ghosts start materializing out of the bougainvillea.”
“Oh, you be quiet. It’s my birthday. I’m having fun.” She pointed her champagne glass at me and glared over it. Snapper barked, echoing her reproach.
Jack and I shared a laugh at my mother’s expense, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Tell us the story, Phyllis,” Jack said.
I filled our glasses. My mother fortified herself with another sip, then revved up her risqué little anecdote again. “We were staying at the Palmilla. Beeeuuutiful old hotel. Oh my gosh! We met this gorgeous Mexican man. I think he was some kind of movie star.”
