She paused to blow a wisp of hair with flour specks in it off her damp forehead. Today the indoor temperature was intolerably warm, even for someone as thankful as herself. She finally put aside the dough she had been rolling and wiped the perspiration from her face with the edge of her apron. Then she removed her floundering barrette and refashioned a handful of spirited red hair into its clasp.
Rudy, who looked cool and smooth in spite of having been up since 3 A.M. to see Jeter off, was buttering a tray of freshly turned-out croissants. He gave Mavis an apologetic smile, shrugging, “I have called them. They say there is nothing they can do.”
Mavis huffed, “Mr. Tillman could have fixed it. Who ever heard of a radiator that has only one temperature—the temperature of hell.” She wiped her face again, “We won’t make it through another winter.”
Rudy and Mavis continued working a while longer.
Then Rudy ventured, “You know Denny from Dwight and Denny’s Secret Garden? I am not sure he is giving Dwight my messages.”
Mavis stared at him, “I believe I was laying out the idea that we won’t make it through another winter.”
Rudy reached for another stick of butter. “He tells me always Dwight is in with the flowers. I think there may be something still between them.”
“Well, of course there’s something between them. They have a secret garden together. Where the hell have you been?”
Rudy gave her a long look that said he did not appreciate her sarcasm. He placed a hand on his hip, allowing himself to be more flamboyant with Mavis than anyone. “Perhaps I should move myself to a new place where I might be respected by, say, a Miss Sara Lee.”
“Just so you know, she’s not a real person. I’m a real person.”
“Yes. You are a queen and I am your slave.”
“Oh, so you did read your employee contract.”
The lock of hair was back in her eyes, but she smiled at him anyway. Rudy cocked an eyebrow in her direction, putting a lid on this particular dish of conversation that would be served up again throughout the day, the basic ingredients varying only slightly.
Inside the duck blind, the three men and the boy were as quiet as children sleeping in a backseat. Every so often, they listened hard for any sound, however distant, that might be approaching them from the other side of a chilled, wintry silence. But so far, there had been nothing other than the grating noise of Brundidge blowing on the little duck caller that Mr. Case had said carried the perfect pitch of a mating call.
Wood had taken to giving Brundidge a look of disdain.
Brundidge finally said, “I think this thing’s scarin’ them off. Hell, we’ve been here an hour and a half and haven’t attracted one damn duck.” Jeter, lying on his back, said, “Maybe they don’t find us…sexy.”
Mavis was at the counter, waiting on Corinne Carlson, a woman who was so southern and nice, she often apologized just for being in your presence.
“Don’t get the sun-dried tomato croissants. Get the blue cheese pecan bread.”
No sooner had she spoken than Milan entered, ringing the little bell on the door, breathless, perfectly turned out, her heels clicking as she crossed to the counter.
“There you are! Thank goodness you’re here!” Then, as Milan noticed Corinne, she adjusted her voice to a more dulcet tone. “Oh, hi Corinne. Could you excuse us for just a moment?”
Mavis protested, “Milan, I’m in the middle of an order, here.”
Corinne smiled. “No, it’s okay. It’s fine, really.”
Milan said winningly, “It’s an emergency.”
Mavis apologized, “I’m sorry, Corinne. I’ll be right back. Rudy, can you cover?”
Rudy crossed to the counter. “Oh sure. Rudy can cover. I’m only in the middle of making six dozen chocolate-pistachio toile cups, which could go poof at any moment.”
Mavis called back, “Give Corinne a sample of that pecan bread.”
Corinne protested, “Oh no, really, that’s way too much! I couldn’t possibly—bless your heart! Well, at least let me pay you…”
Mavis and Milan huddled as Corinne’s conversation played in the background.
Milan started. “She’s getting a divorce.”
“Who?”
“Her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she told me. I invited their whole family for Thanksgiving.”
Mavis raised her eyebrows, “Why?”
“Because we have to get together, Mavis. We have to face this. You know, sometimes the church is booked a year in advance.”
Mavis was incredulous, “They’re staying at your house?”
“No, the Holiday Inn. But he’s not coming. They’re getting a divorce! Can you believe it? I really am like Job. Next I’ll have sores all over my body.”
“You should stop teaching Sunday school, Milan. It’s making you overly dramatic.”
“You’re coming.”
“To what?”
“Thanksgiving! Besides the food, you can help me keep the conversation going.”
“You don’t need me. No conversation has ever died in your presence.”
Milan dug in her purse for her keys, “I have to get to the grocery store. Do I look all right?”
“You look like you’re about to read some minutes. Is that all right?”
“Just forget it.” Milan prissed toward the door. “I get so tired of you saying what I look like.” Then, as she turned back, “By the way, did Brundidge and Jeter go duck hunting today?
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because Wood was up at four and now Charlie’s missing too.”
Rudy overheard and answered, “Everybody went. They were wearing combat outfits and carrying guns. It was all very Hemingway.”
Milan said cheerfully, “Oh. Well, good. Now we can have ducks for Thanksgiving.”
Milan left, ringing the little bell again on her way out.
Corinne spoke with her mouth full, “Mavis, this bread is simply delicious.”
“That’s the last of it. You can have it.”
“Oh, my gracious. You are just too kind. Really, I can’t thank you—”
Mavis cut her off. “You’re welcome. Just don’t send me a damn note.”
Mavis was watching Milan through the window, struck for the first time by how small her friend seemed. From the front, Milan was all confidence and bravado, but from behind she looked like a little girl sashaying around in her mother’s high heels. Suddenly, Mavis hugged herself and felt cold for the first time all day.
In the duck blind, Brundidge was refilling his and Wood’s coffee mugs as well as the bottle from Jeter’s wheelchair. Charlie nursed a soft drink as Jeter, who was still lying with his face to the sky, completed the recitation of a poem.
…Where rivulets danced their wayward round
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
Brundidge attempted to run a straw to Jeter’s mouth as Wood joined in a manly, deep-voiced duet.
Thus nature spake—The work was done,
She died and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been.
And never more will be.
Brundidge spoke as he picked up his own drink. “Now that’s a damn good poem! Of course, iambic pentameter is always better when enhanced with a little early morning screw-damn-driver.”
Jeter smiled. “Mr. Wordsworth from ‘Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower.’ Or, as it is better known today, ‘Four Guys Doing Diddly-shit in a Duck Blind.’”
Charlie was impressed. “How do you remember all that stuff?”
Brundidge said, “Are you kidding? Look at him. If your head was that big, you’d remember everything, too.”
Wood turned to Jeter. “So, you written any masterpieces lately?”
“Nah. I sent something out a few weeks ago. Still waiting to hear.”
Some birds passed overhea
d, but they turned out to be cranes. Brundidge was getting wound up. “You know what your problem is? You’re not commercial. Poetry doesn’t sell for shit. You need to write one of those deals like a screenplay. We’d be so rich! I can tell you the exact title right now.”
Intrigued, Charlie asked, “What?”
Brundidge milked the silence, then said grandly, “Three words. Barbie, the Movie.”
There was a long pause as the others pondered this. Then Wood said, “You mean, like a cartoon?”
“Hell, no. Real people.”
Jeter used a smile you would give to a drunk. “I think it’s been done.”
“No. It hasn’t been done! I’ve been thinking about it for years! We should put together a financial cartel—ordinary men bringing Barbie to life. You copy her little car, her little wardrobe, her little shoes…”
Wood asked, “What time did you start drinking?”
“There isn’t a person in America who wouldn’t go see that movie. Am I right, Charlie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
Wood spoke up, “Because he’s never thought about it. Who the hell thinks about shit like that?”
“I do. It’s a damn genius idea! And think of the sequels. You put Ken in there—whoa! Now you’ve got Barbie and Ken in a real-life love scene!”
Jeter said, “Mattel’s not gonna let their dolls screw.”
Wood added, “That’s right. Anyway, Ken hasn’t got anything.”
Brundidge was out of patience. “What do you mean?”
“Look inside his pants.”
“Oh, I see. You don’t think about shit like this. But you have time to look inside Ken’s pants.”
“I’m a doctor. Anyway, ask Charlie. He knows about Ken.”
“It’s true. He hasn’t got much.”
Now Brundidge was apoplectic. “We’re not talking about dolls, damn it! We’re talking about people playing dolls that screw! Have you never heard of an independent film! What the hell’s wrong with you people?”
The ducks would probably have shown up anyway, but the point is they didn’t until Brundidge started yelling and Wood, exasperated, had grabbed the little masterpiece duck caller out of his hands and begun blowing loud enough to drown him out. The response was immediate—at first, just a few distant calls coming from the north, but little by little, the sound and the number of ducks grew until the sky had grown almost dark. Charlie, Brundidge, and Wood picked up their rifles and began firing.
Between shots, Brundidge shouted, “Holy shit! What did you do?”
Wood answered, “It’s not the equipment. It’s how you use it.”
Charlie smiled, content.
People don’t spend much time picturing game wardens, but if they did, Linus Felker would be who they had in mind. He was a tall, beefy, red-cheeked farm boy—the kind who looks like he’s been well loved by someone, probably his mama. Right now, he had everyone pulled out of the van and was contemplating the extremely puffy nature of Jeter’s hunting jacket. Linus set his jaw and made his eyes narrow.
Finally, he said it. “Unzip his coat.”
Brundidge was not happy. “Oh, man, come on. He’s an invalid.”
Linus fixed his gaze on Brundidge, like a father saying, “Don’t make me get my belt.” Brundidge crossed to Jeter and unzipped the jacket. There was almost no sound as a half dozen ducks tumbled to the ground beside Jeter’s wheelchair.
Linus spoke without a trace of sarcasm. “I guess you boys are aware that puts you over the limit.”
There was more silence, then Wood sidled over to Linus and whispered, “I know this looks bad, but I’m his doctor. You see, lately he’s been getting just the tiniest bit of mobility back in one of his arms. It’s like a miracle, really. He hasn’t fired a gun in twenty years. When he saw the ducks coming, he just went crazy.” Wood paused and looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t have the heart to stop him.”
Jeter picked up the story, milking it. “Hey, it’s not your fault. I’m always pushing. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Then, to Linus, “Give me the ticket.”
Linus looked at each one of the men’s faces, sure that he could tell if they were lying. Finally he smiled, satisfied, “No, that’s okay. We’ll let it slide this one time.” Then he put a hand on Jeter’s shoulder, “Just keep on gettin’ better, buddy.”
Brundidge had tears in his eyes from the day’s drinking and the decency of the boy.
Jeter said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
The newly emboldened van was blazing down the interstate, The Eagles blasting from the stereo. Wood, Brundidge, and Jeter joined in on the chorus.
“You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes, and your smile is a thin disguise…”
As the song continued, Brundidge lowered the volume, “Now that’s music, Charlie-boy! That’s what your old man and Uncle Jeet and I grew up on. What are y’all gonna talk about at your reunion? ‘Hey, baby, remember when we danced to’”—affecting a rapper—“‘I kick yo ass, bitch, to the window, to the flo, ’cause you is my ho.’”
Charlie said, “C’mon, there’s all kinds of rap—”
Brundidge glanced at Wood.
“See? It’s too late.”
Wood looked back at his son, “Yeah, it’s always the quiet ones you gotta watch.”
Charlie stared out the window, pleased at the thought that he might be evil.
Jeter said, “Hey, pit stop. Ernest is gonna blow.”
A half mile later, the van was parked on a country road with the doors open. Jeter, in his wheelchair, and Charlie and Brundidge were perfectly lined up next to each other. The Eagles continued singing as Wood pulled the stopper on the opaque plastic urine pouch attached to Jeter’s rolled-up pant leg. Then Wood stepped quickly back into formation. As Jeter’s pouch emptied onto the ground, the three men and the boy rejoined the Eagles, while taking a manly leak in unison.
“I thought by now you’d realize, there ain’t no way to hide your lyin’ eyes.”
CHAPTER 13
Mary Kathleen Duffer—that was her full name—was on her way home for Thanksgiving and feeling more hopeful than she had in years. And she was especially pleased that her son, riding next to her in their little Toyota, was sound asleep. Because it would have required too much effort to keep this new smile off her face. Her only child had found someone worthy of his gifts, and she herself was about to be reunited with an old love. How improbable and fitting that their children had discovered each other when they were not much older than Wood and Duff had been when they first fell in love. For years, Wood had never been far from her thoughts. However, she was not allowing herself to imagine that he might still be thinking of her. In her younger days, she would have had the arrogance to know that he was. But since then life had dealt her enough wrong men that she had lost all her confidence. All she knew at this moment was this: whatever had once gone on between Elizabeth McIlmore’s dad and herself, that crazy high school red convertible kind of ether—well, she had never known anything like it again. Of course, she wasn’t going to do anything about that. But just seeing the man who had once made her heart race as fast as his old Austin-Healy sailing toward the Champanelle River with the top down—that would be more than enough for her. Surely she was entitled to these few pleasant memories on a Sunday afternoon without feeling as though she was betraying her own son.
Anyway, it wasn’t just Wood she was excited about seeing again. It was all of them. Jeter with his sweet open smile, the kind most people saved for a child, but he gave easily to everyone. And dear, tougher-than-boots Mavis, always willing to take on whatever needed whipping. Even Brundidge, whose bourgeois, and, yes, that was a word she used even in high school, sentiments used to so annoy her, she was now looking forward to catching up with. The truth was, she had missed them all. Except, of course, for Milan, in whom she had never found any redeeming traits. Her perfect hair and manners, her tireless committee work,
the doe-eyed way she regarded Wood. How had he stood it all these years—the sheer mud-thick banality of her?
Duff had to admit that she had liked Elizabeth’s forthright manner and unembarrassed enthusiasm on the phone. She actually already reminded Duff more of herself than of Milan. From Luke’s description, Elizabeth seemed like the sort of girl who was going to make the world her home—the sort of girl Duff had once been, back when things were going mostly her way.
She couldn’t remember anymore the exact moment when she had realized her own dreams were not going to come true. It was a gradual thing really, like watching someone who is terminally ill lose a little more ground each day. It had been a surprise to find out that dreams, like people, can simply rot away. Not that she would have worried about it much. Hers was a mellow personality. Unlike Milan, who insisted on making things happen, Duff was someone who things happened to. Part of her charm was her willingness to go where life led her. If Duff had been born a decade earlier, she would have been a highly successful hippie. In the late seventies, there was no one in Paris like her. She smoked Turkish cigarettes and openly cursed in front of the teachers. She never wore makeup or underwear and went around calling Wood her lover. She brooded and wrote poems about menstrual blood and depression. But the thing people still talk about were those riding pants. The ones she started wearing with high, lace-up leather boots before she even owned a horse. When she and Wood were dating, she would show up at school events wearing “the pants” with a white, see-through peasant blouse and a thin layer of perspiration on her upper lip. It had the desired effect of making Milan, strapped into the drum majorette uniform she had worked all summer to buy, feel unsophisticated and silly.
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