by M. K. Wren
“Damn!” Kim barely managed to keep herself and the tray upright. “Lise, please—keep this dog out of the way.”
Lise’s cheeks reddened, but before she could get a word out, Lucas turned on his crooked smile as he relieved Kim of the tray. “I’ll take that, Kim. Heather’s just not used to having so many people around.”
“Yes, I know,” Kim replied, managing a smile. “And I guess I’m just not used to having animals underfoot.”
Lise called Heather and said coolly, “We’ll get out of your way, Kim. Will, come on up to the studio, and I’ll give you that preview.”
That incident hinted at the tensions under the surface, but as the afternoon progressed it was the only such revelatory incident, and when Lise and Will returned a short time later, she was obviously ready to play the game again.
The game might be called Peace in the Family, and all the members seemed willing to play, even Al. At least Al was willing to remain, on the whole, silent. The players’ success at the game was achieved mainly by carefully avoiding any personal subject. There was some discussion of politics in which Will, seconded by Conan, served as devil’s advocate in this predominantly conservative group. There was also some discussion of the old-growth forest controversy, with Mark expanding on the court cases brought by “preservationists” that as head of Ace Timber’s legal department he was forced to deal with, and even there a light tone was maintained. Lucas described his new project in Los Angeles, comparing notes with Al on the technical problems of blasting out a hole big enough for a three-story, underground parking structure. Al seemed ready enough to offer his expertise, although he was reticent about his own ongoing projects.
Conan watched Lise, who seemed always to be smiling, and sometimes it was genuine. It was usually Lucas who elicited that kind of smile. Otherwise her smiles had a distinct fragility about them.
Lucas’s smiles were frequent, often turning into laughter. It all seemed relaxed and easy, but Conan sensed method behind the smiles. He regarded Lucas with grudging admiration as he worked this crowd. Lucas knew these people, knew what worked for them, even his father. A. C.’s attitude of wary doubt gradually shifted to wary hope. He told Conan once, “Never thought I’d see it—all my boys together again. Hell, who says you can’t teach a young dog old tricks?”
But not everyone was convinced. Al seemed to be constantly watching Lucas, usually over the top of a can of beer, as if waiting for his brother to make a mistake. Kim was a gracious and solicitous hostess, but Conan had the feeling that she knew exactly where Lucas was and exactly what he was doing at any given moment.
And Conan overheard Mark say to Tiff, “Lucas always could charm the bark off a tree. Or the money out of an old man’s pocket.”
Tiff, wielding her needle with an abandon no doubt inspired by her fourth Scotch and soda, laughed and said, “Oh, sweetie, now don’t you worry about Lucas.”
Conan didn’t find out what she meant by that assurance. At that moment, Kim brought out a platter of inch-thick, T-bone steaks ready for the grill. While the other guests expressed amazed anticipation, Tiff said, “Dad, don’t cook one of those for me, I mean, the cholesterol, you know, not to mention the calories, and besides, I really have decided I just can’t in good conscience eat any sort of meat, you know.”
A. C. began forking the steaks onto the grill, and the sizzling scent was ambrosial. “Well, Tiff, I wouldn’t think of corrupting your body or your conscience. There’ll be plenty of salad.”
Demara Wilder seemed always at Lucas’s side, with his hand in hers or his arm around her. She seldom spoke, but she watched, and her sensuous mouth was ever on the edge of a cynical smile. Yet it was clear that Lucas occupied her attention at a more basic level, as she did his. There was between them something that suggested they occupied a private pocket of space/time, and everything going on around them was only peripheral to their intense physical awareness of each other.
“Pheromones,” Will commented as he pulled up a chair and sat down next to Conan.
Conan laughed. “Undoubtedly.”
“Even Al seems susceptible.” Al was sitting on one of the lounge chairs, one hand as always occupied with a can of beer, a faint smirk stretching one side of his mouth as he watched Demara. Will added wearily, “But Al is always susceptible, unfortunately.”
Conan didn’t comment on that. Al King’s susceptibility to attractive women was no secret, but Conan guessed that in Demara’s case it was highly ambivalent and that Al was more preoccupied with his prodigal brother than his attractive escort.
At five o’clock, with the cool shadows of the firs on the banks of King’s Creek reaching across the lawn, A. C. went to the bronze bell, grabbed the rope attached to the clapper, and shook it vigorously. The clear tones echoed in the ebbing afternoon as he shouted, “Come and get it!” Then he returned to the grill, and Kim passed out plates, while A. C. deposited a sizzling slab of beef on each one, filling requests for rare, medium, and well-done from various positions on the grill.
Finally A. C. took his place at what he apparently considered the head of the table—the south end nearest the grill—while Lucas seated himself at the opposite end, and the other family members arranged themselves along the two sides of the table. Conan ended up on the east side between Demara and Loanh.
It was a hearty and simple meal, the steaks augmented with baked potatoes, hot rolls, green salad, and a Tualatin pinot noir for those who didn’t opt for beer. Tiff served herself a plateful of green salad, sans salt or dressing. Conan surmised she was not only concerned with her health and the welfare of animals, but was on another of her diets. She weighed, he guessed, little more than a hundred pounds, and it was obvious that her optimum weight was perhaps twenty pounds more, but she fought constantly to maintain her fashionable emaciation, despite the fact that now that she had reached her fourth decade, the effect of this hard-won slimness was simply scrawniness.
The chill in the mountain air whetted appetites, and the business of eating and drinking seemed to require everyone’s full attention. The table was made festive with the lighted candles in their glass chimneys, but there was little conversation, except when A. C. again brought up the subject of tomorrow’s hike up King’s Mountain.
“Al, did you check the gear like I asked you?”
“It’s all there and ready to go, Dad. Art saw to that, probably.”
“Will, how about you? City life make you too soft for a little hike?”
Will laughed at that. “Life in my part of the city has made me damned fast on my feet, A. C. But I can’t make the hike tomorrow. Jayleen’s due any minute now. I’ll have to drive out to find a phone to check on her tomorrow morning.”
“Jayleen? Patient of yours?”
“Yes. First pregnancy. She’s a little nervous.”
Tiff gave that a high-pitched laugh. “Well, she should be nervous. Oh, if I’d known what I was getting into when I got pregnant, but you know, you just forget all the agony once you have that little mite of new life in your arms, and you feel—”
“How about you, Lucas?” A. C. asked, cutting Tiff off as if he hadn’t even noticed she was speaking. He probably hadn’t.
Lucas looked down the length of the table at his father with a warm smile and said quietly, “Dad, I wouldn’t miss it.”
A. C. nodded, and it seemed he wanted to respond, but instead cleared his throat and turned to Mark, who was staring at his plate, his knife gripped hard in his right hand. A. C. said irritably, “Well, Mark won’t be going, that’s for damn sure. Conan? You still game?”
“Of course. I need the exercise.”
Al sliced a bleeding gash in his steak. “Conan, you know, you don’t really have to go. You could just stay here and relax. Spend some time with Lise. Besides, it’s sort of a family tradition….”
The reference to Conan’s spending time with Lise had Will sitting bolt upright, but Conan was focused on Al. Perhaps he was trying to be diplomatic, yet the e
mphasis on family was obvious. Conan might have taken the hint, but A. C. glared at his son and said curtly, “Conan is Henry Flagg’s boy, and that makes him family. I invited him to come on the hike, so if he wants to, he damn well can.” And with that, the subject was dropped, obviously settled in A. C.’s mind.
By the time the meal was finished, it was after six o’clock. The only light in the sky was a pale, golden pink glow behind the hills to the west, and the chill in the air was reaching the point of discomfort. A. C. sighed with repletion as he rose. “Well, gentlemen, we’ll just let the womenfolk tend to the cleaning up while we go inside for a brandy.”
It was said with a straight face, but Kim laughed. “It’s a good thing the menfolk around here are so much all thumbs in the kitchen that I’d go out of my mind having any of you there. Well, ladies, let’s get at it.” She rose and reached for the empty tray on the side table and handed it to Tiff. “Why don’t you collect the glasses, Tiff?”
She stared at the tray. “Oh, Kim, I just can’t have anything at all to do with detergents, you know—they’re just disastrous for my skin.”
Kim had both hands full of plates as she headed for the French doors. “We have a dishwasher, Tiff.”
The other “womenfolk,” including Demara, set to work with apparent willingness. Conan decided that any offer of assistance he might make would only muddy the waters, and with the other “menfolk” retreated to the living room.
The room materialized out of the twilight as A. C. switched on the lamps on the end tables. It was an impressive space, at least thirty-five feet long. It was in fact three rooms in one. Just inside the French doors was the dining area with its long, oak table under another octagonal, wrought-iron chandelier; then the living room in the center, divided by its furnishings into two conversational groupings—two couches, each flanked with end tables and arm chairs—one facing the fireplace on the south wall, the other facing the windows that ran the length of the north wall; and in the southeast corner, the bar with its burl counter and three barstools. On the wall behind the bar, a glass case displayed A. C.’s collection of vintage firearms.
Like the rest of the lodge, the living room was a showcase of craftsmanship, including the magnificent grandfather clock to the left of the fireplace. The color scheme was determined by the muted ochre of the beamed ceiling and paneled walls, and by the dark gray basalt of the fireplace. The couches and chairs were upholstered in gray leather, the drapes made of gray wool, with Haida raven symbols woven in threads of ochre, black, and red. The walls seemed oddly barren, with neither bookshelves nor paintings. The only painting in the lodge, as far as Conan knew, was Lise’s watercolor of Mount Hood in the atrium.
Once the women had carried all the dishes through the swinging door to the right of the fireplace, Al closed the French doors. A. C. went to the bar and flicked on the overhead light spotlighting the armory behind glass, and Will and Conan busied themselves building a fire. Lucas watched all this activity from one of the armchairs. When Mark made his way to the couch, sank into the cushions, and laid the crutches beside him, Lucas asked, “That ankle hurting you, Mark?”
Mark sent him an oddly exasperated look. “No, not anymore.”
Finally, with the fire burning well, Conan sat down on the couch, and Heather leapt up beside him and settled with her head on his thigh. He smiled and stroked her head, glancing toward the bar, where Al perched on one of the bar stools. A. C. served the promised brandy, then sank down in the other armchair and began the ritual of lighting his pipe. Conan took out his cigarettes, a little surprised to see that Lucas also smoked. Mores, in fact, which was also Conan’s current brand. He wondered who smoked the Marlboros. An open pack was on the end table next to A. C.’s pipe paraphernalia.
For a time A. C. led a desultory conversation on such scintillating—and safe—subjects as the weather, especially the El Niño effect in the Pacific that had resulted in a six-year drought in the Northwest that was devastating forests as well as farm lands. From the kitchen came the sounds of voices, occasional laughter, and the murmur of the dishwasher. The conversation in the living room was lagging into uneasy silence, when the clock’s Westminster chimes rang out seven o’clock. Lucas came to his feet and said, “Come on, Dad, let’s put on some of your records, and when the ladies are done in the kitchen, we’ll get down to some serious dancing.”
The idea appealed to A. C., who responded with a self-conscious “Right on!” It had no appeal to Al and Mark, but Will got into the spirit, and while A. C. and Lucas went to the stereo on the angled wall between the entryway and the bar to look over the records, Will and Conan rolled up the rug between the couches to make a small dance floor.
“Take the ‘A’ Train” was the first selection, and the lively beat wrought a magical transformation. After a few bars, the kitchen door opened and Kim led the women out. Laughing, her blue eyes sparkling, she reached for A. C.’s hand, said, “This is more like it!” and the two of them took to the dance floor.
Lucas and Demara joined them, and a few minutes later, Will and Lise. Mark shifted to stand with his back to the fire so he could watch, while Tiff sat on the wide hearth ledge, clapping her hands to the rhythm. Only Al was unmoved by the music, and he remained glued to his bar stool, with a can of beer seemingly glued to his hand. Loanh went behind the bar to mix herself a gin and tonic. Al watched her silently, but she left the bar without even glancing at her husband, and crossed to Conan, who was standing by the fireplace. She brought forth an uncertain smile and asked, “Would you like to dance, Conan?”
“I’d be delighted.” He led her out onto the makeshift dance floor, which was crowded now with four couples on it. Under the influence of the music and the laughter around her, Loanh seemed to relax. So exquisite, Conan thought, so slight and pliant in his arms, following his lead with graceful precision, and when she smiled, he understood why Air Force Captain Al King had been so captivated that he brought an Oriental bride home to his father. Conan could imagine her in the traditional silk ao dai looking like a princess out of an exotic fairy tale.
But many years had passed since the dashing captain had swept this princess off her feet and carried her away to his homeland. Conan wondered why this fairy tale seemed to have no happy ending.
A. C.’s collection of records was probably priceless, but to him it was simply the music he loved, the music of his youth. Glenn Miller, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Les Brown, Duke Ellington, Woody Herman, Harry James, Benny Goodman, Count Basie, Artie Shaw—the 78 rpm records slapped down on the turntable, one after another. The volume was high, and the sound had a rasping edge, but it had a salutary effect on this tension-riddled group.
It precluded all but the most minimal conversation, for one thing, and since Kim set the pattern of constantly changing partners after the first record, it created a constantly changing mix that left little time for anything but the most innocuous small talk. And the rhythms were so compelling, they demanded physical exertion that siphoned off much of the tension.
But the exertion had the disadvantage of increasing everyone’s thirst, and the bar was perhaps too well stocked. Conan danced more than once with Tiff, and every time it became increasingly difficult to lead her, and her high-pitched laughter verged on the hysterical. Even Lise got happily tipsy as the evening wore on. Once she hugged Conan as they danced and said, “Oh, isn’t it wonderful? Everybody together and having a wonderful time. I remember Mom taught us kids how to dance with this music, and I loved it even if it was passé even then.”
Kim was quite sober, he found, but she did in fact seem to be enjoying herself. Nor was Demara at all tipsy, despite the quantity of Scotch she consumed. She even carried her glass with her when she danced with Conan. She kept glancing at A. C. with that sensuous, cynical smile, but all she said about him was, “The old man’s showing a lot of life yet.”
It was Loanh in whom the unresolved tension was most evident, and Conan was surprised to see how much alcohol she wa
s putting down. She was quickly passing the point of tipsiness.
It was after eight when A. C. called a short intermission while he sorted through more records. Conan crossed to the French doors to open one of them. Lucas joined him, apparently for the cool, fresh air, and said, almost as if it were a confidence, “It’s great to see Dad having such a good time, isn’t it?”
Conan agreed, then waited. Lucas had more to say, and finally he got to it. “You know, Conan, I hardly ever agree with Al, but you don’t really need to feel obligated to tag along on the hike tomorrow. I mean, it’s not your tradition, after all. It’s Dad’s.”
He didn’t add that it was a family tradition, but again the hint was obvious. Conan said, “I know, Lucas, but it’s your dad who invited me.”
The music started again with “Begin the Beguine,” and Lucas saw Demara approaching. He shrugged, and the two of them whirled out onto the dance floor.
Kim and Will joined them, and Conan avoided Tiff’s eye like a busy waiter as he headed for the bar in search of something to slake his thirst, but Lise intercepted him. “Dance with me, Conan.”
“Always my pleasure, Lise.” He guided her to the floor, opting for a slow step despite the quickness of the recorded rhythm. The edge was off Lise’s tipsiness, he noticed, and off her happiness. “What is it, Lise?”
“Was Lucas asking you not to go on the hike tomorrow?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Are you going?”
“Do you want me to?”
She nodded soberly. “Yes. I’m worried, Conan. About Al, really. I don’t know what’s eating at him, but I know he’s not glad to see Lucas home or to see Dad welcoming him.”
She spoke so quietly, Conan had to lean close to hear her. He saw Will looking over Kim’s shoulder at them with an expression of hurt defeat. Conan realized he needed to have a long talk with Will, but now he asked Lise, “Is whatever’s bothering Al something new?”
