by Ava Finch
He lets go and sighs hugely, then smiles with his piano-key teeth. “I hear you’re doing good things, RayAnne.”
“Do you?” She waits for him to elaborate while stealing wary glances at his lackeys. “From who . . . um, whom?”
“Oh, you know, the old jungle drums, the trapline. So how’s Kermit the Frog working out for you?”
“Kermit?”
“Your new boss—public tee-vee. I’ve heard you’ve gone over to the Obama Care Bear channel.”
RayAnne looks up to the limp port-of-call flags on the fly deck of a massive fishing yacht called Roger Dodger. Such boats are only the heel of Roger’s bread and butter; he also owns a franchise of fishing resorts called Pikers and three cable channels. He sponsors half a dozen pro-sport programs, including Whoppers and his Everglades reality hit Cast-A-Gator, which features a trio of swamp-dwelling families, three brothers the obvious result of intermarriage. Most of their conversations require subtitles to be understood.
Behind his back, Roger is often referred to as Master Baiter.
“Well, Uncle Roger, I understand our numbers are pretty good.”
“Is that so?” He looks at her as if she knows no such thing.
“So I guess Kermit’s doing all right by me.”
“Six figures, I trust? After all, you’re fishing and what? Making girl chat?”
Six figures? “I pay my mortgage.” Girl chat?
Gran would split a seam to hear such talk—it’s so utterly tactless to ask about someone’s means, unless of course they are in need. Simply, there are more important things to know about a person than how much they make. If she told Uncle Roger what the public-television rate for freelancers was . . .
As if on cue, Roger flips the gold-tipped ivory toothpick he keeps stashed in his mouth and slowly telescopes it out between his teeth until it rests on his wet bottom lip. RayAnne is fastened to the procedure—when he starts talking again the toothpick becomes a tiny baton conducting his every word. “I see they got you driving some old sardine can of a boat twice your age—what’s that about?”
“You mean Penelope? We’re going for a bit of class.” She inclines her head to the great fiberglass stern shadowing them. “Style instead of bling.”
His mouth presses to a straight line, and for a second she’s afraid he might pat her head like he used to. “Well, good on you, girl. You ever want to get back into the real deal, you see Uncle Roger when your contract runs out.”
If she admitted she had no contract, he’d probably snort that toothpick right up into his brain, something she’d stick around to watch.
“Bye, Uncle Rodge.” All four of the silent sidekicks watch her walk the length of the dock, the hair raised on her neck every step of the way.
Wielding a Sharpie, Cassi is drawing Snidely Whiplash mustaches on the models in the Mr. Northern Tool calendar. As RayAnne walks up, Cassi is just finishing up with November, who wields a wrench the size of a bat and whose overalls are peeled over his sculpted, grease-smudged torso nearly to his junk.
RayAnne drops her bag. “Mmm, more men.”
Cassi looks up. “Do straight guys wax?”
“Models, maybe. I knew a straight guy who shaved his back with a razor duct-taped to a spatula. Don’t ask me.” RayAnne falls to her knees and digs under the table for her iPad. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”
Cassi brightens. “Hey, wanna get some Thai?”
“Can’t. I have a date.”
“A what?” Cassi blinks like a doe.
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“Gawd, not with someone from here?”
“No. Just this guy I used to go out with—turns out he lives in Chicago, not far. Zack Cartman.”
“Not titty Zack?”
RayAnne sighs, “Yes, titty Zach. He wasn’t that bad.”
“What time you want me to call in case you need an out?”
“Cassi, I think I can handle it.”
RayAnne packs up and girds herself for the trip to the escalator. She’s a few steps away before turning back. “Hey, you know of some musician named Al Borden . . . or Cal Herter?”
“Which, Borden or Herter? You’ve got a little something, strawberry seed maybe, chin.”
“Naturally.” RayAnne swipes it with her wrist. “I probably have the name wrong.” She rarely gets a name right the first time unless she is determined to staple it to memory. If the person has to do with work or is some kind of professional connection, she can retain names like a camel—it’s amazing the things she can remember about the women on the show when some days she can’t recall what her breakfast has been, even when she’s eaten two.
She can remember what Cal or Al or whoever was wearing, though: a blue Henley that strained nicely across his biceps and gray jeans. And what he wasn’t wearing—a ring. Remembering the glove-brace, she frowns and wonders aloud, “What musical instrument can be played with one hand?”
Cassi offers, “Besides harmonica? A bongo? Dunno.”
The restaurant is Italian, the lighting low, a very “date-y” sort of place. Zack is groomed and dressed to impress, wearing an expensive-looking sport coat over a whisper-soft crewneck, identical to one she’d gawked at the day before in the cashmere store. His nails shine, making her wonder if he’s had a manicure. He goes for the double-handed grasp, pulling her close and planting a Euro kiss on each cheek. RayAnne looks down to confirm his jeans are indeed not merely ironed, but creased; some things never change.
Zack scans her approvingly, actually pausing at her cleavage before giving a thumbs-up.
Humor? She can’t tell, but is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He looks sort of . . . flawless. She shouldn’t have worn the dress; it only makes her appear eager, and this is just dinner. In spite of herself, she feels a quivery little thrill. He had been a really great kisser.
They barely get the wine ordered before he’s deep into describing his current work, developing prototype titanium hip and knee replacements and a start-up chain of clinics for the boomers whose joints will all start going to hell around the same time, if he has his way. “You get a crowd of over-fifties all working out? Boom! Spinning class or the five-K run? Joints popping like Orville Redenbacher, and I’ll be there, handing out Z’s Knees at a hundred K a pop.”
“Z’s Knees, is tha—”
“The brand. Like it? I’m working on the branding with an ad agency—in Minneapolis, in fact.”
Reminded suddenly of his knack for commandeering a conversation, she glances at the digits on his watch so that she might time how long it will take before he asks a question directed toward her—about her. He’s quite the talker—not boring exactly, but definitely long-winded. When he shrugs off questions about his mother and brother, she just nods, remembering that he is his own favorite topic. She elbows in a question: “Zack, I always thought you’d end up practicing medicine or doing research?”
“Naw, hardware is the place to be—I had been working in robotic prosthetics, but when Iraq started winding down—and you know the next war is going to be cyber, or at least fought with more drones than combat troops, so there’ll be a lot fewer limbs being blown off . . .”
She sets down her fork in the carnage of lasagna she’s only half finished.
“Uh-oh, sorry. Anyway, robotic replacement limbs and running blades look like a dwindling market for now. So I’m moving on to corroded joints.”
“Are you?”
Which only sets him off again—how he’s funding his new venture by courting capital in Europe and China, where apparently his charm and language skills are winning over some big investors. RayAnne sighs. The entire day has had the oily theme of money about it. When the subject finally looks like it might fizzle, she makes a brief allusion to her own work, but the hint fails, so she plants her chin on her fist once again to stop hersel
f from yawning widely. They’ve wrung the last drops from a bottle of Chianti. In his midtwenties, Zack had been a bit full of himself. Now, closer to forty, he’s brimming over.
At the next sentence beginning with “And then I . . .” her patience implodes and she interrupts. “So, Zack, you called me. Had you seen the show?”
“No, but my sister saw it. Said it wasn’t actually too bad.”
He hadn’t even seen the show? She presses the water glass to her cheek. “Wine, always does this.”
“So I recall, Pinky.” He tops his comment with a wink. “And not just your face.”
She excuses herself. In the bathroom stall she speed-dials Cassi, who answers on the first ring, not even bothering with hello. “Let me guess. You want me to call you with something dire?”
“Yup, but wait ten minutes; I just ordered the tiramisu.”
FOUR
RayAnne holds her backpack tight between her knees so it won’t go flying again. Propped like a tripod on the bench seat of the golf cart, she keeps an eye on her elderly driver in case he swerves again or nods off. Mr. Delmonico is very tan, very wrinkled, and for some reason wearing only a Speedo and a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt while driving RayAnne from the parking lot of Dune Cottage Village to her grandmother Dot’s door. The lanes of the gated community are car-free, allowing only golf carts, Segways, and the mobility scooters her grandmother holds in such disdain, complaining, “Half those lard-asses don’t even need them.”
Dune Cottage Village is a concentric web of cedar-shake structures all canted toward the gulf, connected to the grassy beach by a number of handicap-accessible boardwalks. Dot chose the place because of its seaside location—“Knock that off my bucket list!”—and its golf course. The smell of lawn fertilizer and the sound of old men hollering “Fore!” were always fond reminders of her dearly departed Ted. Set farther inland, beyond the golf course and across the main road, are the rambling facilities of the Falls, where the view matters less because it’s where most residents from the Dunes eventually go to die. They move back from the sea in increments, first to the assisted-living low-rise apartment building, then to either the memory care center or the nursing facility, and finally the hospice, which is farther back still, with its own driveway so that the hearses can come and go out of sight and more or less out of mind. For those in the cottages—Olympians by comparison—a move to the Falls means the beginning of the end. Or, as Dot says, “The skit before the one with the parrot.” Here, the euphemism “crossing the road” needs no explanation.
Dot’s little parking space is taken up by the three-wheeled bicycle she pedals to and from the farmers’ market, the liquor store, and the beach, the trinity of destinations she claims hold everything she needs in life: a fresh mango, a bottle of white, her fishmonger, and a place to watch the sun set while the off-duty cadets jog.
Twin lemon trees mark Dot’s front garden, the size of a carpet, where Mr. Delmonico’s golf cart grinds to a halt and he shouts, “Here we are!” as if RayAnne is the deaf one. He jumps out and grabs a net sack of coconuts and bounds up the walk, smoothing his “hair” before ringing the bell. RayAnne wrestles her roller bag to the door just as it swings wide. Dot is aproned as usual, accessorized with a wooden spoon.
“Mr. D, how nice of you to drive her down! And, there she is, my RayBee!”
She reaches for her just as Mr. Delmonico steps in so they all meet in an awkward crush with the bag of coconuts. RayAnne leans out of range of the wooden spoon dripping some sort of batter, and manages to hug Dot, only abstractly registering that her grandmother’s shoulders feel a little bony.
“Oh, thank you for these, Mr. D!” Dot hefts the bag of coconuts at RayAnne and winks. “I’m making a curry that’ll burn both ways.” To Mr. D she adds, “RayAnne is the one I was telling you about. She’s a big television star!”
“Not quite, Gran.”
Mr. D grins with teeth that are too small to be false. “Well, if she’s anything like her grandmother, she’s already a star! Now, you call me if there’s anything you ladies need. Dot. Miss Dahl. Both you Dahls.”
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Delmonico. It was nice to meet you.”
“Call me Mr. D.” He turns to Dot. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Six o’clock. Wear pants!”
“Wear pants!” All the way to his golf cart he keeps turning to chortle. “Wear pants!”
RayAnne is pulled inside with a tug that belies Dot’s stature, so that Mr. D’s third “Wear pants!” is muffled by the closed door.
“Jeez. What’s he on, Gran?”
“Oh, Ensure and Cialis, I imagine. But that’s just Dominic.” She turns RayAnne by the shoulders and gives her the scan. “My, you’re like a zipper! Well, we’ll fatten you up.”
“Gran. I’m not Gretel.”
“Tcht. They better not be asking you to lose weight for that silly show. Men like a bit of ham with their grits.”
“Producers don’t.”
Dot reaches out to cup one of RayAnne’s breasts. “You didn’t get the push-up gel bras I sent?”
She twists away. “I did. They make me look like a—”
“Trollop? That’s the idea, dear. Turn around, let me see your hinder.”
She’s been in the house less than a minute. “No! Gran, can’t you just say hello?” RayAnne tries to ignore Trinket, the frantic Pomeranian jumping at her kneecaps.
Dot forges ahead, pulling RayAnne’s bag to the guest room.
“Gran, let me take that. Are Ky and the twins here?”
“The clones? I installed them all in the motel down the beach after those two springs tried microwaving Trinket.”
“They didn’t.”
The dog pokes between her ankles like a duster. Dot picks up Trinket and nuzzles her nose to nose. “Oh, yes they did. Those monsters almost cooked Grandma’s little angel, didn’t they?” She sits on the ruffly bed, patting a spot for RayAnne to occupy. “In my day those two would have been on leashes.”
“You might suggest that to Ky.”
“I did. By the way, where is that mother of theirs?”
“Ingrid? Probably up to her ears in work right now.”
“You’d think a bank teller could find time to mend her husband’s jeans.”
“She’s a bank regulator, Gran, whole different story . . .” RayAnne looks at the wooden spoon, now somehow in her own hand. “And jeans are supposed to be ripped.”
Dot’s distracted by the dog licking her face. “But the little brutes are gone now, aren’t they, Trinket? Smooches for Mama Dot?” She holds the dog out toward RayAnne. “Smooches?”
She can’t help but notice that Dot, always a blur of motion, has begun slowing, at least enough to make her easier to track, because she only gets up and down from the table five times during lunch. After her last bite, Dot simply winds down and stops like a music box. Even so, it takes a little urging to get her to lie down for a nap. “You’re almost eighty, Gran. Old ladies nap.”
“Not when their only granddaughter comes to visit.”
“What if I want a nap? We have a whole week.” She escorts Dot to her room and folds her to sitting on the bed before prying her shoes off. Dot’s eyelids are drooping as she hits the pillow. “Who’s my pudgywudgy?”
RayAnne sighs. No one will ever let me forget I was fat. She tucks the afghan up to Dot’s chin and kisses the tip of her nose. “I’m your pudgywudgy.”
The snoring commences before the door is closed.
She unpacks her things into the open drawers of the guest room bureau, idly glancing at the painting hung above, the single object of great value her grandmother owns. It’s a small still life of pitchers and bottles, kept out of sight in the guest room because Dot doesn’t want to increase the insurance coverage on her home. RayAnne clearly remembers Big Rick scoffing, “Who the hell would steal
something that looks like a retard painted it?” And while some might think it’s no great shakes, RayAnne likes it very much. With its soothing lines, nearly monochromatic with no jarring colors, it’s the sort of painting that might lower your blood pressure if you looked at it long enough. A few bottles, a flowerless vase, and a couple squat vessels that could be salt cellars or mustard crocks. Disparate vessels congregated like a small party dressed in similar shades, quiet figures casting quiet shadows. Just right of the group was an earthenware pitcher that always made RayAnne think of Dot, a gleam on its lip as if to suggest a quip.
The provenance of the painting parallels a pivotal time in her grandmother’s history—the years she studied cooking in Italy as a very young woman, a time RayAnne often begs Dot to talk about. If she’s in an expansive mood, she sometimes will tell how she’d found the painting in Naples, just after the war, back when it was cheaper to study cooking in Europe. “I was quite pretty then,” Dot will brag, “but Italians couldn’t get their mouths around my name, so instead of ‘Dorthea’ they called me ‘Dor-tee.’” On her daily bike trip to her classes at the Cucina Napoli, she passed a tiny gallery, sometimes stopping to look at the little still life in the window. At first she thought it odd and amateurish, sometimes it seemed sweet and innocent, and other times it looked very somber—all depending on the hour of the day and in what light she passed by. After it disappeared from the window, she realized how much she had liked it and missed seeing it. She went in to ask if it had been sold, and was relieved to learn it had only been shifted to hang on an inside wall. Dot had never had the slightest interest in owning a painting, and even at postwar prices it was well beyond her reach, signed by someone named Morandi.
“But I had some money saved, and the gallery owner saw I was a sucker for it, so he lowered the price by twenty thousand lire and talked me into buying it on installments. I can’t honestly say why, but at the time I was willing to give up several months of trolley fares and Italian lessons and even a trip to Lake Como in order to make those payments—I wanted it that much.”
