I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. People stroll in and out of the post office or the office supply shop next door. A guy in a classic T-Bird convertible appears to be waiting patiently for my parking space.
I start the car and head out of the village.
At the Obstruction Pass Trailhead parking lot, I fetch my walking shoes from the trunk and sit sideways with my feet out the door while I lace them up. Only a few faint bird songs are audible as I slog down through the dripping woods past shadowy stumps and fallen logs upholstered in moss.
Just short of a mile the trail ends at a small campground. Beyond the tents and fire pits and picnic tables, down a low bank is a beautiful crescent beach thickly carpeted with marble-sized, multicolored pebbles and littered with huge driftwood logs like dinosaur bones. The view from here is one of my favorites, south to Lopez, Blakely and Obstruction Islands, but this morning it’s barely visible. A marine layer hovers just above the water, infusing everything with its clean, wet smell, blurring the horizon.
Brownie hated the ocean. Water of any kind, really. Mac was convinced it was just conditioning and that he could teach her to swim.
Wet and shivering, legs rigid, she’d stand at the water’s edge, barking at him, while he stood waist deep and tried to coax her to come. I remember Chuck Reese laughing when I asked why she wanted nothing to do with it.
“She’s a collie mix, Wyn. A land dog. She’s a herder, not a retriever.”
Of course. She was a herder. That was why she got nervous when we went to the park and one of us walked away. That was why she barked at us and nipped at our heels to keep us together when we walked.
It’s low tide. On a pile of boulders tumbling down to the water, I find a perch and watch tiny scuttling crabs and orange starfish draped and wedged into impossible cracks where the last few drops of retreating tide remain. I pull my knees up and rest my forehead on them.
Once the gardener left the gate unlatched and Brownie got out. She was gone for three days, and each night I had the same dream—Brownie scratching at the kitchen door crying to come in, and me—for whatever dream reason—unable to open the door. It’s probably not true that I cried nonstop for three days, but that’s my memory of it…until the man who owned the little village grocery found her in the alley behind his store and called us.
A breeze rustles my shirt. No, not a breeze. Something is touching the back of my arm. I whip around to stare into a pair of dark eyes peering out of a ball of brown fuzz. A dog.
He trots around on stubby little legs, checking me out from every angle. He smells terrible…like dead fish, which he’s probably been rolling in or eating. His nondescript fur looks as if he’s bathed in mud and then been blow-dried—sort of a primitive styling mousse. After completing his inspection, he lies down about an arm’s length away and eyes me warily. Maybe he belongs to one of the campers.
I say, “You come here often?”
No response.
“You have a human?” He’s not wearing a collar.
“I’m in mourning.”
From the corner of my eye I can see him relax a bit. He rests his head on his paws and we sit for a while.
Pretty soon I’m wondering if he would follow me back to the parking lot. I’m thinking about getting him into the car—thank God it’s a rental. I could clean him up and feed him and take him to the vet and maybe if he doesn’t belong to someone, we could have a relationship. I turn slightly and he sits up.
“I’m a baker,” I tell him. “Some people think I’m pretty nice. We could go for walks, but you’d have to stop rolling on dead fish. I’d make sure you always have food and water and a warm place to sleep.”
He licks his chops.
“In fact, you could sleep with me if you want. Nobody’s occupying the other side of the bed at the moment. You like movies?”
I move my hand towards him very slowly. He watches like it’s a snake. When my arm is fully extended he gives my fingers a tentative sniff. Then a lick with his small pink tongue. I lean just slightly to touch his muzzle. End of story.
He’s up, headed for the water, running full throttle along the wide arc of the beach. He scrambles up a steep bank and disappears into the trees.
His relationship history must be even worse than mine.
Mac
Above the sea air on PCH he smells it.
Charcoal lighter fluid. Not a good smell, full of petroleum and smoke, but it ignites a memory of hamburgers with crunchy bitter edges and the salty whiff of a newly opened bag of potato chips, a sweating can of Coke. And the inevitable plate of carrot sticks, radishes and curling celery that was Suzanne’s attempt to add vegetables to their diet. He remembers the canned black olives stuck on the ends of his fingers, Kevin stuffing handfuls of mixed nuts into his mouth till he couldn’t chew, the two of them collapsing on the grass in helpless laughter.
“Better slow down,” Liv says. “And get in the left lane. The turn’s just ahead.”
In the bar a female voice wails wordlessly over a thrumming rhythm guitar. He looks past his drink, through his own face reflected in the glass out to where the ocean heaves restlessly, crashing on the rocks just below the deck. He remembers the winter storm a couple of years ago where the waves actually punched through the windows of this place and so many others along the coast, flooding them. They watched it on TV in their bed, Wyn curled up against him. She loved storms.
The wait is interminable. Which doesn’t seem to bother Liv. She carefully monitors all the comings and goings. He orders another drink and tries to drink it slowly when what he really wants is to slam it down just for the burn and order another.
“Mr. McLeod?” The hostess is wearing black tights with a see-through black dress and a pink satin jacket, pink fingerless gloves. Her make up is thick and she smiles carefully to avoid disturbing it. “Your table is ready.”
They follow her to a table by the window where the view of the sunset behind a bluff would have been unobstructed, had the sun not set an hour ago. It’s also situated so that everyone who comes in from the bar has an unobstructed view of them.
“Great table,” Liv whispers. “She must have recognized you.”
He laughs.
“No, really. They pay attention to who’s eating here. These days they can’t afford not to.” Her white gauzy blouse dips slightly off one tanned shoulder. Blonde hair gleams under a pendant lamp.
They haven’t even opened their menus when the waiter appears to tell them his name is Sean and he’ll be taking care of them tonight and did they want another cocktail.
“We’d like a bottle of Veuve Cliquot,” Liv says, then turns to him. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Look…” He clears his throat. “I don’t know what your expectations are—”
“I went off expectations cold turkey about ten years year ago.”
He watches the people entering the dining room. An older couple, the woman carrying an armful of flowers. Three twenty-somethings in denim mini-skirts.
At the precise moment that Sean returns to pour champagne, he hears a familiar laugh and looks up to see Gabe Cleveland in a Hawaiian shirt and Maui Jim reflectors walking towards the outdoor bar with two other men.
Mac turns abruptly towards the window and the breath sticks in his throat. Against the night sky, two gulls swoop and soar. Caught in the beams of light from the deck, they glow a pure, eerie white, two souls against the black ocean. A fine mist of sweat erupts on his forehead and he has a moment of irrational panic. He should leave. Now. Just get up and walk out. Leave her the car. He could call a cab. Shit, he could hitchhike.
Then Liv says, “What are you looking at?”
He breathes quietly, swallows some of the champagne. “Seagulls.”
”Why do you care what people think?”
“I don’t.”
“Then why did you look away so fast when you saw Gabe?”
“Cleveland gossips more than ten old ladies.”
She pushes the lettuce around on her salad plate. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
He sets down the flute, picks up the scotch, and takes a long drink, actually tasting it for the first time. “I don’t like being talked about.”
She laughs. “Then you’re living in the wrong town, my dear. L.A. is all about people recognizing you, knowing about you, talking about you.” She leans forward and looks into his face. “That’s how I make my living, remember?”
Sean brings their entrees, setting them down theatrically, clasping his hands, asking if there will be anything else. She wants Pellegrino; he orders another scotch and ignores her almost imperceptible frown. Liv talks while they both poke at the food.
He keeps looking back at the window, but the birds are gone.
She sets down her fork, exasperated. “Like you’ve never seen a seagull before?”
“I can look and listen at the same time,” he says, although he’s completely lost the thread of conversation.
“I was just saying, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d consider doing a few events this summer. Not book events,” she adds quickly.
He frowns. “What kind of events?”
“Oh, parties, dinners, previews, openings. I have other clients, you know.”
“I didn’t think you were paying the mortgage off me.”
“So, I have to go to these things, and it’s always nicer if I have someone to go with. I think it would be good to be seen together. You’re getting a lot of good press right now and I know a lot of people who could help you.”
“Help me what?”
Her sigh is so deep it seems almost to alter the air currents in the room. “Don’t be obtuse. Mac, everything depends on who you know and who knows you. Once this film is in the can, there could be a world of opportunities opening up for you. Provided you’re in the right place at the right time and with the right people putting you forward.”
“First of all, the chances of this film ever being ‘in the can’ are about the same as those of the proverbial ice cube in Hell. Plus, I can’t imagine how being seen with me would be much of a career booster for you.”
“You underestimate yourself.” She opens her purse, pulls out a compact and touches up her lipstick. “But…” She snaps the silver disc shut and drops it back into her purse. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, too. I just thought it would be good cross-promotion…”
“Is there some school you go to where they teach you this shit?”
“No. Is there some school you go to where they teach you to be an asshole?”
“No. It’s hereditary.”
“Look…” She sits back in her chair and favors him with a conciliatory smile. “Let’s not snipe. Okay, I admit It’s hard for me to understand why you apparently don’t see the potential in our relationship, and you probably can’t understand how I’m always coming up with ideas to promote your work—ideas that could benefit both of us—”
“It’s not that I can’t understand how you do it, it’s more that I can’t think why you do it. It doesn’t interest me in the least.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, nothing seems to interest you.”
“I don’t mind. It’s true.”
“You have to fight it.” She leans forward earnestly. “You have to find something to care about. If you don’t, it’ll chew you up and spit you out. I speak from experience.”
“So I should care about events. About ‘cross promotion.’ About the right people putting me forward.”
He signals Sean by rattling the ice in his empty glass, and in a few minutes another scotch arrives.
She frowns. “You’re drinking too much. It’s a depressant, you know. Not to mention you shouldn’t be driving.”
“Liv—”
“I’m concerned about you, that’s all.”
He checks for the birds once more. “Thanks, I already have a wife.”
She pulls the flimsy looking wrap around her shoulders. “I’m going to the ladies,” she says. “Meet me out front.”
When she’s gone, he leans back in the banquette and drinks half the scotch at once. The problem is, he’s not quite drunk. He doesn’t seem able to get there anymore. When he sets the glass down, the server materializes instantly. “Would you like some coffee, sir?”
“No, but another scotch would be good.”
The guy smiles obsequiously. “I’m sorry, sir. Your companion has asked us not to serve you any more alcohol. She asked me to let you know that she’s waiting in the car.”
He decides against creating a scene, interesting though it might be. He digs in his wallet for the MasterCard and hands it over.
Liv is sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, the engine running. He slides in on the right.
“So you’re my companion.”
She checks the side mirror before pulling out into the sparse traffic on PCH. “Your companion?”
“The waiter said my ‘companion’ asked him not to serve me another drink. That my ‘companion’ was waiting in the car.”
“I could have left you there, I suppose.”
He buckles his seat belt to quiet the warning chime and leans his head against the neck brace. “So why didn’t you?”
She looks thoughtful. “Because I’m too nice?”
“Is this going to be multiple choice?”
She laughs. “God, Matthew, what will become of you?”
Suddenly it does seem, if not actually funny, at least amusing.
ten
I’m standing at the sink eating strawberries out of a damp brown paper bag. A guy was selling them out of his pickup truck at the farmer’s market, and the smell from ten feet away was intoxicating. They must be some old fashioned variety. Every bite makes a sweet explosion in my mouth, a memory of the berries CM and I used to pick and eat at her grandmother’s house down in Orange County when we were kids. Before the whole neighborhood got bought up and bulldozed to make room for a few more desperately needed strip malls.
When the phone rings I savor the last one, trying to decide whether or not to answer.
It’s my mother.
“Wynter, I’m so sorry about Brownie. I feel terrible.”
My throat starts closing up. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I offered to keep her. Mac just seemed so—”
“Mom, it’s okay. Really.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No.” I try to think of a way to soften that one-word answer, but nothing comes to mind. He’s never called me back and I haven’t called him.
As recently as six months ago it would have been unthinkable. No matter where we both were or what we were doing, how angry, how busy, how difficult things had become, we never got though a day without talking. It was a kind of reassurance that we were both still present, still trying.
“What are you doing with yourself up there? Aren’t you bored? Or lonely?”
“Not yet.” I try to sound cheerful. “In fact I’m going to a chamber music recital tomorrow night.”
“That’s nice.” She pauses. “Honey…I know he’s behaving strangely…and I hope you won’t get angry at me for what I’m going to say, but do you think there’s even the slightest chance that he’s being punished for David’s crimes? Maybe if you just came home and sat down with him…”
I crunch the tiny grit of strawberry seeds between my teeth.
“Strangely doesn’t begin to cover it. And every time I—”
“When I saw him—”
“Where?”
“At Gelson’s. Wyn, he doesn’t look good. I’m worried about him. He could be depressed. That’s why I offered to take Brownie. I thought—”
“Mom, let me ask you one question. When you talked to him, what did he say?”
She knows what I’m really asking.
“Well…He said he’s working a lot.” She hesitates. “I just thought it was so strange. That he didn’t say a word about you.”
<
br /> My mother is a classically trained pianist. She played in an amateur chamber ensemble for years and she drummed it into my head that one did not attend a performance wearing jeans, no matter how many rhinestones they had on the pockets. So I rummage in the closet for the one dress I keep here, a generic packable knit thing that’s so bland it never goes out of style—black, V-neck, sleeveless—and I wipe the dust off my old black flats, add the silver necklace CM gave me for my thirtieth birthday, French braid my hair, and head for The Orcas Center.
It’s a pretty little venue of some 200 seats arranged in semi-circular rows around the stage. Come August when the annual Chamber Music Festival gets going, people will be arm wrestling for tickets. But right now I just walk into the lobby box office and buy one. Acoustically speaking, the front row is probably not optimal, but it makes me feel like a little girl again, feet not touching the floor, leaning against my father, watching my mother in her black dress, making beautiful music.
There’s only one woman in the ensemble—the violinist—and the group is totally casual, wearing jeans and T-shirts, laughing while they tune their instruments, waving at people in the audience. My mother would not approve.
Finally everyone is seated, the whispering and rustling subside; the house lights go down. The music starts abruptly, with no introduction, and it surprises me with a rush of memory.
In a vain attempt to awaken the musical gene she was certain must be slumbering in my DNA, my mother was always instructing me on the fine points of the pieces she was working on. The Trout Quintet was one of her favorites. I remember her telling me the title came about because the fourth movement is a set of variations on Schubert’s earlier song "Die Forelle" (The Trout.) She explained that the work was written for an unusual lineup of piano, violin, viola, cello and string bass, and has five movements instead of the usual four.
Baker's Blues Page 11
