9. U-Cut
Lila and Bert Hoffmeister’s U-Cut X-mas Tree Farm was easy to find. You just followed Highway 13 west out of Woodhill into the Coast Range foothills until it got snakey, then looked for the faded spraypainted sign at their driveway turn-off. They sold Doug firs for fifteen dollars and Grands for twenty. There was neither a gift shop loaded with crafts nor a machine that shook the needles off the trees and baled them tightly for the ride home, like at the fancy tree farm south of town. But there was often a high-school boy who dragged your tree up the hill for tips, and Lila usually fired up her deep-fat fryer to make crisp little doughnuts rolled in sugar, three for a buck. Nothing tasted better on a cold day.
One chilly Saturday morning, the first weekend in December, Lila was preparing for the onslaught. It was early for most folks to get their tree, but Lila knew that U-cutters were often hardcore Christmas fanatics. They bagged their trees early and had to harvest a fresh one themselves so it wouldn’t dry out before New Year’s. Lila wasn’t that into Christmas herself—never had been, though she’d faked it for the boys’ sake when they were little. To her, it seemed an endless season of useless tasks such as wrapping gifts that would soon be ripped open and hanging up decorations that would then need to be taken down. And the expense! Buying gifts and booze and fancy food; it cost a fortune. When they had had the diner and the boys still believed in Santa, December seemed a nightmarish breakfast rush that just wouldn’t end.
Lila and Bert moved up to the tree farm when they turned Mack’s Diner over to their son. Herman Hoffmeister, like many Woodhill youngsters, had left town the first chance he got. He went to a fancy cooking school in California (paid for by Bert with no complaints), then worked in Silicon Valley as a chef at goohoo.com, one of those start-up internet companies that offered its employees all sorts of benefits like yoga classes and nap rooms and a free lunch every day. When the company went public, Herman got rich (or what Woodhillians consider rich). He kicked around San Francisco for a while, cooking in different restaurants and doing God knows what else. Then he got mixed up with those gays.
When Lila and Bert decided it was time to hang up the aprons, Herman, well over thirty, returned home to Oregon with his “partner in tow.” Lila and Bert moved out to the farmhouse in which Bert had grown up. Bert’s folks had added the tree farm when they retired from the diner. It was a sweet tax shelter: work three weeks a year and write-off your property with an agricultural deduction.
But those three weeks!
Lila pulled on a pair of long underwear, then an ancient pair of wool pants that smelled like mothballs, mildew and cedar. She glanced over to the bed to see how Bert was doing. He was still tugging at the blankets with his good arm, trying to sit up. She sighed and went over to help him, yanking down the covers and swinging his legs out of the bed. She knew he should do these things himself, but sometimes they just didn’t have the time. Bert combed through his white hair with his good hand and made his garbled noise, like his mouth was full of marbles, his only form of verbal communication.
“Good morning yourself,” Lila answered, as she helped him get his pants on. He was excited to open the farm, just as he was every year. He was the more gregarious of the two—the front man, Herman called him—always entertaining the diner crowd with jokes and stories. But now, whenever he said anything, people just stared at him for long awkward minutes. He was impossible to understand; only Lila and Herman knew what he was saying. For example, when they went to the diner for lunch every Wednesday, they’d sit at a table, then one of Bert’s old cohorts would walk in and stop next to them: “Hey, Bert you old coot,“ he’d say. And Bert would reply something like, “Nhiughee ac.” Then his friend would stare at him with a frozen smile while Bert repeated “Nhiughee ac,” over and over until Lila finally stepped in to say “Ugly hat?” Bert would nod and laugh and slap his knee with his good hand while his friend chuckled with relief and got the hell out of there before Bert said anything else. Lila hated translating for him, especially since lately it seemed the remarks he made were off-color or insulting comments that only he thought were funny.
There he went making his noises again, asking who was coming to help that morning. “That Ricci kid,” she answered. “He said he’d be here about 7:30.” She gave him a pull up off the bed and made sure he had a good grip on his cane so he could toddle off to the bathroom. She finished dressing, bundling up with a turtleneck and sweater so being outside all day would be tolerable. At 78, she was still spry, but spending time in the damp cold left her stiff and achy. It would be worse for Bert since he couldn’t move around like she did. If it was busy, she hopped about, handing out saws, collecting money and selling doughnuts. It was exhausting, really. Good thing she had a neighbor kid coming to help, since all Bert could do was sit there and make bad jokes that no one could understand. She wished again for grandchildren, though it was futile—damn Herman.
In the kitchen, she cranked up the heat, started the coffee and turned on the griddle. Bert liked pancakes, which were her specialty. She had worked the morning shift line at the diner for 50 years. It seemed impossible that the time had flown by so quickly—her life had passed in a snap. She and Bert had planned to travel in an RV after they retired—first stop Arizona to warm and dry their old bones—but four months after they moved up to the tree farm, he had his stroke. That was eight years ago.
Lila whipped up the batter and poured it onto the sizzling griddle. She usually fed him something healthier, like Raisin Bran, so he wouldn’t get all bound up or get too fat. But she also figured what the hell? He might as well get some enjoyment out of life. As she waited for the cakes to rise and brown, she looked around the room. The old farmhouse was a little drafty and in need of some updating, but she liked it just fine. Bert’s parents had built it before the war, when the diner was doing well. The diner was still doing well, in spite of some serious lulls, especially during the late eighties when the bottom fell out of the timber industry.
She sipped her coffee, looking out the window, and got lost in the view for a moment. Their property was situated above the town, though in late fall the view was often enshrouded in fog. But this day was dawning bright and cold, the sun rising strong. She could look down into the valley at the fields and farms and the new subdivisions that were cropping up like crazy. Her mood lightened some. The soon-to-be-slaughtered trees glittered in a geometric pattern, the color of money. “So long, suckers,” she muttered, flipping the cakes. It would be a busy day.
Bert came shuffling into the kitchen. His shirt was misbuttoned and he had yet another blood-dribbling nick on his face from shaving. “Why don’t you just grow a beard?” she asked, pouring him a cup of coffee. He waved his good hand at her before collapsing into a chair. She set a plate of steaming pancakes in front of him and his face lit up like he was in kindergarten—it tickled her. She rummaged through the cupboard and found a little glass pitcher, poured in some maple syrup and stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. It was the little things.
Bert dug into his breakfast with gusto. She loved to watch people eat her food, always had. That was probably why she lasted as a short-order cook for so long. It took a delicate touch to make an over-medium egg or fry bacon until it was completely crisp but not burnt. A bad breakfast could ruin someone’s day.
Bert shoveled pancake into his mouth with a fork in his good hand, syrup running down the side of his mouth. It was odd, he had always been so concerned with his appearance before the stroke. She wasn’t sure if the vanity part of his brain had been damaged or if he’d just decided it didn’t matter what other people thought. It was one of many ways the stroke had changed him. He was more emotional, bursting into tears whenever the notion struck him, like just the week before when Herman stopped by to talk about his wedding plans. Lila was so mad about it she could spit, but Bert was crying like a little girl.
A light tappi
ng at the back door startled her. She turned around and saw the Ricci boy through the window. “Come in,” she yelled.
Ren Ricci stepped in, his cheeks blazing red from the cold. He took off his stocking cap and sort of bowed and shuffled at them. “Good morning,” he said. Lila, as always, was stunned by how handsome the boy was: tall with thick black hair and high color. She thought of her kids at that age, pimply and pudgy and pale from hanging out at the diner.
Bert told him to sit down. Ren cocked his head and smiled. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
Lila was impressed by his manners; most people just ignored Bert’s gibberish. “He wants to know if you want some breakfast,” she murmured.
Ren smiled, perfect teeth flashing. “Oh, thanks very much, but I’ve already eaten. What do you want me to do?”
Lila went over the list: get the handsaws out of the shed, set up the table and chairs for her and Bert to collect the money, scatter the brightly painted measuring sticks around the fields so people wouldn’t take a tree 3 feet too tall for their livingroom. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She found the hand-printed sign she had made the night before. “Hang this up in the parking field, under the ‘Park Here’ sign. There’s a hammer and nails in the shed.” She held up the sign to Bert and read: “Lock your car! Not responsible for lost or stolen articles!” Bert frowned and gave a wookie-like howl.
Lila shook her head. “In case you haven’t heard, this state is crawling with meth addicts. Would it kill you to read a paper?”
“Bah!” Bert roared at her. The stroke had taken his ability to read.
Ren took the sign and dashed out the back door. He was a helpful kid, despite being raised in California. The Riccis lived just down the hill; they were good neighbors. Lila and Bert had sold his father some acreage that adjoined the vineyard he started up the year before. After the last big wind storm, Lila called them to help her clear some fallen tree limbs—the boy wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Bert finished his breakfast and Lila took his plate. She moistened a paper towel and wiped his face for him. She looked into his eyes, red-rimmed and fading blue yet still alert, at least one of them. “Are you ready Bertie?”
He smiled his lopsided smile and slurred “Yes!”
She often dreamed he could talk again, just as clearly as before the stroke, but in the dreams he never said anything important: “put pudding on the grocery list” or “time to clean the gutters again” or “Ordering!” She always awoke wondering if it meant he would regain his speech, but of course he wouldn’t. Maybe if he had continued his therapy. He had been doing well for about eight months until the day his physical therapist told him it was his last session—Medicare wouldn’t pay for anymore. He bawled all the way home. She told him Herman would pay for more therapy, but Bert seemed to have given up. It was like he realized he would never be the same and was just tired of working so hard. Every time she asked him about doing his exercises, he’d wail, “Ahn eearrrr.” I’m retired. Every year he seemed to get weaker. Now he needed someone to help him walk on the uneven ground outside. He’d fallen twice and she’d had to call 911 for help getting him up. Soon, he’d need a wheelchair.
She plugged in her deepfat fryer, which she had filled with fresh oil the night before, and took her doughnut batter out of the fridge. She had to admit she felt excited too, preparing to make her first batch of the year. Some people came just for her doughnuts.
Just as Lila predicted, the parade of vehicles started right at 8 am. A string of SUVs and pickup trucks crawled up the long driveway to park in the big dirt field. Good thing it was dry; after the next good rain the parking lot would turn into one huge sea of mud. Not that anyone cared, or even noticed. Winter in Oregon was all about mud.
She brought an aluminum tray of hot doughnuts to the outside table and set it in the electric food warmer that Herman had bought them a few years before. There was a long orange extension cord running over the balding lawn into the house. She handed a doughnut to Bert, who was stationed at the table, sitting on a metal folding chair. He took a bite and mumbled his approval, sugar sticking to his lips and chin. Ren Ricci appeared at her side and she offered one to him, too. He took a bite and nearly swooned in pleasure. “Wow, Mrs. Hoffmeister, these are awesome.” She narrowed her eyes. Males who looked like Ren were usually cruel or dumb. He was neither. Sometimes it sounded like he was Eddie Haskelling her, but Lila had a pretty accurate bullshit detector. He seemed genuinely sincere—and she knew her doughnuts were awesome.
Lila had learned a lot about people just by silently observing them for years through the order window at the diner. She knew which couples would eventually divorce, which girls would develop eating disorders, which boys would grow up to be bums. Funny, she hadn’t predicted how Herman would turn out, not consciously at least.
All morning long, families and couples and even singles scoured the acreage for their perfect tree. Lila was thankful for the Ricci kid. He busted his butt dragging trees up and throwing them in the back of pickups. Helping dads tie them to the roofs of SUVs. Retrieving saws, herding kids, pointing the way to the port-a-potty. She was able to sit back, sell doughnuts, collect tens and twenties, and observe while Bert held court. It was sort of like watching television. And nearly everyone was familiar to her as they walked down the barkchip path from the parking lot.
There was Pauline, that skinny real estate agent who had sold their house when they retired. She was tanned and blonde, even in December, and her forehead looked suspiciously stiff and smooth, like she was using that newfangled Botox crap—she couldn’t be much more than 40. Lila laughed to herself; women these days didn’t realize that wrinkles were badges of honor. As usual, Pauline was leading her husband Marshall around like he was her puppy. She was dressed in a shiny black track suit with pink stripes down the side, like those aging pop stars in People magazine wear. “Hi there Bert,” Pauline exclaimed, like Bert was a five-year-old. “How’s retirement?”
Bert slurred some nonsense, terribly pleased by her attentions. She patted his hand and smiled patronizingly.
“Hi Mrs. Hoffmeister,” Marshall said. “Are your doughnuts still three for a buck?”
Lila nodded, noticing he lost more hair every time she saw him.
Pauline sighed. “Oh, hon, you don’t need any doughnuts.” She patted his tummy.
Bert spoke and laughed. Lila understood he said “fat and bald,” but refused to translate.
Marshall took out his wallet and laid down two dollars. “I’ll take six.” Lila took half-dozen of the mini-doughnuts out of the warmer, tucked them into a little brown paper bag and handed them over. “Enjoy.”
Marshall took one out and popped it into his mouth whole. “Mmmm,” he said with a full mouth, “You could charge more for these, you know.”
Lila, fully understanding garbled speech, nodded. “I know.”
“So Lila,” Pauline said, “Where are the tallest Grands? We want at least an eight-footer.”
“No. We’re getting a Doug this year.” Marshall smiled coldly.
Pauline turned sharply to glare at him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Hon, Grands look so stately and you can see the ornaments better.”
“I like Dougs. I want a Doug.”
“But Dougs are so messy with those long needles.” Pauline’s face seemed to tighten with each word. “They look so shaggy. Besides, we always get a Grand.”
“Not this year.” Marshall popped another doughnut and licked the sugar off his fingertips.
Pauline shrugged, seeming a bit less confident than usual. “We’ll see.”
“We’re getting a Douglas fir,” Marshall said sharply.
Bert was watching them like a ping-pong match. He wiped a bit of drool from his lower lip with his good hand. Lila smiled at Marshall. “Try the lower field down there to the left.” As the
couple walked away, she thought: well, that marriage is doomed. Lila had never thought much of Pauline because she had never ordered cooked food at the diner: just coffee, iced tea, occasionally a salad or fruit plate. Lila didn’t trust anyone who wouldn’t eat a little grease. When Herman took over, he created fancy specials that the young people seemed to like, but he still offered the traditional diner fare. He was smart in some ways.
Then Ren Ricci appeared with that youngest Burke girl, Michaela. “Hi Mr. and Mrs. Hoffmeister,” she said, as polite as the Ricci kid. Almost as good-looking as him too, maybe not quite as pretty in the face. She had grown tall with long long legs, a WHS basketball star if Lila remembered correctly. “I’m going to help Ren,” she said, “Is that okay?” Lila nodded and shoved a couple doughnuts at her. Those two older Burke girls hadn’t turned out worth anything, but Michaela had always seemed a bit brighter than her sisters.
Lila saw the Burke parents, Kathy and Mike, holding hands and strolling through the trees. Straggling behind was the middle daughter, the slutty one, carrying her infant in one of those baby frontpacks and looking sulky as all get out. Lila always wondered how kids with good parents could turn out so badly—but she was a fine one to talk, look at Herman. Of course she had never been that great of a mother.
She remembered how Herman, as a child, had become obsessed with the 1957 UFO landing up on Lost Mountain. One of the Applewood brothers, Chuck, was camping up there and took a fuzzy photo of it. She remembered him rushing into the diner the next morning, telling anyone who would listen about the flying saucer. Of course most people didn’t believe him at first, but he just wouldn’t let up. And he was the smarter Applewood brother (Applewoods were either really smart or retarded), so eventually people in town began to believe him. Suddenly there were scads of other believers crawling out of the woodwork. Lila was skeptical at first, but she grew to believe too, for three reasons: Chuck had always been a trustworthy guy; strange things often happened in the meadow at the Lost Mountain campground; and even if it were an elaborate hoax, she was pretty sure they weren’t alone in the universe. Besides, true or not, a UFO legend brought tourists into town—it was good for business. So when Herman was in kindergarten and became interested in the whole incident, she joked that his father was a Martian, which he took much too seriously.
And just as she was thinking of the Applewoods, Candy, daughter of the UFO spotter, came by wrangling those little beaners. She was a smart Applewood, though she had married a Mexican. That Jewish gal from New York was with her, the one who sat with Herman at the diner for long hours last spring. Looked like she finally found another friend. They resembled Mutt and Jeff, one tall and one short, both were wearing track suits too, but polar fleece ones, which were a bit easier for Lila to take.
“Hi Bert. Hi Lila.” Candy waved as she stooped to pick up one of her kids. “Do you know my neighbor Ellen?”
Lila nodded.
“We’re going to hunt down and kill a tree,” Ellen said, giggling like crazy. “Looks like they move pretty slowly.” She nudged Candy, who giggled too. They looked at each other, laughing, their faces just inches apart. Lila, shocked, thought they were about to kiss. But of course they didn’t. They tripped on down the hill, swinging the babies around and bumping into each other.
“Well, if it isn’t the Christmas tree moguls!” Lila saw her son Herman heading toward them with Matthew, his partner. “Hi Ma,” he leaned over the table and kissed her hair while sneaking a doughnut out of the warmer. She slapped at his hand. “Still full of piss and vinegar,” He said as he split the doughnut and put half of it into Matthew’s mouth. She looked away.
Herman hugged Bert, who blathered on about something. “What’s that dad?” Herman asked, “Mom’s trying to kill you?” Herman and Bert hooted and pounded each other while Lila sat there burning. Matthew gave her a sympathetic smile and she busied herself straightening the money box.
“He needs to use the john,” she said. “Will you walk him in?”
“Sure, Pop,” Herman helped Bert up and held his arm as they made their way to the house. Matthew shifted on his feet, looking around. After years of awkward conversation, he and Lila had pretty much given up on small talk. He was a quiet man, Filipino or Hawaiian or something. His almond-shaped eyes were fringed by long lashes, and Lila had always thought his hands were quite elegant. But then she would think of what he did with those hands and grow disgusted.
His mother Bo had called Lila from Southern California back in 2004 when the Portland courthouse was issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples. Herman and Matthew went up there in a flash and got married right on the street. Of course all those 3,022 marriage licenses were declared a sham after the next election. What a chatterbox Bo had been; Lila barely got a word in, not that she had anything to say. At the time, she had been quite startled to realize that Matthew was to be her son-in-law. She wasn’t looking forward to actually meeting Bo at the so-called wedding reception in February. As far as she knew, Herman wasn’t even gay until he met Matthew.
“Nice weather today,” Matthew said.
“Yes,” Lila replied.
He stood silently, eyes darting desperately toward the house, until Bill Pratt and his family showed up. Lila sighed. Bill and Herman had been in school together and he was the biggest bully Woodhill had ever produced. He had terrorized Herman all through middle school.
“Hi there Lila,” he boomed. “Another Christmas. Time sure flies.” His wife Dottie stood there like a lump, wearing a dull brown ski jacket and stocking cap. She looked like a mushroom. Lila was willing to bet that underneath Dottie’s jacket was a hideous Christmas sweater covered with Santas or snowmen. Their youngest boy, the fat one in middle school, eyed the doughnuts. “Of course Kyle is in Iraq this year.” He paused, looking expectantly at Lila, apparently waiting for something. She stared back at him. What did he want her to say? I hope he doesn’t get blown up like my oldest did in Vietnam?
“Haven’t seen you in church lately Dottie,” Lila said. “Been feeling okay?” Dottie nodded, her face flushed and shiny with sweat. Must be going through the change, Lila thought, passing a bag of doughnuts to the kid before he ate his own arm. The tips of his ears turned bright red.
“So Lila,” Bill continued, looking sort of sideways at her. “I hear old Herman’s getting hitched.” Matthew was apparently invisible.
“Well, don’t hold your breath for an invitation.” She said, then turned sideways in her chair and pretended to re-tie her boot.
“That’s one function I don’t think I’d attend anyway,” Bill said, his wife jabbing him with her elbow. Matthew turned and walked toward the house without a word. “I guess it has to be a “domestic partnership” anyway,” Bill continued, “am I right? Since Oregon voters decided marriage is something for a man and a woman only?”
Lila straightened back up and pointed down the hill. “Dougs to the left, Grands to the right.”
“Fair enough,” Bill replied, and ushered his miserable looking family away. She was burning with humiliation and anger. What kind of person would rub another’s face in it? And he called himself a Christian. She was glad Bert hadn’t been there to hear that. Turning back toward the house, she saw the old man shuffling back between Herman and Matthew. Herman was talking animatedly as Bert howled with laughter. They were two of a kind. She shook her head. That damn Herman. She wanted to kill him, but how could she not love him?
“I see you have that Ricci kid working this year, Ma,” Herman said when they reached the table. “I have just one word: yum!”
“You stop that,” she snapped.
Herman helped Bert sit back down, then rubbed Lila’s tight shoulders. “C’mon Ma,” he said, patting her back, “I may be perverted but I’m not a pervert.” She watched as he and Matthew walked down the hill arm-in-arm to choose a tree. When Herman broke into a loud and
twangy rendition of “Grandma Got Runover By a Reindeer,” Bert slapped his knee with his good hand.
Shaking her head, Lila looked around at all the other families milling about the trees. They were all so unique, but content or dysfunctional, they were sticking together. Her family may be tainted, but what really mattered was that she loved Herman. Period. He was good to her and good to Bert. He was a good boy, always had been. She grudgingly decided she would attend Herman and Matthew’s wedding with her mouth shut. But there wasn’t any law that said she had to have fun.