* * *
Two hours later, not long after Mike put the potatoes in the oven, he doused the briquettes with lighter fluid and threw in a match. The whoosh never failed to thrill him; it reminded him of his childhood, Boy Scouts, the occasional weekend fishing trips with his dad and uncles. Those were the times that made him truly appreciate the woods: the silent chilly mornings when bits of fog hung over the perfectly still water, the earthy scent of decomposing cedar, the hollow sound of his boots crunching over the blanket of brown fir needles on the forest floor.
He and Kathy had gone camping quite a bit before the girls were born. In high school, they had attended countless all-night keggers deep in the trees. That was about all there was to do in Woodhill. The forest was just part of growing up and he tried to get his girls out there as often as he could. Michaela loved it; Lacey and Aimee were a bit too prissy. Ironic that Lacey was now rumored to be living out in the Lost Mountain campground with her meth-freak boyfriend.
He sat back in his lawn chair and waited for the coals. The late afternoon was at its most stifling but a prickly holly tree shaded the backyard deck. The grass was wilting; he saw no point in watering. There would be about two more months of rain before true summer kicked in around the Fourth of July. He sipped another beer and smoked a Marlboro Light from the pack he’d confiscated from Aimee’s purse—not that it stopped her. They all did whatever they wanted. He had always felt somewhat ganged-up on by a house full of women—even the cat was female. But lately it seemed worse than ever, like he was Superman and estrogen was kryptonite. Even Michaela had been distant all spring, ever since she began hanging around with that damn Ricci kid. They hadn’t been camping once.
The screen door slid open and Michaela stepped out on the deck with a plaid tablecloth that Mike had never seen before. She shook it out over the wood picnic table, then spent a minute straightening it before she noticed him sitting there.
“Dad! Why are you smoking?” She glared at him with unspeakable disgust, looking just like her sisters. “He’s going to be here any minute.” She stood with her hands on her hips, wearing the shirt formerly known as stretched-out. It was now tight as bark, the bottom ending a good three inches above where her low-riding miniskirt began.
“Then you’d better get dressed,” he told her.
“This is what I’m wearing.” She looked down at herself. Her long hair, the color of cedar pitch, usually tied back in a ponytail, spilled over her shoulders and covered her chest. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Your belly’s hanging out.”
She laughed, lovely again. “C’mon, Dad, everyone’s belly hangs out anymore.” She pointed at his beer gut. “Even yours.” She flounced back in and slid the door shut again.
“Hey!”
She pressed her face against the screen.
“Have time to shoot some hoops before he gets here?” he asked.
“Get real,” she scoffed, turning away. “Not that I’d get sweaty playing you.”
Ren Ricci, Ren Ricci,
Don’t make me get preachy.
Mike took a deep drag and exhaled mightily. Michaela had been an awkward child, more comfortable in overalls and usually sporting a dirty face. She wasn’t conventionally pretty like the older girls, but Kathy often predicted she would be the most beautiful: “She’s a late-bloomer,” she had said many times. “Just you watch, she’ll turn out gorgeous and she won’t even know it.” And Kathy was right, as usual.
When Ren Ricci finally arrived, the salmon was cooked perfectly: moist and pink with a crackling skin. Mike heard the females exclaiming inside and sat, trying to remember the last time they exclaimed over him walking in. Then the screen door slid open to reveal the boy. He was as tall as Mike but not nearly as heavy. His black hair was crisply styled, just as Heather had described. He walked forward and stood before Mike, hand extended. “Hi. I’m Ren.”
Mike took his time shaking the kid’s hand, which was surprisingly strong and rough with calluses. His neatly trimmed nails had a vague shadow of dirt beneath them. He wore a spotless white sportshirt and khaki shorts that were fashionably long but not too baggy. The scent of soap and clean laundry overpowered the smell of barbecued salmon for a moment. Then Mike remembered to ask him to sit down. Ren perched on the edge of the picnic table bench and held out a bottle of wine.
“My dad sent this for you. He says he knows you from the golf course.”
Mike took the bottle and rubbed his thumb over the gold “Ricci” on the label. It was a 1979 Cabernet Sauvignon, Special Reserve.
“It’s from my grandpa’s winery down in California.” He smiled at Mike.
“That’s where you used to live?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you drink wine?”
“No, sir. I taste it but I’m not allowed to swallow it.”
Mike nodded. He had met Tommaso Ricci at the new golf course all right, a few months before when he hired on as a caddy. His buddy Bob Johannson had been talking it up down at Mack’s. “It’s a piece of cake,” Bob had said, “even if you don’t know a thing about golf. Just carry the guy’s clubs or drive the cart. Hand him whatever number club he asks for. Look for his ball in the weeds. Say “nice shot” a lot. It’s okay money, especially if you get a big tip.”
Mike’s very first caddy gig was with Tom Ricci and three wine distributors. The elder Ricci was tanned with silver hair; he couldn’t have been much older than Mike. Compact and graceful, soft-spoken with a mournful look about him. His swing was beautiful, but he was obviously deeply bored by the game as well as with the distributors he was supposed to be schmoozing. He sort of latched onto Mike, riding in his cart and chatting with him when the other guys popped open cans of beer about every other hole. By the seventh tee, he was confessing his fears. “I don’t know if I should have moved my kids up here,” he murmured to Mike. “I guess we just needed a change after my wife passed away.” He looked straight into Mike’s eyes, like he was searching for some kind of validation, until Mike finally had to look at the ground—freaky Californian. He felt bad for the guy but he didn’t want to discuss it.
Mike walked away from that golf game with a $100 tip—having offered up his youngest daughter as a babysitter for the seven-year-old Ricci girl—and the firm decision to quit caddying. Christ, he thought, it was worse than bartending.
“Thanks.” Mike stood up. “I think I’ll go open this.” Ren stood as well. As Mike entered the house, Michaela slipped out past him with two sodas in her hand. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them standing close together.
In the kitchen, Kathy, wearing her best yellow blouse, took the potatoes out of the oven. A kettle of sweet corn from the deep freeze rattled on the range. Mike opened the gadget drawer and rooted around for a wine opener. They never drank wine, but it seemed impolite not to since a guest had brought it. He finally found a rusty old corkscrew that looked unusable, but the cork slid out of the bottle with ease. He poured an inch in an orange juice glass, tasted it, and handed it to Kathy. She took a sip and shuddered. “It’s kind of sour,” she said, “or should I say dry?” She carried the wine over to the fridge, took two ice cubes out of the freezer, plopped them in the glass and topped it off with her Diet Sprite. She stirred it with her finger and drank again. “Mmm, that’s better,” she said, grinning slyly. “Do you think the wine police will come?”
Mike looked through the cupboard until he found a champagne flute from a pair they got on their fifteenth wedding anniversary. He filled it with wine and returned to the back deck. Ren and Michaela were sitting on the bench; they moved apart and Ren stood up again when Mike stepped out.
“What did you do today?” Michaela asked Ren.
“I worked.” Ren turned to Mike. “We’ve been thinning grapes all day.”
“Sort of a family business?” Mike asked. He took the salmon off the gril
l and placed it on a platter.
“Yes, sir. My great-grandfather had a vineyard in Tuscany. Then my grandfather brought some starts over to Sonoma.”
“And your dad brought some starts up here?”
“Well, he brought some but it takes a few years for them to get established. He bought some acreage that already has grapes.”
“Sounds like a good life.”
“Yes, sir. But my dad says the market’s flooded with wine at the moment. He’s afraid he made a big mistake starting a new winery—starting a new business.”
“Heck,” Mike answered, “things tend to go in cycles around here.” He laughed to himself. He was supposedly waiting for George Dubya to open up the roadless forests so they could log above Woodhill again, but all the men young and dumb enough to log seemed to be over in Iraq. “People will always need booze.”
Kathy called Michaela from the kitchen. She stood up and Ren stood with her. “Can I help?” he asked.
“No, that’s okay.” Michaela went in and Ren sat back down. He wiped his palms on his thighs and smiled at Mike. His teeth were perfect.
“So.” Mike said. “What kind of name is Ren? Mexican?”
“It’s short for Lorenzo. It was my great-grandfather’s name.”
Mike nodded. “You going to college?”
“Yes, sir. OSU. They have this great bachelor of science degree that’s half agriculture and half chemistry, so you learn how to grow grapes and then how to make them into wine.”
“Is that right.”
“Yes, sir. The only other school that offers it is U.C. Davis where my dad went.”
“You don’t want to go to school down there in California?”
“No, sir. I don’t really want to leave my dad and sister.”
The screen slid open once again and Mike watched Ren stand up once again. Michaela brought out a plate of baked potatoes. Kathy followed with a platter of steaming corn on the cob. They then made a few quick dashes in and out with butter, salt and pepper, sour cream—that flurry of activity before any meal. When it was all situated, Mike pulled his lawn chair over to sit at the head of the picnic table. Ren and Michaela sat to his right, Kathy to his left. He cut into the salmon and served up portions on paper plates. He passed them out and watched as the others prepared their potatoes and corn. “Aimee!” he bellowed, startling Ren into dropping his knife.
“Mike,” Kathy reproached him as Michaela protested, “Dad!”
“Where is she?” he asked, “Does she know we’re eating?” Ren sat, looking at his plate. “Dig in, boy,” Mike said. “What are you waiting for, Christmas?”
“Thank you,” Ren said, picking up his fork. He began eating with gusto, like a boy who had spent the day working in the fields, but he paused between every other bite to wipe his mouth with his paper napkin. “Excellent salmon, Mr. Burke,” he said. “The best I’ve ever eaten.”
At that moment, the door slid open and Aimee sauntered out. She wore a string bikini top and tiny red shorts; her pregnant belly hung out like she had swallowed Michaela’s basketball. Her eyelashes were heavy with mascara and her lips looked sticky with a shiny maroon gloss. Her bleached white hair was tied in ratty ponytail on top of her head. There was a raw hickey, about the size of a dog paw, on her upper right breast.
Kathy turned around, saw her barely 17-year-old middle daughter and gasped. Without a word, she charged into the house. Aimee sat down in the spot next to Kathy’s place, directly across from Ren. “Hi, Ren,” she purred. “Weren’t we in the same geometry class?”
Ren nodded, looked down, and his now-famous ruddiness crept up his neck and blazed his cheeks.
“That’s so random,” Aimee said.
Michaela smiled at Aimee, a personal warning to her sister that Mike had witnessed countless times. “It’s hardly random,” she said. “Wasn’t that like the third time you took geometry?”
Kathy came out and put a zippered sweatshirt over Aimee’s shoulders. “Mom, it’s hot out!” Aimee shrugged the wrap off and Kathy put it back on. Michaela looked at her dad beseechingly, but he pretended to ignore her. What did she expect him to do? Once they started sniping at each other, no one could stop them. And he could tell Michaela was about to blow.
Michaela pretended to cough: “slut!” Mike caught Kathy’s eye, mostly to stop himself from laughing out loud. Aimee sighed noisily and served herself up some food. She then stared at Ren suggestively as she licked butter off her corn on the cob. Ren just continued to eat, looking at no one.
“So Aimee,” Michaela started in. “Have you been up to Portland to see Darryl lately?”
Aimee glared at her.
Michaela turned to Ren. “Aimee’s boyfriend is a jackass. Literally. He’s the guy who lit himself on fire and ran around his backyard while his gomer friends videotaped him instead of helping him.”
Mike suspected Ren had already heard this tale, but if he had, he wasn’t letting on.
“Now he’s up in the hospital in Portland getting skin grafts. He looks like Skelator.” Michaela laughed.
“Shut up,” Aimee said. “When was the last time you were on national television? He’s been on 20/20, the Today show and Dateline.”
“They use him as an example of stupidity.” Michaela answered.
“You’re the stupid one,” Aimee countered. “When he gets his settlement from MTV, we’re moving to Las Vegas.”
“I’ll help you pack the car.” Michaela said.
“We’re going to fly.” Aimee sneered.
“Then I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Ha! You don’t even have a driver’s license.” She leaned back, obviously feeling the winner.
“And your baby’s father is a bacon-skinned moron who actually thinks MTV is going to give him money. If he really is the father. Maybe you should go on Maury and find out.” They glared at each other.
Kathy cleared her throat. “So, I wonder if it’s going to be this hot all summer?” No one answered her.
Mike saw Ren give Michaela a sympathetic look; she shrugged in return, like she didn’t care. But Mike knew she cared.
Aimee threw off the sweatshirt again and Kathy replaced it, tying the sleeves around her neck. “Stop it, Mother,” Aimee growled, then turned to Ren and changed her tone to fakely sweet. “So Ren, it must be really cool not having a mother to piss you off.”
Abruptly as a saw hitting a knot, Michaela stretched across the table and socked Aimee hard upside her head. Aimee tried to stand up to retaliate but Kathy grabbed one arm, Mike the other.
Michaela jumped up. “You suck! Have fun with lizard boy.” She pulled Ren up and they both stepped over the bench. “We are so outta here.”
Ren glanced regretfully down at his unfinished meal, then reached over and shook Mike’s hand. “Thank you very much for the great dinner,” he said. He nodded at Kathy. “It was very nice meeting you.” He gave a half-hearted wave to Aimee.
“Be home by ten,” Mike called after them.
Ren Ricci, Ren Ricci,
I’d like to ice that son of a bee-atch-ee.
They sat in silence—except for Aimee shoveling food in her face—until they heard Ren’s car drive away. Mike took a long drink of wine. It was smooth and rich sliding down his throat.
“This crazy family is going to drive him away,” Kathy hissed.
Mike swallowed hard. “Good,” he said, though he knew it was just wishful thinking.