Mendocino And Other Stories Part 20

"Do you like to swim, Elias?" Pansy says.

Elias looks up at her, his eyes so like the boys' when they were young: wide and brown and innocent.

"Answer Grandma," Jeremy says.

"Oh, no," Pansy says. "He doesn't have to."

MIRIAM IS CHANGING into her party dress-such as it is-when she hears the sound of the first car coming down the long driveway. She hasn't decided which pair of sandals to wear, and now she doesn't really have time to choose carefully. She puts on a pair with inch-high heels, an absurd thing to wear at the ranch but she thinks they flatter her legs, the only part of her still worth flattering. She hurries over to the mirror. A barrel with chorus girl legs, that's what Dad said the other day. She puts on lipstick and goes to the window to see who it is, Louisa or Pansy, but it's neither of them, and Miriam draws back to avoid being seen. She didn't recognize the people getting out of the car-Pansy's new neighbors, maybe, or friends of Louisa and Keith-and she allows herself to imagine that she can hide in here until one of her sisters arrives.

LUCY SHIFTS IN her seat, and her father pats her leg and then returns his hand to the steering wheel. Her mother, she thinks, has fallen asleep.

"Have we pa.s.sed the Nut Tree yet?" she whispers.

"About twenty minutes ago," her father whispers back.

When Lucy and her sister were little, the drive up to Papa Louie's seemed endless, and they always begged to stop at the Nut Tree for treats-you could get delicious little miniature loaves of nut bread. Now here Lucy is, thirty-six years old and she's still being taken by her parents to see Papa Louie. For a moment she's so envious of her sister it feels like an engine racing in her. Ellen, married. Ellen never even wanted to get married! She wanted to be a nurse and go to Africa. Lucy wanted to get married-at eight she spent an entire summer making lists of the names of men she might marry. She had the wedding all planned: ten bridesmaids and a flower girl who was, somehow, her own eight-year-old self. Ellen was six, and she made lists of the names of the children she would bear.

It's like roads to Rome. All Lucy's thoughts these days lead her to this place: Ellen's grief, the baby stillborn at eight and a half months. Lucy's grief is that Ellen won't talk to her about it, will barely talk to her at all.

THERE ARE TEN or twelve cars parked along the narrow drive down to Papa Louie's, and Jeremy slows the Jag down to a crawl: not a scratch on this baby is the motto. The house comes into view, and behind it, way in the distance, the mountains south of Tahoe. Jeremy loves it here, perhaps the one secret he has from his brother.

"I need a toot," Stuart says under his breath.

"Let me get Elias settled," Jeremy murmurs back.

He slows even more as they pa.s.s the twenty or thirty people already a.s.sembled on the terrace, then he eases the car around the back of the house and stops under the one anomalous peach tree. Pansy is out of the car before he's even cut the engine, saying something about Miriam.

"Let's go, troops," Jeremy says. "Party time."

He gets out of the car, leans into the backseat to help Elias out, and finds Jade staring at him blankly. "Babe?" he says.

She opens her door and unfolds her long, beautiful body, which is clad in something black and stretchy and minimal. She stands up, and to Jeremy it's like a command: adore me. He does. She is twelve years younger than he, twenty-three and utterly empty-headed, but it doesn't matter: it thrills him just to contemplate her arms.

"This is it, Babe," he says. He makes a grand sweep of his arm, encompa.s.sing the pear trees, the house, the pool, the gorgeous view across the hills to the mountains: the good fortune they all have to be here, and especially the good fortune he has to be with her.

"Toot time," Stuart says, patting the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, and Jade turns toward him, smiling.

"Jeez," Jeremy says, "I think maybe Mom didn't hear that, you want to try again?" He looks, guiltily, at Elias-but what's toot to his son but the noise a train makes? "What do you say, champ?" Jeremy says.

"Thank you," Elias says.

"I love it," Stuart says. "Where's Ma? She's got to hear this kid."

BUT PANSY IS in the house, in conference with Miriam. "Just go ask him," Miriam is saying. "He'll listen to you."

"Does it really matter, Mim?" Pansy sidesteps Miriam's gaze and goes to the refrigerator. She didn't know it until she stepped into the kitchen, but she's dying for some pear juice.

"On the door," Miriam says. "By the milk."

Pansy finds a bottle of clear, pale juice and pours some into a gla.s.s that's sitting on the counter.

"That was going to be for Dad's iced tea," Miriam says.

"Sorry," Pansy says. "I'll wash it, OK?"

"Could you just please go in and ask him?"

Pansy takes a sip of her drink. "Ask him what, hon?"

How, Miriam asks herself, can someone so vague get along living alone? Pansy's exactly like Dad, in fact. "To get dressed," she says. "Honestly, Pansy."

"All right," Pansy says. "But first I'm going to lock the piano room."

"Aw," Miriam says, "why? Remember last year after most everyone had gone, and Jeremy played the piano and we sang?" Miriam can't remember what the song was: something by a rock band, a song the kids knew. "Such a lovely place, such a lovely face"-that was part of it.

Pansy considers telling Miriam that she's worried about Elias, but decides not to. "Mom's teacups are in there," she says. "There were so many little kids last time, it just seems safer this way." She puts the empty juice gla.s.s in the sink. "What do you want him to wear?"

"Clothes!" Miriam says. "And see if you can shave him."

THE HEAT. IT'S ninety-seven already, and climbing. Harvest starts Monday, and if you know what to look for you can just smell the pears: a hint of cinnamon in the orchard.

A couple dressed in silks and linens comes walking down the driveway. She's in high white heels and isn't having an easy time of it; the driveway's unpaved. This is their first time at this party, and to see the little groups standing around in shorts and sundresses, kids running barefoot, and Don in his greasy chef 's ap.r.o.n loading briquets into the barbeque-it's nearly too much to bear.

"How cozy," she says. "Too bad we didn't rent a child to bring along, or a dog. Don't you think a dog would behoove us?"

He ignores her. He's thinking: stash the jacket and tie, roll up the sleeves, lose her. Then find the old man, right away, and say something cool and easy. "It's really a pleasure to meet you, sir." "I've been looking forward to this day for a long time, sir." He wipes the sweat from his forehead. He doesn't know a soul here, doesn't even know who sent him the invitation-probably someone who'd heard that his father had died.

"Oh," she says, "burgers, yum. I don't know when I last had a burger."

All those times his father wanted him to come along. All those times he said no. "Shut up," he says. "Just shut the h.e.l.l up."

RIGHT AWAY LUCY sees Jeremy and Stuart and Jade, sitting with their feet in the pool. She fills a plastic cup at the keg, and then, saying hi to people, h.e.l.lo, nice to see you, she weaves through the crowd and joins them.

"It's the hipsters," she says, kicking each of her cousins in the small of the back. "How's the hippest place on earth?"

"Hip," Stuart says.

"The hippest," Jeremy says.

"Hi, Jane," Lucy says. "We met at Pansy's birthday, in April."

"Yes," Jade says. "I remember."

It shouldn't be legal, Lucy thinks, to look like that-at least not when Lucy's around! "Nice to see you again," she says. "Nice of you to put up with this character here." She means Jeremy: her cousing, she thinks affectionately, remembering the long-ago term.

"It's Jade," Jade says.

Lucy looks at Stuart-he's rolling his eyes, meaning what? "Forgive me," she says. "I was sure it was Jane."

"It was in April," Jeremy says. "Now it's Jade."

Lucy kicks off her shoes and sits next to him. She puts her feet in the water, but she's no longer thinking about any of them, cousings or their silly girlfriends. Here come Ellen and Matt.

WHAT MATT SEES is kids, everywhere: and he tightens his hold on Ellen's arm. He doesn't remember there being nearly so many kids last year, and in trying to recall last year in any kind of detail he comes smack up against It: last year Ellen was pregnant, just-the news was maybe a week old and they were giddy with it.

He glances at her: she's pale and thin, so thin. She was worried about not being able to lose weight after the baby was born, but it's been just four months and she's slender and tense as a stick.

"There's Don in his ap.r.o.n," Matt says, for something to say.

"Stop!" She shakes his hand off her arm.

"What?"

"I don't-want to be seen. I'm cutting through the trees, you can-I don't care what you do."

She leaves the driveway and begins to walk in an arc that will take her around the nearby two-acre plot of pear trees-the home trees, Papa Louie calls them-to the back of the house. Everyone, Matt knows, has seen them.

He follows her. "Wait," he says. "Ellen, wait, I'm right behind you."

LOUISA KNOCKS AT her father's study door. "Papa Louie?" she says. "It's me, Louisa."

The door opens and there he is, like her sisters said: in boxers and his old seersucker robe. "Hi, Louie," he says.

"Hi, Louie." She goes in and kisses him. "Happy birthday-you're not getting older, you're getting worse."

"I've got a question for you, Louie," he says. "Come into my office." He walks her over to the bed-slowly, slowly-and they sit down on it, side by side.

"So?" she says. "Don't keep me waiting."

"I want you to tell me how I got here."

She picks up his hand and pats it, then laces her fingers through his. "It's like this," she says. "You and Mom were driving from Sacramento to South Lake Tahoe-you were going gambling. And you hit Placerville and she needed to pee, so you got off the road and you drove until you found her a good place to pee, and this was it, so you bought it and built a house here."

He nods. "And your mother?"

"She's dead, Louie. She died a while ago."

"That's right," he says. "That's right-I knew that."

She kisses his cheek. "There's some people out there who want to say h.e.l.lo," she says. "What about putting on some pants and we'll go out and try one of Don's burgers?"

"I don't like pants."

Louisa turns away from him; she doesn't want him to see her tears.

"I'll wear shorts," he says. "And my baseball cap."

PANSY AND MIRIAM sit on the back steps, their four feet lined up like soldiers. Pansy thinks of their mother: it wasn't ladylike to refer to your feet-you could say "My foot hurts," or, better, "I have a sore toe," but never "My feet hurt." Pansy's feet are still ladylike-71 AAA she wears, at sixty!-but Miriam's seem to be spreading; or maybe it's just the spindly little sandals she has on.

"There's Ellen," Miriam says. "In the orchard, coming this way. Don't say anything about the baby."

"I won't," Pansy says. How could Miriam even think she would?

They're both thinking: Poor Ellen. What they really mean is: Poor Louisa. Louisa suffers over things.

"I don't see why she doesn't just go ahead and try again," Miriam says. "Remember how she'd bring her dolls up and set them in the dining room chairs? And Mom would make real tea for them? She should have six babies."

"She loved her dolls," Pansy says. She remembers one time-she was so embarra.s.sed!-Stuart stole one of the dolls and ran down to the pond and threw it in. Ellen cried and cried; in a way, Pansy thinks, Ellen never did forgive him for that.

Now Ellen is before them, in shorts that hang off her. She looks terrible. Behind her is Matt-handsome Matt, that's how Pansy's always thought of him. He's tall and shy, and you can tell just by looking at him that he's miserable.

Miriam stands up. "Ellen, honey-how wonderful." She puts her arms around her niece, who holds herself absolutely rigid, and Miriam feels just as awkward as she did when her sisters' children were small and submitted to her clumsy hugs.

"Is Mom inside?" Ellen says.

"She's in with Papa Louie, hon," Pansy says, and Ellen slips between them and enters the house.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that," Miriam says. Both her sisters do it, as if they were the kids. He's their dad.

But Pansy's watching Matt. Over by the path to the pond is an old swing set, and Elias has been standing near it for several minutes. Now Matt walks over there and says something to him. Pansy finds she's holding her breath waiting for Elias to get on the swing, for Matt to push him. But they just look at each other, and then Matt disappears around the side of the house.

IT'S TWO O'CLOCK, and Don's ready to start cooking the burgers. No one seems interested, though-they're spread out around the pool, talking away, and a little while ago six or eight kids went racing down the path to the pond: he can hear them splashing. Pansy's Jeremy appears from the house, sniffling and looking around, something sneaky about him-but then he sees Don looking at him and he comes over and offers Don his hand.

"Going to cook some burgers, Uncle Don?" he says.

No, Don thinks, I'm just standing here because I like the heat. "That's the program," he says. "Time for the big feed." This strikes him as pretty d.a.m.ned funny, and he laughs.

"Want a hand?" Jeremy says. "I've flipped the odd burger in my time."

"No," Don says. "I don't begrudge it, not a bit. Your grandfather's been good to me."

"See over there?" Jeremy says, pointing at a skinny girl by the pool.

"The lady there?"

"I'm going to marry her," Jeremy says. "What do you think of that?"

Don laughs-what a mistake he's made! "h.e.l.l," he says, "I've been talking to you all this time and I thought you were the other one, I thought you were Jeremy. Ha! Identical twins, you boys fool me most every time I see you."

"I am Jeremy," Jeremy says. "And we're not identical, we're fraternal." He turns to leave, wondering why he was talking to Uncle Don in the first place: he and Lucy used to call him The Uncle Don Trap-they'd hide from him when they were little.

"But I thought you were already married," Don says.

"Ever hear of divorce?" Jeremy says. "It runs in the family, you know. Mom and Dad, my wife and me-I've got a kid and I'm doing everything I can to make sure he grows up and ruins some-one's life, too." He stalks away.

Don turns back to the barbeque and begins slapping hamburger patties on it. They can eat 'em now, he thinks, or they can eat 'em cold.

MATT WANTS TO find Lucy. He decides to check the pond, but on his way down the path he sees an unfamiliar woman sitting on a bench that rings a tall pine tree, and something about her makes him stop-maybe that she's incredibly dressed up, over dressed.