The Good Fortune Harvest
In the evening, my mother’s friend David comes over. He is the amazingly silent man. He comes in and sits in the parlor waiting for us (women) to get dinner on the table. My mother carefully washes a large zucchini in the sink. When she moves out of the way, I fill the sink with water to soak the lettuce and watch the soap bubbles ooze up as I push the leaves under.
We are barbecuing steaks. My mother makes a polite gesture to David to get the grill going. He responds in silence, holding up three fingers. Jack was supposed to be coming with Margo, and they were going to bring dessert, but Margo isn’t feeling well, and Jack said he had to work late anyway. I’ve yet to see him since I’ve been back. Mom said not to take it personally, says she hardly sees him since he’s so busy all the time.
Frank couldn’t come either. He is taking his kid group on a camping trip. Frank works with delinquents from the area schools. Kids no one else wants to handle. Andy says it makes Frank feel good about himself to be there for these kids. He certainly has come a long way if you ask me. Laura was an expected no show. She’s on a date with the mystery man, as my mother refers to him, and Andy is on a date with someone my mother doesn’t acknowledge either. So it is just the three of us and several large T-bone steaks.
I watch David on the back porch methodically working with the coals. I remember when I was a little girl, my dad and I would use a whole loaf of bread to soak up the grease that was left in the steak pan. Who’d have thought that same grease was building up in his arteries the whole time just waiting to choke the life out of him.
I look back out at David and think to myself that he is nothing like my Father. Nothing at all. My mother has eclectic taste in men, and sometimes I believe the only prerequisite is that they are men. If my Father were here, the stereo would be blasting Alfred Brendhl or David Horowitz, and he would be running back and forth squirting lighter fluid in the pit just to watch the flames leap higher and higher. He’d come screaming at my mother to get him this and get him that and cause everyone to go on red alert and become very attentive.
David meanwhile has built a modest fire from what I can see. My mother sliced zucchini, peppers, eggplant, and tomatoes to place on the grill. She turns to me and tells me to bring David the plate of steaks first. I grab a beer and the platter and go out on the porch. I hand the platter to David and go sit down and take a sip of my beer.
“You want one?” I ask David, holding up the bottle to him.
“No thank you,” he says smiling.
He busies himself with poking at the grill and putting the steaks on. He takes an inordinately long time. Makes me think he is doing this to keep from having to say anything to me.
“So Mom tells me you have a deli in town,” I say to him.
“That’s right,” he answers.
“Where at?” I ask.
“Folsom and First,” he replies.
“Is that where you met her?” I ask.
“No.”
“How are the coals?” I ask.
“Good,” he says.
I grunt an acknowledgment and give up.
Later, after we’ve finished our coffee, David leaves, citing his early hours as the reason. My mother and I keep our seats, remaining out back on the deck under a flurry of stars. The night air is slightly cool, comfortable enough to linger in.
She says to me after a long period of sustained silence, “Those steaks weren’t all that tasty, were they now?”
“How could they be? They feed those cows maple syrup just before sending them to the slaughter house just so they’ll drink a bunch of water and seem plump and juicy,” I tell her.
“Oh honey,” she says, grimacing in the moonlight. “That’s a horrible thought.”
“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact,” I tell her.
“Well,” she says.
Another period of silence.
“Mom, have you ever thought of selling that property?” I ask her, nodding in the direction of the field.
“The field? Why no,” she says. After a long pause, she adds, “Your Father wanted to sell it many times, but he couldn’t stand the thought of someone living next door. So it’s just sat there.”
“Do you have any plans for it?” I ask.
“Plans? No, I don’t have any kind of plans for it, honey,” she says, sounding a little confused. “What kind of plans?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just have something I was thinking about, and well…”
“You want to build a house there?” she claps her hands and asks, looking as animated as if a cartoon light bulb has gone off over her head.
“Frank thought about doing that once, but then he bought the house he’s in now and well….”
“Not a house, Mom. Something else,” I say. “Something else.”
We leave it at that.