Chronicles of a Radical Hag (with Recipes)

by Lorna Landvik

  Now after the twenty-minute ride to Kingleigh Lake, he pulls up his T-shirt by its hem and swabs his face with it.

  “Geez, it’s hot,” he says, positioning himself on the beach towel.

  “It’s summer, my friend,” says Jacob.

  “Oh . . . so that’s what it is,” says Sam, irritated by Jacob’s new habit of ending sentences with phrases like, “my friend,” “old chap,” and worst, “guv’nor.” Sam is further annoyed that Jacob is bare chested and doesn’t have to hide his body behind his T-shirt the way Sam feels compelled to do.

  Both boys, stretched out and propped up on their elbows, gaze out at the lake, past the shoreline where little kids fill buckets with sand or splash around in the shallow water, to the floating raft where two girls in bikinis are practicing their dives.

  “Man, that one in the pink sure has nice tits,” says Jacob. “I wish I had some binoculars.”

  “I wish I had x-ray vision,” says Sam.

  “Let’s go in,” says Jacob. “And get a better look.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  Jacob runs frog-legged into the water before diving in, and Sam watches as he swims out to the raft. When he hoists himself up the ladder, both girls dive off, and when they start swimming to shore, Sam laughs. Jacob considers himself a ladies’ man, and while Sam envies his friend’s confidence, he can’t help enjoying when the ladies themselves aren’t impressed.

  Sam leans back and closes his eyes, letting his other senses luxuriate in the hot summer day; he feels the sun on his face, hears the sounds of splashing, the laughter, and shouts, smells suntan lotion and lake water and grape popsicles. He licks his upper lip and tastes the salt of sweat.

  That morning at the office, he had brought in a file of Haze’s columns with his notes as to each one’s subject and which ones he thought should be reprinted, and after Caroline, his boss while his mother was away, thumbed through them, she told him to take the rest of the day off.

  “Why?” he had asked, afraid he’d done something wrong.

  Caroline had laughed at the look on his face. “Because it’s such a beautiful day. And because you’ve been doing such a good job.”

  “But my mom might—”

  “It’ll be fine with your mom. She likes to reward hard work. Really. Go have some fun. Go to the lake or something.”

  He had texted news of his unexpected freedom to Jacob, who texted back: “ALREADY HERE.”

  Sam’s mother will be coming back tomorrow from whatever conference or panel or convention she’s been at, and he wonders vaguely what they’ll have for dinner. It used to be that whenever Sam’s mother returned from a trip, she’d bring him and his brother a present—often a Hot Wheels car to add to their collections but sometimes souvenirs (plastic beehive banks after her visit to Salt Lake City, rubber crocodiles from Florida). When Susan realized that not just Jack but Sam too had grown out of the toy/hokey souvenir stage, it had been her policy to make a special dinner when she returned.

  It recently occurred to Sam that maybe he should be the one making dinner—after all she would probably be tired from the travel—but it’s another good intention of his that fails to leave the starting gate.

  A hip-hop song blasts from a car radio in the parking lot and fades away as the car drives off. He hears a kid whining about sand in his sandwich and his sister’s rejoinder: “Maybe next time you’ll stay on the blanket like Mommy told you.”

  Maybe his mother will make stir-fry, Sam thinks—he loves her stir-fry. Or maybe they’ll grill hamburgers out on the deck. For the thousandth time, Sam thinks, Thanks a lot, Dad, as another memory fills his head of how things used to be—this one of his dad wearing his “Kiss the Chef” apron and calling out, “Prepare for magic,” every time he lit the charcoal.

  Sam feels droplets of water on his face before a hand pushes his shoulder up and down. He hears laughter and opens his eyes to see Jacob looming above him.

  “Come on, Sam, wake up!”

  “Huh?” asks Sam, and when his frame of vision widens to see the two bikinied girls standing behind Jacob, he pushes himself up, feeling clumsy and babyish. He can’t believe he’d fallen asleep, and he pretends to scratch his chin, although he’s really checking for drool.

  Rolling up his towel, Jacob says, “Sam, this is Lena, and that’s Shauna. Lena works at the FoodKing with me. We’re going over to Nick’s to party—he’s the head cashier—so, come on.”

  Sam feels fat in his T-shirt and stupid for having been napping like a baby.

  “Oh man, I wish I could,” he says, “but I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “I thought you had the day off,” says Jacob, stuffing his towel in his backpack.

  “Nah,” says Sam, trying to sound casual. “I’m supposed to be back there by one.”

  “Where do you work?” asks Lena or Shauna, Sam can’t tell who’s who.

  “At the paper,” says Sam. “The Granite Creek Gazette?”

  “Then you’d better hurry,” says Lena or Shauna, whichever one is looking at her phone. “It’s quarter to.”

  Riding back, Sam mutters and swears at himself: What is his problem? He’d heard Jacob talk about the eighteen-year-old Nick and how he supplemented his cashier income by selling weed and Ecstasy, and how he lived with his older brother and threw rad parties, and not only did Sam decline an invitation, but he lied about having to work? What kind of loser was he?

  A car honks at him from behind, and Sam veers closer to the side of the road.

  He salutes with his middle finger just as a boy, sitting in the car’s passenger side, waves to him.

  Recognizing the kid as a fifth-grader he was paired up with at last year’s tri-school field day, Sam quickly readjusts his fingers and flutters them in a wave.

  “YOU’RE BACK!” says Caroline, surprised when he returns to the office. Sam’s pretty surprised himself—he had planned to just chill at his dad’s, maybe play some Grand Theft Auto, but when he went to the condo to change, Mac was there, back from a weeklong sales trip to the West Coast. Mac was a nice enough guy, but it was, after all, his condo, and whenever Sam was there, he tried to be respectful of his host’s space.

  “Yeah, nobody was at the lake,” lies Sam, “so after I swam for a while, I thought I might as well get back to the grindstone.”

  “That’s quite a work ethic you’ve got,” says Caroline. “I’m impressed.”

  Sam shrugs elaborately. “Feel free to tell your boss.”

  They both laugh, and a tiny bit of Sam’s anger and frustration lift.

  It had been decided that since the conference room was often in use, Sam should now use Haze’s office, and he reads a couple of Haze’s columns, setting aside one paired with Mr. Joseph Snell’s usual out-of-joint response to show Caroline for possible publication. He shouldn’t have come back to work—what kind of loser goes back to work when he could have gone and partied with girls? He drums the lip of Haze’s desk with his fingers, rocks back and forth on her office chair, and swivels back and forth, looking to the file cabinets to the left and right of the bookshelf. When he stops swiveling, he leans his head back in his hands and stares at the bookshelf while chastising himself for being such a dweeb, such a loser, such a fucking loser. He wonders what Jacob and Lena and Shauna are doing now. Probably getting high and making out, two recreational activities Sam has yet to do. His eyes are fixed on the highest shelf of the bookcase, and a long moment passes. Sam squints—maybe what he’s staring at is a book spine without any print on it, maybe a dictionary or something. Squinting again, Sam sees—what, hinges?—on one side of it. He gets up, and on his tiptoes he can just reach the top shelf, and he grips the mystery rectangle and pulls it down.

  Setting it on the desk, Sam stares at it, like an archaeologist studying a dug-up bone.

  Stained so its grain shows through, it’s not a book but a wooden box, with the words “Pirate Booty” etched into it. Its lid hinges are brass, and so is i
ts keyhole. Keyhole. A flare of excitement spritzes in Sam’s chest as he remembers the key in the small rosemaled box, and he retrieves it from inside the desk drawer. Taking a deep breath—he’s enjoying the drama of the moment—he takes the key that’s inside the little decorated box and puts it into the other box’s lock. It fits, and as he turns it, his heart hammers. He opens the lid.

  His shoulders slump with disappointment. He didn’t know what “pirate booty” he was expecting to find: unmarked bills? narcotics? a gun? Something more exciting than a bunch of papers and a notebook. With one finger, he flips down the lid, but a moment later he flips it back up, and with a roll of his eyes, as if he’s performing to an audience, he reaches for the papers. He pulls off the paper clip and begins to read.

  Darling, I wonder if that’s a new dress? It must be, for I like to think I keep a close eye on all the beauty that is just down the hall. If it’s not a new dress, know that it looks new to me, or is it that I’m just so dazzled by you that all your finery looks new and sparkling?

  Darling, do you realize it’s our anniversary? One year since my dream of you became a reality. I know silver represents twenty-five years, and gold fifty—as short as our time has been together, it’s all platinum . . .

  Haze, A Poem

  Haze, Haze, Haze

  I’m in one

  Because of you

  A soft haze

  Sam has a flicker of conscience that warns him he’s treading on private property, that reading Haze’s long-ago written columns is one thing, but reading love letters written to her is another thing entirely. But conscience is weak and puny when challenged by a mighty curiosity, and he keeps reading.

  Part Two

  11

  After Royal’s death, Haze didn’t know if she could lend the possessive “her” to the word “sanity.” Shock and numbness had gotten her through her husband’s funeral; had allowed her to stand up straight in the receiving line, accepting the handshakes and hugs of hundreds of people; had allowed her to take a few bites of the luncheon the Ladies’ Circle had provided in the church basement; had allowed her, over the following weeks, to express her grief in a semblance of a column and send her mother to the paper with it; had allowed her to write over two hundred thank-you cards and affix stamps to them; but as she dumped the last stack into the mailbox, she leaned against the cold blue metal, afraid to step away because she was sure she would fall and keep falling.

  IT WAS BILL MCGRATH, Royal’s best friend, who pulled Haze away from the precipice. Not with a sudden yank of her shirttail but with slow and steady signs of concern.

  She was burrowed under the covers of her bed, the place she had decided to stay for the rest of what she hoped would be her brief life, when one afternoon Bill gently knocked on the shaded window and told her not to be scared, but he was coming in.

  He sat in the chair in the corner of the room, the chair Royal always used to sit in when he tied his shoes.

  “Haze, we’re worried about you.” After sitting in silence for a long while, he added, “and I know you’re not sleeping.”

  “I’m going to start locking my door,” said Haze, her voice muffled.

  Bill’s laugh was soft. “See, I knew you weren’t sleeping.”

  Another silence moved in, settling in the room like a cold front. Finally, sighing, Haze emerged from the covers, pushing herself up and leaning against the headboard.

  “Your mother left?” asked Bill.

  “She would have stayed longer, but I sent her back home. Just because I don’t have a life doesn’t mean she shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, Haze,” said Bill, and his chair became an ejector seat in response to the hurt in her voice and on her face.

  Sitting on the side of the bed, he took her hand between his.

  “I know it doesn’t seem possible right now, Haze, but you are going to get through this.”

  Haze shook her head, and when she spoke, her voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I don’t see how.”

  SIX WEEKS AFTER ROYAL’S DEATH, a pale and gaunt woman opened the door to the Gazette offices, startling the young, newly hired receptionist so much that she rocked sideways in her chair, nearly falling off it.

  “I know I’ve looked better,” the woman said in a rusty voice, “but I usually don’t get such an . . . honest reaction.”

  “No, I just . . . I get here early, and I . . . I just didn’t expect anyone yet.”

  “Never mind,” said Haze, offering her hand and introducing herself. “And you obviously are not Berta.”

  “No, I’m Shelly. Shelly Clausen. Berta’s replacement.”

  “Oh, yes, Berta retired.” To herself, she muttered, “I’ll have to call her.”

  Shelly wished that the phone would ring, and when it didn’t, she scribbled something on her memo pad. She had read about the columnist and her recent tragedy and wanted to say something, but nerves and shyness were like a trap in her throat, permitting no words to exit.

  “Well, then,” said Haze, rapping her knuckles on the receptionist’s desk, “Welcome aboard, Shelly.”

  In her office, Haze sat straight in her chair, hands lightly resting on the leather border of her desk blotter. This space was her sanctuary, her favorite place in the world next to the home she and Royal had shared, but now she felt like the new girl, seated at a school desk with no one to tell her where the bathroom was, what time the lunch bell rang, whether the teacher was mean or nice.

  But then Joan Dwyer came into the office, and after her, a steady stream of people, all offering sympathy, welcome, and the odd gift. After Roger Czielski gave her a hug and a can of macadamia nuts—“They’re from Hawaii!”—Haze shut her office door, which was always her signal that she was working.

  “Which I might as well do,” she said to herself, feeding a piece of paper behind the platen of her Selectric typewriter and pressing the return key. She had no idea what she wanted to say, but her fingers didn’t care, and they began jumping across the keys.

  May 23, 1971

  Garret Powell, a boy in the grade ahead of me, accidentally shot his twin brother to death with the rifle they had gotten for their fifteenth birthday.

  The sheriff was quoted in the paper as saying, “The boys were just horsing around!” and anyone who knew Garret and his brother, Gilbert, thought, “of course they were.” They were big, strapping, fun-loving boys who staged elaborate practical jokes, who greeted the world with laughter and an eager attitude of “what’s next?”

  Garret’s grief was dark and deep, and after two attempts on his own life, his parents had him committed. He was in the state institution for a long time, and when he was released, he went home to help run the family farm.

  Several years ago when I was visiting my mother, I was shopping on Main Street, and out of Major’s Bar I saw a figure stumble, weave, and then fall to the sidewalk.

  I rushed over and saw that it was Garret, who had not aged at all well.

  “Thank you, miss,” he said, not recognizing me as I helped him up. “I’d ask you”—his words were slurred, and yet he had that careful, affected posture of someone trying to hide their drunkenness—“I’d ask you to excuse my condition, but I know it’s inexcusable.”

  I don’t want my condition to be inexcusable. I know people suffer, brothers accidentally shoot their twins, young mothers get diagnosed with inoperable cancer, first-graders get run over by their own school buses, leaving, of course, their loved ones behind at an intersection of despair and grief.

  I am at that crossroads. I took the luck that brought Dr. Royal Kirby into my life for granted, thought it had a shelf life of, oh, at least fifty years. We were married for only three years and four months, and I can honestly say I was still in the “madly in love” phase. My heart would speed up when he’d come through the door, and I’d open my arms and rush to him.

  Royal laughed at my jokes as if I were a Vegas headliner. We planted together our vegetable garden, but he weed
ed it, because he knew how much I hated that chore. After I forced him into dance lessons, he became an eager partner, and our first dance at Zig’s was to Tony Bennett’s “Fly Me to the Moon,” and that song title became our catchphrase.

  “Would you like scrambled eggs for breakfast?”

  “I’d rather you fly me to the moon.”

  “Royal, where should we go for vacation?”

  “Fly me to the moon.”

  Like all private jokes and passwords shared with those you love, they were banal and stupid, precious and dear.

  Today the one thing that made me get out of bed, that made me get here into my office and at my desk, is that I was loved. My husband died, but that can’t take away the absolute fact that I was loved.

  And if Dr. Royal Kirby had anything to say about it, he would say (in his deep, sonorous voice), “Haze, here’s my prescription for you: just keep going. I’m so sorry I can’t be with you as you keep going—we had such plans!—but that’s what I’d do if I had to face the indescribable, unimaginable idea of life without you. I’d try to find a way to just keep going.”

  So that’s what I’m doing now. I don’t want to be like Garret Powell, stumbling out of a bar and apologizing for my condition. That wouldn’t honor my husband, Dr. Royal Kirby, who not only would have written me a prescription to keep going, he’d have called the drugstore to make sure the pharmacist had filled it.

  HAZE DIDN’T EVEN PROOFREAD THE COLUMN but yanked it out of the typewriter and marched down the hallway to Bill’s office.

  “Hi, Joan,” she said, slapping the pages on his secretary’s desk. “Give this to Bill, will you?”

  “Of course, Haze. Oh, I’m so glad you’re—”

  But Haze had already turned around and was jogging back to her office, trying to outrun emotions she didn’t even know were in the race. She wrote another column about Royal that afternoon, ignoring the rainfall of tears on her fingers.