by Daniel Pyne
“And here we are, fourteen inches apart, and I can feel the heat from your legs and the sweetness of your breath, and in the Victorian version of this encounter, I would fairly swoon, right? Now, maybe I’m missing something, but the question of whether I am or am not interested in him seems to be beside the point, a sort of Cosmo-meets-Jane-Austen-thing, or maybe just a strategic consideration, from your perspective, as you muster your troops for another assault on my strange new resolve. Am I interested in your brother? I realize this might sound weird right now, but I believe it’s none of your business.”
“Like your smoking,” Grant observed.
“I don’t smoke,” she said. The next button popped off in her hand. “Whoops.”
“Guess it’s not me,” Grant observed quietly. He was thinking maybe this would still turn out all right; he couldn’t help it. “This shirt just wants to come off.”
“Think so?”
“Yeah. I do.”
And so he’d made his play. Her eyes stayed locked on his; she said then, “It’s lucky we’ve got more thread.” And she leaned in with her hands on his chest and she kissed him. Long enough, but not too long.
“Yeah, I’m interested in Lee,” she said finally, taking a breath and pushing back. “Very. I am. So. Yes. Sorry.”
“That kiss didn’t seem too interested in him.”
Rayna shrugged and said, “That kiss wasn’t me. It was just what my lips wanted.”
Grant stood up. His head had cleared. He said, “You know what? This may be as close as I’ll ever come to understanding women because I’m happy and sad at the same time.”
“You ought to send that in to Cosmo.”
“No, I’m serious. Maybe it came out wrong.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, then. No, it’s just me. The old me,” she added, gloomy.
“You keep talking about her.”
“Yeah.” She sat back. She studied her hands, her chewed-down nails. “The old me was more like you than I want to admit,” she said. “You wouldn’t have liked her.”
Grant stayed quiet.
“Nothing to lay siege to, nothing to ruin. The old me was vainglorious, Pompei during Vesuvius. Hot mud and ash raining down, too proud to run to safety, too stubborn to be scared.
“It was just dumb luck that I survived it,” she said. “And still I miss her,” she admitted.
Neither of them said anything for a while. There was the hum of the refrigeration units out in the store, the click and creak of the building as it caught the sun. And someone outside the store, knocking on the front door. Grant didn’t have anywhere to put his hands. They felt big and clumsy, hanging at his sides like mitts.
“You gonna get that?”
“I don’t think so. They’ll come back.”
“It sounded like Lee,” Grant said.
“You can tell it’s Lee from the knocking?”
“He was the best brother,” Grant said. “I didn’t deserve him. He did everything you said and then some. And I loved him and I hated him, and I know him and I don’t understand him.”
“Deserve has nothing to do with anything,” Rayna scoffed. “And he’s still your brother, what’s with the past tense? And what in the world were you doing,” she wondered aloud, “up on the mountain last night with that shotgun and my shells?”
It was Lee at the door.
His Jeep was parked across the street, behind Grant’s Camaro, and he stood there at the grocery store entrance for a long time, staring at the CLOSED sign in the window, without any expression, and Rayna and Grant waited, back in the store’s shadows, motionless, until Lee drew his conclusion, returned to his Jeep, fired up the engine, and spun a tight U-turn.
“Shit.” Rayna watched him drive away. She asked Grant what he would tell Lee.
Grant closed his eyes. After a moment, he said, “Rayna, I did eighteen months in state prison for beating the living shit out of this stockbroker from church who Lee thought was having an affair with Lee’s so-called wife, Lorraine.”
There was a silence in the store. The refrigeration unit shut down, and they could hear the distant sawing from Doug’s friends up at the mine.
“He was bragging about it. The stockbroker,” Grant explained. “Bragging that Lee thought he was the one, I mean. Telling everybody he’d hung the horns on my brother by fucking her, fucking my brother’s wife, Lorraine. Talking the shit. You know.”
“What happened to him?”
“Beachum? Oh, hell, I guess he landed on all fours.”
She waited.
“He married her, didn’t he?” Grant said.
“Did he?”
“He did, yeah. They’ve got this . . . kid.”
“And Lee just let you do it? Beat him up?”
“Well. It’s not like he was there to stop me.”
“I don’t understand,” Rayna said. “Did you think he—Lee wouldn’t . . . ”
Grant took a deep breath and talked over her: “No. No. Look, here’s the deal: I did it because he’s my brother and he never gets a break and I love him and because it was actually me who was fucking my brother’s wife.”
With that, Grant unlocked the door and walked out. And even before the door banged shut behind him, Rayna’s eyes were blind with tears.
TWENTY
BROOMFIELD BOAT & YACHT CLUB
June Meeting Minutes
(7:15 PM, Winchester Avenue IHOP, Broomfield, CO)
Present: Jon White Bear; Daryl Carver; LizBeth Carver; June Etchevarria; Buddy Etchevarria; Dr. Pat Kyumoto, DDS; Jack Jackson, Esq.; Lee Garrison; Mary Grace Jackson-Rifkin, LN; Boo Buskirk; Sissy Voigt; Roy Voigt; and Raphael Zabrinski.
Absent: Melissa Johnson, Herve Johnson, and Vaslov Mrek.
Others Present: Guest speaker: Lt. Sheila Swanson (USN-ret.) and SN Susan Johnson (USN-ret.), her friend and former shipmate.
Proceedings:
· Meeting called to order at 7:15 PM by Boo Buskirk, President.
· May meeting minutes are amended and approved.
· President’s Report:
- Recommends that if the Location Committee is not able to find a new meeting place by the end of this month, the club should continue to meet in the current location through the end of the year. Mr. Carver states that if the meetings don’t move he will not be able to continue with the club. He produces a doctor’s note concerning allergies to chemicals comprising the maple scent of pancake syrup. Several members urge Carver to go ahead and resign. Mrs. Etchevarria suggests a painter’s breathing apparatus or the sterile face mask many people wore during the H1N1 epidemic, which Ms. Jackson-Rifkin indicates she could bring home free from the hospital. After much discussion, Mr. Carver agrees to try a modified painter’s mask he purchased for the club’s last America’s Cup celebration at the Royal Fork on Colfax Avenue, and the club unanimously confirms continuing to convene at the Winchester Avenue IHOP until next year.
- Mr. Garrison is asked if he would say a few words about his gold mine, as it is currently a topic of much speculation among club members, if the twitter and email traffic since our last meeting is any indication. Mr. Garrison says he would prefer not to talk about his gold mine, as there is no boating involved. [Secretary’s note: He has some off-color opinions about tweeting and texting that are best left unrecorded.]
- Treasurer Kyumoto and Sergeant-at-Arms Mrek attended the National Boat Show in San Diego June 5–7, and Dr. Kyumoto gives a brief review, promising next month to give a longer presentation and show the short video tour Mr. Mrek shot of the new Stamas 310 Tarpon that he put a down payment on before his wife found out and froze the account. MOTION is made and seconded that the club send someone to intervene with Mrek’s wife, Ishvuk, to assure her that it won’t happen again, so that Mr. Mrek might rejoin the club.
- Mr. Garrison asks Dr. Kyumoto about the new Nordhavn trawlers. Dr. Kyumoto says he didn’t see any trawlers at the National Boat Show. Mr. Garrison insists trawlers are always a big part of any boat show,
and the Nordhavn is the Cadillac of recreational trawlers. Dr. Kyomoto opines that if Mr. Garrison wants to talk about something, why doesn’t he talk about his gold mine, or is he embarrassed about it? Mr. Garrison accuses Dr. Kyumoto of not even knowing what a trawler is. Mrs. Etchevarria requests a point of order. President Buskirk has misplaced his gavel. Mr. Zabrinski says something nobody can understand on account of his accent, but Sissy Voigt, translating, although no one knew she spoke his language, says Raphael recommends tabling this discussion since no one in the club knows anything about trawlers. Sissy blushes suspiciously as she says this, and Mr. Zabrinski has one of those Continental smiles favored by the rakish rival in romance novels. Mr. Garrison wonders what the point of a boat club is if you can’t ask good boat questions. Mr. White Bear offers a MOTION to censure Mr. Garrison for his “dispiriting attitude” and wonders if, perhaps, Mr. Garrison’s gold mine is incompatible with Boat Club goals and guidelines. No one seconds it. Mr. Garrison expresses considerable doubt that the aforementioned Boat Club goals or guidelines even exist. President Buskirk asks Secretary Etchevarria to read the Goals and Guidelines for the record, but the Secretary admits she left her handbook at home. Mr. White Bear posits that maybe Garrison would like to just go ahead and join the Aurora Gold Mine and Ghost Town Jeeping Club and turn in his anchor pin. Mr. Garrison offers to go discuss this with Mr. White Bear out in the parking lot. Mr. White Bear would like some guarantee that Mr. Garrison’s felonious little brother isn’t waiting out there in the shadows. President Buskirk gavels the argument, insists that cooler heads should prevail; a MOTION to table Mr. Garrison’s inquiry about Nordhavn trawlers at the National Boat Show is seconded and passed on voice vote by a clear majority.
Finance Committee report provided by Treasurer Kyumoto: We have $31.19 in the treasury, not enough to buy waffle-fries or refreshments for everyone present. MOTION to take up a collection to do so fails by a vote.
- Mr. Jackson suggests a weekend car wash event to raise money. No discussion results.
- MOTION to accept financial report seconded and passed.
· Water Safety Committee’s report provided by Sissy and Roy Voigt: This week’s topic: Using Your Jeans as an Emergency Life Preserver. Video downloaded from YouTube won’t play on anyone’s laptop; MOTION to postpone Water Safety Committee’s presentation seconded and passed.
· Main Speaker:
- Lt. Shiela Swanson, USN-ret. Multimedia PowerPoint presentation about Lt. Swanson’s final tour of duty aboard the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan. Highlights include a harrowing tale of night landings during Operation Enduring Freedom, a photo-tour of the “Arab Market” held aboard the USS R.R. while anchored off Dubai, and the King Neptune Line Crossing ritual for first-time sailors (nicknamed Pollywogs) upon crossing the International Dateline, during which SN Susan Johnson (USN-ret.) fondly recalls drinking carrier homebrew from a beer bong, stripping naked, and coating herself in cable grease to be pitched overboard where she nearly drowned. Helpful pointers on navigation in the absence of a GPS system ensue, also methods of dead reckoning, pilotage, celestial navigation, knot tying, and the use of sextants. Susan Johnson demonstrates the sextant until it breaks. Questions during the follow-up mostly center on seasickness and its remedies.
· Other Business:
- President Buskirk announces that he has recently hired a new secretary, Karla Quilty, and that she is selling her low-mileage, mint-condition 2003 Civic, in case anyone is interested.
· Assessment of the Meeting:
- Dr. Kyumoto reports that the past three meetings have run over the intended two-hour time slot by almost an hour. President Buskirk requests that members be more mindful and focused during discussions and suggests that the Club Development Chairman, Ms. Jackson-Rifkin, analyze the issue and report on it at the next meeting. Ms. Jackson-Rifkin suggests that maybe certain people (she doesn’t want to name names) should just shut their mouths and open their ears. MOTION to adopt the principle “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” passes with one dissent.
- Mr. Garrison offers to chair a committee to provide more information about sailing and boating at the meetings. He says it’s hard enough to be in a boat club in a region that receives less than five inches of moisture in an entire year and is thousands of miles from the nearest ocean. Several members remind Mr. Garrison of the many local navigable waterways, including the Cherry Creek Dam, Chatfield and Bow Mar Lakes, plus the South Platte River and the High Line Canal. Garrison submits that tubing in the High Line does not qualify as boating “by any stretch of the imagination,” and asks repeatedly whether anybody in the group actually owns a boat yet (not including Mr. Voigt’s radio-controlled replica of the USS Indianapolis). Mr. White Bear’s MOTION to censure Mr. Garrison is reintroduced, seconded, and passed unanimously. Mr. Garrison departs the meeting without further comment.
- Membership votes unanimously to thank Lt. Swanson for the stimulating talk and wishes her and Susan Johnson best of luck with their new Chick-fil-A franchise.
· Meeting adjourned at 10:47 PM.
· Minutes submitted by Secretary June Etchevarria.
TWENTY-ONE
It credibly looked, for a moment, as if Lee’d been crucified backwards on the cherrywood cross he’d made. But he was only giving it a clear-coat while Grant waited outside, smoking a cigar and watching his brother through the open church doors.
There was no retreating.
Neither Grant nor Lee wanted a siege, but here it was, and they were both pinned down by their stubbornness, throwing up bulwarks and entrenching for what they knew, from their history, although if asked they would both deny it, could be a long, bloody campaign.
“The Chaos” had been in full form earlier, when Grant staggered out of his bedroom and into the kitchen of Lee’s house, sleepy, in his boxer shorts and Wilco T-shirt, the morning after his supposed transgression with Rayna. A brace of cereal boxes were out on the counter along with a gallon container of 2 percent milk behind which Lee hunched, half-hidden, alternately studying the back of the Mini Swirlz Peanut Butter Blast box and absently flipping through a boating magazine.
Morning cereal mixing was a sacred ritual Lee and Grant had observed for as long as they could remember, since before they learned to hold a spoon in their tiny fists, because their father was Serial Cereal Man who introduced them to the miracle of the breakfast bricolage. Wheat Chex, Life, and Sugar Pops. Cap’n Crunch and Shredded Wheat with a dusting of Raisin Bran. Cocoa Puffs and Yummy Mummy. Frankenberry and Wheatabix Minis. Batman, Superman, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Granola, Special K, Lucky Charms, and Grape Nuts, with honey. The novelty whore blends: Hot Wheels Sugar Blasts with Barbie Sparkles and Donkey Kong Crunch. The healthy horror mix: Wheaties, Total, Fiber One, and Nutri-Grain. Nothing but puff-based product. Nothing but fruit-based product.
Lee had invented the single letter rule: Total, Triples, and Trix; Oreo O’s and Oatmeal Crisp; Frosted Flakes, Flutie Flakes, Fruit Brute, and French Toast Crunch. Grant had responded with death by sugar: Apple Jacks, Buzz Blasts, Sprinkle Spangles, and Waffle Krisp; Homer’s Cinnamon Donut Cereal, Golden Grahams, and Banana Frosted Flakes. Over time craft gave way to an approximation of art: Cheerios, Marshmallow Krispies, and Maypo. Oatmeal and All-Bran with Pink Panther Flakes. And after the death of their father, the ritual finally degenerated into “The Chaos,” in which you pulled out every box in the pantry and, without thinking about it, poured this and that from a random selection of cereals until your bowl was full.
Grant sat down. Lee looked up at him, but said nothing. It was not unusual or necessarily meaningful that there was no conversation at breakfast, and while Grant felt that Lee expected and, probably, that Grant needed to explain what he was doing in Rayna’s store with the door shut and the closed sign turned out, there was also that part of him that resented Lee’s always jumping to the most damning conclusion where Grant was concerned; although he understood that Lee had plenty of
reason and history to take him directly to that dark place. But this time he hadn’t, he reminded himself, done anything wrong at all.
Lee added milk to his bowl. Grant considered his cereal options. In prison, it had been Cream of Wheat or Cheerios or Corn Flakes. No mixing.
“Remember how Dad used to use orange juice instead of milk after the whole deal with his lactose intolerance? Count Chocula and o.j. Lucky Charms and o.j.”
Lee’s cereal had crackled with a fretful static. His spoon had stopped, poised over the gravelly surface, and he turned the page of the boating magazine and stared at the picture of a big new ocean trawler with poles flung out behind it like some waterborne insect’s antennae. Grant waited for Lee to say something, but his brother had just stared at the boats and finished his cereal in silence.
Whereupon Grant had decided he wasn’t all that hungry.
Now a few hours later, in the nave where Lee was on the ladder shellacking, Pastor John was taking a family through a christening rehearsal. Proud mom, Distracted dad, the Golden Newborn, of course, and a Little Hellboy of maybe seven, who kept scudding his shoes on the floor to make a burring sound.