Anticipated Results

by Dennis E. Bolen

  “Behave, Damian.”

  “Oh just shove it, Jeannie.”

  “Bip, bip, bip …” Paul was rising from his chair.

  “Good man.” I got up too. “I need your crucial help in the kitchen.”

  I followed him closely all the way there. He went for his jacket. When he turned I saw for the first time the thickness of his eye-glaze. Dead drunk. He must have had more than usual at the bar. Without a word he made for the door and was gone.

  I stood there. I listened. The music was back on. Radiohead. Perhaps there was the murmur of voices.

  The roasting lamb sizzled in the oven and the air was loaded with the evergreen scent of the rosemary. I turned the heat on under the vegetables, then pulled the salad out of the refrigerator and whipped up a vinaigrette. For a few minutes I was happy and alone. Then Damian marched through on his way to the back door. “You got an ashtray?”

  “Yesirree.” I went for it and stepped to the outside where he had a butt already lit. I placed the ashtray in front of him on the railing. He regarded me with a warped smile.

  Back inside, I was in the middle of getting the salad bowls and the salad and the dressing to the dining room when the phone rang. I hardly ever pick up. Absolutely never when the least bit busy. But as I returned to the kitchen Joan bustled in with it in her hand. “I thought I should get it because you’re busy.”

  “Oh. Umm. Could you tell them to leave a voice message?”

  “It’s Paul.”

  “Oh.”

  I dropped salad forks and napkins and took the phone.

  “You don’t have to blame me.” Paul spoke before I could say anything.

  “Are you coming back?”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Who cares about fault. This lamb needs you.”

  “You’ve got it under control. Goodnight.”

  “Aw, Paul, jeez …”

  “You don’t have to blame me.”

  “I’m not blaming you. I just wish you were here.”

  “I’ve got to go to bed.”

  “But Paul—”

  “You’re okay. You’re always okay.”

  “How do I know when this thing is ready?”

  “How long has it been in?”

  “One and a half hours.”

  “You got that meat thermometer I gave you?”

  “Yeah. Somewhere.”

  “Stick it in there. If it’s at 180 degrees right in the middle, it’s ready.”

  I crouched at the oven door. “It looks about right—190.”

  “Is it browned okay?”

  “It looks pretty browned, yeah.”

  “Take it out right away and let it stand while you’re doing salad.”

  “Okay. We’re right about to do that now.”

  “Have you got it out of the oven?”

  “Yup.”

  “Now cut along the joint and see what colour you have inside.”

  “Along the joint?”

  “Or anywhere you have enough meat to get in there an inch or two.”

  “Okay. It’s pink.”

  “Pink but not red, right?”

  “Nope. Not red really. I mean, pink for sure. A little red in some places maybe.”

  “Let it stand for ten minutes or so and then carve it up and serve.”

  “Why don’t you come over? I’ll tell Jeannie to cap it.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Aw c’mon.”

  “Nope.”

  I felt time pressure. The meat steamed on its platter. Paul hung up.

  Damian clomped back through and turned for the bathroom.

  Joan came into the kitchen looking pained. “Things aren’t going too well, are they?”

  “Well I wish I had my culinary consultant on site but things will get better, I’m sure.”

  “Can I help?”

  Nick popped into the kitchen with an empty glass. “Why is it more lively in here than out there?”

  “Because you’re not doing your job, lame-o. Get back in and entertain.”

  “I can’t do a good job unless I know who’s single. How about Jeannie?”

  “She brought somebody.”

  “Oh come on. She can’t be with that degenerate punk.”

  “Shhh. He’s in the bathroom.”

  “Doing what, I wonder …?”

  Joan grabbed a stack of plates. “Should I put these on the table?”

  “I have to warm them first. Here, you and Nick open these bottles of red and make sure there are enough claret glasses out there. Then you can both be bus-people. And you can call the others to table.”

  Halfway through salad, Damian emerged from the bathroom and sat down. Conversation at that point consisted of Jeannie’s detailed appraisal of her pre-law courses and Joan’s progress or lack thereof in becoming a self-supporting sculptor. Nick seemed to be trying to take Paul’s place as the group’s most profligate drinker. Simon picked at his lettuce as if there were bugs in it. Damian grunted at a few of the things Jeannie had to say, then set to his greens like a den animal.

  I did not stay to see and hear the full gnashing show but stole to the kitchen to put fork and blade to the still-steaming leg of lamb. Desperation and steam-fouled spectacles warped my surgery and I made a minor mess of the slices—slipping at one point—partially tossing the accumulated juice off the platter and across the front of my trousers. Joan saved me by mashing the potatoes, dishing the veggies, and ferrying the whole presentation graciously to table.

  From the kitchen I could hear Jeannie holding forth to her trapped audience: the munching face of Damian, the blasé visage of Simon.

  Later, during coffee and liqueurs back around the fireplace, the conversational impetus completely sagged. At one point, Joan said: “How do you get such nice fire logs? The ones I get are so oily-smelling.”

  “Oh, it could be a function of your chimney draught …”

  For the umpteenth time, Damian flitted up like a startled bat and clattered out of the room. I noted the time—nearing ten—and knew that the early-to-bed lady downstairs would be on the phone to our landlord about the noise any minute. Then I noted that he had not proceeded out the back. Other noises suggested he might be prowling around the study or the bedroom. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, wondering why my entertainment luck had so run out. During a hundred social occasions things had never crashed like this. I opened my eyes and looked around. Even now, with just a good quip from any one of them—and a few good-natured rejoinders—things could transform.

  But no. I heard motion in the kitchen. Damian coming back from his patrol.

  Then a muffled explosion.

  “Goodness!” Joan started.

  Jeannie laughed. “Probably Paul ramming his car into the building.”

  Anger flushed me. “For chrissake, give the guy a break.” I bolted back to the kitchen.

  Damian stood bemused by the cutting board, pouring himself a heaping glass of wine. “I think your fridge is upset, man.”

  I pulled the freezer door open and the remnant of Paul’s bottle tossed a frigid slap of semi-solid wine down my shirt. The cold seized me. I stood transfixed for a moment, fighting to hold a sedate expression on my face, then slowly closed the freezer door. I found a tea towel and started dabbing myself.

  Damian stood grinning, swirling his glass. “Weird scene, man.”

  “Huh?”

  “Like, everybody acts as if they’ve never seen each other before.”

  “I wonder why that is.”

  “Worse than a psychiatric group home, man.”

  “Is it really?”

  “From what I’ve seen, yeah. When their meds are not quite tuned.”

  “From what you’ve seen?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, Damian. I hope you don’t think I’m being rude.” I finished wiping off and tossed the towel in the sink. “Did you snoop around in my study earlier?”

  “Sure.”
/>   “Did you take anything?”

  “Just information, man.”

  “Really.”

  “I like to see what people have.”

  “Did you find anything of interest? Care to psychoanalyze me based on my colour scheme or my vinyl collection or the era of my furniture?” Damian just stood grinning. “Or are you some kind of advance man for a team of break-and-enter artists?”

  “Hah. Good one.”

  “Well?”

  “Naw.” He drank, eyes darting. “All you got is books, anyway.”

  Jeannie appeared, coat draped over an arm. “Oh!”

  “Heh-heh.” I had not intended to laugh but the tone of it was just right.

  “You’re all wet.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Hah ha.”

  “It’s nothing. Just a little home cryo-treatment is all.”

  Her face told me she would continue to ignore my attempted humour no matter how hard I tried. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve got to go.”

  “Mind?” I fought an impulse to cackle insanely.

  Joan and Simon appeared. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. It’s late.”

  “Huh. It’s late alright.” I tried not to sound bitter but couldn’t help it. “It’s been late since early this evening.”

  Damian smirked.

  Joan patted my arm. “I’m sorry about Paul. Is he alright, do you think?”

  “Hah …” I hadn’t meant to laugh, Joan was so in earnest. “Some time when we’ve got a couple of hours I’ll tell you all about how not-right he is.”

  “Why bother?” Jeannie had her coat on. “C’mon, Damian.”

  I gratefully bye-byed and shook hands and kissed cheeks and waved from the door. Nick came stumbling down the stairs with his coat on.

  “I hope you’re not driving.”

  “Are you serious? I’m on the bus.”

  “Sorry for the awkward night.”

  “Hey. I got her number, man.”

  “Jeannie?”

  “Of course. On one of the many extended absences of her devil-spawn date. What’s the trip with that guy, anyway?”

  “Who knows? Do you really want to?”

  “Hell no.”

  “There you go. So good night. Ride the bus carefully.”

  “I will.”

  Nick tottered off.

  Back in the kitchen the calm of the place was one of the most welcome things I can remember. It was the perfect occasion to have a quiet drink. All the bottles were empty, so I scraped some of the wine slush from the floor of the freezer. Enough to fill a clean goblet.

  I pulled a stool from under the cutting board and sat down.

  I thought of going to the CD player but then reminded myself of how lovely the silence was.

  “Bip, bip, bip …”

  I sipped my drink as it thawed—slowly—careful to let the glass splinters slip to the bottom.

  I Drove

  We were supposed to leave at sunup but it got to be more like nine or ten before anybody was sober enough.

  I drove.

  It was six hours out of the sprawl, across the valley, through the Coast Range, and up the canyon to the Cariboo. Paul slept in the passenger seat and Elaine, one of Bill’s wife’s friends, sacked out on the back seat. The van was near empty—we were only going for three days—and most of the freight would be booze, which wouldn’t be bought until we were almost there.

  Doreen phoned to remind us to meet her and Bill at the pre-arranged gas-up spot. I was fading by the time we got there, nodding at the wheel, even with the noonday sun glaring down. Pulling off the highway and into the gas-bar felt like a lifesaving thing to do. I swiped a card through the pump and started filling.

  Bill was across the island doing the same to his SUV. Back when he first bought it we’d had the obligatory eco-conversation I inflict on all oversized vehicle owners:

  “It’s ridiculous to drive such a monster when all you ever do is come six blocks from your house to this bar and back again.”

  “Mind your own business. I’ll drive whatever I want.”

  “You know they call those things ‘Exploders,’ don’t you?”

  “It’s an Explorer, smartass.”

  “Not if it’s got Firestone tires. They’re doing a recall or something. You’ll just be driving along and the tires explode.”

  “Whatever. I think I got Michelins. So there.”

  “Just looking out for your automotive safety with an eye to saving the planet, Bill.”

  “Well shove it where the planet don’t shine.”

  “Hardy har.”

  “You can be obnoxious, sometimes.”

  “But you keep me around as a gad-fly, right?”

  “More like a garbage fly …”

  But today we just stood mute, filling our gas tanks amid the din of highway traffic. Given that we were supposed to be pals, the non-communication between us got uncomfortable to the point where I had to yield to an impulse to say something, anything.

  “So …” I had to shout over a slowing semi’s screeching brakes. “Do we stop for lunch or anything?”

  “Huh?”

  “Lunch. I’m starved. And my eyes are going crossed from all the driving.”

  I’d never been on this trip. Bill’s hobby ranch was one of the things everybody talked about. He was proud of it, proud he could afford it. When we were drinking, Bill would often touch my arm and say I should come up to the ranch with him sometime. I had always said I would love to.

  I nodded toward the road. “They should have twinned this highway twenty years ago.”

  Bill finished gassing up without comment. I got back in the van and pulled us over to the mini-mart. Big hand-written signs in the windows promised a fast-food chicken-and-chips type of service inside.

  I nudged Paul. “Snack time.”

  “Huh?”

  “I gotta go and use that can.” I pointed to the men’s room arrow on the wall. “And then I simply have to sit down and get something to eat.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Paul looked around. “The chicken place.”

  “So it’s a well-known established stop on the Bill journey to the farm?”

  “We get take-out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You’re supposed to eat and drive.” Paul rubbed his eyes. “Bill doesn’t like to stop.”

  “No kidding. Bill doesn’t even seem to like to talk. What’s the matter with that guy today?”

  “He goes down into an altered state. A kind of Zen. A happy zone of meditation, almost. To the point he seems to like the trip more than he likes getting there. You’ll see. And there’s a practical aspect to it; only way he can go six hours without a drink.”

  “Bill? Zen?”

  “It’s not so far out.”

  “Look, man …” I took my sunglasses off for effect. “I kind of had a more relaxed image of this trip. I mean, one of the things I most like to do is sit in truck stop diners with pie and coffee, watching the scene. You guys ever do that?”

  “Do what you like.” Paul shrugged. “But we gotta meet them at the big grocery store.”

  I looked around. Bill and Doreen were pulling open the doors of the gas/tires/chicken place and lumbering inside. I had to urinate in an urgent way.

  Behind us, Elaine yawned audibly. “You guys getting some chicken?”

  “Guess so.” I opened my door and stepped out.

  So then, the other thing that got me about this trip was driving with chicken-greasy fingers. The grubbiness, even after you wiped vigorously, bugs me still; all that residual gunk, the stuff the gas station paper towels didn’t clear. Viscosity under the fingernails …

  “Man.” I chomped on a drumstick, one hand on the wheel. “I hate this.”

  “This is how things are.” Paul nibbled on a breast. “No way to change it.”

  •

  We met th
em at the supermarket and pitched in for a mountain of food, enough for a week. Then there was the booze. By the time we’d got everything the van was loaded full. There was the smallest pathway to the back seat.

  “Now I see why Bill insisted we take two vehicles.”

  “No, you don’t see.” Paul was pulling the tab on a cold beer as we watched Bill and Doreen and Elaine standing by the Exploder, examining food receipts. “We took two vehicles because Bill can’t stand to drive with Elaine in the car.” Paul took a short slug off the beer. “That’s why we took two vehicles.”

  “Politics, huh?”

  “Family dynamics. It goes back a ways.”

  •

  At the ranch we cooked up a huge dinner. By the time the steaks were done, everybody was drunk. Bill sat nodding quietly in a chair in the living room. Paul and I stood around the barbecue. The women were on the veranda, smoking, fingering the stems of their martini glasses. Nobody’d brought any music, so we had to listen to the radio.

  •

  Next morning, Paul cracked a beer at nine-thirty. Doreen and Elaine slipped brandy into their coffees. We made a huge breakfast of the leftover steak. Aside from me, nobody had finished their dinner. By the time everything was ready, Bill was off-limits. Doreen whispered to everybody that he didn’t want to talk. That included sitting at table or even taking a plate on his lap. I had to throw a lot of delicious cheese-laden scrambled eggs into the trash.

  I reluctantly accepted a beer about noon. It settled well, so I had several more. Paul sat on the veranda. The women wandered in and out of the house. At one point, Doreen almost started crying over the low tonic water supply.

  That evening, Bill tottered out to the barbecue and remarked to Paul and me that given the perfect weather we were idiots not to have gone to the lake that day. “At least tomorrow we should ride some horses.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.” I toasted the idea with Chardonnay. “Who do we talk to?”

  “I’ll handle it.” Bill poked at a piece of the salmon we were barbecuing and took a long pull of beer.

  •

  The next morning I slept late—until ten—hoping they would start breakfast without me. The smokers—three out of the five of us—were early risers. When I got down the stairs I said a cheery hello to Doreen. She swished past me.

  Paul was in the kitchen, cutting up a baked potato from two nights before. “Don’t talk to Doreen.” He did not look up from his knife-work.