I couldn’t wait for lunch.
We strode through a batch of spearmint that I would have liked to pick and take back with me, only by doing so I would have broken at least sixteen state laws about leaving things in the wild.
“We’re getting close to the Brewer’s blackbird nest,” Julian whispered.
He needn’t have whispered, as the bird in question began to throw another fit. She circled us, pretty low it seemed to me, and squawked to wake the dead.
I asked timidly, “Are we in any danger here?”
Julian looked at me crossly. “The blackbird might peck at our heads when we approach the nest. That’s all.”
I said, “Will it hurt?”
Julian scowled. “It shouldn’t.”
I put both of my hands over my head, walked back through the spearmint to Arch, and told him to do the same.
He said, “No, it looks stupid.”
On we stumbled through the meadow toward the nest, with the mother bird shrieking louder and louder, until finally Julian stopped us in a small circle. He opened his mouth to say something, but Arch interrupted him.
“Oh, look! A nest of voles!”
I craned my neck back to see what new flock of flying creatures we were now going to encounter. I felt a slight tickling around my feet, but I was determined to see the birds in question this time.
I said, “I don’t see any voles.”
“Well, Mom,” said Arch, “you’re standing on them.”
Everyone else was looking down. I looked down. Rodents. They were jumping over my feet. I screamed bloody murder.
“That’s just great,” I heard Julian saying. My shriek faded from the air. I stopped hopping around and thanked God I had survived.
The zoo-lady said, “There isn’t a bird left within two miles.” I hadn’t noticed before how beady her little black eyes were.
“Let’s eat,” said Brian Harrington. It was the first time he had spoken since the outing had begun, but I thanked him for the magic words.
We recrossed the creek and marched in silence back to our picnic tables. I opened the van and took everything out of the coolers. No one volunteered to help. Once the adults got going on the chardonnay, however, the mood started to lift. While I was setting out the stuffed croissants, the general disappeared behind a rock outcropping with some of his equipment.
He strode back to the table without telling us what he was up to, and we all enjoyed a pleasant lunch. After the chocolate sour cream cupcakes were reduced to a platter of crumbs, General Bo got to his feet.
He cleared his throat. “I want to demonstrate something to you all.”
Adele gave him a fearful look. Apparently, he had not cleared his plans with her.
“Now don’t worry,” he said to mollify us. “I just want to demonstrate to you how a terrorist can detonate a briefcase from a thousand feet.”
He pointed. Obediently, we all turned our attention to the rock outcropping. A brown briefcase perched on the humps of gray. I scuttled around to the edge of the picnic bench where Arch sat and put my arm across his shoulder.
“My Lord,” murmured Weezie.
“The environment will not respond well. . .” said Elizabeth Miller.
“Bo. Stop this immediately,” said Adele in a low hiss. She glared at him, her mouth set.
“You can’t do this,” said the zoo-lady. “You’ll upset every—”
But her words were swallowed in the explosion.
When I opened my eyes, I checked to make sure Arch was all right. He was fine, and he was gazing up in admiration at an exultant General Bo.
Arch said, “That guy is so cool.”
18.
We packed up to go home, a human pastiche of solemn and joyful silence. Since it had started to rain right after the explosion, I was one of the happy ones. General Farquhar’s experiment had awakened the thunder to its job. Flashes of lightning, celestial booms, and fat cold raindrops sent us all scattering toward the vehicles. No more birding! My relief was inexpressible.
General Bo, Arch, and Brian Harrington were quietly exultant as they heaved baskets onto the van shelves. The general and Arch were flushed with excitement about the success of the briefcase-detonation. I was reminded of the silent incredulity of the fans when the Broncos pull one out in the fourth quarter.
And then there was Brian Harrington. He was smiling to himself. This was a little harder to figure. Then I remembered. Flicker Ridge belonged to Weezie—or it had until they got married. Their very public exchange of wedding gifts had been trumpeted in that paragon of journalistic reliability, the Mountain Journal: He had given her a house in Vail; she had deeded him the ridge. Now Brian had slated the land for development, and had mysteriously managed—at least according to the Mountain Journal—to obtain preliminary approval from the county planning commission for planned unit development. An outing emphasizing Flicker Ridge’s ecology, soon to be disrupted by development, would make him look bad. At least, that was my guess for his jolly demeanor. On the other hand, maybe he had made a date with the zoo-lady.
Adele, Weezie, Elizabeth, and the zoo-lady scooped up silverware and gathered up defiant, wind-whipped tablecloths. The women were sullen and preoccupied. The notion of studying our feathered friends obviously had enthralled them. I tried to swallow my grin but could not.
When the advance guard of our convoy returned to Sam Snead Lane, a white VW Rabbit I did not recognize was parked outside the gate of the Farquhars’ driveway. General Bo, Adele, and Julian had dropped off the zoo-lady at the bus stop, and would be coming along soon. As long as it wasn’t The Jerk’s car, I felt safe going into the house alone. But no need to worry: the Farquhars’ Range Rover chugged up alongside the Rabbit as I was entering the gate code. Windows were lowered; heated discussion followed. It was Sissy.
Eventually we all ground up the Farquhars’ driveway. Once inside the garage I busied myself emptying the picnic debris. Whatever the latest conflict was, I didn’t want any part of it. Relationships were like small picnics, I decided as I emptied out croissant crumbs and strings of endive. You always thought they were going to be so great—look at those happy people in ads, relating and picnicking!—but were so inevitably disappointed. Whoever said, Life is no picnic, obviously had never been on one.
I carried in the baskets. Adele, impeccably attired in a beige cashmere sweater and perfectly creased matching slacks, limped slowly behind me. Her slouched shoulders and downcast face tugged at my heart. I asked her if she was pleased about the amount of money she had made for the pool project. She shrugged, then said in a weary, trembling voice that the trip had fatigued her. She went to lie down while the general headed for his study. It was my great hope that he would tie up all the phone lines while I prepared dinner. Arch came out to the kitchen with me.
“Mind if I work on my magic while you cook?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
I scanned the refrigerator. I had all the ingredients for Chinese-style cod. I set to work on it while trying to rid myself of the image of Pilgrims eating with chopsticks.
“Not fish again,” said Arch when he saw the ingredients. He was setting his supplies out on the kitchen island.
“But you didn’t even have it last time,” I reminded him, then changed my tone. “Shall I order you a pizza?” I was trying to stay charitable. After all, this was the child whom I had never allowed to have a mouse, gerbil, hamster, guinea pig, or other rodent for a pet. And I had ruined his one interaction with voles.
He pulled some cups out of his bag and said, “Let’s ask Julian.”
At that moment the menu arbiter himself appeared at the kitchen door, as he was so prone to do, just when his name was mentioned. He had Sissy with him. She was dressed all in white—crisp white halter top, white shorts, white socks and shoes. A white bow held her spill of brown curls off to one side of her pretty face, now set in petulance. As usual, Julian didn’t look too happy either.
“Doing magi
c?” he asked Arch.
“Just practicing.”
Without further explanation Julian and Sissy moved off toward the deck, where he ceremoniously shut the French doors. Even when you don’t want to appear nosy, people will assume that you are.
“Okay, Mom, watch the cotton ball.”
I turned my attention to the island. Arch had a cotton ball and three red cups. He deftly placed one over the cotton and then began to shift them around. When I incorrectly guessed which one had the cotton under it, he piled the other two on top of the final cup, gave them all a tap, and triumphantly lifted the stacked cups. There was the cotton ball.
“Great,” I admitted. “Simply marvelous. When are we having this show? Before or after I serve the food at the barbecue?”
Before he could answer we could hear raised voices coming from the deck. A moment later there were shouts.
Arch pulled his mouth into a wry, knowing knot. Over the shouts, he said, “Guess they’re having a fight.”
Poor Arch. His only model for male/female relationships was one of continual conflict. A moment later, Julian stalked by the kitchen door. He did not look in.
“Hey, Julian!” Arch called. He ran after him. “Wait up!” Wanted or unwanted, Arch tromped down the steps to the lower level and Julian’s lair. I did not know whether an eleven-year-old would be welcome after a teenagers’ quarrel. But I went back to the cod and resolved to stay out of it.
“Goldy?” Sissy’s voice startled me. I turned around. Her smile was tight, forced; her tense posture distinctly at odds with the portrait-of-innocence outfit. She said, “Are you working?”
No, I wash fish for fun. I said, “I’m about done.”
“What’re you making?”
“Baked cod with Chinese seasonings. Low calorie, low fat, and full of virtue.” I looked at her drawn face briefly, finished chopping the scallions, rolled out and cut squares of foil, placed the fillets and seasonings on top, and rolled each into individual packets. I put them in the refrigerator and took out two soft drinks.
“Want to go out on the porch?”
She gave a facial gesture as if to say, Might as well, and turned. I followed her. The smell of pines moist from the shower was as lovely as it had been on the drive to Schulz’s. I inhaled deeply and tried to bring the feeling back. Sissy’s voice, honed to sharpness, interrupted my reverie.
“Where were all of you this morning?” Sissy demanded. She thrust her face toward mine and sent the jaunty hair bow askew.
“I, um, we went to look for birds at Flicker Ridge.” Her tone was so aggressive that it was a moment before I wondered what business it was of hers where we were. I said, “Why do you ask?”
She did not answer, only took a sip of her drink, then pressed her lips together and gave me an accusing look. “And last night? Where were you then?”
“Well, excuse me, Sissy, not that it’s any concern of yours, but Arch and I went out. For dinner and the evening. Now, what’s going on?”
“Was Julian with you?”
“Is this what you two were arguing about?” I thought back. Julian had said he had a date. I’d just assumed it was with Sissy. I said, “You’re not married to him, you know.” I tried to make my tone soft. “Men don’t like possessive women.” It didn’t come out sounding soft.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the wicker chair. She had the deflated look of a week-old carnation.
I said, “You want to tell me about it?”
With her eyes closed, she said, “When I found Julian, I thought he was the smartest kid I’d ever met.”
“How’d you find . . . meet him?”
“During the Elk Park shadow program for careers. You know, when you follow someone around for a semester to see what it’s really like to be a lawyer or whatever.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Oh sure, I’d been in the same classes with him. But he shadowed Dr. O’Neil from the country club. Dr. O’Neil said Julian was the most gifted student he’d ever met. Wanted to write him a recommendation for Columbia.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s nice.” Not meaning to sound judgmental, but I had seen this phenomenon before: Young woman seeks husband. Only premeds need apply.
“I’m just trying to help him,” Sissy said fiercely. “He’s so smart, and he won’t do anything with it.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked at me and spat out the words. “He wants to cook. He said he should have done his internship at Aspen Meadow Café.”
My, my. I wanted to ask Sissy why she didn’t become a doctor. I sipped slowly on my soft drink and decided to leave the career counseling to someone else. I said, “So what does that have to do with last night and this morning?”
“The only reason I wanted to know where he was is that he said he was going to be here. Writing off for catalogs, he said. So I called and called, but just got the machine.”
I looked out at the bowled meadow, where thick fog had settled like cream. Here and there pine trees poked through the white, like aberrant cornflakes.
I said, “You’re not his mother, you know.”
There was a long silence. Sissy turned her face to the meadow.
“Yeah,” she said softly, “maybe that’s the problem.”
I tried to sound lighthearted. She had, after all, sought me out. I said, “Now don’t go getting Oedipal on me.” Another long silence ensued, in which Sissy chewed the inside of her cheek. I said, “It’s hard to lose your counselor. It sounds as if Philip Miller was like a support system for Julian. Maybe you’re expecting too much.”
She grunted. “I’m still not his mother.”
“So what?”
She said nothing for a few minutes. “It’s what came out in his sessions with Dr. Miller,” she said. Hearing Philip addressed by the medical first name, Doctor, still fell strangely on my ears. Sissy went on, “Julian’s adopted. Now he says he can’t go on and make plans for the rest of his life without trying to track down his biological parents first.”
I said, “Oh, Sissy, for heaven’s sake. Let him. People do it all the time now. It’s the quest of the decade.”
She leaned toward me. Her curls shook as she spoke. “If you ask me, it’s a grossly misguided quest. A waste of time. So you find out your father is an insurance salesman down in Dallas and your mother is teaching elementary school in Oregon. These are the people who didn’t want you in the first place, remember? Now they’ve married other people and you have half-siblings who resent your appearance on the scene all of a sudden. Getting on with your life is more important.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.”
She grunted. Maybe she didn’t want to share him with as-yet-unknown relatives. I didn’t know. She did seem awfully angry and bossy all of a sudden. But then at the dinner she had seemed to be studying the Harringtons and their wealth. At the library she had looked around for someone more important to deal with than me. Teenagers. I was dreading Arch becoming one.
She said, “So what do you think? Should he be able to lie to me? Not tell me where he’s going so I’ll worry?”
I looked at her, her earnest dark-brown eyes, her long curly brown hair, her good-looking but anxiously determined face. Here was a girl who had gone through all the hard work of beauty pageants to get to the finals of Colorado Junior Miss, who had decided on her psychology interest and shadowed Philip Miller, who was working at the library to get her college money, the way she got everything else. Foiled in her attempts to have Julian, despite her strong ambition in that area, she was asking me for advice. Me. It was too much.
I said, “I don’t give advice to the lovelorn. You’re going to do what you want to do anyway. I’ll just tell you one thing.”
She waited.
I said, “People don’t change. You can try all you want to make him do what you want, but it is not going to happen.”
She took a deep breath, blew it hard out of both nostrils. “I guess I’ll be go
ing,” she said, and abruptly stood up. “Thanks for trying to be helpful,” she said over her shoulder as she left the deck.
I felt sad and amused. It was like trying to tell someone about childbirth. You just had to go through it, and no amount of advice or description was going to make it any easier. Out on the meadow the fog had lifted. The sun blazed out once again before it began to set. I went back to the kitchen, made a rice pilaf, then washed and trimmed asparagus stalks.
“She gone?”
It was Julian.
I nodded. “Where’s Arch?”
“Down by the pool. Don’t worry, Adele’s watching him. He’s practicing his front flip. He’s getting pretty good,” he added.
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. Julian had never once sought my company. He looked around the kitchen.
“You fixing dessert tonight?” he asked.
“Sherbet.”
“Let me fix something, then,” he said. He reached for a cookbook, a fancy one on chocolate. The recipes were fairly complicated, I had noted on a recent reading, and pretty iffy at high altitude.
He read, “ ‘Filbertines, good with ice cream.’ ” He stuck out his chin. “Want me to?”
“Up to you. Why don’t you just tell me why you came up?”
He began to open cupboards, got out French chocolate and superfine sugar and flour.
“Did she tell you we were having problems?”
I said, “She did.” Can this relationship be saved?
Julian backed out of the refrigerator with unsalted butter and eggs.
“Who taught you to make filbertines?”
“My—” He hesitated, swiveled his head to eye me. “You’ve been talking to Sissy.”
“More like, I’ve been listening to Sissy.”
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