Big Green Country

by Frances Rivetti

  I grabbed me a super size stockpot for the doin’s, lightin’ the gas to a steady flame. A generous glug of olive oil hissed in the pan ‘til good and hot to sizzlin’ for heatin’ through a mess of finely diced onions, the more onion, take it from me, the sweeter the sauce, along with a good handful of garlic, chopped, fresh fennel and parsley. Next up, a mess of stewed tomatoes from the pile of big ol’ tins stacked up out back, extra paste, clam juice and a half fist full of crushed red pepper, some chopped, sweet basil, thyme, oregano and four or five of the same bay leaves I picked and dried myself from the granddaddy bay tree out back. I set the pot to a steady boil, lowered the flame to simmerin’, every once in a while steppin’ back into the kitchen to stir the pot between my tendin’ to the regular mops hard at it paintin’ their tonsils with cold beer and Jack Daniels.

  I scrubbed my hands for next part — the stealth extraction of soft, pink, fleshy meat, fresh from the shell of that morning’s haul — Dungeness crab trapped by an old buddy of mine from high school, hard at it fishin’ out in the cold and abundant waters of Bodega Bay. Mindin’ its tenderness, I slowly submerged the crab meat into the stew, real gentle like, addin’ in what we locals call saltwater vegetables ‘round here — scallops, clams, sea bass, salmon and my favorite, real succulent fresh halibut chunks.

  A quarter-hour more on simmer and my prize cioppino was ready for a taste test, only after the classic De Santis finishing touch, mind — a hefty addition of fresh calamari rings and prawns. I dug in for a spoonful. Never tasted a finer mess of my own fish stew, that mornin’ if I do say so myself.

  Angie popped a few corks on our house red while I set to slicin’ the sourdough, fixin’ a creamy Caesar salad dressin’, goin’ heavy on the anchovies and croutons as I generally do. You bet the punters appreciate it — our house special bein’ as familiar in these parts as a blanket of fog on the water on account of it being the Italian immigrants, the fishermen from Genoa, my people, the ones who invented this gem of a San Francisco stew, utilizin’ all what they had access to durin’ the crazy days of the Gold Rush, a haul of canned tomatoes, the last scraps of bread, home made red wine and whatever their catch of the day. The trawlers, they threw their load into one big ol’ communal pot. Variations depend on whatever catch a family is most accustomed to.

  The years had been a creepin’ up on me for sure. Cookin’ was one thing, but I’d gotten slow as molasses in the clean up, even slower than usual due to the uncontrollable coughin’ bouts that came on real violent at times through the damp winter months.

  Back in Nonna Lucia’s day, the killer cioppino that good ol’ girl served up was the very best known on this stretch of the coast. Damn. She made magic out of whatever it was the ol’ man and his ol’ man before him brought home, different haul each time. My Nonno, he ran a rough darn skiff out of Tomales Bay, long line fishin’ for food and for pleasure the hours he was able to steal away from the ranch.

  Listen to me. I’m a-dawdlin’ on the past again. Always was sentimental. It was gettin’ on time to move on to the next round of my daily duties and get it done before the evenin’ storm rolled in. I’d grown accustomed to drivin’ Bridget around with her deliveries durin’ my afternoon break — ridin’ for the brand I liked to call it, to coin a good ol’ western phrase. There was not an iota I would not do for that girl and that’s the truth. She’d had a hold of the muddy end of the stick, Bridget, what with the goddamn cancer and Mia takin’ off the way she did. Bridget’s business, the bakin’, it was the one thing that was keepin’ her together. As for me, best part of my day was a chance to catch myself some sly forty winks while I waited on her outside of the dispensary. No double espresso for the road ever stopped me from takin’ a nap.

  If there was any way I coulda switched places with Bridget for the worst of it, I woulda done it, honest to God, believe me. It fairly broke my heart to see her suffer. What you gonna do? What I never saw comin’ was the other girl’s ma showin’ up at the dispensary lookin’ for Bridget that same day, settin’ the wheels in motion for what was comin’ for us next.

  ~ It was later on that same afternoon, after I had dropped Bridget back at the ranch, when I returned to the roadhouse for my early evenin’ shift when fate played its first hand. I was stood there behind that old mahogany bar with its silver dollars inlaid into its counter top, after I had finished off the last of the smokes I’d rolled the night before. Jesus, my fingers forever reeked of tobacco and garlic.

  “More of that famous fish stew going begging, Bobby my man?” My buddy, Marcus settled himself down on a barstool directly across from me. I had not set eyes on him for a couple of weeks.

  “Stew, for you, you hairy-faced rabble rouser, hell no, you’re clean out of luck,” I replied, flicking his arm with a wet bar towel, inadvertently setting myself off on another round of hacking up phlegm into my shirtsleeve.

  A broad smile spread across his open face, laugh lines showin’ deeper by the year since he’d survived past his twenties. Dark was closin’ in and shadows were castin’ over the bar. We was in the company of some three dozen, dusty ol’ taxidermy heads, hunted down and shot by the original owner of the roadhouse, one Henry “Shorty” O’Shea and his wild bunch of cattlemen cohorts. The place was otherwise, more ‘n half empty.

  “It sure is shaping into one hell of a gully washer out there,” Marcus remarked, tuckin’ one of Angelina’s heavily starched red and white, checkered napkins down the front of a frayed flannel work shirt.

  “You cleared those damn eucalyptus off your property, yet, Bobby boy?”

  “If I don’t die first waitin’ for you to fell a few of ‘em for me,” I shot back. Marcus and me, we go back a whole long ways. We first crossed paths the time I fell off the wagon good and proper. That boy and me, we had each other’s backs from the start, milkin’ cows and plantin’ lettuce durin’ a stint in a subsidized rehab program at the Catholic Charities farm that bit the dust durin’ the recession.

  It was Angie and my brother Franco who’d finagled gettin’ me into the goddamn place, weanin’ me off the wild mare’s milk a second time. Bridget was havin’ none of it, not another drunk to deal with all alone out there at the ranch, no sir. Made me an ultimatum, she did and I thanked her for it, later. Her old man was one too many when it came to the bottle. My jig was up. In my own defense, I was not so much a mean drunk, nor a fully lame one at that. Though I continued to go about my daily business, it was more about me bein’ a danger to myself and every other poor soul out on the road. It had come down to my woman, my driver’s license and, in turn, my livelihood, or the booze. After I got out, firmly back on the wagon and all, Bridget and me, we started workin’ the same shifts pretty much so’s she could keep eye on me.

  Marcus tucked into a big ol’ bowl of stew, barely lookin’ up at the sight of his own image in the bullet-riddled mirror behind the bar. The dude’s real good-looking with those fine chiseled features the women fall for. Twelve years my junior with a long life ahead, though we were of a similar mindset, Marcus and me, right from the start. Kindred spirits I’d call it. No need for an overload of folk in our lives. It had taken me several weeks to figure out the feller’s disability after makin’ his acquaintance in the rehab.

  One evenin’, after doin’ the dishes and other assorted kitchen duties, he caught his pant leg up in takin’ out the trash, exposin’ the artificial leg he’d mastered as darn good as real. Titanium alloy knee joint an’ all. Holy cow, he coulda fooled me, havin’ outworked my sorry ass in most every task, his bein’ ex-Army and there was no hidin’ his youth and strength — it was all there in his posture, his stance and intensity; that pure, physical drive he still has about him.

  Marcus was one of the lucky ones given what he’d been through. He’d been real fortunate to make it into recovery for his goddamn addiction to the prescription painkillers. It may not sound like a whole barrel load of laughs, gettin’ clean an’ all, but I’m tellin’ you, it woulda been Marcus pushin’ up daisie
s if not for the stroke of luck of him bein’ pulled out of a brief, but fuckin’ nasty bout with heroin.

  I liked the guy from the get-go. Marcus and me, we made a competition out of it all, more from a mutual desire to clean up and get the hell outta there than to show one another up. I’d made my mind up to whoop his ass at somethin’. Truth is, only thing I did better than Marcus was cook. Prosthetic and all, the dude never failed on makin’ dust of me with any singular physical challenge. I kinda took on the role of older brother, uncle more like, I guess, given our age difference . . . I was glad of it. We were a great deal better off for the camaraderie, the both of us and we knew it. We’d kept tabs on each other ever since. As for Bridget and myself, well, we were the closest the fella had to family.

  “Reckon on this bitch of a rainy season endin’ any time soon?” I asked him, while I was sortin’ empties from under the bar.

  “Matter of fact,” Marcus replied, “I’m off work for a week of furlough due to the conditions being so bad.”

  I popped a bottle of daytime ale, a popular choice amongst the ranchers, be it breakfast or lunch. I slid it over to him. “Go on then. Just the one,” he said, takin’ a hold of the bottle “Gets the job done”. Marcus being what we in the liquor business call a mealer, a partial abstainer, a person who drinks booze only when there’s food afore him.

  Unlike me, my buddy has no problem with the occasional alcoholic beverage, it’s all of the other shit he’s darn well gotta steer the hell away from, or else. As for me, my days of getting roostered whatever the hour, they were long gone by this stage of the game. After rehab, Marcus started workin’ for the park service as a groundskeeper come carpenter, repairin’ all manner of structures out at Point Reyes. It was me who helped him get the job and he soon made himself a decent shake down in one of them park owned cabins in the middle of nowhere, not one darn neighbor to bother him other than a whole bunch of deer and a small team of rotatin’ rangers and park interns.

  “Week off, eh? You’ll be hittin’ town when the road is clear?”

  “Yeah — road trip, Vegas? Wanna tag along? Come on now Bobby,” Marcus did enjoy a wisecrack, though I knew full well the dude was never happier than when he was outdoors, the wilder the better — for the most part, optin’ for his own company over others.

  “In that case, if you’re intent on stickin’ around, come out and keep us company later this evenin’, brother, even up the numbers seein’ as me and Bridget have a house guest.” I explained how it was I’d be clockin’ off early since I’d volunteered myself on supper duty back home. “On account of Bridget’s sister showin’ up.”

  “The hoity-toity little sister nobody speaks of?” Marcus asked. “Man, when’s the last time she was home?”

  “Don’t ask,” I replied. “Not long enough. And she’s not so little in any way, shape or form. Do not leave me outnumbered by those formidable McCleery women, Marcus, come on now, you’re the man, I’m countin’ on you to bail me out.”

  He tried his darn best to weasel out of it, as I knew full well he would. I was not takin’ no for an answer despite the fact I’d yet to tell him of Mia’s takin’ off. It was awkward, for sure, but it was women’s business, or so I’d thought. Men like me, we don’t care to talk of things we have no understandin’ of if you had not noticed.

  I watched as he polished off the cioppino, moppin’ up the last drop of sauce with a heel chunk of sourdough slathered in butter, fairly wipin’ the bowl clean. “Always the best part,” he said. “OK, I’ll come on over later as a special favor to you, Bobby, work up a fresh appetite, balance the numbers with you and your womenfolk some.”

  Hell knows it was high time that Maggie showed up, given how her sister had been through the ringer that past year. Selfish bitch never so much as sent over Bridget a bunch of flowers. Meanwhile, what Bridget and Mia had been successful in developin’ was the classic mother-daughter deal — they were worse than a pair of cats in a room full of rockers at times, the two of ‘em together. And as for the sisters, they had a hell of a deal of ground to cover.

  “Be seeing you later, then,” Marcus said, pullin’ a handful of dollars from his pocket and droppin’ them in a heap on the bar.

  Hindsight being what it is, for what it’s worth, I shoulda laid down the law with Mia years back and we woulda been tellin’ a different story now. You bet Mia had her mom and me wrapped ‘round her little pinkie finger when it came to the subject of basic discipline. Takin’ on the role of her daddy was not in my wheelhouse. Where the hell was the rule book for what went down? Still, I’d gone in eyes open and I wish to God I had been way more involved in the kid’s life.

  It had taken Bridget’s pa passin’ and a no-show, deadbeat baby daddy — the old man cold as a wagon tire, before she had given me the time of day. And I had considered myself the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the state of California the night our stars aligned. It was enough.

  What I never bargained for was Mia’s hurricane teenage years hittin’ shore so fast and furious. Talk about ignorant, goddamn clueless on my part. Still, I harbored no resentment, considerin’. Hadn’t we been some form of family, done what we could do for one another given the circumstances? It was never my place to step on her mother’s toes.

  After Mia took off, I’ll admit, it was more than relief I felt, sorta like lettin’ loose a wild colt to the mercy of the open plains. There was no lookin’ back for any of us after the filly had bust herself out of the trainin’ ring, kickin’ and snarlin’ hither and yon.

  It was around Christmas time I began to worry in all earnest. In small ways I was startin’ to miss the old Mia, the curious, lively kid she was before the darn hormones set in. It was Bridget who had point-blank, flat out refused to talk about her. Every time I broached the subject, the woman froze. I figured when she was ready, I’d hear about it. After that, I’d kept my concerns to myself.

  Chapter 10

  Maggie

  My grandparents had the master bedroom, my parents the smaller of the two upstairs rooms and it had been only after Bridget was born, that the old timers moved downstairs into a makeshift bedroom in the dining room. I picture them so clearly, before they passed away, back when I was six and Bridget was ten.

  The perimeter fencing around the ranch appeared in dire need of help. I figured it was the illusive Tomás who had been the last to work on the fencing and that was 18 years ago. Yellowing-once-white paint peeled and curled off the exterior siding as I ran my fingers over rough lengths of old-growth redwood paneling.

  Neighboring dairy ranches, abandoned by the last of their people, have surrendered their decrepit outbuildings to the rats and skunks, raccoons, opossum and any other opportunistic omnivores who’ve taken fancy to this rudimentary shelter. That we are still here says something about the McCleerys, generations of whom lived their whole lives in this same ramshackle place, an unapologetic relic that clings on to existence, a curiosity of another era, a haunted remnant of our family’s past. It was the basic economics of dairy farming that brought on the rot, before our father’s drinking, putting an end to the good old days. Though I don’t for the life of me know why anyone would romanticize the ranching life.

  I was never cut out for the grueling demands of a managing a dairy herd so, in a way, I am relieved the cows are gone. Still, Bridget’s and my folk surely felt gratitude and pride in toiling the land that belonged to we McCleerys and nobody else, for the longest time, for better or worse. And isn’t that what it’s about? I fear for the last of the small, family-owned dairy ranches, a near impossible way of life in this harsh modern world. Money matters slipped downhill dramatically for the ranchers back in the ‘60s and Bridget was born into that. Pile on over half a century of further decline and the years have only wrought further wreckage on the yawning wooden ranch structures built in the path of the ceaseless wind and the fog. Dairy ranchers were forced to sell out as fast as they could, squeezed out by a plunge in milk prices that dipped senselessly below the
cost of production.

  No one other than Bobby and Bridget had come or gone from here in months, I wagered, as I dodged deep puddles engulfing the flooring of a long-abandoned chicken coop with its caved in roof. I kicked around a crushed and rusted, barely discernable Dr Pepper can, a favorite of mine back in the day, long before I’d learned of the perils of soda induced diabetes and tooth decay and all of the other no-nos the soft drink industry insidiously hooks its addicted consumers into pouring down their throats. We’d taken it in turns as kids to feed the hens and gather eggs, Bridget and me, soda cans in our hands. Mom’s raised veggie beds were knee high by now with wild grasses, except for those closest to the barn, the ones that Bridget had cultivated for her cannabis crop. Year after year, she’d taken such pride in her garden, routinely planting the basics for our Mediterranean California coastal climate: basil, lemon verbena, sage, Italian parsley, thyme, oregano, garlic, tomatoes, onions and potatoes. On closer inspection, I could see that a few relics of leggy rosemary and mint plantings had managed to survive, doubtlessly thriving on the wintery wet conditions, left alone to roam at root. Mom had stored her excess garden bounty in the same small dark cellar beneath the house that Bridget claimed was now proving the best spot for drying weed. I tried to picture our mother helping her firstborn in the hanging of her green skunky-smelling boughs on the laundry lines that Bridget had strung the length of the cellar. I wondered what she would have made of this New Age farming era had she survived to see it and what it would have taken for her to embrace Bridget’s enterprising ideas.

  I was reminded of those summers long ago when the bounty of fresh tomatoes had been almost impossible to keep pace with. We’d crushed them in a team effort, at a makeshift production line set up on a trestle table under a plastic shade canopy out back. It was our neighbor rancher, Maria Baldassano who’d taught my Irish American grandmother the Italian method of tucking sprigs of fresh basil into gleaming rows of freshly sterilized glass jars. All the families around here stored this same, delicious crimson pasta sauce for the leaner winter months when a tray of lasagna was a Sunday staple, highlight of the week.