The local catering company that delivered the meal had well lived up to its printed brochures and Internet claims. The food had indeed been lovingly prepared, and consisted of no less than three separate entrees. The breast of chicken piccata came served with mashed baby red potatoes, thumb-size glazed carrots, julienne string beans in a cream sauce, a garden salad, whole-grain rolls with whipped butter, and a layered chocolate cake sprinkled with crunchy pieces of walnut. The other two entrees were no less deficient in their ability to salivate taste buds. The chicken Tuscany, especially, simmered in sun-dried tomatoes, scallions, mushrooms, olive oil, Marsala wine, and a panoply of fresh, organic spices proved an evening favorite, and one that immediately went on the list of must-serve items the next time around.
The dining room had been arranged accordingly. The food sat buffet-style on a Hepplewhite mahogany sideboard, with some of it overlapping onto the kitchen counters. And the dining room table, a drop-leaf Chippendale, in anticipation of rambunctious merrymaking, had been covered with a linen tablecloth reserved for just such occasions. An extra chair or two had been brought in from another room, and to minimize clean-up afterwards, the guests ate off colored paper plates made out of heavy-duty stock paper. The numerous bottles of fine wine and the array of lager beers and ales occupied a table immediately inside the sliding door entrance to the room. A paper napkin holder and two glass pitchers of ice water sat in the middle of the dining table.
By the time Mitch arrived, with everyone talking at once and two or three conversations in progress, the cross-table exchange of animated chatter had revved up to a volume of cheerful gaiety. Irrespective of topic or theme, the happy, festive mood seemed its own justification for the gathering. Whatever excuse had been used to bring them all together, whether to discuss future activities or just to bemoan the sad state of public indifference to environmental threats, just being there, bathed in feelings of bonhomie and good-fellowship, seemed more than reason enough.
Heidi had set her wineglass aside and gotten up to answer the doorbell; with Mitch in tow, she came back into the room. Holding up her hand, she signaled for everyone’s attention. As all heads turned in her direction, the buzz of conversation faded.
“For those of you who don’t know him, this is Mitch,” she said. “He’s an alumnus, one of our very first members, when we were just starting out and had not yet settled on a goal. He can fill you in on all the old war stories involving efforts to get our feet on solid ground. He’s been away, traveling in Europe no less, but he’s now returned to the fold.”
“Hip, hip, hurray! The prodigal son returns!” Tony sang out in a gay fashion and held up a wineglass in one hand and a half-empty bottle of Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir 2006 in the other. “Eat, drink, and get soused with the rest of us!” A mess of wavy black hair had fallen onto his forehead and glistened like shoe polish. His pinkish face seemed covered in a thin layer of sweat, and his dark brown eyes shone with unnatural brightness. “But you’ll have to hurry if you want to catch up.”
Everyone laughed; Mitch smiled.
Mike, in contrast to his slightly disheveled, portly companion, and looking every bit as elegant as a fashion model in a man’s magazine—black hair slicked straight back and wearing a black evening shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons—added, “Not only that, but we’ll be dry here pretty quick at the rate we’ve been going through it. We might have to elect whichever one of us is the least inebriated to make a volunteer run for more.”
“Why not have the prodigal son go, while he’s still sober?”
More laughter…a few cheers.
“I keep an emergency supply in the basement,” Heidi assured them. “At five and six dollars a bottle, it’s probably not what you’re used to. But, an hour from now, none of us will ever know the difference, right?”
“True enough,” Mike quipped. “Discrimination is always the first to fall victim to excess.”
“Wow!” Carlos exclaimed. “Listen to that guy go! Where do you come up with this stuff, Mike? Can you do that whenever you want, or do you have to get drunk first?”
“Mitch is a teetotaler,” Jody said, speaking up. She had a bottle of Chateau Quinault 2001 next to her plate and had just finished a glass of it. “And he’ll never be in our league when it comes to serious consumption, especially of the festive kind.”
Everyone looked at her.
“You mean, he doesn’t like to have fun?” Carlos asked, unbelievingly.
“It sounds like you two know each other,” Mike said, and his eyes flashed merrily at the prospect of a waspish exchange.
“That means they’ve got secrets to tell,” Misty piped up. She was holding her own glass of wine and from her place at the end of the table, next to Jason, was looking Mitch over.
Mitch smiled. “Jody and I have done a few runs together down the highway. She was always the captain…a role that seemed to suit her. I was just part of the crew…a subordinate, if you will. How are you, anyway, Jody?”
“I’m good, Mitch. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Where have you been? Nobody’s seen or heard much from you.”
“The world’s a big place, Jody. You tend to get caught up in it. But, like I told Heidi, if it’s any consolation, I feel guilty for not having kept in touch.”
“Guilt’s for Catholics, Mitch. Pull up a drink and join the rest of us,” Tony said, refilling his wineglass.
“Mitch is a teetotaler,” Jody repeated. “Isn’t that right, Mitch?”
“You haven’t changed much, have you, Jody? I mean, you were drunk the last time I saw you, and you’re still drunk. Have there been any sober moments between then and now, or is this all part of the same drunk?”
“We’re all drunk!” Tony laughed, spilling wine on himself. “And you should be, too! Grab a chair and get with it!”
Mitch sat down in a chair across from Jody. He looked around the table at everyone. “I never drink on an empty stomach. So the first order of business is to eat something. What have we got?”
Heidi mentioned the chicken piccata. “The chicken Tuscany’s all gone.”
“Whatever. I’m not finicky.”
Heidi dished up a plate of food and served it to him. Mitch tucked a paper napkin in his shirt collar and after a few bites looked up. Everyone was watching him.
He grinned. “I tend to be a little sloppy.”
Mike, who had been watching him intently, said, “Aren’t you going to have something to drink?”
“Let him eat first,” Misty said. “He’s probably hungry.”
Mitch gave her a smile. “What have you got?” he said, looking back at Mike.
With a sweep of his hand, Mike indicated the bottles scattered around the table. “Take your pick.”
Mitch picked up the nearest bottle and looked at the label. Heidi handed him a fresh glass.
“It’s a loyalty test, Mitch. We want to know if you’re back to stay?”
“I see. Well…”
He poured wine into the glass and drank off a portion. Sloshing it around a bit, he looked up. “It’s kind of plumy, with hints of blackberry and cherry.”
Tony reached for the bottle and read the label. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “And it says so right here.”
“It usually does,” Mitch said.
Everyone laughed.
“It’s surprising how little it takes to be an expert, if you just read the label.”
More laughter.
Ralph looked at Misty. “Remind me to do that the next time we go out,” he said.
“You really have to do it on the sly, so she doesn’t know. Otherwise, she won’t be impressed,” Mitch advised.
“You’re an old pro, is that it?”
Mitch gave Ralph a tight-lipped smile.
“You know, actually, I’ve never been able to pull it off while keeping a straight face. It’s a good way to break the ice, though. It lets them know you don’t take yourself too seriously.”
“And you don’t
take yourself too seriously, Mitch?” Misty asked, smiling at him.
Jody had poured more wine into her glass. Looking across the table at Mitch and holding the glass, she said, “Good God, no…the last thing he wants you to do is take him seriously. Isn’t that right, Mitch?”
Mitch sidestepped her question and said, “I took myself seriously when I was younger, as maybe we all do. But not now.”
“Why’s that?” Misty wanted to know.
“Well, I set out to write the Great American novel, and here I am, straddling the fine line between middle age and lost youth. I’ve hardly made it out of the gate, which is nothing to brag about. So it would be unseemly to take myself too seriously.”
“Bravo! A candid assessment of one’s accomplishments!” Mike proclaimed happily. “A mark of hard-won humility, deserving of respect and admiration. I salute you as a fellow Man-of-Letters.”
“I appreciate the heartfelt solace, I’m sure.”
“No—seriously—I meant it. It takes a certain courage to face up to the reality of your shortcomings, unpleasant though it may be. Many would-be writers have spent far too much time in pointless pursuit of a chimerical ambition. At some stage, one has to stop and do a gut-wrenching evaluation.”
“I’m not a ‘would-be writer’…ah…Mike, is it? I just haven’t been as successful as I started out to be.”
“I didn’t mean to offend…”
“Course you did, Mike—that’s what you do is offend,” Carlos said, slapping him on the back. “But, hey, we’re used to it by now. But what happened to our party? New kid shows up on the block and all the fun goes out the window!”
“I agree,” Tony said. “We were roaring along here, with a ‘fine, strong thing,’ to quote a well-known Portland poet, and all of a sudden somebody slams on the brakes. Let’s get back in the mood! Let’s recapture those fleeting minutes of our lives! We may never have them again…”
The front doorbell rang. “My God, who could that be?” Heidi said, and got up to answer it.
“Another mystery guest,” Tony burbled. “Wasn’t there an old television show once upon a time—?”
“Where do you come up with these obscure allusions, dear boy? And at the most unexpected times.”
“If you really must know, Mike, I have a whole trunk load of them. My dear mummy, God in heaven appreciate her as I never did, was an avid television fan. From my earliest days, which thankfully have begun to fade, I remember that all she ever did was sit on the couch, with a glass of vodka in one hand and the bottle in the other, and watch television. It’s all she ever talked to me about…soap operas, sitcoms, and all the rest. We had a fine repertoire of mutual allusions, but I don’t think she knew a damn thing about me otherwise.”
“You poor boy.” Mike patted him on the shoulder.
“I know. It’s so sad.”
Heidi came back into the room, this time leading a young woman by the hand. At five and a half feet, or a little taller than Heidi herself, she had dark brown shampoo-glazed hair that cascaded gracefully past her shoulders, sunflower-blue eyes, and a full bust. With high leather boots, a white blouse, a red sash around her waist, and a peasant skirt that flared out below the knees, she might have been part of a Russian dance troupe or a runway model at a fashion show.
Heidi brought her to the head of the table and, introducing everyone, said, “This is Lisa, and Lisa has volunteered to help support the financial end of our organization. She is what the rest of us are—or should be—a true believer. And just so you know that she is, indeed, a special guest, I’m going to put her at the head of the table, right next to Mitch.”
“You can put her right next to me!” Carlos called out unabashedly. And everyone, including Lisa, laughed.
“I’ll just get another chair,” Heidi said, and moments later returned from the kitchen with a second wooden chair. She held it in place, and Lisa sat down.
She smiled at Mitch.
Mitch smiled back. “The chicken piccata is delicious,” he said. “Are you going to have some?”
“I’ve already eaten.” She smiled. “I really just came to meet everyone.” She continued to smile.
“Mitch is a writer,” Jody said. She was sitting across from both of them and had looked from Mitch to the woman and then back at Mitch.
Lisa acknowledged the speaker with a glance, then turned to Mitch again.
“Really?”
“It depends on how you define the word,” Mitch said.
“How many ways can it be defined?”
“Don’t be bashful, Mitch,” Jody prodded him. “He’s a real writer, and to prove it, he’ll entertain you with repartee. Isn’t that what writers do?”
“That’s mostly a Hollywood stereotype, Jody. It’s been my experience that most of us have to be good and drunk to achieve that level of immodesty.”
“See what I mean? Wasn’t that witty?”
Heidi had taken her seat again.
“You’ve had too much to drink, Jody,” she said quietly.
“No, I haven’t. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. And all of a sudden I’m really enjoying myself. Don’t spoil it for me.”
“You’re getting out of line.”
“I’m not getting out of line. I’m enjoying myself.”
Everyone had stopped talking. They waited to see what would happen next.
“Well, maybe you’re just not being your usual charming self, Jody. How’s that?”
“Yeah, Jody, we miss your charm. It’s not like you to leave home without it.” Tony chided her good-naturedly.
Jody scooted her chair back from the table and stood up.
“Fuck you, Tony,” she said. “Fuck all of you. I’m gonna get some air.”
She left the room. A moment later the front door slammed shut.
“She’ll be all right,” Ralph said, lighting his pipe. “She gets either maudlin, morose, or outright angry when she’s been drinking. We’ve seen it before. But she’ll come around.”
“She’s got some issues,” Tony allowed. “I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”
Mike patted the back of Tony’s hand.
“Not at all, dear boy,” he said reassuringly. “You’re quite blameless. Just caught in the crossfire.”
“Thank you. That means so much to me. You’re always such a comfort, Mike.”
“I do my best.”
“A pipe smoker and a writer all in one evening,” Lisa said perkily, changing the subject. “I feel blessed.”
“It’s my trademark.” Ralph smiled gamely. “I oughta give it up, though. I really should. I know enough to know better.”
“Don’t do it for my sake. I like a pipe smell. My dad smokes one.”
“I like a pipe smell, too,” Misty said, leaning closer to Jason.
Lisa smiled.
“So, you’re the group Heidi’s been telling me about? The ‘Cleveland Seven’? Or was it eight?”
“Eight, actually,” Ralph said. “But the other fellow is not with us.”
“What happened to him?”
“We don’t know. We haven’t heard from him.”
“We think he split out to Arizona.”
“Arizona?”
Carlos nodded. “Yeah, like, maybe he panicked and decided to disappear for a while. Maybe for good. No one knows.”
Lisa frowned. “Is there any danger?”
Several at the table exchanged a look.
“Not as far as any of us knows,” Heidi said. “It’s been almost three months and no one has heard anything yet. We’re thinking the news stayed local.”
“That’s counterproductive, isn’t it?”
Heidi shrugged. “Win a few, lose a few. We thought it might go national. Maybe next time.”
“You need an agent.”
“Me, too,” Mitch joked.
Laughter.
“How so, Lisa?”
Lisa turned back to Heidi. “Career moves. Think of it in terms of career moves.
A series of events that, over time, garner publicity. They don’t always have to be major or spectacular, but they do have to be meaningful. Eventually, people begin to take notice in a serious way. It all has to be planned out, of course, step by step.”
“It sounds doable to me,” Carlos said, raising his glass.
Ralph raised his own glass. “I’ll drink to that, too.”
“Not only doable but diabolical,” Tony said wittily. “But, all the same, I’ll drink to that.” And with a circular flourish, he raised his glass to his lips and slurped down its remaining contents.
“Yes, Heidi, what have you wrought?” Mike chortled, his eyes sparkling at the thought. And looking past Mitch, he said to Lisa, “Are you here as an Agent of the Dark Powers? Can we expect help from a sulfurous divinity? Or maybe you’re a succubus in disguise?”
Carlos snickered. “There he goes again…showing off that side of himself.”
“She’s here to help us,” said Heidi from the other end of the table. “Let’s not get carried away.”
Flushing slightly, Lisa laughed good-naturedly. “I’m just a pragmatist,” she said. “I believe in your cause, and I’m trying to do what I can. It’s everyone’s cause, actually, everyone who calls Planet Earth home. But for you to succeed, you have to go about it intelligently. You can’t shoot a cannon off in the dark every once in a while and hope to hit something. The word has pejorative connotations but, regardless, you have to operate with a military mind-set. You’re not just a band of rabble-rousers, you’re a guerrilla group, and you need to conduct yourself accordingly.”
The note of seriousness, cast unexpectedly in the midst of what had been a revelrous atmosphere, had a sobering effect. Those who, only moments before, had been feeling flippant and jaunty, in the throes of a carefree mood, suddenly found themselves sitting there in an attitude of restrained solemnity. The fizz seemed to have gone out of the party, and each in his or her own way resigned themselves to a bleary-eyed acceptance of the fact.
The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day Page 7