3
A FEW DAYS LATER, before breakfast, John left the house alone. He walked up the road toward town. He moved along a dirty, white picket fence, his hand open above the points of the slats.
“Hello there, old-timer,” said a man on the porch of the house behind the fence.
John stopped and looked at him. If he was younger than John, it was not by much. John said, “Hi, sonny.”
The man laughed and pulled his slight frame up from the step on which he had been sitting. He walked to the fence. “You’re new—so to speak.”
“So to speak.”
“Oliver Turner.” The man introduced himself and reached out to shake hands.
“John Livesey. My son has mentioned you.”
“So, you’re Elgin’s old man.” Oliver smiled. “Out for a stroll?”
“I walk quite a bit.”
“Yeah? I suppose that’s healthy.”
“I suppose.” John pressed his palm down on the point of a slat. “Elgin tells me you’re a writer.”
“That’s what the rat told you? Yep. And what do you peddle?”
“Medicine. I’m retired.”
“I’m about to make a run to the market. Ride with me?”
John looked up the road. “The market’s less than a quarter mile.”
Oliver opened the gate for John and said, “I don’t like carrying sacks on foot.”
John followed him into the house. There was a wheelchair parked in the front room, and a woman was lying across the high-backed sofa. Oliver introduced the woman as his wife, Lorraine.
“Good morning,” she said. She made no attempt to sit up.
“Pleased to meet you,” John said.
“John is Elgin’s father,” Oliver said.
Lorraine nodded.
Oliver walked to her and kissed her forehead. “John and I are going to make a run into town. Would you like anything?”
“My chair,” she said.
Oliver pulled the chair to the sofa. He slipped his hands past his wife’s head and under her arms. Lifting her trunk, he pulled her into the chair. He adjusted her legs with Lorraine helping, guiding his hands. She was wrinkled and plain, but her face demanded attention. The scene reminded John of his own wife’s final weeks, though Lorraine Turner did not seem weak or frail, only crippled.
“Do you need anything from the store?” Oliver asked.
She shook her head, then looked at John. “Where are you from?”
“Virginia.”
“That’s a beautiful place. How do you like it here?”
“Very much.”
Oliver grabbed his keys from the desk. “Let’s roll.” He started toward the back of the house.
“We’ll talk later,” John said to Lorraine, then followed Oliver.
Lorraine wheeled herself to the back door and watched them climb into the red Econoline van.
John looked into the back of the van at the works of a hydraulic chair lift. “How long has Lorraine been in the chair?” he asked.
Oliver leaned forward and looked up and down the road before pulling out of the drive. “Since she was nineteen. A diving accident.”
“I like her.”
“Yeah, she’s what we call a hot ticket.”
After about a minute of driving they were at the market. Oliver stood in the parking lot and looked at the ocean. “How do you feel about guns?”
“Excuse me?”
“I like to shoot targets on the beach. Want to go with me? I’m tired of shooting alone.”
The next morning, John and Oliver were alone on the beach. Oliver had tacked targets to a large cube of foam rubber at the base of a cliff. They used Oliver’s Stevens Crackshot, an old bolt-action .22 rifle.
Oliver fired at the target, pulled the bolt back, and slipped in another shell. “One bullet at a time is slow but somehow aesthetically pleasing.”
They fired in turns, salvos of five shots, a bucket of shells at their feet.
“I like these cliffs,” John said.
“I’ll have to take you upstate and show you the Columbia River Gorge. That’s some river.”
John fired the last shot of his salvo and passed the rifle. “I’d like to see it, but I think I’ve been spoiled by southern rivers.”
“The Columbia’s pretty big.”
“Southern rivers aren’t so big. But it’s like they’re filled with blood.”
“Blood?”
“I sound crazy.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Oliver said and fired a shot. “I think I understand what you’re saying.” He handed the rifle to John.
John waved him off. “Go again. I’m going to smoke a cigarette.” He lit up.
“You’re talking about history.” Oliver loaded and fired. “You know, I envy you.”
“How so?”
“Your family. Lorraine and I never had any kids.”
John took a long drag on his cigarette. “My son and I could be closer.” He worked a bit of tobacco from between his teeth and spat it out. “Work got in the way.”
“Well, now you’re retired.”
“I don’t feel like shooting anymore.” John looked at the ocean. “I’ve got a new grandchild on the way.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You must be pretty excited.”
John nodded.
They walked to the target. John was carrying the bucket of shells. He took the rifle from Oliver, and Oliver carried the foam rubber cube up the hill.
Lisa and Katy were straightening up the house when John walked in with a box in his arms. The child ran to him as he placed his load on the table.
“What’d you get?” asked Katy.
“Bacon and booze.”
Lisa sighed.
“Yes,” said John. “Two pounds of lean Porky the Pig bacon. Scotch, bourbon, and vodka.” He pulled bottles out of a bag and stood them on the table. “And beer. You may have heard of it. People make and drink it from Nigeria to Munich, from Mexico to Maine, and not one of them thinks it’s unnatural.”
“Two pounds of bacon?” Lisa shook her head.
“What are you serving tonight?” Before Lisa could reply, John said, “Trail mix, those damn bags of hamster food you’ve got in there.” He pointed to the cupboard.
“You’re not putting bacon out for the guests.”
“Not for your guests. But for mine, yes. And to oblige you, I’ll keep my bacon down in the studio. However, I must cook it up here.”
“Okay, fine,” Lisa said and walked away.
“Your mother is upset,” he said to Katy.
“She’s upset.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah,” said Katy. “Can I have some bacon when you cook it?”
“You won’t squeal?”
She shook her head.
After John fried up the bacon and put it on a platter down in the studio, he smuggled a couple of slices to Katy in her bedroom.
“Why can’t I stay up for the party?” the girl asked.
“It’s going to be overrun with adults, for one thing.”
She took a bite of bacon. “Just a few minutes?”
“You’d be bored. In fact, I’ll probably be bored. Is the bacon crisp enough?”
She nodded.
“Want to go for a drive tomorrow?”
“Where?”
“Just to look around.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then you have to get some sleep.” He covered her. “Good night, sweetheart.”
“Good night, Grandpa.”
John stood in the doorway and watched Elgin and Lisa prepare for guests. Lisa was stir-frying at the wok while Elgin pulled chess pieces from a wooden box and placed them on a board on the coffee table.
“You play chess at parties?” John asked. He went to the punch bowl and sniffed. “Sometimes you dress up in costumes?” He leaned closer for another sniff of the punch. “Just juice?”
“Yes,” said Lisa.
“Where’s the liquor you bought, Dad?” Elgin asked.
“It’s down with the bacon.”
“Another thing,” said Lisa, “I don’t think you should smoke in the house.”
John looked at his son.
“Really, Dad,” said Lisa, “think of Katy.”
“I have never offered the child a cigarette.” John looked again at the punch. “None of your friends drink?”
“Some do,” Elgin said. “They know we don’t keep any, so if they want, they can bring their own.”
“Big of you to allow that.”
“Dad,” Lisa said, “show a little tolerance.”
John frowned. “I think it’s all pretty silly.” He looked at Elgin.
Elgin smiled and chuckled softly. “It’s a little extreme.”
“Elgin, don’t encourage him,” said Lisa.
“No, son you wouldn’t want to encourage me. I might turn your daughter into a nocturnal, carnivorous alcoholic—”
“Who smokes,” added Elgin.
“Who smokes,” said John.
The guests arrived. There were Henry and Brenda Todd, both professors at the university in Eugene; David and Erica Karlin, he a lawyer, she a grade school teacher; and Greg Yount, also a lawyer, from Eugene. All had spent summers in Yachats before, so much talk seemed inside. And there were Oliver and Lorraine Turner. Introductions were made, and John watched while people ate trail mix and drank juice. He, Oliver, and Lorraine stayed with the party for about fifteen minutes. Then they left through the beach-side sliding door. Lorraine’s wheelchair was left on the upper deck and John carried her down the steps and down the slope to the beach, where they sat in folding chairs. They ate bacon and drank beer. John went to the studio and came back with a blanket for Lorraine.
“Maybe I’m not with it,” said John, “but I don’t think these youngsters know how to have a good time.”
“Pass the bacon,” said Lorraine.
John gave her the platter.
“You got anything stronger than this?” asked Oliver, looking at his beer can.
“Scotch, bourbon, and vodka.”
“Bourbon.”
“I’ll get it,” John said. “What about you, Lorraine?”
“Beer is fine with me.”
John started away. “Ice or anything?”
“Just a glass.”
“I can bring you some of that fruit shit.”
“Thank you, no.”
When John came out of the studio with the bourbon, Scotch, and glasses, he found David Karlin on the deck.
“You having a closed party down there?” Karlin asked, nodding toward the beach.
“Come on down.” Karlin went with him down the slope. “I didn’t ask you if you wanted a glass.”
“I’ll get one,” the younger man said. He looked at the open cooler. “You’ve got beer down here. And bacon. May I have some bacon?”
“Help yourself. Grab a beer, too.” John tossed a glass to Oliver and handed him the bourbon.
David Karlin sat on the sand, nursed a beer, and watched the ocean with them. It was a clear night and the moon, though not full, was bright. Lorraine began to sing softly “Down by the Riverside.” Soon all were singing, Karlin trying to catch the verses but falling in on the chorus. They sang “Farther Along” and other hymns, then “Rally ‘Round the Flag,” and by the end of the first chorus of “A Wing and a Prayer,” Karlin’s wife had joined them, as well as the Todds and Elgin. They sang folk songs and union songs and railroad songs, drank beer, and polished off the bacon. Lisa and Greg Yount never came down.