“That mean you don’t want one?”
“Oh, I want one,” Cal said. “You should have something a little more easy on the stomach. If you ever want to have sex again in your life.”
“Hell, I gave up on that a long time ago. Don’t tell Maggie. I’d like to think of her having nightmares about it.”
When he was done with the shelf stocking and his hot dog, Cal went to the area Sully had mentioned was his garden. It was easily identifiable. It was behind the house, kind of hidden from the campgrounds. Cal wondered if that was sometimes an issue—a thriving garden being tempting to campers. Did they occasionally help themselves to the tomatoes?
It wasn’t too big, maybe sixteen by sixteen feet. He could see the rows from last year. He went to the shed that stood back from the property, tucked in the trees. There was a lot of equipment, from snowblower to plow attachment, lawn-grooming equipment, riding mower, wheelbarrow and gardening supplies.
Snowblower. He kept reminding himself to head south. Maybe southwest. It was just all that smog and sand and those hot rocks they called mountains...
He’d gone to school in Michigan, the state that invented winter. He was from everywhere, usually moderate climates, while Lynne was from New York. Westchester, to be exact.
He chose the wheelbarrow, spade, shovel and rake, and started clearing away the winter debris. He hadn’t asked what Sully meant to do with the stuff so he made two piles—one of fallen leaves that could constitute fertilizer and the other rocks, winter trash and weeds. You wouldn’t want to use weeds in mulch; that would just invite them back.
He’d been at it a couple of hours when he heard her approach. He knew she’d get around to it. He leaned on his spade and waited.
“You let my father eat a hot dog? Does that sound heart healthy to you?”
He just shook his head. “You know he’s a liar and he’s having fun with your close medical scrutiny. What do you think?”
“He got me, didn’t he?”
“He ate a sandwich—lean turkey, tomato, lettuce on wheat bread. He asked for doughy white bread and lost out to Enid, who obviously knows him better than you do. He wanted chips—he got slaw—made with vinegar, not mayo. Really, Maggie?” He laughed and shook his head.
“He’s antagonizing me, is that what you’re saying?”
“Over and over. But you can stop pressing the panic button. He’s doing great.”
“Have you seen his incision?” she asked.
“Oh, about ten times. I offered to sell tickets for him. He’s running out of people to show. But no worries. He tells me the camp is going to attract people like crazy any second now. Spring break, then weekends, then summer. I just hope he doesn’t scare the children.”
She thought about that for a moment. “It’s impolite to act like you know more about my closest relative than I do.”
“And yet, that’s usually the case. You’re too bound up by baggage, expectation and things you need for yourself. Like a father who lives much longer.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket to wipe off his brow. “Stop letting him bait you. He’s very conscious of the doctor’s orders. He’s taking it one step at a time.”
“Did he pay you to say this? Or are you Dr. Phil on vacation?”
Cal laughed. “You two have quite a dynamic going. You could be a married couple. Married about forty years, I’d say.”
“Remind you of your parents?” she asked, raising one brow. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“My parents are unnaturally tight,” he said. “They’re kind of amazing, I guess. Deeply supportive of each other, almost to the exclusion of everything around them and everyone else. Protective. They’re in their sixties, as in love as the day they met, and total whack jobs. But sweet. They’re very sweet.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “What makes them whack jobs?”
“Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”
“As in, the Grateful Dead?”
“Exactly. Just a little more complex.”
She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
“Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”
“Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly smart. And he regularly gets...um...messages.”
“Oh, this is fascinating,” she said. “What kind of messages?”
“Come on, nosy. How about you? Are you the oldest in the family?”
“The only. My parents divorced when I was six. My mother lives in Golden with my stepfather. What kind of messages?”
“Well, let’s see... There have been so many. One of the most memorable was when my father believed space aliens were living among us and systematically killing us off by putting chemicals in our food. That was a very bad couple of years for meals.”
“Wow.”
“It definitely hits the wow factor. They—we—were gypsies with no Romany heritage and my parents glommed on to a lot of bizarre beliefs that came and went.”
“And this has to do with Jerry Garcia how?”
“He appealed to their freedom factor—no rules, no being bound by traditional ideas or values, crusaders of antisocial thinking, protesting the status quo. They were also very fond of Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley. My father favors dystopian literature like Brave New World. My mother, on the other hand, is a very sweet lady who adores him, agrees with everything he says, likes to paint and weave and is really a brilliant but misguided soul. She usually homeschooled us
