diagnosed with “the” cancer. That’s what they called it back then, “the” cancer, like “the” winter, or “the” Black Death. I leaned over the door and read the odometer: 33,432 miles. When the old man passed over, there had been a great deal of controversy in the family as to who would get the T-bird. Henry ended the debate by fishing the keys out of the old man’s last pair of pants that lay crumpled beside his deathbed. Henry started the Thunderbird, drove the old girl forty miles, and parked her in an undisclosed garage somewhere in Sheridan. None of them ever asked him about it again, ever. He called the car Lola.
“Hey, get away from that car.” The deep voice had come from the darkness, somewhere under the new porch roof. I walked up the slight grade to the front of my newly transformed log cabin. The porch ran the entire length of the house, and the smell of the freshly cut redwood was enchanting. The roof consisted of two-by-six tongue and groove; the green tin surrounded the edges and joined seamlessly with the already existing roof. It was a really good job, even I could see that. The rough-cut six-by-sixes gave the place a look of permanence, the look of a home. There were a couple of concrete blocks stacked on the ground at the center, which allowed access between the railings.
I stood beside the blocks and leaned against one of the upright timbers. “Damn.”
“Not bad, huh?” He sat by the front door and leaned against the wall with his legs crossed and stretched out in front of him. His worn moccasins translated the print of his feet through the moosehide. He reached down and plucked out a bottle of beer from the holder and tossed it to me; it almost slipped, but I caught it. “You were going to be able to have three, but then it got late. Now, you only get two.”
I opened the beer and took a sip. “They do good work.”
“They are going to be back tomorrow to finish the railings and put some steps in.”
“They know it’s going to snow tonight?”
He shrugged and straightened his shoulders against the log wall. “Not until after midnight.” I looked out at the convertible and hoped he was right.
I took another sip, wandered down the porch, and nodded toward the car. “Special occasion?”
“Last hurrah. I do not suppose I will get a chance to drive her anymore this year.” His eyes stayed on the car and, in the flat moonlight, it looked very pale; another ghost pony for Henry.
“Slow night at the bar?”
“Yes. What is in the tinfoil?”
“Couple ’a browns.” I stuck out a hand and pulled him up. “You want help putting her top up?”
He looked past me to the hills across the valley. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I laid the fish on the counter by the sink and tossed the feather packet over toward the edge. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and eggs he must have brought Sunday. He opened the carton and sniffed. “Do you still have the cornmeal?”
I went over to the lower cabinet by the door and retrieved the cardboard container; the corner was already eaten through. I shrugged as I handed it to him. “Sorry.” He shook his head and cracked two eggs in a bowl, whisking them with a fork and adding some milk. He retrieved the frying pan from earlier in the week, checked it for mouse shit, turned on a front burner, and dropped a dollop of butter onto the slowly warming iron. He was fun to watch in the kitchen, his movements easy and smooth. It dawned on me that I should ask, “Anything I can do?”
“No, I prefer my trout meuniere sans poopi.” He opened the tinfoil and admired the fish. “Beautiful. Where did you get them?”
“What makes you think I didn’t catch them?”
He didn’t honor this statement with a response but dumped out a bed of cornmeal in a dish and whisked the batter some more. Finishing this, he picked up his beer and started to take a sip. “I don’t suppose you have any peanut oil, parsley, or white wine?”
“No, but I have a date tomorrow night.”
He nodded, extended his arm, and poured part of his beer in the batter. He coated the fish, layered them in the cornmeal, then took a dish towel hanging from the drawer pull under the sink and tilted the handle of the frying pan. “Good.”
“I need some help.”
He watched the butter slide down the inside of the pan, added a little more, and rested it back on the burner. “Yes?”
“Wine?”
“Yes, wine is a good thing.”
He didn’t see the sarcastic look I was giving him. “I need help picking one out.”
He stared at the fish. “Dinner is in her home?”
“Yes.”
“What is she serving?”
“I don’t know.” He slowly shook his head and took a sip of his beer; I was driving him to drink. I took a swig of my own and smiled, putting a good face on things. “She didn’t say.”
He nodded, spreading his hands over the repast. “Red with beef, white with fish, or cheap beer with everything.” He leaned against the counter and braced his weight on one arm. “Is this to be a gift or to accompany dinner?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. If it is to accompany dinner and it is white, then it must arrive chilled. If it is a gift, then it should not.”
“What if I just don’t let her touch the bottle?”
He nodded sagely. “Are you going to let her drink any?”
“Oh, there is that.” He finished off the abbreviated beer and pulled the last one from the cardboard carrier. “I thought that was mine?”
“You do not deserve it.” He opened it and took a swig before I could grab it away. “Then there is chicken.”
“What about chicken?”
“It can go either way.”
“I’ve heard that about chickens.”
He shook his head some more. “According to how it is prepared, it can go with either red or white. The whole idea of wine is to complement the meal. There are dry wines, moderately dry wines, dessert wines, aperitifs, sparkling wines, fortified wines, sherries, and ports…”
“Mad Dog 20–20?” I was trying to be helpful.
“There are an infinite number of both white and red wines: sauternes, chardonnays, pinot grigios, sauvignon blancs on the white side; bordeaux, burgundy, beaujolais, pinot noir, zinfandel, shiraz, merlot, syrah on the red side; never mind the vineyards themselves and the vintners. The wine of the year is a cabernet blend from the coastal region of Bolgheri. Antinori planted sixty percent to cabernet sauvignon, thirty-five percent to merlot, and five percent to cabernet franc. Then there are the appellations-St. Emilion, Margaux, Barolo, Barbera, and Chianti…”
“Which ones come in cartons?”
He nudged the empty carrier with the punt of his bottle. “How about a nice six-pack?”
“I’m trying to change my image.”
“Yes, I am trying to change it, too, but it does not seem to be working.” He took two of the fish and plopped them in their reflective image in melted butter; they sizzled and settled in as he returned the skillet to the stovetop. There was only room for two of the fillets at a time.
“What about the chenin blanc she drinks at the bar?”
“That is a good choice, along with a merlot. Just in case.”
“You can hook me up?” A term I had picked up from Vic.
“Yes.”
I went ahead and ate while thinking about which subject I wanted to raise first as he prepared the next brace of trout. “Things really that slow at the bar?”
He flipped his own dinner onto a plate and joined me at the counter. “Slow enough that I could get out of there this evening.”
