Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush

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      I spent the remainder of the afternoon lost in thought while posting the rest of Greg Hayden’s 72-hour notices. Easily accomplished, it reminded me that process serving was more my speed. Apart from an occasional Woofers, it was fairly benign. I headed home a couple hours later, feeling unclean and anxious in a way I didn’t want to analyze too closely. With an effort I shoved thoughts of Bobby Reynolds and Tim Murphy aside and concentrated on food, or my lack of it.

      Foster’s On The Lake is the one and only restaurant actually on Lake Chinook, and therefore the only restaurant-bar with boat docks. I don’t own a boat myself. I firmly believe in the definition that a boat is a hole in the water in which to throw money away. That said, I love to be invited on someone else’s boat and it’s convenient that my boat dock is still in working order in case that someone wants to pick me up.

      I called Cynthia, asking her to meet me for a drink, leaving a message on her cell phone. She sent a text message back on my cell, telling me she was unavailable. I am going to have to figure out how to do that, I reminded myself, marveling at the tiny typing on my LCD screen. I may fear technology but I also admire it.

      The idea of driving to Foster’s held no attraction. Patrons of Foster’s On The Lake take up the parking spots early and it’s an overall pain in the ass to find anywhere else to leave a car.

      I debated on whom to call. Reluctantly, I settled on Dwayne. He’s perfect for two reasons: (1) he’s someone I can share information with, and (2) he owns a boat. Another plus is that he doesn’t blather. He’s the strong, silent type a lot of the time, and when he does speak it’s not wasted small talk. And though he’s physically attractive, he’s not for me, which is just as well, since thoughts of Murphy circling my brain make me unstable and unreliable when it comes to sex. I can make a huge mistake, if I’m not careful. After all, I was nuts over Murphy. Much as I would like to believe differently, I’m not sure I’ve learned resistance over the years. Luckily Dwayne’s name alone puts me off.

      His answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. “Dwayne?” I called, knowing he was probably there and ignoring the beep. “Dwayne, pick up. Let’s go to Foster’s and have a drink. Get your boat and come get me.”

      I waited. Dwayne has a derelict boathouse attached to his cabana which is in need of serious work. He also is a proud owner of a broken boat lift which is meant to keep the boat out of the water and save the hull, but is pretty much a hunk of twisted metal in need of excising. One of his professed long-term projects is fixing the boathouse/lift, but while he tinkers away Dwayne pays for an easement. There are several such easements dotted along the shores of Lake Chinook. Depending on where you reside, you might have easement access. However, there are only so many boat slips within the easement and you have to put your name on a waiting list if they are all full, which they generally are. Dwayne was lucky enough to pick one up the third year of owning his cabana. He bought a well-used boat with worn seats and suspiciously squishy floorboards, but he keeps the engine running like a top. “Dwayne?” I yelled again.

      The line clicked on. “Quit belly-aching,” he complained. “I was finishing up some notes.”

      “What are you working on?”

      “You throwing in with me, darlin’?”

      “Not yet.”

      There was a hint of equivocation in my response that I tried, and failed, to suppress. I could tell he heard it. “Not yet” was far better than plain “no.”

      “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

      I hung up. Dwayne wanted an intern, a protege, an acolyte. He wanted me to be that person, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. Bartender, process server…hatchery fish…that was me. Damn Billy Leonard for labeling me so accurately. Yes, I was unfocused and undisciplined and at a loss to find a serious career path, but so what? Couldn’t I bump along as I’d been doing? Did I have to make some kind of choice?

      Dwayne was true to his word, putt-putting at six miles per hour as he came into West Bay—lake requirements—and smoothly drifting up to my dock, his hull kissing the once white bumpers Mr. Ogilvy had installed several seasons earlier. I was waiting in khaki shorts and a white tank over a blue two-piece swimsuit. Not that I intended swimming. Good lord, no. But being prepared came naturally to me. A fact Dwayne had pointed out on more than one occasion which added to my inherent gifts as an information specialist.

      “Hey,” he grunted as I stepped into the boat.

      “Hey, there,” I responded, and we took off.

      I saw a bottle of wine nestled in a spot beside the throttle, ready for consumption as soon as we reached Foster’s. By unspoken understanding Dwayne and I would share the wine after he docked the boat and before we walked into the restaurant. This meant we would sit in our boat and drink, viewing the restaurant diners as if they were a kind of open theater. Believe it or not this was considered okay behavior even though we would be docked at On The Lake’s pier. It’s all part of Lake Chinook’s summer customs. It’s perfectly okay to pull up next to someone else’s boat and examine what they’d brought to drink or possibly eat as sometimes people didn’t even bother walking into the restaurant at all.

      On The Lake’s owner, Jeffrey Foster—known simply as Foster to anyone who’s acquainted with him—allowed this behavior because when the weather is nice enough for boating the place is already spilling over its edges with customers. This is amazing in itself since the prices at On The Lake are astronomical. The rest of the cheapies and myself generally sway in our boats, listen to the live music and refuse to open our wallets. Foster doesn’t have time to pay attention to us. Every chance I get I complain to him about the prices, but he just shrugs his shoulders and tells me to go somewhere else. Like, oh sure, there is nowhere else on Lake Chinook. So, I have to limit my nights of food buying. To this end I sometimes go beyond the limits of cheap into downright miserly by circumventing the restaurant altogether. I trek along the sidewalk which is squeezed next to the teensy movie house which is part of On The Lake’s building and which boasts excellent popcorn and a fireplace in the lobby, then I cross State Street and sneak into Johnny’s Market to buy Doritos and a jar of salsa. Affordable, and a few notches closer to real food than Chapstick.

      I used to cadge rides to the restaurant with Murphy, but since that broke up I’ve been forced to rely on Dwayne and sometimes my neighbors, two houses down, who are screechingly, unhappily married at the best of times; sullen, boiling fury at the worst. Not exactly a laugh-fest are the Mooneys. They’re in their late forties/early fifties and haven’t experienced a moment of joy in СКАЧАТЬ