Fishing With RayAnne (16 page)

She will. Try. Try to just be a daughter whose dad is in town visiting for the weekend. While making up the futon in the spare room, she racks her brain for places they could go that might prove neutral ground, where he won’t embarrass himself or her—places nowhere near alcohol, and certainly not the state fair, with its beer concessions on every corner.

On Saturday morning they head for the farmers’ market, but nearly the entire way Big Rick sings, changing the words of the old Jimmy Buffet tune to “Granola-ville,” which would make anyone want to rip their own ears off.

They roam the stalls, filling her basket with enough fresh produce that the salad she’s planned for dinner will practically make itself. Big Rick grabs a small container of organic microgreens from her.

“Jaysus, RayAnne, six bucks? They grow this stuff in gold dust or what?”

“Dad . . .” She quietly elbows, nodding at the grower. “He’s right there.”

“I don’t care if he’s hoeing cornrows in my hair. Hell, you can buy a whole meal, burger and fries
and
a salad at Mickey D’s for less.”

She gives him her look. “
I
don’t eat at Mickey D’s.” Almost true, but because even routine interactions with Big Rick require taking a stand, she takes exaggerated, towering stands. Ky often coaches her to pick her battles with their father—the problem, simply, is that there are so many to choose from she doesn’t know where to start.

At a stand selling grass-fed ground beef—eight-fifty a pound!—the idea occurs to her, a simple father-daughter day fraught with activity and so tailor-made she nearly claps with glee. She asks for two pounds.

Once home, she fetches her tools and drags the long-unopened boxes of patio furniture and a barbeque grill out to the yard. Big Rick is nothing if not handy. He can assemble her outdoor table and chairs and grill, and later he can flip burgers for dinner. They will dine alfresco. That should consume most of the day. By tonight, she’ll have every minute of tomorrow planned. She hums while prying open the boxes. Big Rick elbows in, rolls up his sleeves, takes one look at her screwdrivers, and shakes his head sadly. “Christ on a cracker, RayBee. This made-in-China crap isn’t gonna cut it.”

And so there is a trip to the hardware store, which should eat up at least another hour. Big Rick shifts into action mode, determined to outfit her toolbox with decent, American-made replacements.

He resists going in her more practical hatchback, balking. “That Oriental pie tin? It’s got zilch headroom.” What he won’t admit is that he hates being driven by a woman.

“Asian, Dad—
Asian
pie tin.” She climbs into his Lincoln, and after a half mile gives her father what he deals.

“How many gallons per mile does this Sherman tank take?”

“It’ll get a lot better mileage once the pipeline protesters quit their eco-whining.”

RayAnne does not bother trying to process that logic, and they manage to get to the hardware store with neither barking. Following him down the narrow aisles, the urge to annoy is too tempting, and she picks up a hammer. “Jeez, Dad, twenty-six bucks for a hammer? Heck, when rocks are free and pound a nail just as well?”

“Hardy-har, RayAnne. There’s two things in life a man shouldn’t skimp on.”

“Tools and . . . ?”

He scratches his head. “Dunno, I’ll think of something.” When he’s just being himself and there’s no one around to impress, he can be funny.

A red-vested clerk approaches. “You folks finding what you need?” When he sees the screwdriver set in Big Rick’s hand, he nods approvingly.

“Yessir.” Big Rick holds them out. “Wives leave. Trucks break down. These tools are forever.”

RayAnne looks from her father to the clerk, who responds with a phony baritone, “Some days a good wrench is the only friend a man’s got.”

She’s afraid they might break into song in some odd flash mob of two plotted for her benefit. “Huh?”

The clerk shrugs. “Ad campaign.”

Big Rick adds, “Stanley.”

RayAnne sighs. “Where are the propane tanks, please?”

At the garden section, Big Rick makes a show of choosing a gift for her, a small electric lawnmower—in spite of her having just told him that Bernadette bought her a new rotary push mower as a housewarming gift. Big Rick laughs the notion off. “’Course she’d buy you some hippie-dippie thing like that. This’ll mow your lawn in half the time using less juice than your blow-dryer does, so the grid ain’t gonna be drained cutting that scrap of lawn.”

“Exactly, Dad. You’ve seen the size of it.” It’s no bigger than the square of Astroturf they’re standing on, but Big Rick cannot pass on a chance to one-up Bernadette. Just as she readies for an argument, Dot’s proverbial finger stretches from Florida to tap her forehead. In midsentence, RayAnne swallows her protest and cuts herself a silent bargain:
Just. Play. Along. Return it after he’s gone.

“Okay, thanks. But don’t bother gift-wrapping it.”

In the process of making the purchases, Big Rick tells both clerks that his “not-so-little” girl is a homeowner now, which makes an opening for him to mention the show, which conveniently creates a lead-in to mention his own show, which, fortunately, one of them is familiar with.

“Sure, I remember
Bass Bonanza
. Back in the eighties, right?”

More chitchat and backslapping ensues in the parking lot, where the men stand jawing and absently watching as RayAnne manages to cram the mower into the trunk of the Lincoln between two sets of golf clubs.

Back home, Big Rick commences puttering. He wrenches and screws the faux wrought-iron furniture into shape while she weeds around flagstones and tidies the edging around the trunk of the grandfatherly oak tree that Big Rick says should be cut down in order to keep squirrels off the building. She pats the bark and whispers, “You didn’t hear that.” Making a show of mowing her tarp-sized lawn with the new mower, she wears headphones to drown out the giant insect drone.

Once the yard work is done, RayAnne tosses the salad and opens a jar of the Boston baked beans Big Rick likes, then slices pickles, onions, buns, and tomatoes. Her father bundles up all the cardboard boxes and starts rearranging her garage stall until she demands he stop and sends him upstairs to shower.

When he comes down, she sees he’s shaved and put on a clean shirt. While he fires up the grill, she changes into a summer dress.

Stepping out the back door and into the July evening, she’s met with the smells of burgers searing, freshly cut grass, and tiki torch oil. Her father is at the grill wearing an apron, whistling and sober,
trying
.

Dot is right. She can be pretty hard on him. She lets herself get so riled even when she knows half the time he’s only joking. Everyone else in the family seems to have a method for coping with Big Rick: Dot accepts, Kyle ignores, Bernadette lets go. The only approach she can manage is to adopt some sort of auto delay in her reactions—to take a breath before responding, develop patience or something approaching it. Whatever, she knows it won’t be long before she has cause to employ it.

Dinner goes well enough; both are so hungry there’s not much chatter. He puts another burger on for himself, and while it sizzles they take up one of their safe topics—food—and reminisce over the slapdash dishes they used to invent when she and Ky joined him on the circuit during summer vacations. They would cook on the portable grill or the little harvest-gold three-burner stove in the Airstream Big Rick towed from one fishing tournament to the next. TotDish had a total of four ingredients: hamburger, onions, and cream of mushroom soup, topped with frozen tater tots and cooked at four hundred degrees until gurgling.

IncinerRice was invented by accident after a pan of buttered rice had been left on the burner. The bottom turned crusty and so hot that the eggs Big Rick broke over it set almost immediately. When eaten, the yolks oozed down into the crackly parts. It is a dish RayAnne still cooks on rainy days, adding her own gourmet flair of Kraft Parmesan. The smell of scorching rice brings her right back to the damp closeness of the Airstream, its floor perpetually sandy and the radio always tuned to either a baseball game or Paul Harvey.

Big Rick slaps the table. “Remember S’more Volcano?”

The mention of it is enough to make RayAnne salivate. S’more Volcano was a pie tin filled with honey graham cereal topped by a mound of colored minimarshmallows and strewn with chocolate chips, then centered over the embers in the Weber until the thing puffed up and browned, threatening to blow pastel lava and rivulets of chocolate. RayAnne still bears the scar where a glop of molten pink spewed across her forearm. Their end-of-week meal they called Shipwreck or Crapshoot was composed of leftovers and bits of this and a jar of that or a heel of cheese all added to whatever cold pasta or potatoes or eggs were on hand, then baked into a casserole—sometimes the result was awful, but occasionally it was quite good.

They finish their burgers in silence, remembering better days.

When Big Rick points upward, she follows his gesture from the canopy of leaves to where the North Star is blinking to life. From the distance come sounds of kids hollering, soccer balls being kicked, dogs barking, and the unmistakable rolling growl of a Harley Davidson. It’s summer in the city. Not bad here in her own yard, RayAnne thinks. She is actually getting along with her father. If this is normal, it doesn’t suck. Just as she’s about to say something, she realizes Big Rick hadn’t been pointing out the North Star at all, but her loose gutter. “How old did you say this place is?”

“Built in 1890.”

“Looks it too. Hell, Ray, for what you paid for this place? You coulda got yourself a brand-new townhouse out in Eagan or Roseville.”

“Well, Dad . . .”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three . . .
“I suppose I could have. But I don’t want to live in Eagan or Roseville. Or even in a new house.”

He gives the back of the brownstone a onceover from the foundation up—the missing porch skirting, the flaky mortar of the brickwork, the snarl of cables where the electric enters the building. “Have it your way. But with an old dump like this? You better prepare for some headaches.”

“I am.” She stands and takes his plate. “I am having it my way.” While she’s at it, she might layer on a second coping tactic: diversion, the old bait and switch. “You want dessert?”

When she comes out with coffee and a plate of Oreos, she makes him promise, “You won’t tell Gran?”

He chomps a whole cookie. With crumbs on his lips, he mumbles, “Mum’s the word.” As he lifts his coffee cup, RayAnne notices his hand shake slightly.

She wonders what he’ll do next but doesn’t ask. From her house, he’ll go to Ky’s for a few days, or until her brother’s had his fill. Anybody’s guess after that. Her father is not very good at being alone. Usually, she steers clear of his love life, but showing up like this, appearing almost needy—this is a first. Maybe it’s occurred to him that serial marriages aren’t the answer, no matter how many times he goes to bat.

“What happened, Dad? I mean, with you and Rita.”

He sighs hugely. “Nothing much. The usual control stuff.” He shakes his head. “Why is it women always need to control things?” He looks at her as if she might answer, and after a beat looks at his watch. “Guess I’ll go fire up the tube.”

“Sure you don’t want to sit out here awhile longer?”

“And miss
Fishing
?”

“Oh, right.” It doesn’t occur to her to watch the show on TV since she sees the episodes in segments after each is taped and edited, before they get quilted together. She rarely sees it as a whole like a viewer would.

He rubs his hands together. “Who’s on?”

RayAnne grins. “The usual, a bunch of controlling women. You’ll love the last bit.”

The day of taping had been gusty with whitecaps frothing the lake, forcing the crew to set up in a narrow, less choppy bay. Still, it was a nightmare for the camera operators, who had to stand on the rocking pontoons with Steadicams strapped to their middles and crew on either side to keep them from toppling. Audio had been a challenge too; the mics, clad in gray fake-fur muffs, kept poking in and out of frame, like indecisive squirrels.