Kathleen Valentine (11 page)

For years I felt guilty about the obvious fondness my father saved for me. I knew fathers were like that with daughters but I felt bad for Andie until I realized she was oblivious to it. It isn’t easy being sensitive in this family.
"We’re going out tonight with Simon and RuthAnn," I tell Tim as we tramp across the snow-packed driveway.
"Sounds like..." His words are cutoff by the rumble of a monster red truck that screeches to a halt in front of us.
"Fifi!" Thad bellows as he jumps down from the cab. He grabs me round the waist and scoops me up over his shoulder laughing.
"Put me down!" I scream and I wonder how many times we have been through this, as Thad tips me halfway down his back threatening to drop me on my head. But it is impossible to be mad at Thad. He is nearly as tall as Bart but bulkier with a beer belly that seems to be growing as he moves farther into his forties. But unlike Bart and Simon’s sober dark seriousness Thad is as blond and radiant as a choir of naughty angels.
"Tim," he says holding out his hand to my husband with me still squealing and kicking, "good to see you. How come this one isn’t knocked up yet?"
"It’s none of your business, Thad." I get in a good kick connecting with his ribs.
"It’s up to her," Tim says. "I’ll knock her up any time she wants me to."
"Aw, bullshit," Thad turns still carrying me to walk beside Tim toward the barn. "You know women. You can’t wait for them to decide. All they know for sure is that whatever you are doing is what they don’t want. Have you learned to cook yet?" he says to me.
"Put me down." I grab his hair and kick him again this time hard enough that he drops me. "Fuck you, Thad. I can cook."
"Oooo la-ti-da," he flaps his hand in a limp wrist gesture and minces a few steps, "What can you cook? Dainty little cucumber sandwiches and tea. I’m talking real food, Fif, steak and onions, roasted venison, apple pie. Chili." He pronounces the last word with reverence, as though it were a sacrament.
"Come on, Tim," he says dropping a big arm around my husband’s city shoulders as we enter the barn. "We’ll teach you the manly arts today. Go rinse casings," he says shooing me away.
In the ground floor workshop, the woodburner roars. Two pots of spices in water simmer on it filling the air with fragrance. Simon, sleeves rolled above his elbows, energetically scrubs the surface of a long, battered wooden table. In a corner Bart is unpacking and assembling the heavy cast iron grinder that has stuffed thousands of pounds of sausage over the years. Dad is drawing mugs of beer from the spigot on the side of an old refrigerator converted to a beer keg and passing them to three old men, his lifelong buddies, who sit on sawhorses already spinning the yarns of great hunting adventures from decades gone by.
"Wow." Tim’s eyes widen. I try to see Dad’s shop with Tim’s eyes but this place has changed very little since I played here as a child. Every inch of space is in use. Tools hang from the rafters, which support stacks of lumber. Jars filled with screws, nails, nuts, and bolts hang from their lids nailed to the beams amid extra saw bands, clamps, spare kerosene lanterns and things for which I can provide no explanation. Massive metal blocks of machinery sit like rocks. I know the names of most of them and have even used a few—table saws and joiners, turning lathes and drill presses, a towering bandsaw in a wooden casing that my father has covered with fifty years worth of newspaper clippings, children’s drawings, photographs, holy cards, cartoons, instruction sheets and letters printed in crayon. Dear Papa, one written on crumbling paper in faded lavender reads, I liked working with you in the shop today. I liked learning how to drill holes in boards and help you hammer nails. I hope you will let me help you again tomorrow. I love you. Fifi.
Over everything – over the leathery books and the drawing tables filled with Simon’s meticulously rendered sketches, over the wood pile beside the stove and the rack of worn ‘Richie coats on the wall, over the bench where Bart loads his 30.06 shells and Dad’s stacks of hunting magazines and tool catalogs, is the soft mist of sawdust that gives the room its fragrance.
"Thad," Bart snaps. "There’s a washtub of pork in the bed of my truck. I backed it up to the side door. You could bring it in here. Leave the tarp in the truck."
"Aye-aye, sir," Thad says with a mock salute and he turns his back to him and reaches for a beer.
"Eben, Boris, George." I bring Tim over to meet the three old guys I have known all my life. "This is my husband, Tim."
"Glad to know ya’, Tim," Boris says, wiping his hand on his crusty jeans and sticking it out. "So yer the flatlander what stole our little Fifi away from us."
"Yes, sir, I am," Tim says taking the mug of beer my dad thrusts at him.
"Bet you don’t do much sausage stuffin down there in the city, do ya?" Eben says licking foam from the moustache that curls over his lip into his mouth. "Leastways not the kind we’re doin today." He cackles at his own joke jabbing his elbows into George’s thickly padded side and Boris’s bony one. George shakes with laughter and Boris frowns.
"Don’t go talking trash in front of the city folks," he grumbles. "Don’t want young Tim here thinkin we’re a bunch of ignorant, goddamn hillbillies, do ya?"
"Aw, hell, Boris," Dad says joining us, "Tim here’s getting used to us. Hell, I think he even likes us. Better’en my own daughter does some of the time," he says but he winks at me as he says it.
"Dad," I protest.
"Thad," Eben says looking past my dad, "ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. How you doin?"
"Doin’ fine, Eb, how’s yourself?"
"What can I do?" Tim asks.
"These geezers have the toughest job," Thad says gesturing with his mug. "They have to decide on the seasonings."
"Can’t go wrong with sage," George mumbles into his beer. "Always say that. Can’t go wrong with sage."
"Aw, get with it, George," Dad laughs. "Bart’s making his own blends now." He nods toward the simmering pots.
"Tim," Simon calls, "if you could take over here, I’ll help Thad bring in the pork."
Thad swallows the last of his beer. "Bullshit. When I need your help, I’ll let you know." He lumbers off toward the side door.
You have to hand it to Simon, he knows how to deal with Thad.

My husband cannot do enough. He is the busiest and happiest worker. Under Thad’s tutelage he learns to trim and cut the venison and pork and feed it into the hungry hopper of the grinder in alternating scoops. It is a family tradition that, after the first grinding, some of the sausage meat is mixed with spiced liquid from the steaming pots and fried up for a taste test. Bart kneads his spice blends into two bowls of meat for me to carry up to the house.
In the orchard the children have built snow forts and a full scale snowball fight is in progress. Soft snowballs fall just short of hitting me as I cross the yard accompanied by giggles and calls of "sorry, Aunt Fifi!" In the yard Andie’s youngest daughter is teaching Daisy’s grandchildren how to make snow angels. They thrash around on their backs like wiggling little fish making a great mess and covering themselves with snow. Stepping onto the back porch I hear the sound of women laughing and smell baking beans and brownies.
"...no, it’s true," Andie is saying, sipping coffee, "I love Junie so much I could eat his face off but don’t you think there is something wrong with a guy who won’t go outside the town limits unless it involves hunting?"
"Oh baloney," Daisy says, "you have to get him motivated. Just promise him a blow job and he’ll go anywhere you want him to."
There is a howl from the women. Even my mother, I am shocked to note.
"You’re awful," RuthAnn giggles.
"Hey, it works. I found that out a long time ago. It works a lot better than crying," Daisy leans across the table and pours more coffee into my mother’s cup.
"Got a cup for me?" I ask taking off my coat.
"Sure," Andie says getting up, "I just made a fresh pot. Daisy’s right, RuthAnn. You can’t believe how good that works. You just go down on them and when they’re half out of their minds you say ‘can I re-paper the dining room?’ and they’re like ‘yeah, yeah, sure’ so then you say ‘can I buy new drapes’ and they’re like ‘anything, anything, just don’t stop’." She shrugs. "It’s sneaky but it works."
She takes the bowls from me. "Here, I’ll do that. Why don’t you stay up here with us? It’s a lot warmer."
She places a heavy skillet on the stove to heat and begins shaping small patties. "What brilliant concoction did Bart come up with this year?"
I settle next to RuthAnn and help myself to one of Mom’s home-made sticky buns dripping golden caramel sauce, raisins and walnuts.
"They’re really good," Daisy says. "One is his usual — salt, coriander, onions — but the other is sort of an Italian thing with lots of red pepper and fennel. I really liked it."
"Daisy," RuthAnn says, "we all know how much you like Bart’s sausage. You just told us."
I feel the flush rising in my cheeks and my mother says, "You girls! How you talk!"
"Oh, Maudie, come on," Daisy says. "Tell the truth. Didn’t you and your friends talk like this when the fellas were away?"
"Well," my mother is blushing now too, "we just didn’t know about all the stuff you girls do today. Goodness, I didn’t even know what an orgasm was until after Simon was born."
Andie and I exchange looks and I nearly slide off my chair onto the floor.
"Mom, how’d you find out?" Andie laughs.
"Well, while I was in the hospital I read that book Everything You Are Afraid to Know About Sex. Why I’d never even heard of most of the stuff they talked about in that! I’ll never forget the look on your father’s face when I asked him if I had ever had an orgasm."
"Oh my God," I cover my face with my hands. "What did he say?"
"He said that of course I did. He said he wouldn’t have it any other way. So I figured I was pretty doggone lucky considering how many women in that book said they didn’t." My mother looks very pleased and proud. I open my mouth and then shut it again. Even Daisy is at a loss for words.
"God, this smells good," Andie says leaning over the sizzling sausages. She scoops a few onto a paper towel lined plate for the women to taste and slips the others onto a warm platter covered with a tea towel.
"I better go back," I say with mixed feelings.
"This is yummy," RuthAnn says picking at a piece of the sausage on the table. "Spicy."
"Told you," Daisy says.
I slip into my coat. "See you later."
"Tell Bart I really like his sausage," RuthAnn giggles.
"Fifi."
"Yes, Mama."
"Don’t let your father do too much. He’s not as young as he thinks he is."
"I won’t, Mama."
"Is it warm in the shop? His sciatica bothers him when he gets cold."
"Bart’s keeping the stove going. It’s nice and warm."
Mama looks at me about to say something then changes her mind. "Just keep an eye on him, okay, honey?"
"Yes, Mama."

As I approach the barn I see children slipping between the big sliding doors on the upper level and I remember games of hide and seek many years ago. With the memory comes the scent of old wood and sweet hay. I have to admit, this was a wonderful place to be a child. Children raised in the city where Tim and I live wouldn’t have the freedom these kids do.
"Here she comes," Simon calls. "Now we’ll see how good you are, Bart."
I uncover the plate of steaming patties and Bart cuts them into bits as he explains the seasonings and the tasting begins. My husband is grinning broadly as he drains his beer mug which Thad promptly refills. I feed a bite of the Italian sausage to him and he bites my fingers and pulls me close.
"Ummmmm, good." He pulls me close and grinds his pelvis into mine.
"You’re drunk," I whisper half amused, pushing him away.
"No, I’m not. I’m having fun. Do you think your Dad looks like Ben Johnson?"
"Who?"
"You know, Ben Johnson, the cowboy actor in all those old John Ford movies."
"I don’t remember," I say.
"Yeah. Well, he’s like a cross between Ben Johnson and Ward Bond."
"I think you’re drunk."
"Christ almighty, woman," Thad says pulling me aside, "leave the poor bastard alone."
"Thad," I say, remembering my earlier offer, "what are you doing tomorrow?"
He studies me for a moment. "Depends on what you want."
"I was telling Tim about going woodsing. He’s never been before. Would you take us?"
Thad looks at my drunken, happy husband then back at me. "Woodsing is a guy thing, Fifi. I’ll take Tim but if you come we won’t have any fun."
"You liar!" I stare at him. "You and Simon used to make me go with you even when I didn’t want to and then you’d threaten to leave me out in the woods."
He chuckles. "We weren’t woodsing then. We were just teaching you a lesson." He looks at Tim. "She was the most god-awful pain in the ass. I hope for your sake, she’s changed."
Tim is staring into his empty beer mug as though confused as to how it got that way. Thad, of course, is overly familiar with that circumstance and knows exactly what to do. He takes Tim’s mug and heads for the tap with the two of us trailing behind.
"The thing about woodsing is women just don’t get the good parts like getting shit-faced and driving through cricks and spitting tobacco out the window." As though suddenly reminded, he hands Tim the refilled mug and reaches into his hip pocket for the foil pouch. I can see the words "treat yourself to the best" on it as he reaches inside for a clump of the noxious brown weed. He offers the pouch to Tim who hesitates for a moment, glances at me, then shakes his head.
"There’s a wet t-shirt contest at Sloppy Ed’s tomorrow afternoon," he adds. "If you come with us you’d have to keep your mouth shut and we both know you’re no good at that."
"They still have those?" Tim says astonished.
"Yeah." Thad grins. "What? You thought we didn’t have any cultural entertainment around here? Naw, Tim, you can’t take women woodsing. You can take them spotting deer but not woodsing."
"What’s the difference?" Tim asks.
The old guys by the beer keg have been listening so Boris has to put his two cents in. "Spotting deer is a time honored tradition, son. You need a truck or a car with a good-sized back seat, a spotlight that runs off a car battery, a dark night and a pretty girl. Round here young bucks have been spottin deer with their girls since they invented the automobile."
"If it weren’t for spottin deer, Simon would still be a free man," Thad says just loud enough for Simon to hear. Simon looks up from the basin of ground meat he is kneading spices into and flashes a wide grin.
"Hell, boy," Eben adds. "If it weren’t for spottin deer I’d a never married either of my wives." Boris chuckles. "Can you believe that?" Eben elbows Tim’s ribs. "Getting a woman in trouble when she’s forty years old and you’re past fifty? I oughta had a knot tied in the thing."
"Spottin deer is responsible for half the population of Hamlet," Boris says. "Young guys around here wouldn’t ever get married if it weren’t for spottin deer. Lotta premature babies got started that way."
George, who is glassy-eyed by now, nods solemnly. "Got me one a them."
"Will you folks quit gossiping and get to work?" my dad calls. "We need you over here, honey."
"Okay, Fifi," Bart rumbles in his heavy base as I perch on the high stool before the grinder. "Time to show your husband your other talent."
Tim hovers over my shoulder watching my every move.
"First you put the casing on the spout," I explain. It’s been years since I’ve done this but as I pluck the slippery, white casings out of the bucket of salt water and work the end with my fingertips until it opens enough to accommodate the shining silver tip of the stuffer I remember that I always liked this job. "Then you sort of slide the casings up onto the tube, being careful not to nick it or the sausage will squeeze out." I nod to Bart who turns the crank of the grinder feeding twice-ground spiced venison and pork mixture through the spout and into the casing.
As the sausages plump up and form in my hands, Tim murmurs, "Holy cow."
"Where’s you think sausages come from, son?" Boris asks.
"The grocery store," Tim says.
"My little Fifi here has the touch," Dad says. "She makes the most perfect sausages in the county." I can hear the pride and affection in his voice but the men just chuckle making the same raunchy jokes they’ve been making forever.
Before the afternoon is over I teach Tim to stuff and twist the sausages exactly as I always do it. He is delighted. As the plastic basins fill with plump, neatly twisted links, Simon and Thad lug the traditionally flavored ones off to the smokehouse and Bart hangs the Italian-flavored ones from the rafters in the drying shed to cure. I fill one basin with sausages to carry up to the house for that evening’s dinner. Boris is in the middle of telling the story of the bear who ate his lunch right out of his knapsack while it was still on his nervously trembling back when his wife and Eben’s show up to haul their tipsy husbands home. Boris and Eben get on either side of George, lifting his substantial bulk between them as they have God knows how many times before, and take him with them. Tim is grinning to himself scrubbing the work table clean as Thad helps Bart clean and repack the grinder away for another year.
"Fifi says she doesn’t know who Clint Walker is," Tim announces at the dinner table.
"Oh, bullshit," Thad snorts. "She does too. She just thinks she’s too sophisticated to admit it. Who’s Kenneth Branaugh, Fifi? Bet you know that. Andie, pass those pancakes."
"God, I loved Clint Walker when I was a kid," Daisy says rolling her eyes. "He looked like he was hung like a horse."
"Oh, nice talk, Daisy," Simon grumbles. "There are kids in the room. Mom, is there any more ketchup?"
"I didn’t say I didn’t know who he was..." I protest.
"Clint Walker?" Dad says, "I always get him mixed up with that other guy."
"How about Hugh Grant, Fifi?" Thad continues. "I bet you know all those English fags."
"Fess Parker," Mama says as she places the last pancakes on Dad’s plate. "Here, eat these and I’ll make more."
"Daisy just talks that way because that’s all she thinks about," Andie says standing up and thumping Bart on the top of his head as she passes him. "You should take better care of her, Bart. I’ll make them, mama."
"That’s right, Fess Parker," Dad says slapping the bottom of the syrup jug. "Which one was he again?"
"Fifi loves Joseph Feinnes," Tim says spearing another sausage. "She’s seen Shakespeare in Love about a hundred times. And she cries at the end every time."
"Oh, I love movies that make you cry," RuthAnn says. "Like that one about Tom Hanks and the Empire State Building. I just love that one."
"Fess Parker was Davy Crockett and Clint Walker was Cheyenne," Daisy explains. "They were both jaw-breakers."
"Are there anymore baked beans?" Dad asks. "Which one was Matt Dillon?"
"That was James Arness, dear, and if you eat any more beans you’ll have gas all night and won’t be able to sleep."
"I used to love to watch Clint Walker mount his horse," Daisy continues. "He always wore those tight white pants and..."
"Give it a rest, Daisy," Andie says putting a platter of steaming pancakes in the middle of the table. "Your wife has some mouth, Bart."
"I like it when she’s like this." Bart grins.
"Well..." Dad pauses, "if Clint Walker was Cheyenne and Fess Parker was Davy Crockett then who was Daniel Boone?"
"What’s for dessert?" Thad says.