Smoke
Christopher stops by for dinner before leaving town
This chapter is part of the serialized novel Between Corners. If you’re new, start here.
A Southern live oak spends decades forcing its roots through the limestone-marbled soil of central Texas, sending moisture and nutrients to the tree’s low, wide canopy. It never really goes dormant even when freezing air plunges south from Canada, across the Great Plains and deep into its home territory. All the while the tree forms a wood that feels more like rock than wood when someone takes a chainsaw to it after a windstorm. It’s a wood hardened by heat, drought, and wind; wood that spends decades storing energy. So when it burns, it burns hot – a few sticks stacked together can hit fifteen hundred degrees, throwing off heat in punishing waves.
That last quality was at this particular moment inflicting severe punishment on me as I stood over the smoker and poked at the oak lengths I had laid into its deep belly, turning it into a grill. “Christ,” I muttered, mopping my sweating face with a kitchen towel. “Whose idea was this?”
I answered my own question. “Mine.”
Then I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and saw a blue Chevy Tahoe rolling up the drive, leaving a low cloud of white dust in its wake. Christopher’s rental car. “Charlotte,” I yelled. “He’s here.” I put the towel down and waved as he rolled in, the driver’s window down. “Hey man!”
Charlotte came outside. I had heard her in the shower after work. Now she was wearing white linen shorts, a silky burgundy camisole, and sandals. Her red nails were like exclamation marks. The toenails too.
Sometimes she sweated – somehow, not tonight. When I wiped my neck it left a smear of ash.
Christopher and I shook hands. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“Good to see you too,” he said. “and Charlotte, I am glad to see you again before I have to leave. This was karma.” He gave her a quick hug, one hand on her bare shoulder that seemed to linger a little long.
“It was,” she said, glancing at me. “Glad you could make it. Get you a beer?”
“Oh, that would be wonderful. Thanks.”
“Me too please,” I said. “I am dying out here.”
Charlotte went inside, and emerged a minute later with three cold bottles of Shiner, their tops popped. She gave one to Christopher. One to me. One for her.
“Cheers,” I said, holding up the bottle.
“Cheers,” they said.
Glass clinked.
“Christopher,” I said. “We’re not quite ready for burgers, but I think Charlotte has some starters. Right, hon?”
“I do. Just a sec and I’ll get them.”
She again vanished into the house. The camisole waved as she walked.
Christopher’s eyes tracked her.
“Easy,” I said.
He chuckled but held her in his eyes her for another two seconds. “Sorry man. My bad. You are one lucky guy.”
“I know.”
Charlotte re-appeared with a tray. Warm pita and hummus. Poached Gulf shrimp with cocktail sauce.
It was my own sauce recipe. Lots of horseradish.
Christopher grabbed a fat pink shrimp, then dunked it in the cocktail sauce.
He took a bite. Spluttered.
“Holy fuck,” he finally said. “What is that?”
“Just cocktail sauce,” I said, innocently. “A little horseradish.”
“Wow.” Sucked his beer. “Un Altro, Per favore?” he said.
Charlotte and I both laughed.
“Claro,” I said.
Charlotte fetched one.
I went to the garage refrigerator and got the stainless bowl with the ground meat. Another of my mixes: Chuck, tri-tip, teres major. Plus some olive oil, salt, fresh pepper.
I laid some waxed paper on the prep table near the smoker. Formed the patties. Thick, rough on the edges.
Christopher watched with interest. “So…not from Safeway, I take it.”
“Not from Safeway,” I said. “Not now, not ever. We’re in Texas. I bought the cuts at Central Market, Couldn’t find any fresh roadkill.”
Charlotte snorted.
Christopher paled a little.
I laughed. “Just messing with you.”
I used a spatula to move the burgers to the hot grill. Charlotte retrieved potato salad she had made, a bowl of chips, and condiments – mayo, relish, shredded lettuce, slide tomatoes.
“Cheddar or Swiss?” I asked.
“Both,” he said.
“Honey?”
“Same for me, please.”
“I can do that. How well done?”
“Medium,” Charlotte said.
“Medium rare.” Christopher added.
“Medium rare for you, medium for Charlotte. Got it. That means they end up as however I decide.”
Which, in this case, was charred. Oak burns something fierce.
I stood, waving kitchen towel at the smoke and trying to think.
“Shi…goddamnit” I muttered
Charlotte came over to see if she needed to call the fire department.
“Do you have more?” she whispered.
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Think of something.”
She turned and strode into the house.
Christopher looked faintly amused.
Charlotte came back outside a minute later, her phone to her ear.
“I’m on the phone with Via 313,” she said. “What do you want?”
She didn’t look at me when she said it.
“Pizza,” I said to Christopher. “Really good. What’s your favorite?”
“Uh…pepperoni?”
“And their Classic,” I added to that. Four cheeses. I knew the menu.
Charlotte relayed that. Then, “And a Cadillac.” Gorgonzola, fig preserves, prosciutto, balsamic glaze.
She put the phone down and looked at me.
“On it.”
I hurried inside and found my keys.
Via 313 was twenty minutes away, even driving fast. I was there in fifteen. The pizzas weren’t ready. Country music blared over a speaker; Randy Travis, then Kacey Musgraves. Travis was too twangy for me. Musgraves I liked. A harried-looking woman came in and left a few minutes later with seven pies – I guessed she was hosting a teenage sleepover. Or a Little League team. I glanced at my watch. “Fuck,” I said. The guy standing next to me took a step away. I looked into the kitchen. A brown-haired kid of maybe 19 was turning balls of dough into perfect discs. Then each disc was tossed onto a floured wooden bench, skimmed with tomato sauce, topped, and scooped up on a peel and into the ovens. Those better be ours, I thought.
Finally, my number was called. I paid with a credit card and hurried out to the Ford; still mad about the hamburgers. She hadn’t even looked at them. Then I was home, parking next to the Tahoe. I fetched the pizzas from the passenger seat of the Ford and walked to the courtyard. Then I slowed as I took in what appeared to be a scene completely unlike what I had left.
Now it was dark enough that Charlotte had turned on the patio lights. Music was playing, something classical. She and Christopher were sitting side by side in deck chairs, angled toward one another so their knees were close. Each had a wine glass. A bottle of pinot noir perched on the rock wall near them. It was almost empty.
I made a little cough and they looked up. I realized they hadn’t noticed the Ford. “Pizzas are here,” I said lamely. They followed me into the kitchen. I opened the boxes – the steam smelled of melted cheese and spice.
I got another bottle of wine, then sat outside with my pizza.
That’s when I saw something else that was new. Something on the courtyard table. A brown tapered box that was open.
Inside, a violin.
“Where did that come from?” I asked.
Charlotte took a bite of pizza.
“I’ve had it for a long time,” she said. “I wanted Christopher to see it.”
“It’s yours?”
“It was my grandmother’s.”
“You played violin?” I asked.
“I used to,” she said. “Haven’t in years.”
Christopher spoke up. “I was telling Charlotte it could use a new bridge. And there’s a crack on the back. Maybe some polishing here and there.”
Charlotte watched him. Not the violin.
“All fixable, I think,” he said. “I told her I could find a shop for you in Austin. Or I’m likely to be back down here in a few months. I could bring my tools, and maybe you would let me use your shop for a few hours.”
“I have things I’m working on,” I said. “I suppose,” I said.
“That would be wonderful,” Charlotte said. “Maybe I could find a student at one of the schools who needs a violin.”
“Great idea,” Christopher said. “It would be a fine instrument for a student.”
We finished our pizza. Now it was fully dark. Charlotte brought out an apple pie she had made, along with a tub of Blue Bell homemade ice cream.
I ate what I could. My appetite was pretty shot.
The pie revived me a little.
“Care for a splash of bourbon?” I asked Christopher.
“Sure,” he said. “Just a little.”
“Honey?”
“No thanks.”
I went inside to fetch the drinks. Charlotte closed the violin case and took it upstairs.
“Rocks or neat?” I called from the kitchen.
“Rocks,” came the reply.
I carried two glasses outside.
“Here you go,” I said to Christopher, handing him an Old-Fashioned glass with a half inch of Maker’s Mark at the bottom and a fat square cube of ice.
“Thanks.”
“I learn something new every day,” I said. “I had no idea Charlotte played violin. She told me she had to go to her place to pick something up. That must have been it.”
Charlotte came back outside.
“Charlotte – anything for you?”
“An ice water? Do you mind?”
Back to the kitchen.
When I came out with the water Christopher was standing with his back to me, sipping his bourbon and looking up. “Lots of stars,” he said.
“I know. We get that out here – the city lights are just far enough away.”
“I’m almost downtown in Portland. Too bright.”
“Light pollution is a problem almost everywhere,” I said. “It’s a shame, really. People used to sit outside and just watch it grow dark.”
Charlotte glanced at me.
“Too obscure?” I asked.
She looked at Christopher. “Doug is a master of seemingly useless trivia,” she said. “You should hear him talk about why people like to look at campfires.”
“Not obscure,” I said. “True.”
Then Christopher laughed. “Perhaps another time for star talk.”
He sat back down. So did I.
It was 11. The night was warm and quiet.
“What time is your flight tomorrow?” Charlotte asked.
“Noon. I have to connect through Denver, but the layover is only an hour.”
He stood. We did as well.
“OK,” I said. “Safe journey home. It was good having you around for a few weeks.”
“It was,” Charlotte added. “It was nice to talk to you again. And thanks for the offer on the violin.”
We walked around the house to his Tahoe. Christopher and I shook hands. “Great evening,” he said. “I gotta say – when you fail, you fail.”
I dropped his hand. “I’d forgotten you can be kind of a dick,” I said. Then I tried to smile to temper the jab.
He laughed, turned to Charlotte, and gave her a hug. She returned it, her arms up below his shoulder blades. He held her, whispered something to her I couldn’t catch.
“Thank you,” I heard her reply. Even in the dim light I could see her face redden.
Christopher drove off with a wave. Charlotte glanced at me. “Coming in?” she asked.
I looked back at her. “’Thank you’ for what?”
Her head turned away. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just thanking him for – for agreeing to work my the violin.”
“Uh-huh.”
He had whispered three words — that much I knew.
I stood there for a long minute. Maybe two. Somewhere past the house I could hear the steady dry thrum of crickets and urgent low chirruping of the frogs that congregated at the stock tank. Felt my shoulders pulled tight. Clocked the medicinal smell of cedar; saddle soap from the barn, where Charlotte worked on her tack. A little oak smoke.
Of course.
I heard a sound and turned. It was Jack, skulking out from some lair. He brushed my leg with his cheek, then turned and looked at me. I reached down to scratch his back.
“Jack,” I said. “This was a crap evening.”
Then I locked the gate and walked to the house.