Fishing With RayAnne (10 page)

“It’s late. I promised Gran I’d help with dinner. You coming over?”

The twins approach, tugging at the crotches of their swim trunks.

“Nope. I’m hauling the monsters back to the motel, then it’s Booger King for us. Right, boys? What’s the matter now?”

“We got sand . . .” Wilt begins, “. . . on our festivals,” Michael finishes. They both pull down their swim trunks, swiveling to show RayAnne. “See?”

While Dot carefully pours in a thread of walnut oil, RayAnne whisks the egg yolks. She has no idea what they are making, only that it’s going to be good, because there is thick cream in the bowl along with whatever else Dot slips like mickeys into her dishes. Dot will defend her choice of ingredients, insisting butter never killed one of her patrons as vehemently as NRA supporters claim guns don’t kill people.

Dot suddenly stops humming and turns to her. “You can seduce a man with food. Believe me—I’ve done it.”

“Gran, you admit that?” She whispers to the eggs, “Trust me, I’m not that desperate.”

“Still, it wouldn’t kill you to learn to cook. I’m just saying. It’s a pity, lovely girl like you. Is there . . . something? You can tell me, you know.”

“Something? Like what, Gran?”

“Oh,” Dot shrugs. “You know, lesbianism . . .”

“Gran.”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’d be fine with me if you decide to go gay.” Dot has promised RayAnne that once the eggs are beaten she can grate the nutmeg. “I mean, better an Ellen than nothing, right? Are you going to leave your hair like that?”

Mr. D. and his grandson, who just happens to be RayAnne’s age and single, are coming for dinner. She’s been set up. A timer dings and Dot bends to peer in the oven window. She snaps her fingers and says in a conspiratorial whisper, “Hand me those mitts.”

RayAnne whispers back, “Gran, are we baking a
man trap
?”

“Don’t be silly. This is for us.”

Dot’s cottage is one of the less expensive ones, set back nearer the gates with only a narrow slice of ocean view, but if they push their lounge chairs together on the deck and fuse their temples, they can both watch the waves. Earlier, Dot had pointed out the larger cottages with wide vistas, envy in her voice when describing the kitchens: “Viking ranges and marble counters, wasted on these old farts, that’s for sure.”

“They don’t cook?” RayAnne is surprised. Dune Cottage is known for attracting retirees from the business—restaurateurs, many chefs among them.

“Ha. Old stove jockeys? Last thing they want to do is cook. That lane is mostly widowers; a few others have wives circling the drain over at the Falls. Tony Vecchio lives in that one. He can’t so much as
look
at spaghetti anymore. Howie Gelber went vegetarian the moment his steak house closed.”

“Who’s hotter?”

“Howie has a Sub-Zero. But Tony has a marble counter, which really is the best for rolling pastry.”

Does her grandmother intend to cook her way into an ocean-view kitchen with six gas jets and a pastry slab? “You don’t really believe the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

“Goodness no. There’re other routes,” she laughs. “I s’pose I could make a Sacher torte with some of that, whatsit?
Viagra?
”

“Uh, Gran, do you know what priapism is?”

“What?”

“A condition where erections last several hours. That’s what those can drugs do.”

“Good heavens. Really?”

Trinket taps her polished nails across the linoleum to growl at her empty food dish.

Dot blinks. “Just a minute, Princess, I’ll make your liver toast.” Turning to RayAnne she asks,
“Hours?”

The dinner is endless. Mr. D.’s grandson Allen is a chiropractor with a monobrow, and seems as happy about being set up as she is. RayAnne admits she’s never been to an MMA match. “Which is what, again?”

“Cage fighting.” Allen admits he’s never liked fishing. RayAnne asks if he’s read anything interesting lately. He looks at her suspiciously. “Like books?”

Once it’s determined they have the opposite of attraction, they proceed to ignore each other and leave the talking to Dot and Mr. D. At one point when both men are looking away, RayAnne mimes slashing her own wrists and Dot mouths,
Stop it.

When the main courses are finally finished, RayAnne begins to get up to make coffee, but Dot kicks her ankle out from under her. “Now don’t you kids move a muscle.”

Mr. D. stands. “Allen, you should tell RayAnne about the home theater you’re building.”

Allen looks at her and then his father. “Right.”

RayAnne at least tries. “Oh, where you’ll watch, what . . . besides cage fighting?”

“NASCAR.” He brightens. “You like NASCAR?”

Mr. D. collects plates and they are left alone. Not a peep comes from the kitchen. They are obviously behind the swinging doors, straining to hear anything RayAnne and Allen might say to each other. Allen stretches his legs to reveal his ankles and RayAnne smiles, thinking at least he’s not a complete wash, somewhat redeemed for wearing Homer Simpson novelty socks.

Dot calls from the kitchen, “We’ve made a surprise dessert.”

RayAnne sits up. “Baked Alaska, I bet.”

Allen inhales. “Yup.”

To atone for her two servings of dessert, the next morning RayAnne hits the treadmill early. When Dot shuffles out to the deck, she’s rubbing her eyes. “I heard grunting.”

“Just . . . another . . . ten . . . minutes.” RayAnne blots sweat from her eyes.

Dot sits on the lounger and shakes her head. “Your generation is supposed to be the one to fix things, so smart, coming up with all that technology, yet . . .”

“Yet what?”

“Here you are killing yourself over a few calories, ready to fall into that ridiculous trap and go around looking like all the other women on television. Why can’t you just deal with the fact you have hips, dear? If you do, then maybe the next young woman in your shoes will see that it’s okay.”

Sometimes Dot makes ultimate sense in maddening ways. RayAnne stops the treadmill and hops off, panting. “So, I should get fat and become a role model?”

“No, just don’t get skinny. By the way, you were rude last night.”

“Maybe. But you ambushed me, Gran. Why’re you suddenly trying to marry me off?”

“I only want to see you happy.”

“Married or happy? You assume they go hand in hand.”

“I suppose I do,” Dot says wistfully. “Maybe because my marriage was happy. The second one, anyway. I miss Ted, you know . . . still.”

RayAnne sits and pulls Dot into a damp hug, “Oh, Gran. Granny-Gran? You’re
crying
.”

“I’m not. My eyes are watering. You smell like a man’s tennis shoe.”

In the afternoons, RayAnne sits under a palm tree for hours, struggling to concentrate on the book in her lap, rereading pages. She watches the surf retreat and repeat, the bright sun scouring her brain until it feels hollow as a shell. Even in the shade, her body feels limp, as if caramelizing. When she complains about the Florida sun, Ky reminds her it is the Sunshine State, after all, with a warning on every license plate like the surgeon general’s warning on cigarette packs. They pull their deck chairs deeper into the cover of broad palms and RayAnne wishes for one of Bernadette’s caftans so she might walk the beach without her back freckling up like a trout.

She rolls to her elbows. “When’s Dad due to show?”

“Day before the party. I’ve got his flight in my BlackBerry.” Kyle is silent a minute. “Remember that party he planned for you at that upscale restaurant? Was it Jax’s, with the trout pond?”

“Sweet sixteen. Gawd, that dress he got me at the Oval Room, with the pom-pom sleeves?”

“I just remember the front—the Hostess Cupcake Sno Ball boobs. What happened with him that time?”

RayAnne shrugs. “He had more important things to do, like fly to Vegas to elope with . . . which was it, number three?”

“Delia.”

“Right, the
D
in BADGER.” She rolls back over.

“What?”

“BADGER. Ask Dad when he gets here.”

Florida is perfect for old people who never seem warm enough. In the evenings, just as the temperature becomes bearable, Dot wraps up in a puffy quilted robe and shivers through the ten o’clock news. On the deck, RayAnne looks to the sky and says, “Nothing. For four days I’ve done nothing.”