Chapter 6
Chapter Six
DANNY
T his accommodation is getting a bad review on Tripadvisor. For one, it’s so small, I keep banging into things. And all those things are made of wood, so I’m amassing a sweet collection of bruises. It’s two floors, bedroom up, but bathroom down, and the stairs are narrow, so you want to reduce your liquid intake well before hitting the hay or risk a broken femur from a nighttime fall. There’s no closet at all, only drawers built into the bed base. I’ve had to hang my jackets and shirts on the only two hooks available, which are downstairs, naturally, on the inside of the front door. The kitchen at least has been stocked with granola, milk, fresh fruit, and a bag of coffee grounds – but there’s no goddam coffee maker !
Okay, I found the coffee maker. Next door in the workshop. It’s no Wega, but it does the job. I’ve had my espresso now. Hulk Danny has retreated, and sane, calm Danny is back in charge, and very grateful to my brother and sister-in-law for the supplies, and for letting me stay here and not at my parents’ place. I take a (wooden) chair out front and sit, listening to the birds, watching a few clouds scud across the patch of sky that’s visible through the trees. It’s barely seven o’clock and the sun is already warming my skin. It gets hot round here, but not like an L.A. summer, where it can feel like you’re breathing through a greasy washcloth. The air here will stay fresh and dry, and the sky will stay blue. I grew up an hour’s drive away and spent many a summer’s day sweating on a soccer field, wishing I was fruit picking, or corn pollinating, or fighting off rabid sugar-hyped children while dressed as a Chuck E. Cheese mascot. Anything except running up and down scorched turf in a pair of tight nylon sport shorts.
I wasn’t the only Durant kid suffering. Nate and Ava competed in track, and Ava, because she’s the major overachiever of our family, also did a horsey thing. Eventing! (Thank you for recharging my brain, espresso.) The twins, Izzy and Max, played tennis because they could do it together. I chose soccer mainly because it was the one sport Dad knew nothing about. He was more interested in individual achievement than team sports, anyway. I got my driver’s license soon as I turned sixteen and didn’t need my folks to take me to matches. Soon as I turned eighteen, I left home. I can happily say I’ve never again worn tight nylon sport shorts.
Nate and Shelby asked me over for breakfast. I’ll walk. I’m getting the hang of the path, though last night, I was grateful when Shelby handed me a torch. I could have driven, but I knew I’d have a few drinks and the cops round here are vigilant and pitiless. If I lose my license because of a DUI, I lose my business. And I’m hardly qualified to do anything else. Not even being a mascot at Chuck E. Cheese.
As I come out of the trees at the end of the path, I spy Frankie Armstrong exiting the house. She’s in a fitted short-sleeved pink shirt and faded rolled up jeans, and a tingle of appreciation for her sensational figure zings straight to my guy down south. But any primal instincts are swiftly stifled by my conscience. Last night, I admit, I indulged in some hand-held hijinks, but it doesn’t seem right to have sexy thoughts about a woman who’s real and less than twenty feet away. All right, so we’ve established that I can be a meat-brained chauvinist with a couple too many strong cocktails in me, but on the whole, I do try to be respectful. I didn’t sleep with my online date after I’d confirmed she was spoken for. I thought about it but that’s not the same thing.
Now that my brain is in charge again, it becomes curious about where Frankie is headed. I realize the only way to find out is to follow her. So, that’s what I do.
I haven’t spent much time exploring the Flora Valley Wines property. Nate and Shelby’s wedding was in the big barn, but there are a lot of other outbuildings, some filled with what I assume is wine-making equipment, some with barrels, and others with sacks of … stuff. There’s a garden with herbs, vegetables, and flowers planted between the spokes of an old wagon wheel. There’s a rustic bench on which a scarecrow in a flannel shirt is seated. I feel like I should be wearing overalls and chewing on a stalk of hay. And I’ve lost sight of Frankie.
Spotted her. Over by… Are those pigs ? I always thought pigs were pinkish white and cute, like in Babe , but these two look like VW Beetles covered in black bristly hair.
I hesitate. Frankie’s talking to the pigs. The tone of her voice sounds gentle, affectionate, and I’m not sure she’d want me to know she has another side to her than her usual full frontal attack mode.
Too late. She turns her head and sees me. Lurking. Spying. I see her mouth rise in that ominous half-smile and brace myself for the above attack.
“Do you want to help me feed them?” she calls over.
No, I absolutely do not. They look like they should have muzzles on, like pit bulls or Hannibal Lecter. But I know a challenge when I hear one and a Durant never shies away from a challenge. Us kids, especially me, Nate and Ava, would enter into mortal combat over anything: comparative size of meal portions, who gets the last banana, who deals the cards out for a wholesome game of Go Fish . I know most people think Monopoly can be a homewrecker, but you’ve not seen the Durant family play Go Fish .
“Sure,” I respond, and casually saunter over.
Jesus, the pigs are even more intimidating close up. Must weigh a hundred-fifty pounds, easy. And they’ve got tusks the size of rhino horns sticking out from their bottom jaws. They’re both staring at me with itty bitty black eyes sunk deep among the bristles. Sizing me up as a potential snack, no doubt. I hear pigs can eat every part of a human body.
“Except teeth.”
Frankie has read my mind.
“They’ll crunch up bones, no problem, but can’t digest teeth.”
“Good to know for when I next need to dispose of an enemy.”
Frankie hands me a plastic bowl. In it are a stump of lettuce, four wrinkled carrots and an indeterminate number of cabbage leaves.
“They’ll take the food from your hand,” she says. “Just don’t let them eat the actual flesh.”
She enjoyed my humiliation last night and she’s enjoying this. But as I said, no Durant walks away from a challenge, even if we risk losing all our fingers. I pick out a carrot because it’s the longest, lean over the pen railing and gingerly dangle it in front of?—
“That’s Ham Solo,” Frankie informs me.
“How can you tell ?”
“Ham’s got the lighter skunk stripe above his snout.”
She really digs these pigs. Ham takes the carrot, and demolishes it, grunting and crunching. My fingers remain intact. I offer a carrot to the other pig, who grunts and crunches with an enthusiasm that’s actually kind of endearing.
“And who’s this guy?” I ask. “Or gal?”
“Guy,” says Frankie. “Luke Skyporker. My brothers named them.”
I know just enough about farming to know that most animals are expected to earn their keep … and that most of them don’t get named. These guys are definitely freeloaders.
“Why do you have pigs as pets?”
I can only see Frankie’s profile, but her jaw muscle gives a telltale twitch. Interesting.
“One of Mom’s rescue missions.”
Her tone is casual, but I’m not fooled. Something more is going on here.
“Morons buy potbellied pigs when they’re super cute babies,” she says. “But they don’t bother to even google what they might look like when they’re fully grown.”
I find Ham and Luke more appealing now that they’ve shown a preference for food scraps over body parts. But it’s true. They’re about as soft and cuddly as a saguaro cactus.
“These two were found wandering on a hill trail by one of our vineyard workers. He managed to entice them up a ramp and onto his truck, and brought them here,” Frankie continues. “Mom decided to keep them. Soon after, both my brothers left home, and Shelby was busy with Dad learning the wine trade. Fell to me to be mistress of the pigsty.”
Again, the jaw twitch. And the words hanging in the air, unsaid. I know what it’s like to have a complicated relationship with a parent. In my case, my dad. I’ve only met Frankie and Shelby’s mom a couple of times, and we never got beyond small talk. Lee Armstrong’s the same age as my mom, late fifties, and if it’s not weird to say this, they’re both very beautiful women. Lee’s a willowy redhead, an artist, serene, and with a strong streak of woo-woo. Come to think of it, she couldn’t be more different from Frankie…
… who says, “Okay, we’re done here.” Grabs the bowl out of my hand and tosses the rest of the scraps into the pen. Ham and Luke set upon the pile and start chowing down exuberantly. I admire them. They love their life. They have no inhibitions. We could all benefit from being more pig-like.
“Coffee?” Frankie’s expression is neutral, her tone now coolly polite.
“Hell, yes.” Be enthusiastic. Be more pig. “My emotional support beverage. Bring it on.”