Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Nine, Part III

I spend the night four blocks away, at Jon and Pam’s. The bed in their guest room is extraordinarily comfortable; it’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in months. I wake to the ching of pots and pans in the kitchen, and wander down the hall to find a plate of bacon, eggs and waffles waiting at the kitchen table. It almost makes me want to cry. I marvel at the power of strangers to take me in like this – a thought that is due to return a dozen times over the course of the day.

Once we’re all bathed and dressed, I follow Pam’s Toyota along a golf course to Allen and Sarah’s house, adorned with the latest accoutrements of new housing: sienna-colored stucco, ceramic roofing and variegated windows with bay, porthole and archway frames. To the right of the driveway is their apparent cash cow, a spotless mocha-colored truck cab. The interior offers every imaginable variation of wine art: a photo of cabernet grapes, a poster from a Yakima Valley wine festival, a cartoonish sommelier constructed of corks and corkscrews. The back window affords a view across Grays Harbor to the snub-nose pyramid of Mt. Rainier.

Allen and Sarah are still radiant from their Monday jackpot, although I’m beginning to suspect that their sunniness is a permanent condition. They pile into Pam’s back seat and we caravan up the coast. Twenty miles along, we pull through a town called Moclips and turn into what looks like a modest motel court.

“We’re a little early,” says Allen, “so Sarah and I were thinking of walking down to the beach.”

We all join in descending an impressively lengthy set of stairs to another limitless slate-brown beach. Pam and I are the only ones wearing casual shoes, so we leave the others on the viewing deck and take off across the sand. The findings are modest – crab shell here, half a sand dollar there – but interesting enough to spur a conversation.

“I was just thinking,” says Pam. “You never told me your story. What brought you out to the coast?”

“Hard to beat a story with a ten-thousand-dollar jackpot,” I say, knowing full well that I can. “But maybe I can shorthand it for you. Have you seen the stories about that soldier who went nuts and shot all those Iraqi civilians?”

“Oh! The trials at Ft. Lewis? Just recently?”

“Yes. Well. I’m the widow.”

Pam stops and puts a hand to her solar plexus. “God! I… really? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s hard to know how to respond. But believe me, he was sane when I married him. He might even have been nice. So please don’t think of me as a victim.”

“I guess that’s what war does to people.” She reaches for a sand dollar – a full one – and hands it to me. “I can see why you wanted to get away.”

“Yes. Little did I know the lovely distractions waiting for me in Ocean Shores.”

“Gateway to the Pacific Storm Front,” says Pam, then looks back toward our companions. “Uh-oh. Allen’s pointing at his watch. Guess we’d better head back.”

I study the long ribbon of stairs winding into the spruce trees. “Do you suppose they have an escalator?”

“I… get the feeling that burning a few calories right now might be a good idea.”

After a brisk uphill climb, the host takes us through a low-ceilinged hall into a woodsy side room. The west-facing wall is all window, affording a bird’s-nest view of the forest and beach below. A large pickup speeds by on the sand.

For a few minutes, I feel a distinct pressure to be on my best behavior, but once the appetizers arrive I lose myself in the raucous chatter all around me. Our carnivorous rapture begins with Alaskan king crablegs, continues with mushrooms, foraged in local forests, then proceeds to a cloth bag next to Allen’s chair. He reaches in and pulls out a weathered-looking bottle, then hands it to the sommelier and asks, “Would you do us the honor?”

The sommelier’s eyes get big (no small trick in a five-star restaurant) and he says, “I’d be delighted.”

I turn to Pam and ask, “What’s up with that?”

“It’s a 1969 Cab from Napa. Allen got it at an auction.”

The sommelier takes laborious care in removing the cork, then slowly pours it into a decanter, making certain to leave all the sediment in the bottle. He pours a small ration into each of our glasses, and we wait as Allen goes through the ritual of swirl, smell and sip. He breathes out, letting the flavor simmer on his tongue, then delivers a one-word review.

“Damn!”

Being a neophyte, I’m not expecting much, but much is what I get. My first sip delivers a smoky, fruity wave of warmth, with just a hint of ripe Bing cherry. It is the most amazing substance that has ever touched my lips. Except for the roast venison that follows. And the pickled cabbage. And the huckleberry crisp. Our table is a madrigal of groans and sighs, verging on an epicurean orgy. Between courses, Allen regales us with trucking stories, like the retired Soviet tank they delivered to a military base in North Dakota, and fills in the details of his blackjack odyssey (“I absolutely could not lose; I must have taken twenty hands in a row”).

Much too soon, we’re waddling to the parking lot, and I‘m hugging all these near-strangers like a long-lost cousin.

“Thank you so much for letting me impose on you,” I say to Allen. “I really, really needed this.”

Allen gives me a lopsided smile. “Pam tells us you’ve been through some trauma. I just hope this takes the edge off a little.”

“Thank you for saving our butts last night,” says Jon. “I really wasn’t kidding about those blue-haired ladies and their Wilson Pickett. Maybe we’ll give you a call if Mark gets sick again.”

“Ha! I’ll work on my drumming.”

“You be careful driving back,” says Pam. “And take care of yourself, okay? Don’t think you have to wait till your next trip to the ocean to pamper yourself.”

Under Allen’s instructions, I head back into Moclips and take a landward left, on a road that claims to be headed for Kurt Cobain’s twin hometowns. I think about Pam’s phrase: Take care of yourself. It actually seems like that’s all I’ve been doing; it was nice to let someone else have the job for a while.

Halfway home, I have to pull into a rest stop. The garnish on my venison inspired a debate about a “Rosemary” song from the sixties (Simon and Garfunkel excluded) which quickly devolved into a group case of “songstipation.” As always happens, the answer arrives after I have stopped thinking about it. Our problem came from trying to mash two songs into one: “Smile a Little Smile For Me (Rosemarie)” and “Love Grows (Where my Rosemary Goes).” As the VFW guys who hand out free coffee cast curious looks in my direction, I stand at the pay phone and sing the two songs into Jon and Pam’s answering machine. Then I bundle into my truck and head for the darkening mountains, homeward bound.

Next: Cruisin’

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