"Now you sound like a survivalist."
"No, just an old-fashioned, bona fide American."
After the food was done, Phillip walked down the pond. The log cabin was coming together nicely, but he couldn’t imagine his uncle using the truck and crude pole ramp to raise the log walls more than another few feet. Because of the sharp incline, any logs hauled beyond that height would be extremely dangerous. Uncle Ned surely understood this and was hiding an ace up his sleeve.
A chain saw fired up and Phillip could hear the two-cycle engine revving. Uncle Ned had mentioned clearing a section for a chicken coop. It was all part of his 'Grand Scheme'. He would acquire several dozen chickens, both for laying and eating, a dairy cow and small tractor. The tractor would allow him to grow enough vegetables for his family’s needs and to sell at the annual Triboro Farmer's Market. Each autumn he would gather and split timber to heat the place with a wood-burning stove. The goal was to sever as many ties that bound him to the cradle-to-grave welfare state. As fatalistic as he was about the country’s future, Uncle Ned was intent on groping his own way, inch-by-solitary-inch, out of the national morass.
Heading back toward the clearing, Phillip stumbled across Katy wielding a McCulloch 18-inch, 40 cc chainsaw. Seeing him, she shut the machine down. "Are you leaving?" Phillip nodded. Draping an arm casually over his shoulder she leaned forward and bussed him on both cheeks then buffed the wetness away with the heel of a hand."Hope you enjoyed the barbecue."
The girl, Phillip learned earlier from his uncle, worked second shift as an LPN at the Pine Haven Nursing Home. "Everything was just fine."
"Two decades is a hell of a long time between visits. Don't be a stranger, Cousin Phillip."
"No, I won't." He wanted to say more but the gawky girl, who had already turned away, pressed the primer bulb on the chainsaw - once, twice, thrice - and the humongous machine fired up with a mind-numbing roar, killing any possibility of further small talk.
Over the remainder of the month they erected the walls to a height of one row below the front door sill before Uncle Ned called it quits. "Too dangerous."
"What now?"
"Yesterday, I hired a contractor with a hydraulic crane and a construction crew. He'll finish the last few rows and also raise the roof." He grabbed a bucket of half-inch lag screws. "Got to get the joists ready for the subfloor."
Katy stopped by pretty much every day. In the early afternoons she disappeared into the camper, emerging in white scrubs and a pink smock before heading off to her shift at the nursing home. She continued to kiss, pet and paw Phillip like a younger sibling or lapdog. There was never anything overtly sexual or inappropriate to the girl's dopey antics. In many respects, she was her father's daughter.
"Got a boyfriend?" Phillip asked.
“Now and again," she replied with an insouciant half-smile. They were laying down a half-inch thick subfloor in anticipation of the outer shell being completed and the building finally enclosed. Katy was on her knees pounding anodized nails along a blue chalk line snapped over the parallel joists. Every five seconds she had to pause to push her glasses back up on the bridge of her pudgy nose.
Phillip nodded but had nothing to say. Uncle Ned had been grousing the previous day that his daughter, who had a wild streak, sometimes went off carousing and didn't come home for days. "What about yourself, Cousin Phillip? You spending timed with any of those erotic educators over at the high school?"
“Lately I've sworn of women,... taken a vow of celibacy." Swinging the hammer in a broad arc, he buried the nail almost to the nubby head then set his hammer aside.
They completed a row of finished nails and shifted over to the next sheet of exterior-grade plywood. Katy draped an arm over her cousin's shoulder and pressed her lips up against his ear. "And why is that?"
"Don't want to end up like my old man." Phillip gently tapped a nail into a penciled mark on the plywood. Draping a chalked line over the head of the nail he moved to the middle of the floor and held the powdery string over a parallel mark while Katy lifted vertically and snapped the chalky line.
"What happened to him?"
"Married a shrew who sent him to an early grave," he shot back morosely. There was a brief moment of silence before Katy, in typical fashion, pulled an outrageous prank.
The girl farted. Intentionally. She let loose with an obscenely silly expression of disdain for Phillip's moody digression. "Geez! Lighten up, Cousin Phillip!" Coming up behind him, Katy snaked her arms around his waist, pulling him close. Her breezy playfulness coupled with the vulgar, low-brow shenanigan’s took all the sting out of his gloomy diatribe. Earlier in the week when Phillip was trying to engage her in another serious conversation, the girl jumped on his back, demanding a piggyback ride. Katy was hedonistic, impulse ridden, a scatterbrain with the attention span of a flea, a live-by-the-seat-of-her-pants sprite born to kiss, hug and tease her way through life with never a heartache nor solitary misgiving.
The weather stayed dry straight through the middle of the following week when wind-driven rain pelted the ground into a muddy mess. Uncle Ned and Phillip drove over to Tony's Pizza for an early lunch.
"Buon giorno, paisano!" the olive skinned man behind the counter looked up when they entered the eatery. "For lunch… whatchawanna eat?"
"And good morning to you," Uncle Ned returned. They placed their orders and settled into a booth near the front of the store.
"And wheresa ya lovely dotta?" Tony asked.
Uncle Ned's expression darkened. "Katy went out bar hopping after work... came home skunk drunk. She's home sleeping it off."
"Marone!" Flexing his wrist, Tony made a tipping gesture with his right hand. "Too mucha da vino,"
"Yeah, too much vino, Jack Daniels, vodka and God knows what else."
Five minutes passed. It was still quite early, and they were the only customers. Behind the counter, the owner was jibber-jabbering with a coworker in a tortuous, guttural tongue that was impossible to pigeonhole. Phillip leaned closer over the table, "What's that weird language?"
"Arabic. Our Italian host, Khalid Mohammed, took the long way here via Southern Lebanon."
In response to Phillips baffled expression, Uncle Ned explained that the owner of Tony’s Pizza emigrated from Lebanon in nineteen eighty-three after the Israeli invasion. The Israeli Defense Force ran Merkava tanks through the tiny hamlet where he lived with jets raining cluster bombs down on the olive and fig trees. The commercial building that housed his falafel business was leveled. "Khalid's Pizza Emporium - that was his first choice, but then someone pointed out the potential liabilities of such a name what with nine-eleven, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan."
Uncle Ned waved good-naturedly at the man behind the counter and Khalid Mohammed - aka Uncle Tony - rewarded him with a toothy grin. In truth, the slim man with the bushy moustache and classic, Mediterranean good looks could have easily passed for Italian, Sicilian or Greek. "The colorful, inflections… that’s just a harmless ruse," "In another half hour when the lunch crowd arrives, he stops talking Arabic in favor of the Italian shtick." Uncle Ned began chuckling as though at some private joke. "It's great for business and really quite funny when you think about it."
An Arab falafel hawker managing an authentic Italian pizzeria When the lunchtime crowd reached its peak, did Khalid launch into an a cappella version of Oh Sole Mio?
Nothing was ever what it seemed to be.
Back outside in the parking lot, the older man kicked at the wet ground with his work boot and rubbed his stubbly chin with the heel of his hand. "Cluster bombs… a modern-day version of napalm. Nasty stuff!" "Of course, the Israeli invasion of Southern Lebanon was a classic example of the tail wagging the dog," Uncle Ned added, "with the army pretty much running amok while the Jewish government acted as little more than a rubber stamp for religious fanatics’ messianic policies."
"How's that?" Phillip was having trouble following his uncles fracture commentary.
&n
bsp; "For two thousand years, dating back to Hagar and Ishmael,” his mind teetered off in yet another obscure perambulation, “the Semites have been going at it. Nothing ever changes." The older man moved several steps further away from the truck. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you about my daughter." He winced, as though whatever it was he had to confide carried a steep price. "What I'm gonna say about your Cousin Katy is in strictest confidence, and I would hope that -"
Before he could make his way to the central point, a cell phone began twittering insistently. Uncle Ned fumbled about in his back pocket. A window supplier needed to recheck dimensions for all rough opening. Uncle Ned climbed back in the cab of the Ford 150. There was no more mention of Lebanese restaurateurs conducting business under false pretences or Cousin Katy's personal affairs. Back at the worksite, Uncle Ned disappeared into the camper in search of the building plans. When he finally emerged, Phillip said, "Cousin Katy… there was something you wanted you tell me?"
"Not now," his uncle was in no mood for small talk. "I got to get back to the supplier with hard figures or our windows won't ship."
* * * * *
The construction company – eight, beefy carpenters and a crew chief arrived the third week in August and, with a hydraulic crane, the rest of the logs were set in place, the roof raised and shingled.
"This calls for a celebration.” Uncle Ned was staring at the finished shell of his log cabin. “Saturday night at the Boneyard Grille." The Boneyard was a quasi-respectable rib joint that catered to locals and a handful of bikers who tended to rowdiness, especially on the weekends. They served pulled pork, blackened catfish, steaks and an assortment of Cajun-style chicken dishes. "Eight o'clock," Uncle Ned slapped Ned on the back. "My treat and bring your appetite."
They were wedged in a booth at the Boneyard Grille having finished eating almost an hour earlier. Uncle Ned wagged a finger in the general direction of the bar where Katy was sipping beer and commiserating with a fat, bearded man wearing biker boots and a Harley Davidson dungaree vest. An elaborate series of tattoos extended from the biceps to the wrists. The hairy biker cracked an earthy joke and Katy, decked out in a tank top and cowboy hat doubled up in laughter. "Now there's a social deviant interviewing for a job in the abstract," Uncle Ned fumed, "and my damn fool of a daughter’s buying up every counterfeit word of it!"
Both Phillip and Uncle Ned had been drinking gin and tonics to celebrate the completion of the first phase of his 'Grand Scheme'. The man sipped at his liquor. "My daughter... heart of gold but a first-class dope!"
Interviewing for the job in the abstract. Earlier in the day, Phillip shot by his mother's place. He hadn't seen or talked to the woman in almost a month. Flying to Miami in the morning, the butcher was taking her on a ten-day cruise of the islands. The former Mrs. Peters bought a new wardrobe at the swanky Chestnut Hill Mall, had her hair and nails done. Phillip had never seen his mother, who shed twenty pounds in anticipation of the adventure, looking so svelte. On the other hand, Murray - that was the butcher's name - looked played out, decrepit. "Everything turns to shit," Phillip muttered.
"What’s that?" Uncle Ned cupped a hand over his ear.
Between the tank top, gaudy cowboy hat and old-maid-librarian, dark glasses, Phillip couldn't decide if his favorite cousin was infuriatingly cute or a few months early for Halloween. "That Harley Davidson tub of lard...” The sight of Katy at the bar making goo-goo eyes with a three hundred pound degenerate left him so distraught Phillip couldn't even finish the sentence.
"Talk's cheap," Uncle Ned shot back gruffly. "Why don't you get off your schoolteacher's ass and do something about it?"
"Like what?"
"I dunno." He raised his glass and waved it in the smoky air. "Ask my daughter out on a date… marry her, copulate and raise a dozen latchkey brats."
With Uncle Ned’s last, outlandish remark Phillip's brain was virtually shutting down. "They got a two-syllable word for that abomination, and it begins with the letter 'I'."
"Katy's not my biological daughter, you idiot!" Uncle Ned rubbed his eyes with the tips of his calloused fingers. "Her mother was married and divorced before we ever met. She’s the byproduct of a previous marriage and no blood relation to either one of us."
What happened after that was a dizzying blur of noise, mayhem and buffoonery. Phillip staggered to the bar and said something to the beefy biker who promptly, climbed off the stool and punched him on the side of the head - a single chopping blow. Phillip's legs turned to spaghetti al dente and he ended up on the floor in a heap. The biker, who never even broke a sweat, conveniently slipped out the side door without paying his tab.
Five minutes later, when Phillip finally came to, Uncle Ned helped him up to a sitting position. “I’m okay now.” Staggering to his feet, he almost toppled over a second time.
“What with the liquor and the fight,” Uncle Ned relived him of his car keys, “you’re in no condition to get behind the wheel.”
"I can give him a lift home," Katy volunteered. "It was all my fault.
On the ride home Phillip sat with his throbbing head mashed up against the passenger side window. "You knew all along that we weren't related by blood."
"I was in kindergarten when my mother met your uncle."
Reaching his apartment, she asked, "Do you have any cocoa mix, Phil?"
"Yes, why do you ask?" Even in his debilitated state, it hadn't escaped notice that Katy omitted the familiar prefix and foreshortened his name by half.
"Maybe I should come up and fix you a cup of hot chocolate." Reaching out she ran a fingertip over the bruised skin. "That's a nasty bump." She lowered the hand letting it come to rest on the side of his neck. "I'm coming upstairs, Phil, to get you situated… however long it takes."
Phillip didn't quite grasp what Katy meant by the tail end of the previous remark. “Well, I really am in an awful lot of pain, and a cup of hot chocolate might help set things right.”
back to Table of Contents
Legal Procedures
Shortly after arriving at the Emerald Square Mall, Phoebe Marsalis located Aunt Janet sitting on a bench next to the Victoria’s Secret outlet. At two hundred and thirty pounds on a five-foot, six-inch frame, the black woman was hard to miss. Despite the weight, Aunt Janet was still a modestly attractive woman with flawless skin and regal cheekbones. When she rose, the girl kissed her mother’s sister on the cheek and announced, “I’ve got problems.”
The older woman studied the advertising displays of bras, French-cut thongs and risqué negligees modeled by svelte females in various stages of undress plastered across the plate glass window - skinny minnies every one of them. Aunt Janet didn't, as a rule, do much business at Victoria's Secret. “You’re pregnant?”
Phoebe cringed inwardly. “Nobody mentioned sex.”
“Thank God!” She blew out her cheeks, pulled the girl close and kissed her a second time for good measure. “I’m famished!” She gestured toward the food court at the far end of the building “Let’s grab a bite.”
At two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon with the New England Patriots playing just down the road in Foxboro Stadium, the mall was dead. They settled in a booth by the windows overlooking the parking lot. Phoebe ordered a Greek salad while her aunt chose the lasagna dinner with a side order of garlic bread. "This ain't no normal size portion!" Aunt Janet stabbed indignantly at her food with a plastic fork. "They gave me the runt of the litter." Jutting her jaw, she lowered her voice several decibels. "Maybe that doofus behind the counter got issues with plus-size, black women."
In a huff, Aunt Janet picked up her platter and lurched to her feet, but Phoebe deftly maneuvered in front of the woman blocking her way. "That's a perfectly normal size serving, no bigger or skimpier than the rest. You're just going to make a scene for no good reason."
Mollified, she sat back down. “I started a new diet last week,” Aunt Janet remarked guiltily, "so this morsel will do just fine." She dabbed the crusty garli
c bread at the meat sauce on her plastic plate. "So, if it ain't sex, what's your problem?"
"There's this Jewish guy from school who’s been tutoring me in my legal procedures class and…" The sentence just petered out, and, without warning, a flood of tears dribbled down the side of her ebony nose in briny rivulets.
Aunt Janet glanced at her niece and raised a slab of lasagna smothered in tomato sauce to her lips. "Sammy Davis Jr. was Jewish."
"It's not funny." Phoebe sulked, drying her eyes with a clean napkin.
"What's funny," her aunt shot back with a droll expression, "is that you choose the family member with the worse track record to confide your romantic woes." The black woman patted the girl's wrist. "You ain't pregnant?"
"I just told you a moment ago."
She raised her hand in a placating gesture. “Yeah, yeah. I heard you right the first time."
Phoebe pushed the feta cheese to one side with the tines of her fork and speared an olive. Half her aunt’s lasagna was already gone, and the girl had hardly touched her salad. “This past September when I started my sophomore year at college..."
“Hold on a minute.” Aunt Janet pushed her plate aside. She rose from the chair, a surprisingly spry motion for such a heavyset woman, and disappeared in the crowd. A moment later, she returned with a mocha latte cappuccino and chocolate éclair. "I gotta get properly settled in my listening mode."
“What about your diet?”
"Yeah, the diet." Aunt Janet eyed the wedge of chocolate frosting drizzled across the top of the pastry. "The diet can wait. Tell me about this Jewish dude who's got two, good eyes but don't sing or dance half as fine as Sammy Davis Jr."
* * * * *
As Phoebe explained it, she was doing reasonably well in all her classes except Legal Procedures. Signing up for the elective on a whim, she soon discovered she had no affinity whatsoever for law. Her first test Phoebe scored a sixty-nine. The second test she dropped eight points lower. After the failing grade, Professor Birnbaum took her aside. "You need a tutor."