Off Course (2 page)

“I clean your folkses cabin.” Franny spoke with a lavish twang.

The buffet opened and they got in line for ketchup-bathed meat loaf, mashed potatoes, broccoli. Cress had never seen the lodge so bustling. Then again, when she was growing up, her family rarely patronized the place, her parents offended that the hamburgers cost what steak did down below.

Brian knew everyone: the retirees, the pack station cowboys. Those dirty guys at the bar were loggers. The men by the fireplace were his fellow carpenters—he'd taken a job on Rick Garsh's crew to pass the time.

“Who's the New Age squaw?” Cress nodded toward a stout blond woman with long braids who'd piled on the fringe, beads, and feather jewelry. “With the tubercular-looking guy there—in the far booth?”

“You don't know? That's who's building your parents' new place! Rick and Julie Garsh. Come on, I'll introduce you.” Brian started to stand.

Yipes. “No. Um. Not right now.”

Brian had been at the Meadows since June. Decompressing, he said. Banging nails for Rick. Taking a break from the stock market. Catching his breath in the big trees. “Ole Franny and I are having a grand old time.”

Rejostled, Ole Franny did not smile, but the sly, inward look that slid over her face made Cress like her.

A heavyset waitress gathered their plates with a clatter, then slammed down small dishes of peach cobbler. “Oh, now cheer up, DeeDee,” Brian said.

“Go bleep yourself,” she said.

As people ate cobbler, an old guy took to the tiny plywood stage, amped a guitar, and sang “We'll Sing in the Sunshine,” then “Embraceable You.” He motioned to a young woman standing by with her guitar. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Put your hands together for the Sawyer Songbird.”

The Songbird sang “I Fall to Pieces,” deftly navigating the octaves and sometimes hiding behind, and sometimes shaking back her long brown hair. She in turn called to a banjo player in the audience. “Mason, you lazy egg sucker. Git up here and start pickin'. And I don't mean your nose.”

The loggers hooted.

“Charming,” said Brian Crittenden.

“My sister and her's friends,” said Franny.

Together, the old guy and the Songbird sang “Hello Stranger,” with the banjo plunking along. Franny and Brian got up to dance. Cress went to the bar for another beer. As she waited for the bartender, Jakey Yates slid onto the stool beside her. A big burly laugher in his late forties, Jakey had owned the lodge for a decade. Cress had been such an infrequent visitor during his reign, she knew him only by sight. He had thick salt-and-pepper hair, a full beard, and blue eyes full of movement and humor. “Hartley girl—right?” he said. “Would that be Sharon or Cressida?”

“B,” she said.

Her beer came, and he pushed back her dollar. “On me,” he told the bartender. “And give her a shot of whatever she wants.”

Cress ordered a Dickel and Jakey had one too. “Hear you had a bear on your deck,” he said.

“News travels fast.”

“Welcome to the Meadows. I was out tracking him this morning.”

“You're not going to kill him.”

“Naw, naw. I just like to see where he goes. Learn his habits. I'm a student of animal behavior.”

He had something of the bear in his frank, sidelong glance.

“How are your folks?” he said. “Starting construction this week?”

“You tell me,” she said.

“And you?” He nudged her arm. “What're you up to these days?”

“Sketching a little,” she said, not wanting to describe her academic purgatory on such short acquaintance, and because she no longer said dissertation so easily. “Charcoal, pastels.”

Jakey leaned into her then—snuggled, really—and somehow got a thick forearm against her ribs. “You've gone and grown up,” he said. “One day you're a skinny kid buying Popsicles, now you're a full-grown glamorous woman.”

She'd never bought a Popsicle from Jakey. He'd only owned the lodge for ten years, and she was twenty-eight.

As for the glamour, that was the thrift-store velvet, and some red lipstick Tillie had left in the Saab.

Her folks, Cress knew, preferred Jakey, if slightly, to the lodge's original owner, the Meadows' drunken developer who'd sold them their property. Jakey, her mother said, had made the lodge a growing concern. Cress also knew that Jakey was divorced—her mother must have mentioned this too—and that his wife had left him.

Jakey petted Cress's velvet sleeve, nudged. “Do you show in a gallery?” he asked. “Do you sell? Drawing, painting—now that's a tough life.

“I know,” he went on. “I did my grad work in landscape design, which is not unlike painting”—nudge—“only the canvas is bigger and the pigments far less stable!” He laughed with joy at his own joke, looked her in the eye, clamped his big paw on her thigh, and squeezed, setting off a blinding, bourbon-tinted flash. Cress missed whatever he said next.

“Pardon me?” she said, perhaps too loudly. “Do I want to what?”

He glanced about with a comic cringe, as if to check who'd overheard; then he came in close again, squeezing anew. “Come on, Cressida Hartley,” he said. “Let's beat it out of here.”

How quickly had the air cracked and from the fissure come a large laughing woodsman to carry her into the wilderness.

Brian and Franny were still rotating slowly across the dance floor. Cress caught Brian's eye, waved.

In Jakey's old green truck, a former Forest Service vehicle scrubbed of logos, they bumped along a logging road through stands of ponderosa and Jeffrey pines, and hundred-foot Doug firs. In a flat open space, Jakey parked and started kissing her. His body heat and mass were memorable. She had never kissed a man so large, or so much older—twenty-one years, almost to the day—and never had one ever shown such an interest in her.

“Good stars,” he said. “Shouldn't waste 'em.”

So they climbed out of the truck. The moon, oblong and coolly bright, lit the landscape so that every leaf and rock was distinct as in a nighttime diorama. “What's that?” she asked about a messy pink dust cloud.

“That? The Milky damn Way,” Jakey said, and tugged her down onto a slippery bed of needles. In no time, he was at her buttons. Well, what did I expect? she thought, and went along. They made love urgently, sweetly, ending a few yards down from where they started.

A little precipitous, thought Cress. But Jakey was so affectionate and grateful. God knows when he'd last had sex.

She was a bit rusty herself in that department.

Jakey tugged her jeans back up and kissed her so lovingly, she felt selfless, exalted, as if she'd answered a prayer. The deep dark sky, spattered, no, silted with stars, spread its faint eternal light. Slowly she grew aware of pine needles pricking through her clothes.

Jakey unlocked the lodge and they had a nightcap at the bar in the dark. And another. He dropped her off at the foot of her driveway. Trembling, as if freshly anointed—he was the first adult she'd known from her parents' world to desire her—she walked up to the A-frame.

The next morning, hanging up the velvet coat, Cress saw, on the back, flattened spots of resin with bits of pine needles and grit ground in, small dirty galaxies. She never could get them off and had to throw the coat away.

 

Two

Cress's sister, Sharon, was thirteen when Carl Abajanian, a pale, skinny boy with black hair, asked her to go steady and gave her a Saint Christopher medal. What awoke embarrassed pleasure in Sharon changed the family's life forever. “Nobody is going on a date, let alone
going steady
until they are at least sixteen,” Sylvia Hartley declared. “If then.” The cheap white enameled disk was returned, and weekly camping trips commenced in a steady rotation of mountains, desert, and beach. The Chevy wagon was soon replaced by a black-and-red VW van, outfitted—to save money—by Sam himself with a tiny fridge and a hip-bruising table-with-benches that folded into beds. Every Friday afternoon, Sylvia stowed duffels and groceries in the van and ordered the girls in after; they drove for hours, pitching camp in darkness and waking up to Joshua trees, pines, or thundering surf. Sylvia Hartley had a small inheritance from her mother and wherever they went—Arrowhead, Anza-Borrego, Gaviota—she and Sam looked at vacation property. Cress learned to read and to draw in a moving car, and how to pull in deep, so time would pass in a blip.

On a Sunday morning in early June, they were breaking camp on the banks of the Kern River when Sylvia, always fond of a map, spotted a little-known pass over the Sierras. They took it east to west, switchbacking through red-limbed manzanita and white-flowering elderberry. The only vehicles they met were logging trucks that downshifted with terrible roars, their hydraulic brakes gasping and spitting. Mosaics of bark on the transported logs smeared past the van's windows only a few feet from Cress's face.

After an hour of climbing, the road straightened out along a high ridge with tall pines and granite boulders. In a few miles, just where the road began its westerly descent, a large new log building stood on the left, its pale wood still raw and shiny with shellac. A banner hung from the rafters:
THE MEADOWS LODGE GRAND OPENING
.
Below that, stuck in the dirt at a jaunty angle, a red-and-white placard:
LOTS FOR SALE.
“What do you think?” said Sam.

“No harm in looking,” said Sylvia.

“You girls want to come in?”

The sisters did not glance up from their books. The parents climbed out, smoothed themselves, and disappeared into the log building.

Cress put down
Hawaii
and, wobbly from the drive, stepped squinting into the sun. The air was clean and thin. The parking lot, recently scraped from the woods, had high clumps of churned mud and brush at its edges. Windshields, car chrome, mica in stones bristled with sharp white slivers of light. A mean little headache began pulsing behind her eyes. Her parents emerged from the lodge with a small, bandy-legged man. “Girls!” they called. “Let's go!”

Reggie Thornton, land developer and lodge owner, wore blue jeans with a crisp white Western shirt. He had a meaty pink face, a spaniel's woozy brown eyes, and a sculptural, milk-white pompadour. “Sam and Sylvia, you're in front with me,” he said, pointing to a mud-spattered yellow Coupe de Ville. “Girls, in the back. That's it, that's it. Watch your head there, Sylvia.”

He drove through the development with one hand; the other held a cigarette outside the car window. He was the first man Cress had ever met who wore a bracelet! A thick gold one. “You a skier, Sylvia?” he said. “We're surveying for a rope lift, Syl, just across the road there.”

“You play tennis, Sam? Clay courts are what we have in mind—what do you think, Sam? We're afraid concrete will crack.”

A few glass-faced A-frames hid amid the trees, and one modernist box of stained wood and Thermopane, but the sprawling, ranch-style log home was most popular. Three of these log ranchers were spec homes and for sale, but Cress's parents demurred, preferring a buildable lot. Reggie Thornton duly drove them first to a buggy hollow where a cabin might be tucked, then to a hillside view lot, and finally to a flat half-acre of scrub brush.

“Got mostly retired folks so far, Sylvia, but once the ski slope and tennis courts go in, families'll be on this mountain like a rash. Best get in early, Sam, before land prices skyrocket and all the prime lots sell.”

His cologne fed Cress's headache. She disdained, as her parents normally would, the inflated hair and 14-karat curb links, the pimply ostrich cowboy boots. She willed her parents to exchange that look, her father's cue to say,
Thank you, sir, we've seen enough
, and liberate them from the Caddy's stiff upholstery. But neither parent displayed impatience: apparently home sites in the big pines for under 5K eclipsed all their usual snobberies.

Sam and Sylvia, whispering, settled on the view lot, Sylvia insisting, although it cost five hundred dollars more. The three-quarters acre of decomposed granite and car-sized boulders had seven tall pines, clusters of young spruce, and a long switchbacked driveway. The house site was graded, an electric pole already planted and strung.

“You've got a real eye for property, Sylvia—you know the best.”

Solemn, and in palpable terror, her parents wrote a check for the deposit.

“Fully refundable, Syl, don't you worry.

“Sylvia, Sam, girls. A pleasure.”

Then came the rest of the road. On the map it was only thirty miles downhill to the tiny town of Sawyer, but the red squiggle glossed the steepness and tightness of the curves hugging the Hapsaw's ravine. This road was far slower and more perilous than the way up from the Kern. Her father braked, downshifted, swung them back and forth. A pencil and a plastic cup rolled from one side of the van to the other. Halfway, Sharon roared for him to stop and burst from the van to vomit on the shoulder. Far below, the foam-white Hapsaw gushed with spring runoff. It took them an hour and fifteen minutes to reach Sawyer and a straightaway. Surely, Cress thought, the drive would chill their ardor: Would her parents really want to drive it every weekend? (Yes. Yes, they would. They would happily drive it forty, fifty times a year, up and back.)

Their check cleared instantly. When Reggie Thornton didn't return her father's calls for three weeks, her parents grew frantic, certain they'd been swindled. But Reggie Thornton was not a con man or a thief; he was a garden-variety drunk. He sobered up, resurfaced, and called back as if nothing had happened. Eventually, despite several such lapses, inspections took place, the title cleared, more money changed hands, and escrow closed.

Thus, their fates were sealed: Sharon and Cress Hartley would not go to parties or school dances or spend Saturdays at the beach or at the movies with friends. All sleepovers and make-out sessions would take place without them. They would not have boyfriends or be the popular girls. They would be
at the cabin
.