Meadowlark (5 page)

"By God, I work with Groth's damned greenies. I'm generous
as hell with them. I finally get a kid in the program who understands
real farming, a kid who works his butt off, and that spaced-out freak
gives him a D. All I can say is Groth had better take care of his
favorites from now on. Miss Sadsack Sadat, for instance. She doesn't
pull her weight on the tractor. We'll see how he likes it when I flunk
the little bitch."

Angie Martini jumped up. "Mary Sadat is not a bitch, Del. If
you can't deal with women students--"

"You will, eh?" Del Wallace finished his whiskey and leered
up at her. "Sadat's a cute little piece, all right."

Angie said through her teeth, "I make it a practice not to hit
on my students, nor do I call them sexist names, not even the men."
She shot us a half-defiant glance. "I'm gay. At least Hugo can deal
with that without coming unglued. Del takes exception to any
woman who doesn't--"

"Come on, you guys," Bianca interrupted. "Cool it. I want
Lark and Jay to like the farm, remember? And I think Marianne's
ready for us in the dining room."

A dark-haired, rather heavy woman was standing near the
arch that led to the entry hall.

Bianca called the tune, or perhaps everyone was just
hungry. The men stood up. Angie was still pink with indignation. She
led the way out. Bianca and Jay and I followed the two men, I
carrying my half-full wine glass.

At the arch, Bianca stopped to introduce us to Marianne
Wallace. Del's wife, Mike's mother, the cook/housekeeper. Marianne
gave us a small polite smile but said little.

Oddly enough, the dining room was the coziest room I'd
seen so far in the house. The table was the right size, and the colors
looked like honey and spice. Bianca seated us conventionally. I had
thought she'd put me on her right, the better to talk shop, and Jay on
Keith McDonald's right, but there I was, sitting next to the incendiary
guitarist, he of the effulgent blue gaze. Across the table, Del Wallace
gave me a morose leer and poured himself a slug of wine from a
carafe in front of him.

Jay, Angie, and Bianca were chatting up a storm at the other
end of the table with the two central places vacant. That gap
explained itself as Mike entered bearing a tray of steaming soup
bowls followed closely by his mother carrying baskets of bread. They
served us rapidly, then Marianne joined us. Mike took the empty tray
off and returned to the spot on my right. I gave him a smile he was
too shy or sullen to return.

When all the bread and butter and wine passing were over, I
took a sip of soup. It was a light oyster stew, almost a contradiction
in terms, but full of tiny succulent Shoalwater oysters. Luscious.
Learning to cook was teaching me to appreciate other people's
cooking--or not, in some cases. Marianne Wallace was not a cook, I
decided as I sampled the bread. She was a chef. The wholemeal
bread, faintly Tuscan, smelled of rosemary.

Someone was groping my knee. McDonald--not a difficult
deduction. To all intents, he was listening to Del Wallace grouse
about something agricultural, but the hand groped, warm through
the crinkled fabric of my skirt. I edged my chair to the right.

Mike said something.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Please pass the jam."

I obliged and took a sip of wine. The groping hand made
contact again. At the other end of the table Jay was chewing oblivious
bread and looking happy. He bent to hear something Marianne said. I
didn't catch his eye.

Wallace took a gulp of wine and began slathering a piece of
bread with butter.

McDonald's hand was moving up my thigh.

I said, "Professor McDonald--"

"Keith."

"Keith, then. I'd like to share my thoughts with you."

The blue eyes beamed.

I kept my voice low. "I have a nice salad fork here which I
am about to stab into my left thigh. The odds are good the tines will
intersect the hand you finger things with." I picked up the fork in my
left hand.

Face impassive, he withdrew his hand. Del Wallace gave a
small snort and caught my eye. He winked.

I gritted my teeth and turned to Mike. "So. Michael. Taking
any interesting classes this term?"

Mike's mouth was full. He chewed and thought. "Yeah.
Anthropology. I like it but it's hard."

"Cultural or physical?"

McDonald and Wallace were talking. Wallace kept watching
me.

"Physical," Mike said. "You know, like skulls and stuff. Mrs.
Horton, she's the teacher, brought a real skull last week."

"Fun for you," I murmured.

"Well, it was. Prof... I mean, your husband says forensic
anthropologists are real important in crime investigation these
days." Clearly he thought Jay was terrific. I could deal with that.

Marianne said something and Mike shoved his chair back.
"Gotta go." Mother and son went off. I sipped wine and wished the
meal was over.

"You read poetry," McDonald said, supercilious now that he
couldn't play his little game. "I suppose you were an English
major."

"I had a double major in English and P.E."

"P.E.?"

"I played basketball for Ohio State," I said coldly.

I think that did startle him. He blinked again. "Your mother's
a poet."

"So I've heard. I'm a little surprised you have." He hadn't
come to the signing.

He gave me an earnest smile. "Lighten up, Lark. I can take no
for an answer."

"What was the question?"

He looked away.

I said, "I understand you're a folklorist. Do you study
Nekana myths and legends?" The Nekana were a local tribe, part of
the great coastal civilization that once ranged from Alaska to the
Columbia.

He shrugged. "What with Marianne here as resident
informant, I'd be remiss not to have looked into Nekana stories.
They're pretty derivative."

I thought he was pretty derivative, by Lord Byron out of the
Kingston Trio, but I didn't say so. He was keeping his hand to
himself.

Marianne's salads--westerners tend to serve salad as the
second course--were as good as her bread, and when I complimented
her on the variety of greens she seemed pleased. They came from the
greenhouses at this season, she said, nodding toward Angie.

Mike said, "Hugo grows interesting stuff in the spring and
summer."

Angie apparently heard us. She bent forward and began to
tell me about her Belgian endive, a rarity in those parts. Jay and
Bianca joined in after a moment, and I had the leisure to take a look
at Marianne Wallace. She had grayish eyes and brown, rather than
black, hair, but her round-faced prettiness and wide frame seemed
Nekana-like. They were a handsome people.

The entree was lamb shanks and onions braised in beer, a
James Beard recipe I thought I recognized. Marianne served Angie an
omelet. I managed to keep a foodie conversation going with that end
of the table until, thank God, Bianca announced we'd have coffee and
dessert in the living room. I felt like flight, but the impulse made me
twice as angry with McDonald, so I took my time rising and leaving
the room.

In the living room, however, I stationed myself near Bianca
on the theory that her husband would probably not grope me under
her direct gaze. He was looking a little surly, and Del Wallace kept
watching me with a lurking grin on his red face. I could cheerfully
have jabbed him with a fork, too. I almost asked Bianca where she
kept her swine.

She was eager to talk shop and did so, in great detail. I had
trouble focusing on her words. Jay seemed to be making an effort,
another effort, with Keith McDonald, who was back at the guitar but
just fingering it. Got to keep that right hand limber. Del Wallace
downed another whiskey.

Angie eavesdropped on our conversation, yawning from
time to time. Outside, sleet beat on the windows.

"...and all the students should reach the farm by half-past
seven that Sunday," Bianca was saying.

I said okay and watched Jay's jaw muscle knot. Tension
rising there.

Michael brought in another tray--apple crumble with rum
sauce, and coffee--and excused himself to go study. Marianne joined
us, though. Ordinarily I hate a gathering that separates the men and
women, but that night I didn't mind.

Angie was asking Bianca what kind of floral arrangements
she'd want for the reception before the workshop.

"Do you grow flowers, too?" I said.

She nodded. "Yes, though the market for organic flowers is
limited to edibles for upscale restaurants. People just don't think
organic when they buy flowers."

Bianca said, "All the same, you'll stick with the guidelines,
Angie. That label's important to me--to our profits, too." She turned
to me. "Organic meat and vegetables can be sold at a higher price
than food that's full of pesticides and chemical fertilizers."

I swallowed coffee. "I imagine the market's limited,
though."

She shrugged. "True. We've got about as many guaranteed
sales to the specialized stores and restaurants as we're going to get,
but supermarkets will buy limited quantities labeled 'organic' now,
and they don't mind buying the surplus at the ordinary price either.
They also take our excess flowers."

I said, "I buy organic tomatoes and lettuce when I can find
them at Safeway, but I've never bothered with organic flowers."

Angie's face darkened. "Yeah, a few insect signs and people
will go for a bunch of dusted roses instead."

"My friend Tom Lindquist grows an organic garden." I
spooned the last drop of rum sauce. "I like his flowers just fine. I
shake the bugs off and pop the blooms in a vase, but store-bought
flowers are so expensive I want them perfect--"

"Even if they're destroying the environment?"

Marianne said, "Tom Lindquist's grandmother was Madeline
LaPorte. My mother always said Aunt Maddy's gardens were
great."

"Are you related to Tom?"

She hesitated and glanced at her husband. "Sort of."

"My brother-in-law is going to marry Tom's cousin."

Marianne smiled. "That'll be Darla. Everybody says she's
real smart." Darla Sweet was on the Nekana Tribal Council.

Angie had been brooding. "Hugo won't spray for anything,
not if he loses his whole crop."

Bianca said, "He's too smart and too experienced to let that
happen, Angie."

"And I'm not?"

"You're smart." Bianca smiled a conciliating smile.

Angie got up, restless. "But not as experienced as Hugo
Bloody Groth. No, and not as hidebound either. The man's
rigid."

Bianca sipped coffee. "What can I say? He sells everything he
grows for top dollar. Focus on that. Your bulbs, and your statice and
dry arrangements do very well. Forget roses..."

And they were off on what was clearly an on-going
argument. I caught Jay's eye and raised one eyebrow. He
nodded.

I said, "Jay has an eight o'clock meeting tomorrow, Bianca.
We really ought to go. The dinner was superb, and I think your
center is exactly the way it should be."

We made our escape after reasonably brief ceremonies of
disengagement. In the car, I said, "Keith McDonald groped my knee
at dinner."

Jay's mouth twitched. "And..."

"What the hell do you mean, and? I had a rotten time, and
I'm looking for a little husbandly support."

"The fact that I sat down at that man's table and broke bread
is husbandly support, believe it." He started the engine. "Now tell me
what you did to the bastard."

He laughed heartily when I told him, but I was still steamed.
"I suppose he was using me to get at you."

"You betcha."

"I am not some goddamn trophy to be passed back and forth
between rutting males."

"Yeah, and old Keith knows it." He was not going to be
baited. I had to respect that.

"Turn on the windshield wipers," I muttered and sank down
in my seat.

We drove homeward in silence, grim on my part,
concentrated on Jay's. Sleet and rain pounded down on roads as slick
as spit. The wipers swished away. I knew it was bad when Jay
stopped turning them off.

We headed north on the Ridge Road, a narrow ribbon of
highway with deep ditches on either side. The headlights probed
absolute darkness, wind shook the car, and branches littered the
asphalt. Jay was going thirty-five, but it felt like seventy.

Headlights and those nasty yellow fog lights loomed behind
us and passed--a high-wheel pickup. Four-wheel drive or no, its rear
end fishtailed. A tall chromed roll-bar gleamed briefly.

"Damn fool." Jay hunched over the wheel. "Do you want me
to tell McDonald to keep off, Lark?"

"No."

"Shall I tell him you're a black belt?"

"I told him I played for Ohio State. No need to lie."

"He'd believe me. He's a coward."

I stared at Jay's profile in the dim light of the dash. He does
not make a habit of calling other men cowards, having been in too
many tight situations himself.

He rounded a dark curve. "Uh oh."

I peered ahead. The pickup that passed us had veered into
the ditch. Its lights canted up into the evergreens on the left side of
the road.

Jay was gearing down. I could see the driver standing by the
vehicle now. Jay stopped the car and waited.

The driver walked to his side, and Jay lowered the
window.

"Give me a ride to Shoalwater?"

"I'll call the sheriff's office for you."

"It's fucking cold out here, man. I want a ride!"

I glimpsed a high-colored face, red with cold, and a pouty
Elvis mouth.

Jay said, in his most peaceable voice, "Well, sure you can
ride with us. I wouldn't leave an expensive rig like that unattended,
though. Let me call in for you. I just live down the road here. Won't
take long."

"Oh." The guy--a very young man--straightened to look at
his sad pickup. "Oh, well, yeah. Thanks." He stumbled back to his
truck and slid down into the driver's seat, though it was clear the
door wouldn't close.