Chapter 1: A Tale of Two Letters

 

     Which did I want first - the good news or the bad news?

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     Actually, there wasn’t really any news at all. I already knew what was inside both letters the moment I spied them in the recesses of my mailbox, hiding from the January drizzle. Cosmically, the State of Oregon had deigned to send me both notices on the same day. And, of all days, on my 49th birthday. Score one for the bureaucracy gods for being on their game today.

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     Only one way to solve this conundrum. “Reef, here boy!  Momma needs you.” The black pug, two years old this spring, hurled himself down the cottage steps and bounded down the muddy driveway. He pulled up at my galoshes and looked up expectantly at a red-faced woman about the same height as the Coke machine in front of the Mobil station.  Reef’s momma hadn’t had her hair colored since Nixon, but she didn’t much mind the random gray shoots.  Matched the sky, in her opinion.  Maybe a tad more stout than when she’d plucked him from the pound back in ‘81, but she was generous with the kibbles and a courteous roommate who only cried after dark when she thought he was asleep.  

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     Holding a letter in each hand, I bent down within sniffing distance. “OK, so which one should we open first?” Unlike myself, a champion second-guesser famous for procrastinating even the smallest decisions, Reef didn’t hesitate. With a forward surge, he licked my right wrist.

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     His choice didn’t surprise me. Infused with irrepressibly positive pug DNA, of course he would choose the Board of Elections notice first. Now, the scales may have been slightly tipped by the dog biscuit in my right coat pocket , but, hey, a sign is a sign. I sighed. “Let’s go inside and take a look at these.”  I closed the creaky mailbox door and trudged back up the gravel driveway.

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     Built with his own hands by my father in the ‘30’s, this cottage had been my home since I was a child.  Encrypted at the cliff’s edge of Salubrious Point, it loomed over the rocky beach below, like a lighthouse without a beacon.  On mornings like this I was grateful for dad’s old-school craftsmanship. The pitched roof, the sturdy back deck, even the nautical-shaped windows were all original - just like him.  My father, a man among men.  Over a pint or three, uncle Frank used to insist our town should’ve been named after him regardless, tragedy or no tragedy.  But Frank’s gone now. Everyone’s gone.

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     The din from the rain subsided as I closed the door behind me. I pulled out a chair for Reef at the kitchen table so we could review his choice together. As a puppy, his reading skills were still a work in progress, so I read the correspondence aloud.

 

November 13, 1983

 

From: The Oregon State Board of Elections

 

To: Mrs. Genevieve Boyd, 1 Peninsula Drive, Boyd’s Cove, Oregon

 

Congratulations!  The state of Oregon has officially certified your election as mayor for a second three year term starting March 1, 1984.

 

Although this is an unpaid position, the Governor appreciates your commitment and is confident you will provide outstanding service to the community of Boyd’s Cove. Good luck and congratulations!

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Signed Alfred Hill, Oregon Election Commissioner.”
 

     Well, thank you for the kind words Mr. Hill. I pushed the note aside and added it to my growing mail Purgatory pile, a stack of half-opened envelopes not important enough to keep but certain to bite me in the ass if I dared throw any of them away. In fact, I’d wager a similar heartfelt note from Mr. Hill after my first election was probably buried somewhere in there as well.  Swept into office three years ago by a decisive 151 - 141 vote margin, I’d hid in 1 Peninsula Drive for days, cursing Sheriff Leslie for nominating me against my will.  Her political instincts had been preternatural.  “They’ll vote for your last name,” she’d insisted. “Doesn’t matter whether or not they could pick you out of a lineup.  Now, if my neighbor Anna Schwarzeneger was running, we might have a problem.”

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     There was no problem.  She thought my victory was hysterical. “I can see the headline now - “Dumbass Town Elects Most Unqualified and Unwilling Candidate.”  And now, 36 months later, the ruse continues, and I’ve been sentenced by the good folks to yet another term.  Oh, and did I mention there were no other candidates on the ballot this year?  Don’t worry, that didn’t stop 40 or so engaged citizens from writing in other candidates.  Happy to see Sasquatch still has a half dozen hard-core constituents out there.

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     Oh well, at least the pay reflected the town’s expectations.

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     The second letter, thicker than the first, lay there, also demanding to be dealt with. Perched atop a sofa cushion, Reef had lost interest - he hated paperwork - and gnawed away on a chunk of rawhide. I was on my own for this one.

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     Buzzy rumors would undoubtedly sprout as I was pretty sure Charlie the postman wasn’t delivering much mail in the Cove from the Oregon Judicial Department of Family Law. Embossed by a notary, the crisply folded documents disguised the slow train wreck of my ex-husband’s rotten deal in a thicket of clinical governmentese-speak.

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     The headline (in Olde English font): 

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“Final Judgment and Decree of Divorce Incorporating Settlement Agreement.”

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      I was unnecessarily informed that:

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 “The marriage contract entered into between the two parties as of July 1, 1968 is hereby set aside and fully dissolved.”

 

 

     The “Dissolution” box on the form was dutifully checked, putting a belt and suspenders on Case # OR47850, Boyd v. White.

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     In hindsight, Jerry never had a chance. We’d met twenty years ago in nursing school in Oregon’s Rogue Valley, a sunny, cowboy kinda place. He’d hated nursing from the start, and happily threw it away to join me and the Cove fishing fleet.  To everyone’s surprise, he took to trawling like a bee to honey, spending a season as a greenhorn, promoted to engineer, and then to first mate.  As an outsider in the Cove,Jerry masterfully played the mysterious stranger role, Clint Eastwood-style, and earned the town’s respect and then, in just a few short years, acceptance - a feat I’d never achieved.

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     Our last year together was especially gut-wrenching.  He could do nothing right. I drew hard lines on both the big stuff ( no kids - not ever!) and the day-to-day laws (Sundays are for gardening, not football!).  Against any and all odds, at this very kitchen table, he made a last-ditch plea to save us. “Jen, I’m here for you. I’ll always be here. Your mother, your father, they left, but I won’t. Just trust me, trust US.  We can make this work, we both just need to try.”

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     A heroic attempt, but he’d given me the opening I’d been looking for. “My father? You have the balls to bring up my father? Well, he didn’t exactly LEAVE, now did he Jerry? He was killed, killed in the prime of his life. And for the record, he did more for me in the eight years I had him than you EVER have. He set the bar high and you didn’t even come close to it.” 

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     Just in case he wasn’t getting the message, I helpfully drew a bar in the air with my finger above my head.  My close was extra vicious, letting him know “I'm not done trying, but I’m done trying with you!”  

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     Ouch.

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     In the end, it was polite.  We decided to just separate so he could stay on my health insurance.  On a warm July day near the end of blackberry season he loaded up the Subaru and headed north on 199, back to Medford, and that was that.  For years, nothing.  Then, a couple weeks ago, the day before Halloween, a honey-voiced attorney rang to tell me to expect papers.

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     Did I have any regrets?  Honestly, I’m not sure.  To me, my marriage reminds me of that high school algebra class you and I both endured.  A few impressions linger.  The teacher’s toupee. A fire drill that saved me from a pop quiz.  But most of the specific memories vanished long ago, like a hazy, early morning dream in which you can remember who was in it but not what happened.

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     But that’s it for regrets.  Sure, I’ve had to get used to explaining the “Mrs.” salutation when I file my taxes but c’est la vie.

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     So am I a happy person?  Happy enough, I guess.  It’s amazing how uncomplicated things can be if you just don’t think about them.  Day to day, I’ve mastered the skill of keeping my mind blank and I leave the ruminating to others.

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     But since we’re friends now, I’ll let you in on a secret.  There is one recurring mind dragon I’ve been unable to slay.  And doubt I ever will.  Before my marriage, before my prom, before even my First Communion, the Expectations serpent perched herself on my shoulder and has been whispering in my ear ever since.

 

     “How can you be so weak?  You’re the daughter of a hero.  Courage is in your blood. Buck up! “

 

     Or later that day…

 

     “What are you thinking?  You can’t do that.  You’re a child of mental illness. Go back to bed.”

 

     Ah, the blessings and curses of expectations.  They drive us all.  They’re the fuel we need to succeed. On the other hand, they’re also the great white shark that smells our blood and doesn’t care how big our boat is.  Both creator and destroyer.  Our best friend and deadliest enemy.    

   

     Being raised in the shadow of greatness isn’t the lottery ticket it might seem to be. Let’s be honest, it usually doesn’t end well.  Winston Churchill had his Randolph, an alcoholic who wrote a few books but mostly just bothered people.  Henry Ford begot Edsel, and, well, we know how that turned out.  Prescott and Margaret Boyd graced the world with me, and, I’m pretty sure they’d empathize with old Winston’s and Henry’s predicament.  Despite holding a surname worthy of naming a town after, I’ve lived down to any and every expectation ever had of me.  A mediocre child who’s earned more checks in the L column than the W.  For every teaspoon of pride, a tablespoon of shame.

 

     So if you’re thinking of trying this at home, I must say that other than a few notable (and quite embarrassing) incidents, my Thoreau-inspired strategy of hiding from the world has largely worked.  But be forewarned.  If you wanna play this game, you gotta be OK with anonymity.  OK with being the rolling credits at the end of the movie nobody sticks around for, content to pet your dog and drift along in the jetstream of other peoples’ plans for you.

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     But that’s not all.  There’s another important rule when hiding from the world.  No matter how loud it gets, shut out the noise.  Put your earplugs in and squelch down with both hands that guilty feeling when it occasionally arises.  You know the feeling I’m talking about.  The guilty feeling of expectations.  Expectations of your parents, of others,and, most dangerously, of yourself, that, if you allow it, can creep over your soul like a shadow.  

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     During normal Boyd’s Cove times, it’s easy for me to avoid any whispering reminders that I need to do more with my life.  I see the same five people, shop at the same two stores, drink the same brand of vodka (Smirnoff, in case you’re wondering).  But over the next few weeks, I’ll be hostage to the demands of not only my one true friend, but this entire town, and, shit, everyone in America who owns a TV.  Like that old Motown song says, there’s nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide.  Deliver or else, don’t f-it up. 

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     Sigh.  My hermit modus operandi is officially in mortal danger.  But at least there was one thing to be grateful for this morning.  

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     No birthday cards cluttering up my mailbox.

 

 

Chapter 2: Corner Booth

 

     Anchoring Boyd Cove’s “business district,” the heat-free diner fooled no one by pretending it was a bistro.  During an alleged re-model a few years back, the owner Eddy (not his real name, but his Old World tongue-twister had too many vowels for us Boyd Covians), decided to tack on a “Cafe suffix” to The Fog Cutter’s moniker.  He even set out a tiny French table on the front sidewalk so bait-streaked fishermen could imagine they were denizens of the Left Bank street scene, sipping aperitifs and nibbling on sliced wedges of Roquefort.

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     A failed experiment by any measure.  The table was inside by September and everyone except the Yellow Pages still just called it The Cutter.

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     Regardless, I appreciated that the restaurant remained a time capsule from my high school days, right down to the red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths. The joint was laid out shotgun style, booths to the left, a counter with three stools to the right.  A prehistoric jukebox, unplugged for at least a decade, guarded the bathroom hallway.  The corner booth in the back was our version of the Pope’s table, the spot where you proposed or were proposed to, or enjoyed one last patty melt before getting the hell out of town.  A faded mural of the Klamath mountains covered the parking lot-facing brick wall to lure in malnourished backpackers from the Oregon Coast Trail.  That was The Cutter.  Open when it was open and closed when it was closed. 

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     I parked my Ford Bronco in front of a broken parking meter and headed inside.  But, of course, first a namaste nod to Blanche, perched in her usual spot atop the neon “Fog Cutter Cafe” sign hanging above the doorway. As always, the chunky gull, her breast stained with marionberry from yesterday’s unsold pie, pretended not to notice me.  Ever since Blanche had lost most of her right talon due to a tourist-precipitated fishing line incident, she’d sought sanctuary at The Cutter. Kind of a sorry town mascot, but what did you expect?  I pushed open the glass door and heads turned as the attached jingle bells announced my entry.

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     Sheriff Leslie Watson had already staked out the corner booth and was waiting for me.  Despite the confident predictions of every adult in her life, in the irony of all ironies, she’d somehow evaded juvenile hall and joined the other team.  My mother had made the dead-on observation that the kids who become cops were the same ones who a couple of seasons earlier were the frequentest fliers in Boyd High School’s detention.  But the day they throw their caps in the air after boot camp, well, the past is the past.  Duty, honor, to protect and serve, and all that.

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     As a teen, Leslie got us both chased out of the Cutter once for teasing the owner.  “Hey, Eddy, how come you only got three stools for this counter?  Who ever ‘eard of that?  Where are our dates supposed to sit, in the can?”  Exploding with laughter, we abandoned our fountain Cokes at the counter and spilled out onto the sidewalk.  Arm-in-arm, we skipped down Main street, impressed with what bad asses we were and remembering the look on Mrs. Whitworth’s face as Leslie mooned Eddy on the way out. Those were dark days for me as my mother’s drinking descended from snorkeling to scuba diving.  Leslie, and, I guess, The Cutter in a way, gave me just enough air to get to the surface.

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     Eddy was long gone now, one of my first patients back in the ‘60’s as a new ER nurse, done in by decades of Winstons and mouthy teenagers.  His son Marco manned the griddle now.  His real name was also a clusterfuck of consonants and required Americanization.  I asked him once while he was taking my meal order, why he, a purebred Frenchman with Burgundy-red blood, chose an Italian one.  I didn’t get an answer, but I did learn some new French expletives.  And if I wanted a glass of water, how was he supposed to know, ask for it, for Chrissake.

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     “You’re late. Urgent town business, I assume?”  Both Leslie and I knew that wasn’t true. At least I’d made it here.  Last week I’d blown off breakfast, buried underneath my covers and a respectable hangover.  She knew better than to ask for or expect an excuse.  Just Jenny being Jenny.  Besides, I knew she’d order for me. With a wave to Marco, I slid into the booth to take      the rest of my beating.

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     Suddenly, a new waitress stood in front of us like Lady Liberty herselfs , holding two plates piled high with Denver omelets and half-cooked hash browns.  Fresh from the dishwasher, the stoneware plates held their heat and were too damn hot.  Anxious to set them down, she shifted her feet from side to side, an oily-faced youngster who should be busy failing geometry, but a junior prom pregnancy took care of that.  For us, a new girl on the floor was a kinda big deal.  Not alot of employee turnover at The Cutter.  No Cadillac pension plan waiting on the other side, no management training program.  Just a dose of bone-on-bone arthritis and a smattering of kitchen-burn scars.  

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     I grimaced in sympathy.  High school was Disneyland compared to this.  So much to learn!  She’d need training on Lyle Whitmer’s extra tabasco needs and Shelley Brady’s diabetic menu.  The toilets weren’t going to clean themselves. And good ol’ Blanche did more on The Fog Cutter Cafe sign than just sit on it all day.   Careful sweetie, don’t spill the vinegar and soap as you’re climbing the stepladder. 

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     “They’re the same order hun. Just give us either one.” It always confounded me that Leslie was more courteous to strangers than me. Or, maybe it made sense.  After all, she’d enjoyed VIP seating for all my shitty decisions over the years.  Maybe it’s hard to be gracious and put down the judgment stick after you’ve helped your divorcee friend pack for “just a short stay” at the nuthouse. 

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     Leslie stared at me as I mixed my scrambled eggs with the hash browns. “Please tell me you haven’t actually forgotten. I realize the agendas for our weekly sheriff/mayor meetings haven’t exactly been packed, but come on Jenny!”

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     I decided not to remind her again she wasn’t an actual sheriff.  But the boys at County let it ride, treating it more like a nickname than an actual title. If she wasn’t so damn good at her job, no doubt it’d be a problem. Personally, I thought Chief of Police was a fine title by itself.  But she embraced the gunslinger image, small-town western lawman and all that. So, “Sheriff” Leslie Watson it was.

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     And no, I hadn’t forgotten.

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     Leslie wasn’t taking any chances. “In a week, all the mucky-mucks from Portland will be here to break ground. And you better go get your hair done for the CBS interview, that’s on the afternoon of the 21st.” 

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     I chewed away and watched as what little patience she had fluttered away.  “Have you identified any of these local yokels who can put two sentences together? I’m sure they’ll do some sort of “man in the street” segment. God help us if Edie Brower finds her way to a camera.”

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     She wasn’t done yet. “Oh yeah, and dig up some pictures of your father and mother. I’m sure CBS would rather show some old grainy Polaroids than keep your tongue-tied mug on screen the whole time.”

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     Smiling in spite of myself, I gave her a mock salute. “Aye, aye Captain. Orders understood. I’m actually headed to an interview now. Permission to shove off?”

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     “I’ll shove you off if this shit doesn’t get tight,” she growled. “Who’s the interview with?”

 

     “The Courier.”

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     “Ha!” she exclaimed.  “That’ll be a great tune-up for the network next week.  Let me guess -”

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     “No need to.  Yes, we’re meeting at the Barnacle.”

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     She shook her head in disgust.  “Well, Keegan will be easy to find.  Last stool at the bar, closest to the pisser.  That is, if he even remembers.”

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     Leslie pushed her clean plate to the center of the table and tossed her napkin on top. Other than Reef, the fastest eater I had ever seen.  With a little-too-hard pinch of my bicep on the way out, she was off. 

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     The check and I remained behind.