F. Paul Wilson - Gateways

Oyv was curled up next to her. He barked once when Jack stepped across the line of dry brown grass onto Anya’s lush green lawn, then settled down again.

“I started without you, hon,” she said. “Pull up a chair and pour yourself a glass.”

“Chilled red wine,” Jack said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a wine snob.”

Jack shook his head. “A bit of a beer snob, maybe, but I wouldn’t know a cabernet from a merlot without the label.”

“Glad to hear it. You’ve probably had people tell you that the only wine you should drink cold is white or blush or rosé. Trust me, kiddo, they’re talking out theirtuchuses . This is a Côtes du Rhone. That’s French, by the way.”

“Really?”

“You probably expect an old broad like me to be a whiskey sour or Manhattan drinker, but as far as I’m concerned, on a hot summer day like this, a glass of chilled Côtes du Rhone or Beaujolais hits the spot. Try it and see if you like it. If you don’t, sorry, but that’s what we serve at Casa Mundy. You want beer, you’ll have to bring your own. I’m not into that fizzy hops-and-malt drek.”

So Jack poured himself a glass and damn if it didn’t, as Anya had said, hit the spot.

“Not bad.”

He pulled up a chaise lounge on the other side of the table with the ice bucket.

“How come you’re the only one visiting my father? Doesn’t he have any other friends?”

“He has lots. But they probably don’t know. I think I’m the only one who knows, and I don’t talk to many people.”

“How did you find out?”

“When I saw his car was missing Tuesday morning, I called the police and asked if there’d been any serious accidents. They sounded pretty suspicious until I told them why I was calling. They told me about your father so I went right over to the hospital to see.”

“Shouldn’t you let people know?”

“Why? So they can send dead flowers and come in and stare at him? Tom wouldn’t want that.”

No, he wouldn’t. Jack guessed she did know his father after all.

Together they sat and sipped and watched the sun settle in the west.

“Maybe we’d better go in,” Jack said as it sank below the distant treetops. He checked his watch. 7:10. “The Wehrmacht mosquito squadrons will be launching soon.” “So?”

“You like mosquito bites?”

“You like to deny those poor females their sustenance?”

“Females?”

“Only the female mosquito bites. The males suck nectar.”

“Male or female, I’m not keen on being a mosquito buffet.”

She waved a hand at him. “Not to worry. They won’t bother you here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t let them.”

Ooookay, lady, Jack thought. If that’s what you want to believe.

But damn if they didn’t sit there well into the dusk without a single mosquito bite.

When the magnum of Côtes du Rhone was done, Anya draped a fuchsia blouse over her shoulders, rose, and faced him.

“Come on inside, hon. I’ll fix you dinner.”

Not having a better offer, Jack accepted.

He stopped short as he crossed the threshold. He’d thought the outside was lush, but inside was a mini jungle of potted plants and trees lining the perimeter and clustered here and there on the floor, with vines growing among them and climbing the walls. He could identify a ficus here, a bird of paradise and a rubber plant there, but the rest were a mystery: potted palms of all sorts—were those baby bananas on the big one in the corner?—and smaller plants with leaves mixing reds and yellows and even silver on a couple. Reminded Jack of one of the plant shops on Sixth Avenue.

Anya turned to him and said, “I’m going to change into something more appropriate for dinner.”

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

“I want something morehaute couture ,” she said with a wink.

“Not necessary, but this is your party…”

As she threaded her way through the plants toward the master bedroom, Jack decided to take a look around. Oyv, curled like a cat on a worn yellow easy chair, watched him with his big dark eyes as he wandered the front room.

He realized that her layout was the mirror image of his father’s—whatever was on the right here, was on the left there. But where his father’s walls sported some artwork—mostly south Florida beachscapes—and some photos, Anya’s walls were bare except for the vines. Not a shell, not a fishnet, not a knick knack. Nada.

She’d said she had no family. Jack guessed she was right. But how about a painting ofsomething ? Even Elvis or a tiger on black velvet would say something about her.

And the furniture…a nondescript mishmash. Jack knew his talents for interior décor were on a par with his ability to fly a 747, but this stuff looked like secondhand junk. Fine if Any a didn’t care, but he was struck by the lack of personality. He’d been in motel rooms with more personal touches than this. It was as if she lived in a vacuum.

Except for the plants. Maybe they were her personal statement. Her family. Her children.

Anya reentered and struck a pose with one arm held aloft. “What do you think?”

She’d wrapped herself in some sort of psychedelic kimono which made her skinny figure seem even thinner. She looked like a Rainbow Pop that had been left out in the sun too long.

“Woo-woo,” Jack said.

It was the best he could do on such short notice.

Dinner turned out to be as idiosyncratic as the chef. She mixed up a wok of walnuts, peanuts, peas, jalapeño peppers, and corn seasoned with, among other things, ashes falling from her ever-present cigarette, all rolled up in big flour tortillas. Despite Jack’s initial reservations, the mélange proved very tasty.

“Can I hazard a guess that you’re a vegetarian?” he said.

They were into their second magnum of Côtes du Rhone. Anya kept refilling his glass, and Jack noticed that she was putting away two or three glasses to every one he had, but showing no effects.

Anya shook her head. “Heavens, no. I don’t eat vegetables at all. Only fruits and seeds.”

“There’s corn in this,” Jack said around a mouthful. “Corn’s a vegetable.”

“Sorry, no. It’s a fruit, just like the tomato.”

“Oh. Right.” He remembered hearing that somewhere. “Well, how about the peas?”

“Peas are seeds—legumes. Nuts are seeds too.”

“No lettuce, no broccoli—?”

“No. Those require killing the plant. I don’t approve of killing. I eat only what a plant intends to discard.”

“What about Oyv?” He glanced at the little Chihuahua chowing down on something in his bowl. “He needs meat.”

“He does perfectly well on soy burgers. Loves them, in fact.”

Poor puppy.

“So I guess if I stop by with a craving for a bacon cheeseburger—”

“You can just keep on going, hon. There’s a Wendy’s not too far down the road toward town.”

Gia would be right at home here, Jack thought. She wasn’t a vegan or anything, but she’d stopped eating meat.

Whatever. This dish was delicious. Jack wound up having four burritofuls.

He helped clear the dishes, then Anya brought out the mahjongg tiles, saying, “Come, I’ll teach you.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“Don’t be afraid. It’s easy.”

She lied.

Mahjongg was a four-person game played with illustrated tiles, but Anya was teaching him a two-player variant. The images on the tiles swam before his eyes—circles, bamboo stalks, ideograms that were supposed to represent dragons or the four winds—while terms such aschow andpong andchong searched for purchase in his brain. He didn’t have any references for this stuff. Why couldn’t the tiles have spades and hearts or jacks and queens and kings?