David Gates - Preston Falls

"It won't go up?" says Willis.

Champ puts index finger to temple and speed-talks: "The sum of the square root of an isosceles triangle is equal to the hypotenuse of the other two sides." He slicks back his hair again. "Listen, how about we move some of this shit to one side so I can get the thing under cover?"

"Try it, I guess," says Willis. "It's pretty big. Might get it partway in."

"Hey, just what the little woman says, nurk nurk nurk."

When they come into the kitchen, Jean's just mopping the muddy floor where Tina and the kids came through. "That's awful about your top," she says to Champ. "You're welcome to take a warm shower when Tina gets out. You just have to wait a few minutes for the hot water to build up again. It's a little primitive up here."

Champ goes stiff and raises a palm. "Me like primitive. You not worry. He^^-ya hey-ya hey-y2t. hey-ya."

Jean turns to Willis. "Did you get the griU under cover?"

He snaps her a salute.

Champ points to the platter stacked with shish kebabs. "Us heap good plenty eat." Rubs his stomach. "Me checkum squaw."

"How are the coals?" Jean says.

"Getting there," says Willis.

She fetches a sigh. "How long until it's ready to cook?"

"Probably by the time everything's together it should be ready."

"Everything is together," she says.

Well, who could resist? "Isn't it pretty to think so," he says. Then he adds, "I guess we could start bringing shit out."

He gallantly holds a garbage bag over her as she bears the platter to the woodshed, then drags over a cinderblock. She sets the platter on it; he takes a skewer and lays it on the grill.

"Why don't I do that?" she says. "You could take the platter in and wash it."

"How're you going to get all this shit back to the house?"

She looks at him. "You are going to bring the platter back here" she says. "After you have washed it."

"Ah," he says. "Silly me." Then he stands there.

"You have heard of salmonella? Or is this all beneath your notice?"

"Got it." He salutes again. "I had not been clear as to why it was that the platter had to be washed. I now understand." He takes up the platter and stalks out into the rain.

In the kitchen, he cracks another tallboy, takes three monster gulps and waits for the rush. The rush: dream on. But he thinks he maybe feels just the slightest little added distance from things. When he's got the platter washed — not just rinsed, as he could've done with no one the wiser, but washed, with Lemon Joy — he can't find the fucking dish towels. He flumps into the dining room like the prince of all put-upons to see if they're in here for some reason, then glances into the living room: Champ and Tina are sprawled on the couch, her bare foot at the crotch of his jeans, his leg up to the knee under her sleeveless sundress.

Champ looks up and sees Willis looking. "Hey," he says. "So when's din-din?" He looks out the window — to misdirect Willis's gaze? — and eases his bare foot from between Tina's thighs.

Willis consults an imaginary wristwatch, scowls and barks, "Ten minutes, Mr. Whiteside."

"Can we do anything?" says Tina. She's rubbing the sole of her foot along Champ's fly: couple inches up, couple inches down.

"Just make sure your hands are clean when you come to the table," Willis says. "We like to keep it sterile around here."

"Sounds hot," she says.

Willis polishes off the rest of the tallboy, cracks another one and gulps down about half of that. And as he's bringing the platter back out to the woodshed, son of a bitch if he doesn't feel like he's getting a little buzz on. This fleeting moment — a late-summer rainstorm slowly letting up, a bird's sad little rain song, the muskiness of the country air — will never come again. So fuck it.

Squatting on the dirt floor of the woodshed, Jean lifts a skewer and

PRESTON FALLS

tilts her head to peek at the underside. She always worries that the vegetables will burn before the chicken's cooked, but it always turns out okay. Except the vegetables always get a little burned. Well, fine; she's not Martha Stewart. And nobody else, frankly, is lifting a finger. Though in fairness, Willis has been helping — here he is with the platter. Still, she's seen about enough of that salute.

When she finally sets the shish kebabs on the dining room table, she sees Champ and Tina on the couch in the living room. "Hey hey hey," he says.

"Lunch is ready," she says. Absolutely classic: this man going Hey hey hey while she runs herself ragged. And the girlfriend, what's her problem? Recuperating from her shower? Jean could've used a shower too. She steps into the hall and hears herself yell the kids' names like a fishwife.

Willis pokes his head in from the kitchen. "So we need two more chairs, right?"

"If everybody intends to sit, yes."

"We got 'em, we got 'em," Champ says, pulling Tina to her feet and leading her by the hand toward the kitchen.

Willis goes to the sink and washes his hands with Lemon Joy one more time, just to be pissy, then wipes them on his jeans and brings what's left of his beer into the dining room. He hears the kids trudging down the stairs and Mel saying, "Cut it out, Roger."

Champ and Tina, each carrying a chair, squeeze through the doorway. "Now the motorcade is making a sharp left on Elm," Champ says. "We can see the President waving—"

"Will you stop?" says Tina.

"You can't say Texas doesn't love you, Mr. President."

"Why can't he be into the Civil War?" says Tina.

"Anywhere anybody likes," says Jean. They all sit. Roger pointedly next to Champ, Mel pointedly not next to Roger. Rathbone lies down on his side in the corner, looking lonesome and defeated.

"Good dog," says Willis. One thing they've done right, at least: not feeding the dog at the table.

"Does anybody care for lemonade?" Jean says. Willis wonders when she found time to make lemonade.

"Tm set," says Champ.

"I'm fine, thanks," says Tina. They're both working on tallboys.

Willis says nothing. Seems better than heaping it on.

"Me," says Roger.

"Is that a yes-please?" says Jean,

"Yeah," says Roger.

"Yes please," says Mel.

"Yes please," says Roger in a pinchy voice.

"Hey hey hey, and what have we here?" says Champ, rubbing his hands.

"Roger?" says Jean. "Once more and you have a time-out."

"Chicken droit du seigneur,'' says Willis. This jeu d'esprit just came to him.

"Ooh la la," says Champ.

"Well, you told me to say yes please," says Roger.

"You have a time-out," says Jean. "Go. Up to your sisters room."

Roger shrugs and gets up. Mel stares down at her plate.

When he's trudged into the living room, heading for the stairs, Jean aims a finger-and-thumb pistol at the doorway and goes Pyew. "I'm sorry about his behavior today," she says. WiUis waits to hear her add that Roger's not always like this, so he can say something cutting. But she leaves it at that.

"Don't even think about it," says Tina. "7 was a bratty kid at that age. Jean, this looks so excellent''

Champ looks at Tina and does zip-your-lip. Tina frowns in puzzlement.

"Ahem," Willis says to Champ. "You were supposed to say, 'Why do you call it chicken droit du seigneur}' "

"Anything for a giggle," says Champ. "Okay, why?"

"Because I get the first piece." Willis grabs a skewer, puts it on his own plate and passes the platter to Tina.

Champ just looks at him. "That was the punch line?"

"Please help yourselves," Jean says. So at least somebody got it. Then she looks over at Mel, which really pisses Willis the fuck off. It was deliberately over the kids' heads, for Christ's sake. And Mel's not paying attention anyway. She's looking over at Roger, who's peeking around the doorway, giving her the finger.