Thomas McGuane - Driving on the Rim

The first story was old bloodred brick, the second white clapboard, and it had a gruesome mansard roof whose reward was a bulging mildewed attic. Its pinched kitchen, inquisitional living room, vertiginous staircase, and mean second-floor sleeping cells all conspired to capture and retain odors. There were things no one would dare cook in such a house. Cabbage was out of the question. Even a fresh filet of some pleasant whitefish, a chicken breast, or a dainty filet mignon could turn Floor B into an abattoir. Often when amorous pursuits had taken me to one of the upstairs bedrooms, my partner would demand another room until we’d exhausted them all and resorted to the first-floor sofa, barely below the observation of pedestrians whose suspicions must have been aroused by the puffs of dust rising rhythmically beyond the venetian blinds. One acquaintance who had passed my window during one of these episodes sent me hurtling back to childhood memories when he asked if I had been steam-cleaning my rug. He seemed baffled when I remarked, “You can say that again!”

Every Wednesday evening, Jinx Mayhall and I had dinner, a meal we prepared together and which she had usually conceived before I had a chance, turning me into nothing more than a sous chef compliant to her chef de cuisine . Dr. Mayhall, who styled herself my executive and made reference to the brigade system, forced us to envision various line cooks, patissiers, station cooks, and other cannon fodder of an imaginary French kitchen. Obviously there was drinking before, during, and after the meal; and Jinx was a splendid inebriant — upright, controlled yet as otherworldly as a religious visionary. She had a very Anglo-Saxon style, russet hair straight to her neck, long shinbones, reassuring directness, and plain purpose. It was easy to become entangled in the peculiarities of Jinx’s character and fail to notice that she was quite beautiful. I was capable of this mistake myself. Without meaning to, she made you feel, when you disagreed with her, that you were wrong. Perhaps as a result I had never been so drunk in Jinx’s presence as to bend the proprieties. I found her attractive, erotic even, but I justly feared blemishing our delightful friendship with some gesture that might be misunderstood. Still, it was difficult not to touch Jinx. Sometimes she widened those green eyes in such a provocative way that it was easy for me to feel terrified. Jinx was a real woman and probably too much for me.

The French atmosphere was just submerged farce because we really only cooked American dishes. Tonight we were having a sort of nostalgic meal, one that I had made for our first dinner but that this time Jinx cooked as a kind of salute to that pleasant day, a chicken dish that James Beard called “a remarkable old San Joaquin Valley recipe”—using onion, garlic, cornmeal, nutmeg, cumin, coriander, almonds, olives, sesame seeds, red wine, chili powder, and one whole, large chicken, preferably one that had disported itself under Montana skies. I liked watching Jinx cook — the straight back, the hand on hip, the absence of false moves. The period when we covered the dish to let it simmer — often almost an hour — was when we did the most drinking, and by the time the meal was on the table we were pretty mellow. We’d have two bottles, tonight’s being a nice wine from Cassayre-Forni Cellars in Rutherford, California. Probably that was one too many, but it never became a problem except that I’d have to give Jinx one of the terrible little bedrooms, more than probably starting new rumors. Sometimes I tucked her in and that was just fine. I would pull the covers up around her lovely face and we would smile.

“This was a five-pound chicken, and I believe we’ll eat it all,” said Jinx. I spooned some sauce onto the bird, olives glistening among the almonds and infusion of spices, wine, and oil.

“We’re not fat. It’s okay.”

We filled our plates and sat across from each other, lit by candles and the last of the evening light coming from the dining-room window, which faced into the side yard and imbued the light with a delicate quality of chlorophyll. When the cottonwood seeds were blowing, the sense of snow in early summer was so persuasive that I had been startled, fearing that I’d forgotten a season and our long winter was upon us again. There was something of the atmosphere of romance — that is, all the best parts of romance: the sense of occasion, of ceremony, of friendship — we’d had these meals for a few years — everything, really, except sex. It was not easy to imagine Jinx having sex; she wore her independence so militantly. It would take some assertion, some conviction, but it might be great! The smart ones were the best, but they were a lot of trouble too. I supposed she would be a spinster someday. I certainly never made a move, but I must say that after a couple of pops she seemed to hold it against me. Of the many complications to our friendship, this was the most conspicuous — this, and her inclination to read me the riot act from time to time, which always hurt my feelings.

Jinx reminded me of a girl from the forties — the thick russet hair, the smart but unprovocative clothes. I thought she looked like Gene Tierney. She had never had a steady male friend, leading to several inferences: that she was gay, that her longing for children led to her career in children’s medicine. Neither was true. She had flings on adventure cruise ships to Antarctica or Cape Horn—“To get it out of my system”—and was unsentimental about children to the point of indifference. Her interest in them — indeed, her passion — was entirely clinical. Only the children recognized this: they were not drawn to her. Her renown was based altogether on her success in treating them. She was such a good friend of mine that when others viewed her sexually, it annoyed me — which should have been a sign. We had a little spell in which we turned into a couple of drunks. That was fun. It just amazes me now: we’d sit around my house and talk, half fried, and never lay a hand on each other.

A year or two ago, in the spring, I went up to the headwaters of a mountain creek and brought back a dozen small, gorgeous brook trout, which encrusted with panko lay before us on a platter, surrounded by broad homegrown tomatoes, new potatoes, sliced Spanish onions, and Manchego cheese. I bought the cheese next to the railroad station that morning under the scrutiny of a hulking man with a black moustache, massive under his nose. He stared at me with such intensity that I awaited his coming outburst with grim patience. At last it came. “ My God, I love Manchego. ” Jinx had taken on the lassitude one associates with old historians or bookshop operators who hate their customers, a possible effect of the cold bottle of Riesling we’d shared. “That was a goodish white, didn’t you think? What else is there to drink with these minnows? I feel drawn toward inebriation.” We had another bottle, some stony-tasting thing, after which Dr. J began eating the little trout with her hands. Watching her languid moves as she ate, I felt my heart race. Then she was merry and laughed to herself. She plucked a brochure for Airstream trailers from her purse, held it in front of me, and said, “This is how Americans must live.” I remembered when, years ago, the Wally Byam Caravan came to our town and filled the IGA parking lot with their silver Airstreams. A group of hippies parked in the midst of them, wrapping their old vans in aluminum foil from the IGA, and smoked marijuana in broad daylight while making sardonic forays into socializing with the Airstream people. Anyway, Jinx bought the Airstream but never took it anywhere. Finally, it became a kind of office, and from it she published papers in pediatrics. When we had finished the brook trout and the rest of the wine, Jinx gave me her lowering, authoritarian look and advised me to take a real inventory of my life. “Any life,” she said, “consists of myriad elements, two-thirds of which are superfluous. The gift of living lies in enlarging the discard pile as we move to our true gestalt.”