Doug Dorst - The Surf Guru

Kacy was sitting on the living room sofa with her sketchbook open on her lap when Roger arrived home with Kenny, their five-year-old. Before she could ask Kenny how his T-ball game had gone, the boy spotted Mooch, the family beagle, screeched joyfully, and chased the dog down the hallway. It was a typical entrance for Kenny; ever since he’d learned to walk, the dog had of necessity developed quick reflexes and a streak of paranoia. Kacy listened to them run up the stairs, to the dog’s collar jingling and Kenny’s little feet pounding. Roger sat next to her and kissed her hello with sweat-salty lips. His skin was flushed, and he was breathing heavily.

“I thought the idea was to tire him out,” Kacy said.

“I did my best,” he said. “I’m no superhero.” He took off his Astros cap and ran his hand through his thinning, sweat-soaked hair. “He did well today. His swing is getting better. He actually hit the ball a few times.”

“But,” Kacy prompted. Kenny was a sweet kid, but there was usually a but .

“But he kept running to third base instead of first. I don’t think he was confused. He just seemed to like running the wrong way.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Could be worse. The Poirier kid wet his pants in right field.”

There was a thud from upstairs. “Please tell me he didn’t hit his head,” Kacy said. Little accidents were part of life with Kenny, a kid with so much love to give that he usually ran into things in his haste to give it.

Almost immediately, they heard him start running again. “He’s fine,” Roger said. “Remind me to check the wall, though.”

“I made a sale today,” she said. “A big one.” She told him about Dinaburg and the lavish wedding.

“He’s from New York?” Roger said. “Charge him double. He won’t notice.”

“I love it when you act ruthless,” Kacy said. Of course, if he actually were ruthless, he’d have made partner last year. Instead he’d been told he’d remain of counsel , which translated to Don’t get your hopes up . Since then the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, and his cheeks had begun to sag into premature jowls. He had a disappointing tendency to let his setbacks eat him up. That was life, though: people disappoint you, so you’d better be able to take care of yourself.

Kenny came into the room with Mooch padding along behind him. The dog turned in circles before choosing a place on the rug to lie down. Kenny did the same, and they curled up together. “I hit the ball today,” Kenny said.

“I heard,” Kacy said. “Maybe you’ll be a pro-leaguer someday.”

“Big-leaguer,” Roger said.

“You know what I meant.”

Kenny smiled and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. He hugged Mooch tightly to himself, and the dog didn’t resist.

“Where’s April?” Roger asked.

“Out with William,” she said.

“Skillet?”

“William. Call him William.”

Watching Kenny, she remembered how different April had been, even at that age: shy, cautious to a fault, secretive, and prone to disappointments Kacy could see but not understand. Here was her brother, eleven years younger and completely unplanned, a high-spirited boy who loved his dog. She couldn’t help but look at him and think, Maybe this one will turn out normal.

Kacy waited for Dinaburg’s call. She’d perfected a new red-raspberry glaze, and she was eager to pitch it to him. He phoned the following Thursday night, while Kacy was frosting a cake shaped like the state capitol building for a reception at the Austin Historical Society. She sat at her desk and flipped open her sketchbook. “I’ve come up with some ideas I think you’ll love,” she told him. “This could be my best work ever.”

“We’ve decided to go with someone else,” Dinaburg said.

Her stomach plunged. “Pardon?”

“We’re getting a cake in Manhattan and flying it in.”

“Why?” she managed to ask. “You said you loved mine.”

“Mrs. Burroughs, or Kacy — may I call you Kacy? — I enjoyed meeting you, and I thought your cakes were fantastic, really first-rate stuff.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“We found one that tastes better.”

“The sample was frozen. I explained that. You said you wouldn’t hold it against me.” She felt herself gaining steam. She could push him, sell him. She could still win.

“You know what I think the difference is?” he said dreamily, more to himself than to her. “The water. There’s something about New York City water. The way it makes things taste. It’s magic.”

“The water?”

“What I mean is, you’re at a disadvantage. Your water just doesn’t have that same pizzazz. I’ll tell you a story: a friend of my father’s was a bagel maker on the Lower East Side, and when he retired to Boca Raton, he opened a new shop, but he could never get them to taste—”

“Cakes aren’t bagels. I don’t boil my cakes. Most don’t even have water in them.”

“Trust me, it makes a difference. It’s like my wife says—”

But Kacy had stopped listening. She murmured a good-bye, and she didn’t wait for him to offer one in return. She put the half-frosted capitol building into one of the refrigerators and turned out the lights. She slid open the doors to the family kitchen, closed them behind her, and dropped three ice cubes into an iced-tea glass, which she filled halfway with scotch. She swirled the glass, watching as the ice cracked and spun.

In bed that night, Roger nudged her awake three or four times because she was grinding her teeth. The first time she apologized. The second time she said, “Deal with it.” The last time she stayed awake long enough to watch him leave their room with a pillow under his arm.

On Monday morning, Kacy called the number on Dinaburg’s business card. The phone was answered by a secretary with a haughty tone, who pecked at Kacy with questions (Was she a client? No? Had she been referred to Mr. Dinaburg?) before putting her through.

“I have an idea,” Kacy told him. “I could use your water. You could ship it to me.”

“I appreciate the offer, Kacy,” he said. “I do. But it’s a done deal. Signatures have been signed. Cash has been paid. I’m sorry.”

After hanging up, Kacy flung open her desk drawer and took out a pack of Winstons that Marisol had left the last time she’d cleaned. She shook out a cigarette and rolled it in her fingers. She’d quit smoking three years before, so her taste buds could be in top shape. She considered lighting up, could almost feel the smoke caressing her lungs, but she tucked the cigarette back into the pack. She wasn’t about to let a man like Dinaburg-as-in-dynamo drive her back to a habit she’d worked so hard to break.

April appeared in the family kitchen and began pawing through the fridge. Her hair was limp and greasy, and a patch of scalp glared out at Kacy, pink and naked in a morning sunbeam. Kacy considered throwing the pack of cigarettes at her daughter. “Here,” she imagined saying, “try being self-destructive like a normal person.” But she didn’t throw the cigarettes, and she didn’t say anything — proof, maybe, that she was not the worst mother in the world, after all.

A week later, Kacy called Dinaburg again. She reached the same secretary, who sniffed and put her on hold. After a few minutes with Neil Diamond crooning tinnily over the line, Dinaburg picked up. “I’m sorry to bother you, Joel,” Kacy said, “but could you tell me where you’re getting the cake? I need to know my competition.”

“Sure,” he said, as if nothing were wrong, as if he’d never raised her hopes and then crapped all over them. “We’re getting it from Rona Silverman. You’ve heard of her, right? She’s famous. A New York institution.”