Edward Lee: Family Tradition

Ashton stood impermeably stunned.

Giddily as if meeting Brad Pitt, this filth-flecked Esau character huffed to show more of his devotion. “See, see, Mr. Morrone? I even got the mitt!” and then he donned the official Cooking With Ashton stove mitt.

You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sheree thought again.

“My…goodness,” Ashton remarked. “I’m flattered.”

“Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, I live to watch yer show. See, we got one’a them fancified dish-things in back, gets all the cable shows, and my brother Enoch, he didn’t bitch much ’cos he likes ta watch WCW rasslin’,—Sting and all that Goldberg nonsense—but most other times he’ll bitch like a housewife ’bout spendin’ money on account’a we don’t make much, but anyway, I watch all the cookin’ shows— Great Chefs of the World, Epicurious, Carlo’s Creations, Kinion’s Seafood Wonder Kitchen— and none of ’em ain’t dog-doo compared to yer’s, sir.” The rotund and quite malodorous redneck rambled on, visibly shaking with nervousness. “Ya see, sir, I’m a chef too, just like you—er, well, not like you, on account you’re the finest chef in the whole dang world.”

Ashton flashed his big white teeth. “Well, maybe not the finest in the world. I think maybe Wolfgang Kissler and Andrew Puck might have half a leg up on me,” he admitted with a chuckle.

Esau wouldn’t hear of it. “ Those dang idjits? Shee-it, they cain’t flip burgers! They don’t know the difference ’tween julienne leeks and Julie Strain. I could kick both their asses with one hand and whip up an plate’a mocha tartufo with the other!”

Ashton went red in the face honking laughter. Eventually he introduced everyone else and explained that they’d come to fish.

“You want good fishin’, Mr. Morrone,” Esau guaranteed, “well Harstene Lake’s got it. We got shad, we got walleye, we got bull trout, brown trout, and blue trout. We got the bridgelip sucker and the greengill sunfish. Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, we got it all!”

“Well…Esau,” Ashton attempted to pronounce. “That sounds terrific. We’ve got our Winnebago and boat on the other side of the lake, so—”

Ashton’s words stopped short like a cartoon character screeching on brakes. His big nostrils opened when he sniffed. “What’s that you’re cooking? It smells great.”

“Aw, just some mushrooms for a quick duck-savior flan. It’s for my Grandpa. He loves it.” Esau extended his dirty hand toward the butcher block table where a small pile of black shriveled things lay.

Ashton’s eyes narrowed in his bulging face. “Mushrooms? Those look like… Perigord truffles.”

“Yeah,” Esau casually confirmed. “They grow all over the island, big as coffee saucers. But if ya ask me, sir, the Gleba truffle is much better than the Perigord. Same flavor but no sting on the palette.”

“What the fuck are they talking about?” Carol whispered to Sheree.

“Tree fungus,” Sheree informed. “Tastes just like mushrooms from the grocery store but the stuff they’re talking about costs hundreds or dollars per pound, wholesale.”

Carol’s nose skrinshed. “It looks like a pile of shit.”

But Ashton was staring at the indecorous rube, floored by his knowledge.

“I agree,” he admitted. “But I hope you’re sweating them in—”

Esau smiled proud. “Cottonseed oil, never olive.”

Ashton and the rube continued their banter while Bob smoked cigarettes. “We’re gonna take a walk,” Carol announced to no response, then grabbed Sheree’s bare upper arm and guided her out.

“Can you believe that geek bullshit?” Carol said once they were back outside. “They’re in there talking about tree fungus the way most men talk about football and Playboy. ”

Sheree lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “That shows you where Ashton’s mind is at. All the fat fuck gives a shit about is food.”

“And all Bob cares about is money.”

Sheree snorted a laugh. “Well, I hope Bob gives you more action than Ashton gives me.”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Carol nearly squealed.

For some reason, Sheree felt inclined to confide. “Think you can guess the last time Ashton actually fucked me?”

“I don’t know. A couple weeks?”

“Try eight months. Usually he just asks for blowjobs—”

“Says he’s too tired or stressed out to fuck, right?”

Sheree looked at her friend. “Yeah. How did you know th—”

“Look, look!” Carol suddenly squealed, pointing down over a wooden ramp rail on the side of the bait shop. “See it?”

“What?” Sheree asked.

“Right there! It’s a widget!”

“A… what? ”

“A widget! Right there! Lean over the rail! It’s right there!”

Flummoxed, Sheree leaned over the wooden rail, peeling her eyes.

“I don’t see anything,” she admitted.

But by then it was to late. Sheree had fallen for it. When she’d leaned over the rail to see the “widget,” Carol pressed her open hand firmly up against Sheree’s crotch, then gave a few slow rubs.

Sheree froze, as much from the shock as from the sudden spark of pleasure. But then she stood back up and looked right at Carol.

“Fooled ya.” Carol shot a vulpine grin. “I just didn’t want you to forget…”

Carol pressed her lips to Sheree’s, drew her tongue out and sucked it. At the same time, a slim hand slid up under Sheree’s haltertop, squeezed a tit like testing a melon for ripeness. Next, her nipple was pinched. Hard.

Sheree gasped.

Carol gave Sheree’s tongue one last firm suck, then their lips parted. “Tonight I’m gonna suck your pussy,” Carol said. “ If you’re game.”

Sheree could only look back into Carol’s light-emerald eyes. Her sex twitched at the mere words. “I’ll think I’ll be game and then some,” she promised.

— | — | —

Chapter Five

“Are we still going to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you…scared?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“We’re going to do it!” Bess shouted, pumping the oars of the small blow-up raft. Bess sat astern, which might explain why the raft’s bow lifted several inches out of the water.

With my luck, the damn thing’ll sink!

Bess—chestnut hair and beautiful autumn-leaf eyes—weighed 240 pounds. At five-foot one, that was a lot of gal. Her friend—her only friend—Mavis, sat aloft at the puny raft’s bow. Mavis had chestnut hair too, and eyes more caramel-brown than autumn leaf. At 85 pounds, she looked like a skin-covered skeleton in baggy shorts and X-Files t-shirt. Just before Bess had picked her up, she’d posted her suicide note on David Duchovny’s message board. He was just… so dreamy.

“We’re both outcasts!” Bess shrieked in reminder. “We’re both misfits! Nobody at school likes us! I’m fat, you’re skinny! We’re never going to have dates! And we agreed! We’re going to kill ourselves.” Her eyes inadvertently glanced at the Remington pump shotgun on the raft’s vinyl floorboards amid several empty packages of Suzy-Q’s and pork rinds. She’d stolen the shotgun from her father, who was always saying to her at breakfast: “I guess the diet starts tomorrow, huh, honey?” Fuck you, she thought. The shotgun, she knew, housed five rounds. The first she’d discharged into Dear Old Dad’s face right over his plate of syrup-and-butter-drenched Eggo waffles and two glistening breakfast links.

“Enjoy your breakfast, prick!” then WHAM! The Remington 16-gauge round had turned her father’s face into a splat of meat balls and sauce. His brains flew out the back of his head and hung on the wall in curiously colored lumps, and even more spectacular was the way his toupee popped off his head. She’d dug Dad’s keys out of his pants and driven the Caddy straight to Mavis’, but not before snitching those two hot, greasy Jimmy Dean links off Dad’s plate.