Kathy Reichs: Bare Bones

Katy turned onto a two-lane narrower than the blacktop we were leaving. Pines and hardwoods crowded both shoulders.

“Boyd likes the country,” Katy added.

“Boyd only likes things he can eat.”

Katy glanced at a Xerox copy of a hand-drawn map, stuck it back behind the visor.

“Should be about three miles up on the right. It’s an old farm.”

We’d been traveling for almost an hour.

“The guy lives out here and owns a pipe store in Charlotte?” I asked.

“The original McCranie’s is at Park Road Shopping Center.”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke pipes.”

“They also have zillions of cigars.”

“There’s the problem. I haven’t laid in this year’s stock.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of McCranie’s. The place is a Charlotte institution. People just kind of gather there. Have for years. Mr. McCranie’s retired now, but his sons have taken over the business. The one who lives out here works at their new shop in Cornelius.”

“And?” Rising inflection.

“And what?” My daughter looked at me with innocent green eyes.

“Is he cute?”

“He’s married.”

Major-league eye roll.

“But he has a friend?” I probed.

“You got to have friends,” she sang.

Boyd spotted a retriever in the bed of a pickup speeding in the opposite direction. Rrrrppping, he lunged from my side to Katy’s, thrust his head as far out as the half-open glass would allow, and gave his best if- I- weren’t- trapped- in- this- car growl.

“Sit,” I ordered.

Boyd sat.

“Will I meet this friend?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Within minutes parked vehicles crowded both shoulders. Katy pulled behind those on the right, killed the engine, and got out.

Boyd went berserk, racing from window to window, tongue sucking in and dropping out of his mouth.

Katy dug folding chairs from the trunk and handed them to me. Then she clipped a leash to Boyd’s collar. The dog nearly dislocated her shoulder in his eagerness to join the party.

Perhaps a hundred people were gathered under enormous elms in the backyard, a grassy strip about twenty yards wide between woods and a yellow frame farmhouse. Some occupied lawn chairs, others milled about or stood in twos and threes, balancing paper plates and cans of beer.

Many wore athletic caps. Many smoked cigars.

A group of children played horseshoes outside a barn that hadn’t seen paint since Cornwallis marched through. Others chased each other, or tossed balls and Frisbees back and forth.

A bluegrass band had set up between the house and barn, at the farthest point permitted by their extension cords. Despite the heat, all four wore suits and ties. The lead singer was whining out “White House Blues.” Not Bill Monroe, but not bad.

A young man materialized as Katy and I were adding our chairs to a semicircle facing the bluegrass boys.

“Kater!”

Kater? It rhymed with “tater.” I peeled my shirt from my sweaty back.

“Hey, Palmer.”

Palmer? I wondered if his real name was Palmy.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet Palmer Cousins.”

“Hey, Dr. Brennan.”

Palmer whipped off his shades and shot out a hand. Though not tall, the young man had abundant black hair, blue eyes, and a smile like Tom Cruise’s in Risky Business. He was almost disconcertingly good-looking.

“Tempe.” I offered a hand.

Palmer’s shake was a bone crusher.

“Katy’s told me a lot about you.”

“Really?” I looked at my daughter. She was looking at Palmer.

“Who’s the pooch?”

“Boyd.”

Palmer leaned over and scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd licked his face. Three slaps to the haunch, then Palmer was back at our level.

“Nice dog. Can I get you ladies a couple of brews?”

“I’ll have one,” Katy chirped. “Diet Coke for Mom. She’s an alckie.”

I shot my daughter a look that could have frozen boiling tar.

“Help yourself to chow.” Palmer set off.

Hearing what he thought was a reference to his bloodline, Boyd shot forward, yanking the leash from Katy’s hand, and began racing in circles around Palmer’s legs.

Recovering his balance, Palmer turned, a look of uncertainty on his perfect face.

“He’s OK off the leash?”

Katy nodded. “But watch him around food.”

She retrieved the leash and unclipped it from the collar.

Palmer gave a thumbs-up.

Boyd raced in delighted circles.

Behind the main house, folding tables offered homemade concoctions in Tupperware tubs. Coleslaw. Potato salad. Baked beans. Greens.

One table was covered with disposable aluminum trays mounded with shredded pork. On the edge of the woods, wisps of smoke still floated from the giant cooker that had been going all night.

Another table held sweets. Another, salads.

“Shouldn’t we have brought a dish?” I asked as we surveyed the Martha Stewart country-dining assemblage.

Katy pulled a bag of Fig Newtons from her purse and parked it on the dessert table.

I did some eye rolling of my own.

When Katy and I returned to our chairs the banjo player was doing “Rocky Top.” Not Pete Seeger, but not bad.

For the next two hours a parade of folks stopped by to chat. It was like career day at the junior high. Lawyers. Pilots. Mechanics. A judge. Computer geeks. A former student, now a homemaker. I was surprised at the number of CMPD cops that I knew.

Several McCranies came over, welcoming us and expressing thanks for our coming. Palmer Cousins also came and went.

I learned that Palmer had been a fix-up through Lija, Katy’s best friend since the fourth grade. I also learned that Lija, having completed a BA in sociology at the University of Georgia, was working in Charlotte as a paramedic.

Most important of all, I learned that Palmer was single, twenty-seven, a Wake Forest biology grad currently employed with the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service at its field office in Columbia, South Carolina.

And a McCranie’s regular when he was back home in Charlotte. The missing piece in why I was now munching on pulled pork in a clover field.

Boyd alternated between sleeping at our feet, racing with varying aggregates of children, and working the crowd, attaching himself to whoever looked like the easiest touch. He was in nap phase when a group of kids ran up requesting his company.

Boyd opened one eye, readjusted his chin on his paws. A girl of around ten wearing a purple Bible Girl cape and headgear waggled a cornmeal muffin. Boyd was off.

Watching them round the barn, I remembered Katy’s words on the phone about Boyd wanting to have a conversation.

“What was it the chow wanted to discuss?”

“Oh, yeah. Dad’s got a trial going in Asheville, so I’ve been taking care of Boyd.” A thumbnail teased the edge of her Budweiser label. “He thinks he’s going to be there another three weeks. But, um…” She dug a long tunnel in the wet paper. “Well, I think I’m going to move uptown for the rest of the summer.”

“Uptown?”

“With Lija. She’s got this really cool town house in Third Ward, and her new roommate can’t occupy until September. And Dad’s gone, anyway.” The beer label was now effectively shredded. “So I thought it would be fun to, you know, just live down there for a few weeks. She’s not going to charge me rent or anything.”

“Just until school starts.”

Katy was in her sixth and, by parental dictate, last undergraduate year at the University of Virginia.

“Of course.”

“You’re not thinking of dropping out.”

The World Cup of eye rolls.

“Do you and Dad have the same scriptwriters?”

I could see where the conversation was going.