San Joaquin Valley, California
“Our fear of death is like our fear that summer will be short, but when we have had our swing of pleasure, our fill of fruit, and our swelter of heat, we say we have had our day.”
I can’t find words of my own for comfort so I rely on the words of an old friend.
~ S.
Scott concluded the only difference between a Winifred McLoughlin Holiday and a Winifred McLoughlin Workday was a change in scenery. She had commandeered the kitchen by the first morning of her arrival which inspired substantial meals, daily cooking lessons, late night warm milk conversations and a brief yet memorable lecture on embellishing. Scott was taken back to his childhood every time he heard a Gaelic tune humming down a hallway or filtering through an open window. She adopted Teresa as she had his little cousin, and it was obvious Johnny succeeded in winning her heart after his dinner remark regarding Kinsey’s backside. As the rest of the family admonished his younger brother, Scott spied Winnie hiding a smile behind her wine glass. It was the same devilish smile he had witnessed on other occasions, leading Scott to believe Winifred had given her own father a few gray hairs in her early years. Yes, he had to admit he didn't condone Kinsey’s method of enticing Winnie to California but he was damn glad she did.
However, Scott found keeping up with the strained politeness and the sidestepping Murdoch had demonstrated since their guest’s arrival was more exhausting than waltzing with the McGuire twins. Winnie’s visit would soon be coming to a close, and it was evident the wall built between the two still existed.
“Thank you, Winnie, for another one of your fine meals served to remedy my scrawniness.”
Earlier, Scott had indicated to Kinsey and Teresa he would appreciate some time on his own with Winnie. This meant, after the last bite of dessert, they were to ‘get lost and take Johnny with you’. Scott grabbing the evening’s plates with a wink was the designated signal.
“And what do ye think ye be doin’ there?”
“You taught me to be self-sufficient, Winifred. I think cleaning a dirty dish is a fine example.” A raised eyebrow told Scott his answer was lacking. “I gave the young ladies the night off. You’re stuck with me.”
The familiar ritual of washing and drying dishes satisfied the next few moments.
“So Winnie, are you convinced I'm not living in Satan’s hellhole?”
“I am. But the kitchen pantry is lacking the finer things in life.”
Scott slowed his motion of wiping a plate. “Well, I believe what this pantry is missing can be found in the study’s oak cabinet.”
“I know what ye be speakin’ about boy, and like yer father would appreciate my invasion of his liquor cabinet.”
Scott weighed the odds of embellishment. Granted, Kinsey didn't fair well, however, he felt his chance of another broken spoon was slim.
“It will be fine. Murdoch doesn't care, ask Johnny. Why don't you bring us a bottle to assist in our reminiscing and your arthritis.”
It didn't take much convincing on Scott’s part to send his friend on her search. Winnie was pleased to find the room unoccupied as she opened the cabinet’s doors.
“Looking for something, old woman?”
The voice came from a darkened corner near the bookshelves.
“Yes, I am, old man. Yer son thinks ye possess enough good taste to have it stocked but I highly doubt it.”
“Bottom shelf. On the right. Near the back.”
Winnie reached in and retrieved a familiar sight. “Well now, a brand new bottle of the Jameson. One might think yer expecting company.”
“One never knows what dust the wind will blow in.”
Winnie stared at the shadows for a moment before turning to leave. “Me arthritis thanks ye.”
“Wait.”
Murdoch rose from the sanctuary of a leather chair and saw fit to retrieve his own decanter and two glasses. “I hate to drink alone.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. Follow me.”
The checkerboard was pushed aside to allow the Jameson and the Glenlivit to play on their own moonlit imaginary battlefield.
Murdoch reached into his shirt pocket to produce two cigars. Prepping and lighting one, he offered it to his drinking companion.
“If memory serves me correctly, Winifred Mae, you never had the willpower to turn down a good cigar.”
Winnie’s devilish grin returned as she accepted Murdoch's version of a ceremonial pipe. Lightening his own, the patriarch tried not to smile as he listened to the coughing from across the table.
“Ah Murdoch, that’s not a reflection on this fine cigar, just me lack of practice.”
“Harlan finally got wise and started locking up his smokes, did he?”
It was Winnie’s turn to stifle a chuckle.
Sips were taken as the scent of cigar smoke carried across the courtyard.
“Winifred, I know Kinsey can be damn convincing. I’ve had first-hand experience on more than one occasion. But she’s not that conniving to get you to travel three thousand miles. Why are you here?”
“To voice my regrets.”
“It’s all in the past, Winnie…”
“Shut up old man. Smoke yer cigar, drink yer drink and listen. I was good at pointing fingers at others when I should have been pointing at me self. Keepin’ me mouth shut all those years was unfair to Scotty. It was unfair to his father. I should have found a compromise but it was Harlan’s face I had to look at each day. Not offerin’ an excuse for my actions; there is none. Just statin’ my reasoning at the time. I kept waiting for ye to show up on the doorstep to fight the fight.”
“And there lies my regrets, Winnie. I should have fought harder.” The older man paused before pushing forward. “You could have said all this in a letter.”
“I needed to come and see Scotty’s life as it is now. It was my one chance. I’m dyin’, you old bull. The poison takes away a little piece of me each day.”
Murdoch’s first words were the most sincere he had ever spoken to the woman sitting across from him. “Dear God, Winnie. No. I can’t accept this. You’re mistaken.” Collecting his thoughts he continued. “Stay. We have doctors in San Francisco…”
“Who will say exactly what the doctors in Boston and the doctors in Philadelphia and the doctors in New York City all said. I’m telling ye what I told Harlan; no more doctors. I’m weary of the pokes and the prods and the shaking of heads. I’m an old woman that wants to be left alone with her cigar and her Jameson.”
“Have you told Scott?”
“No. And neither will you. My time here is to be a good memory. I don’t want to see that look in the boy’s eyes.”
Following the sound of voices and the smell of cigars, Scott found old habits die hard. Like the times as a child when he eavesdropped from Winnie’s kitchen back stairwell, he now sat on the back steps of the hacienda’s kitchen. Heartbroken.
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