A Scene Out West

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Bill Irish surveyed his kingdom. He stood on the deck at the front of his modular home, leaning against the banister. Long ends of light hairs beneath the edges of a wool cap flitted about on a thin breeze. 

Bill lifted his broad nostrils toward the sky and drew in a long, appreciating breath of salty air. 

White smoke emanating from a black grill swirled skyward. A squat glass sat on a picnic table, an ice cube slowly melting as it floated in a golden-brown liquid. 

Bill’s home looked as old and worn as everything else in view. Boats in the harbor and the few other houses near to Bill’s had seen better days—decades ago. 

Bill lifted and drank from the glass then held it out to inspect the distillate. Satisfied, he slurped more of the liquid, dragged a callused palm over his long, gray whiskers, and then dried his hand on threadbare jeans. 

He returned his gaze to the dry-docked boats, stacks of crab pots, rusting equipment, and rotting fishnets in the marina below. 

Beyond, a boat chugged into the harbor, stalled, and then drifted perfectly into its slip. Bill grabbed up a pair of binoculars and spied the craft. He set the binocs down and gave an approving nod. 

Just then a sputtering, backfiring jalopy pulled into a vacant spot beside Bill’s rusting pickup. 

Doreen McDonagh stepped out of the faded red sedan, waved up at Bill, then bent over and, with hands on knees, wheezed and coughed a minute-long fit before attempting to climb the stairs to Bill.

Bill headed toward the stairs and Doreen. She waved him off. “I got this,” she said between coughs and gasps for air. 

Bill, aided by his cane with its four rubber-capped feet, hobbled to the grill and lifted its lid. Using a long pair of tongs, he flipped over a hunk of beef and rolled ears of corn, neatly wrapped in foil, a quarter turn each.

As he finished this task and closed the lid, eyes watering against the smoke, Doreen made the top step. There, she paused, gasped for breath, and wheeze some more. 

Eyes finally cleared, Bill crossed the space to Doreen, took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek. She mewed. He led her to a sagging lounge chair beside the picnic table.

“Want a beer, Dee Dee?” asked Bill.

“Sure. Whatcha burnin’ on the barbecue, Billy?” she replied.

Bill opened a cooler and withdrew a silvery can from watered-down ice before responding. “Doing a tri-tip for me. Got you some fresh halibut from Skunky’s boat this morning. I’ll put the fish on the grill in a few minutes, after I take off the corn. 

Doreen lit up a cigarette and gently pulled in a bit of burning tobacco leaf. She stifled another coughing fit, and then settled into her chair. Bill opened the beer, slipped it into a neoprene cozy, and handed it to Doreen. 

“When will we stop meetin’ like this, Billy?” 

“Not ‘til our dying days, Dee Dee. Not ‘til our dying days.”

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