Alice Washington.
Washington—for God’s sake!
I am from New England originally, a small town in Massachusetts, famous for a pond.
I wondered where Cliff was from.
“It’s a cuckoo’s, sir—I know all about it; except where he was born, and who were his parents, and how he got his money at first,” is how Nelly, the housekeeper in Wuthering Heights, describes Heathcliff.*****
***** Brontë, Wuthering Heights, p. 35.
A solitary bird known as a brood parasite, the cuckoo lays its eggs in another bird’s nest, then leaves. When the baby cuckoo hatches—the cuckoo egg usually hatches first—he pushes all the other birds or eggs, as the case may be, out of the nest and takes all the food for himself from his surrogate parents.
I don’t remember where I read this story. The story takes place during the Renaissance, in Florence. It seems that a certain countess, who lived in a beautiful palazzo, had her jewels stolen. Every day during one hot summer—the windows of the palazzo all left open—another ring, another bracelet and necklace, went missing from her dressing table in her bedroom. She accused her maid. The maid denied any knowledge of the missing jewels, but the maid was fired. More servants were fired. No one admitted to stealing the countess’s jewels, and the countess never got any satisfaction before she died. But many, many years later, while some workmen were redoing the facade of the palazzo, hidden high up in the eaves, they came across a nest. Guess what they found inside it?
Charlie got to know Cliff when he began taking flying lessons that summer. The airport, as the crow flies, was only a few miles from the farm, and Charlie maintained that his whole entire life his ambition was to fly.
“Really?” I was skeptical.
“I hate to fly,” I also said.
Charlie just laughed.
“Wait and see,” he said. “Once I get my pilot’s license, I’ll take you to Rehoboth Beach.”
Rehoboth Beach is a popular vacation destination. The wooden boardwalk is a mile long and lined with shops, restaurants, and attractions. Located near the boardwalk, the Rehoboth Beach Bandstand holds open-air concerts during the summer season.
Cliff owned a Cessna 172 Skyhawk. The Cessna 172 Skyhawk is a four-seat, single-engine, high-wing, fixed-wing aircraft.
“It’s a safe plane,” Charlie reported. “The Skyhawk has the best accident rate in private aviation.”
After his flying lessons, Charlie started going up with Cliff. Additional instruction, I suppose. They didn’t go far; they just flew around the county. One time they nearly ran out of gas as they were circling our farm—I was out riding and the plane was flying so low that my horse shied. They made it back to the airport just in time.
“You could have gotten me killed,” I told Charlie when he got home.
“You’re lucky we didn’t get killed,” Charlie answered.
One sock—buy him.
Two socks—try him.
Three socks—doubt him.
Four socks—do without him.
Four white feet and a white nose—knock him in the head and feed him to the crows.
The old adage horsemen like to spout about horses’ markings is dead wrong.
My nine-year-old chestnut mare, Esmeralda, Esmé for short, had four white stockings and a star on her forehead and was a sweetheart. I had had her for four years and she had calmed down a lot since we bought her. She had comfortable gaits and she could jump like “a toad in a thunderstorm”—who said that? Mark Twain? She was usually pretty calm and the only thing that really bothered her was a loud noise—a car door slamming or a gunshot. We were riding along the road one day when a truck went by and the driver blew his air horn at us, and, bucking, Esmé bolted and I nearly got thrown.
I read the part in Wuthering Heights where it is Nelly, the housekeeper, and not Catherine who tries to dispel Heathcliff’s black mood by telling him: “You’re fit for a prince in disguise. Who knows, but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian queen.”******
The movie version with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon, directed by William Wyler, is, in fact, quite different from the novel.
****** Brontë, Wuthering Heights, p. 58.
One afternoon when the weather—heavy rain and predicted thunderstorms—kept them from flying, Charlie brought Cliff home. The two men sat in the living room drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. (Charlie had a cache of contraband Cuban cigars.) The cigar smoke drove me out. Upstairs, I could hear the twins running from room to room, playing a noisy game, and I longed for something else—something different.
Cliff came to the door of the kitchen and stood watching me as I was starting to fix dinner.
“What are you cooking?” he asked.
“Beef bourguignon,” I replied without looking up.
“A French dish,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“Smells good,” he said, before he turned around and left.
The next time Cliff came to the house, Charlie was still out feeding the horses and I let Cliff in.
“How’s Sally?” I asked him.
“Don’t know.”
“Oh, why not?”
“I guess we’re not seeing each other anymore.” Then, after he had come inside and taken off his jacket, he said, “Happy?”
I shrugged and went back into the kitchen.
Cliff, I had heard, had a wife, but they were separated. He also had a son.
“So—how old is your son?” I asked, to change the subject.
“Alex is five.”
We were both silent.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.
“Spaghetti,” I answered.
“Oh, I was hoping you would cook that French dish—what did you call it? Beef something.”
Taking my arm, Cliff turned me to him and kissed me.
“Beef bourguignon,” I said, when he let me go.
His fingers left marks on my forearm.
Recipe for Beef Bourguignon
6 ounces bacon
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 pounds lean stewing beef, cut into 2-inch cubes
1 carrot, peeled and sliced
1 onion, peeled and sliced
1 teaspoon salt
1⁄4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons flour
3 cups red wine (preferably a Bordeaux or a Burgundy)
2 to 3 cups beef stock
1 tablespoon tomato paste
2 cloves garlic, mashed
1 sprig thyme
1 fresh bay leaf . . . etc.
Recipe for Spaghetti
Put a lot of water in a pot, bring to a boil, dump the spaghetti in the water, cook for about ten minutes, drain the spaghetti, done.
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