“Or maybe things ain’t like they should be between him and Karen,” said Hay wood. “You know, they ain’t been back home together in a long time.”
“Nadine said one of ’em came into the Coffee Pot the other day, ordered a breakfast plate and thought that the grits were cream of wheat. Wanted to know how he was supposed to put milk on ’em and them laying there on a flat plate. Can you believe that?”
“ ’Course it might be his work. I hear tell they’s lots of people losing their jobs these days.”
“Tink Dupree told Nadine he was going to get him one of those T-shirts that say We don’t give a fig HOW they do it in New York, only he didn’t say ‘fig,’ if you know what I mean.”
A little desperately, I said, “Everybody in favor of stopping for some barbecue, raise your hand.”
My family will drop every other subject to discuss food. We were still about five miles from Goldsboro and one of the three most popular barbecue houses in eastern North Carolina and I figured it would take them that long to decide on whether they wanted to go inside for a plate or get sandwiches to go.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I said. “Y’all are the ones catching a plane.”
More conferencing.
Their plane wasn’t due to leave till five. (“Course we’re supposed to get there and get checked in.”)
The Kinston airport was less than forty miles away. (“Say another hour at the rate we’re going?”)
“But if there’s a big crowd we might have to wait and—”
By then, I was pulling into the parking lot and the smoky aroma of grilled pork laced with vinegar and red pepper, not to mention the smell of deep-fried onion-flavored hush-puppies, decided them.
“We got plenty of time to go in and set down,” Haywood said happily.
Kinston is about a hundred miles east-southeast from the Raleigh-Durham Airport and visibility seemed to be better there. Radio reports said that RDU was canceling and/or diverting all flights. Not so at Kinston Airport
“Hell, yes, we’re going!” said a jovial white-haired man who seemed to know Haywood. He was also wearing an identical golf-green jacket. (“Money-green,” says Haywood.)
In feet, I saw four more solid green jackets and at least twenty more gold purses.
There was a festive air at this particular gate. The revelers ranged in age from mid-fifties to late seventies and came from all over eastern Carolina. Down East accents mingled with Low Country as the regulars greeted one another.
As soon as they started boarding their chartered plane, I went and called Kidd and told him to expect me within the hour.
26
« ^ » … The earth is rendered rich and delightful by the fine rivers and streams which glide through them.... It is incredible to think what plenty of fish is taken both in their salt and fresh water rivers…“Scotus Americanus,” 1773
New Bern, at the confluence of the Trent and Neuse rivers, is the second-oldest town in North Carolina. As the name implies, it was founded by Swiss, English, and German colonists under the leadership of Baron Christoph von Graffenried in 1710. There were actually more English in the party than Swiss, but since the Baron was Swiss and since it was his money bankrolling the settlers, he got to name it. As a result, every gift shop in town sells souvenirs embellished by the black bear, symbol of the original Bern, and the town hall’s red brick clock tower is thought to duplicate Swiss clock towers.
Despite the attempt to underline its Swiss connection, New Bern draws more tourists for its eighteenth-century English connection. Tryon Palace, the seat of royal colonial government, was built in 1770, burned in 1798, and has now been restored—overly restored some purists say—well past its original glory. Even so, this river town is an appealing mixture of old and new. Evergreen live oaks, spring-blooming dogwoods, and August-blooming crepe myrtles line the quaint streets. Expensive sailboats and sleek cruisers line the modern marinas along the badly polluted rivers. Resort hotels and restaurants fill in around the edges of the historic district to serve tourists and sailors alike. Summer can be pretty bad here, hot and humid and mosquito-laden unless the wind is blowing, but the other three seasons are pleasantly temperate.
New Bern itself is only thirty miles further east than Kinston, but since I always get lost when I try to take Kidd’s back-road shortcuts, I had to go into town, cross over the Neuse River and then backtrack west a little ways until I found the dirt road that winds through the trees to Kidd’s cabin on the north bank of the river.
It really is a log cabin. Kidd built it himself with the help of some friends from a kit that used passive solar design. It’s warm and sunny in the winter and cool and shady in the summer. The front door is on the same level as the gravel drive, but the land drops off sharply in back where a wide plank porch runs the entire length of the cabin. Viewed from this height, the Neuse is broad and deceptively beautiful.
Kidd was laughing as he came out to meet me. “I thought you were a lost insurance salesman,” he said. “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile, is it?”
That first kiss after long days and longer nights alone is always sweet. He’s the best kisser I’ve ever known anyhow, a man who takes his time and gives it serious attention.
Eventually we did get around to taking my garment bag and overnight case out of the car.
He had left the sliding glass doors to the porch open on either side of the stone fireplace; otherwise the night would have been almost too warm for the fire crackling on the hearth. The damp river air made it welcome.
The cabin’s decor is very definitely masculine, but without the spare bleakness of Mr. Jap’s house. Kidd likes stone and wood and glass, but he also likes comfort and color. The sectional couch that wraps around the fireplace is a deep wine red and tossed across one corner is a bright patchwork quilt his mother pieced together when he was a little boy. Framed posters advertising various coastal attractions are clustered on one wall, another holds enlarged photographs of local birds. A musket that his great-great-grandfather carried in the Civil War hangs over the fireplace. (And carried is the operative word. According to Kidd, he spent three years in uniform and only shot birds, squirrels and rabbits for the regimental cookpot.)
In front of the couch, a low table held champagne flutes and an ice bucket.
“Are we celebrating something?”
He grinned. “Whatever you happen to feel thankful for.”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
We drank champagne and ate grilled sea bass in front of the fire, and later we made love there, too.
Later still, wrapped together in his quilt, we drank the last of the champagne and watched the fire die down to coals while the running lights of boats drifted past, far down on the river.
“Yes,” I murmured sleepily.
“Yes, what?” His lips brushed my brow.
“Yes, I am thankful.”
Thanksgiving Day dawned mild and foggy again with a brightness that promised sunshine by noon. Kidd’s a morning person and when I slid a foot over to his side around nine-thirty, he’d been up so long that my toes found no residual warmth from his body.
But the low murmur of his voice floated up through the open window and I saw him sitting on the porch steps, talking to the dogs as he gave them a good brushing. Occasionally he’d pause to scratch their heads and gaze out over the river where the fog hung in hazy layers.
“Don’t look all the pretty off the morning,” I said. “Save some of it for me.”
“Better hurry up then.”