got a few things to finish up in the kitchen before we can eat.”
“Can I help?” asked Rudy. The pungent fragrance of garlic wafted from the open doorway. “It smells great.”
“I’m making pasta. And a Bolognese sauce. There’s a bottle of valpolicella on the dining room table. Help yourself. Unless you’d prefer beer or a soft drink.” John watched him for a moment, his expression amused.
“No, the wine’s fine.” The one perceived vice Rudy’s father had not denied himself — or Rudy — was alcohol. Rudy had grown up drinking wine and beer at church festivals.
“Great. I’ll just be in here.” John crossed to the kitchen and disappeared.
Rudy’s attention was drawn immediately to an old upright piano. Two pictures rested side by side on the back. Picking one up, he saw that it was a high school graduation photo. This was the first time he’d seen John without a beard. Even though the face was young, the expression was every bit as determined, the eyes no less thoughtful. He studied it briefly before turning it over. On the back was the photographer’s imprint: kekkonen photography, deer river, Minnesota. Interesting. John had never said where he was from. The second photo was much like the first. Only this time, the young man was blond. Must be a friend, thought Rudy. He knew John was an only child. Setting the picture back on the piano, he headed into the dining room in search of wine.
“Where’s Deer River?” asked Rudy. He stood in front of a chopping-block table, cutting up a cucumber for their salad.
John, who was waiting for the water to boil, glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“I noticed the photos on the piano.”
“Oh. Right. Well, are you familiar with northern Minnesota?”
“Somewhat. My mother’s family is from Bovey. That’s near Grand Rapids.”
John smiled. “Is that right? It’s a small world. Deer River isn’t far from there.” He returned his gaze to the pot.
“Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Your family. Living in a small town. You know. Your roots.”
John shook his head. “I miss … the woods. My father died when I was eleven. We were quite close. And Mom … just a year ago. I don’t have any family left, other than an aunt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose you miss her — your mother, I mean. It was such a short while ago.” Rudy thought of his father.
Turning around, John nearly knocked his wineglass off the counter.
“Was she ill?”
He shook his head. “It was” — he paused — “a freak accident. Our house sat on about fifteen acres. It was a densely wooded area. She was out back digging potatoes one afternoon when a rifle shot hit her. Best the police could figure was that it was a hunter. We had signs posted near the highway that said it was private property, but it seemed like every year we’d get some yahoo stomping around looking for deer in the fall.”
“That’s … awful.” Rudy felt an involuntary shudder. He quickly finished his second glass of wine.
John picked up the wooden spoon and resumed stirring the sauce. “Do you miss your family in Montana?”
Rudy could tell he wanted to change the subject. That was fine with him. “Not really. But sometimes …”
“Sometimes what?”
“Well, I mean sometimes I think what I miss most is what I never had. I suppose that sounds funny.”
“No,” said John. “I know what you mean.”
Rudy was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the entire subject. “So,” he said, starting on a green pepper, “you must be feeling pretty great about your rave review.”
John stiffened. He kept his back to Rudy as he said, “I called Micklenberg to thank him. I don’t know why. I should have let well enough alone.”
“Why?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Absolutely. I’ll admit I was
“Can I help?” asked Rudy. The pungent fragrance of garlic wafted from the open doorway. “It smells great.”
“I’m making pasta. And a Bolognese sauce. There’s a bottle of valpolicella on the dining room table. Help yourself. Unless you’d prefer beer or a soft drink.” John watched him for a moment, his expression amused.
“No, the wine’s fine.” The one perceived vice Rudy’s father had not denied himself — or Rudy — was alcohol. Rudy had grown up drinking wine and beer at church festivals.
“Great. I’ll just be in here.” John crossed to the kitchen and disappeared.
Rudy’s attention was drawn immediately to an old upright piano. Two pictures rested side by side on the back. Picking one up, he saw that it was a high school graduation photo. This was the first time he’d seen John without a beard. Even though the face was young, the expression was every bit as determined, the eyes no less thoughtful. He studied it briefly before turning it over. On the back was the photographer’s imprint: kekkonen photography, deer river, Minnesota. Interesting. John had never said where he was from. The second photo was much like the first. Only this time, the young man was blond. Must be a friend, thought Rudy. He knew John was an only child. Setting the picture back on the piano, he headed into the dining room in search of wine.
“Where’s Deer River?” asked Rudy. He stood in front of a chopping-block table, cutting up a cucumber for their salad.
John, who was waiting for the water to boil, glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“I noticed the photos on the piano.”
“Oh. Right. Well, are you familiar with northern Minnesota?”
“Somewhat. My mother’s family is from Bovey. That’s near Grand Rapids.”
John smiled. “Is that right? It’s a small world. Deer River isn’t far from there.” He returned his gaze to the pot.
“Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Your family. Living in a small town. You know. Your roots.”
John shook his head. “I miss … the woods. My father died when I was eleven. We were quite close. And Mom … just a year ago. I don’t have any family left, other than an aunt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose you miss her — your mother, I mean. It was such a short while ago.” Rudy thought of his father.
Turning around, John nearly knocked his wineglass off the counter.
“Was she ill?”
He shook his head. “It was” — he paused — “a freak accident. Our house sat on about fifteen acres. It was a densely wooded area. She was out back digging potatoes one afternoon when a rifle shot hit her. Best the police could figure was that it was a hunter. We had signs posted near the highway that said it was private property, but it seemed like every year we’d get some yahoo stomping around looking for deer in the fall.”
“That’s … awful.” Rudy felt an involuntary shudder. He quickly finished his second glass of wine.
John picked up the wooden spoon and resumed stirring the sauce. “Do you miss your family in Montana?”
Rudy could tell he wanted to change the subject. That was fine with him. “Not really. But sometimes …”
“Sometimes what?”
“Well, I mean sometimes I think what I miss most is what I never had. I suppose that sounds funny.”
“No,” said John. “I know what you mean.”
Rudy was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the entire subject. “So,” he said, starting on a green pepper, “you must be feeling pretty great about your rave review.”
John stiffened. He kept his back to Rudy as he said, “I called Micklenberg to thank him. I don’t know why. I should have let well enough alone.”
“Why?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Absolutely. I’ll admit I was
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