Spring comes late in Maine. Snow changes to rain; branch tips redden; you can see your breath. Not a whole lot different than winter until the daffodils, crab apples, and forsythia bloom. The sun skips off the water, impossibly bright, impossibly blue. You can almost almost hear the cracking of seeds, buried and forgotten.
Charlie Garrett was as hardnosed as most. He kept going, did what he had to. "Ninety percent of success is showing up," Woody Allen said. Charlie repeated that in dire times—before medical checkups or visits to his brother, Orson.
Orson knew a lot about success and never hesitated to pass it on. "What you need, Charlie, is a Cessna. You aren't supposed to spin them, but you can. That'll clear your head, Charlie, straight down, counting as a barn comes around—one time, two times, three times—correct and pull out nice and easy." Orson dipped his knees, lowering his flattened palm. Or a catboat: "A solid little Marshall, Charlie. Putter around, take some cutie coasting. You're in sailor heaven, man, all those islands."
"I know some cuties," Miranda had said.
"Last cutie took my silver garlic press. Well, she didn't take it; she borrowed it and never returned it."
"Call her up and get it back," Orson said.
"That's what she wants you to do." Miranda was the best thing about
Orson.
"I got another one."
"Where the hell did you find a silver garlic press?" Orson was impressed.
"It's aluminum, I think, or a composite material."