Little Ray

June

The solstice sun hovers above the ridgeline, bathing the backyard at The ’Stead in a honeyed light. A breeze rolls down off the hills, carrying the scent of pine. Fully outfitted for the summer social season, the patio area hums with anticipation.

There is the main picnic table that comfortably seats eight, a circular umbrella table surrounded by six matched lawn chairs, and a designated firepit boasting a neatly stacked, fully-stocked rick of split hardwood. Flanking a makeshift utility table weighed down with tongs, spatulas, and paper towels stand the dual cooking stations: a classic round, charcoal Weber grill emitting its first whispers of gray smoke, and a hefty stainless-steel gas grill ready for action.

A gravel-crunching car door slams out front, followed by a boisterous guffaw.

“And now—drum roll, please—fresh from The Villages, Florida, the very heart and soul of America, making the country Great, it’s Lorette and Little Ray!” a voice bellows. “Let the summer begin!”

“His Immenseness has arrived,” Grace mutters under her breath to Henry. “He should say the heart and soul of racist, white America.”

“Be nice,” Henry whispers, nudging her gently.

The picnic table is filling fast. The ’Stead’s resident wooden salad bowl is brimming with crisp garden greens. Alongside it sits Olive’s first-of-the-season tabouli, served in her prized ceramic bowl from Bennington Potters—the greens flecked with onion, fresh mint, garlic scapes, and whatever else she’s managed to forage from the edges of the property. Lorette steps up to deliver a heavy platter of curried deviled eggs, each one dusted with paprika as vivid and bright as her own lipstick.

It is a shade of crimson that will soon imprint the cheeks of Grace, Henry, Mini-Manny, and anyone else within arm’s reach.

His Immenseness—otherwise known as Ray-Ray or Little Ray—is sporting his customary golf polo, stretched at least one size too small across his chest, faded cargo shorts, and slip-on sneakers. (Ray doesn’t bend over too well these days.) He marches into the yard hauling two heavy hard-shell coolers. One is packed with what Grace privately calls his “heart-attack tubes”—an ungodly assortment of knockwurst and kielbasa—and the other is loaded entirely with his beloved Budweiser.

The ground rules regarding the King of Beers are well-established in these parts: anyone is welcome to help themselves to Ray’s Budweiser, but woe unto the soul who dares offer His Immenseness an alternative. Manny still likes to recount the fateful night he had the temerity to suggest Ray sample a local Vermont double IPA.

“C’mere, Darlin’ …”

“Oh, fuck,” Grace mutters.

Little Ray handles the handles of the twin coolers he is dragging and fixes Grace firmly in his crosshairs. She stands her ground, managing a tight, brave little smile as she braces for the charge of the rhino. Like many large mammals, Ray is surprisingly agile; in two or three heavy, quick gallops, he is atop her, completely enveloping her in his considerable girth.

“You … are … suffocating … me,” Grace wheezes into his chest.

“I’ve missed you, Darlin’!”

“Yeah, riding around in silly little golf carts with all your fat, racist buddies chasing golf balls while trying to think up new ways to repress women and minorities—I’m sure you missed me terribly!”

“That’s my girl. Feisty as ever.”

Off to the side, Lorette stands with Olive, both cringing. “He loves rubbing his fat belly right up against her,” Lorette whispers, taking a sip of wine. “He knows it disgusts her.”

“There’s a lot to love about Little Ray,” Ray announces to the yard, still holding Grace in a tight bear hug, “because there’s a whole lot of Little Ray to love!”

Henry finally steps in. “Alright, Ray. Let the woman breathe.”

Grace wiggles free like a slick, freshly caught brook trout. Lorette and Olive can’t contain their amusement at seeing Grace momentarily stripped of her usual flinty dignity.

Grace smoothes down her shirt, sputtering, “And you actually sleep with that thing, Lorette? What if it rolls over on you in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, we’re in separate bedrooms these days,” Lorette says smoothly. “No danger of accidental suffocation. He’d have to roll through the doorway first.”

“Is sex just a distant memory, then?” Olive asks with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“I can’t even imagine—” Grace begins.

“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Lorette interrupts with a wink.

“More like a water buffalo …” Grace blurts.

“Stop right there!” Lorette laughs, raising a hand. “Use your imaginations …”

Olive makes a low, guttural choking noise, and Grace looks like she might burst a blood vessel. Within seconds, all three women are doubled over in hysterics.

Before long, the rest of the neighborhood filters into the yard.

Emil arrives down the dirt driveway in his usual cloud of dust, accompanied by his dog Falco, his wife Muffy—carrying a massive bowl of potato salad—and their sixteen-year-old son, Oakley, who hides nervously behind a dark mop of hair hanging over his eyes. Then comes Manny the Mayor and his wife, Teresa, carrying a pan of warm, heavy lasagna. With them is their eighteen-year-old son, Leo (Mini-Manny), a fresh high-school graduate who gives Oakley a nod but otherwise makes it clear he wants nothing to do with a high school sophomore.

The men greet Ray-Ray warmly. Ray straddles a delicate line—being both the primary source and the willing object of their good-natured ridicule.

“So, what’s the betting line on my weight this year?” Ray asks Emil, cracking open a fresh Budweiser.

“This year we did it ‘office-pool’ style,” Emil says, “even though I ain’t ever set foot in an office. Ten shares at ten bucks a share. Each share gets two numbers—one over 300, one under. Whoever hits the exact number at the weigh-in takes the hundred-dollar pot.”

Ray squints. “Did you sell out all ten shares? ‘Cause I’d buy one right now.”

“Yup. Sold out yesterday.”

“How are you guys even doing the weigh-in?” Ray asks.

“That was the subject of considerable debate over the winter,” Manny pipes up. “But Muffy says they’ve got a heavy-duty scale down at the hospital they use for obese patients.”

Muffy, a veteran night-shift nurse, nods in confirmation.

Ray puffs out his chest. “I don’t consider myself a vain man, but I really object to the word obese.”

“What should we use instead?” Emil teases. “Husky? Chubby? Plump?”

“I like Fat!” Ray declares with a booming laugh, pulling the rest of the crowd right along with him. “I am a man of girth!” He pulls his tight golf shirt up over his substantial belly, displaying it proudly like a badge of honor. “Alright, the hospital scale is official. But I got a feeling whoever’s holding ticket #310 is walking away a winner—especially after I tackle those sausages tonight. We oughta start some side action on my summer golf score, too.”

“What was last year’s number?”

“31. Five-year average is closer to 34.” These are what Ray calls his “holes-in-one.” He sets up a bushel basket on either side of their garden, then spends the entire summer chipping balls over the garden and, occasionally, into the basket. “I’ve been hitting the ball particularly well of late.”

“Aren’t there variables?” Manny asks, stroking his chin. “Basket placement, rainy days, prevailing wind off the mountain?”

“They balance out in the wash,” Ray dismisses with a wave of his hand. He looks around the circle. “Hey… anybody tell the moose-crap joke yet? Tell it, Leo!”

Leo squirms, shuffling his sneakers in the gravel. “Aw, come on, Dad…”

“JUST A GODDAMN MINUTE!” Henry’s voice barks across the patio, commanding immediate silence. “No one tells the moose-crap joke outside of deer camp. You know the rules.”

“Henry’s right,” Manny concedes, holding up his hands. “That one’s sacred. Anyone else got one?”

“I’ve got one.”

The yard goes quiet. Oakley has spoken!

“Alright, Oak,” Emil encourages. “Let’s hear it.”

Oakley clears his throat and launches into the saga of a legendary fellow named Johnny Fucker-Faster, whose sole claim to fame is… well, precisely what the name implies. Oakley details in some graphic complexity how Johnny tore a legendary swath through the high school, until he finally met his match in a taxidermied eagle mounted in the main trophy case.

“…Better hurry, Johnny, before she flies away!” Oakley delivers the punchline, looking anxiously from face to face to gauge the reaction.

The men chuckle politely—a collective, gentle murmur. No need to crush the kid’s spirit so early in his joke-telling career.

Little Ray deftly reclaims center stage. “Listen up, everybody! I got an announcement.” He waits for the chatter to die down, then booms, “Willie Boye is ON HIS WAY!”

“Wil-lee Boy!” Manny echoes with a cheer, before blinking. “…Who the hell is Willie Boy?”

Lorette steps forward to explain. “Willie Boye—and that’s Boye with an ‘e’, mind you, because it’s his real last name, not a stage name—is a street musician. A total legend down in The Villages. He will deliver you straight into the catacombs of rock ‘n’ roll.”

Olive frowns slightly. “I thought a gated place like The Villages didn’t allow street musicians.”

“Normally, no,” Lorette admits. “But they kind of turn a blind eye to Willie because people adore him. We first saw him down by the dock where that tacky electric paddle-wheeler takes folks out for cocktail cruises on the artificial lake. Eventually, security shut him down there, so he moved over to the Lost Shaker of Salt restaurant, then Lola’s Lanai. That gig ran out right before we headed North. We offered him a ride in the rig, but he said he preferred to work his way up the coast. I expect he’ll show up here any day now.”

“Is he staying with you two?” Grace asks.

“At first, yes,” Lorette says. “But knowing Willie, he’ll find his own rhythm and turf.”

“He’s gonna make this summer a whole lot more interesting,” Ray grins. “Shake things up around town.” He turns to Oakley and Leo. “Wouldn’t you guys like to learn guitar?” They both shrug. “Here’s a chance to learn from a master craftsman. Willie claims to know over two thousand songs!”

“Sounds like kind of a bum,” Olive observes flatly.

“Yeah, that too,” Lorette concedes with a soft chuckle. “Sometimes the line between ‘legend’ and ‘bum’ gets a little fuzzy.”

Henry steps toward the center of the patio, holding his glass high into the fading twilight air. “Well, here’s to fuzzy lines, to Willie Boye, to the Summer Solstice, and to an endless summer!”

“Hear, hear!”

Aluminum cans clink against glass, and laughter ripples across the yard. Summer at The ’Stead has officially begun.