ever concocted.
A few weeks later, we were able to launch our rocket of an idea. My mother had looped Ben in on the details during one of their exceedingly rare phone calls, and they both agreed that my participation was key.
It was early October by then, the harbor empty of all boats other than those belonging to the most intrepid commercial lobstermen, and even those would be pulled in the coming days. Ben had just returned from his annual black-tailed deer hunt at a ranch in San Felipe, California, and he and Lily arrived bearing venison steaks and a pound of lustrous liver, which my mother immediately skinned, sliced, and placed into a dish of buttermilk to extract the blood. Charles, seated on his usual tall stool, the one closest to the bar with its shakers and stirrers, perked up at the sight of his dear friends. Immediately, Ben started telling us the story of how he’d fallen out of a pickup truck, unnoticed by his buddies, after consuming a fifth of bourbon.
“On that note, Ben, why don’t you make everyone a cocktail?” my mother suggested.
Charles yielded his host duties without a word, and Ben made a round of drinks while my mother got busy with the liver. She pinched oregano and sage leaves from her herb garden and sautéed them in butter and garlic, infusing the kitchen with their heady fragrance. Next, she caramelized shallots and other vegetables and, in a separate pan, sautéed the shiny slabs of liver.
Malabar was still in the kitchen when the rest of us put on jackets, went out into the crisp autumn air, and sat in a semicircle around the deck table, its center umbrella lowered and strapped for the season. The sun was making its descent behind us, casting long shafts of light across the harbor and creating the illusion that the marsh grass was on fire, glowing golden from beneath the surface of the water. From inside, the whir of the Cuisinart sounded as my mother blended the liver and vegetables, no doubt adding chunks of soft butter and salt flakes. Across the windswept bay, we heard terns screeching, and suddenly dozens materialized before us and dived toward some underwater disturbance. Then the surface of the water broke with a thrash of fins—what my father called “a bluefish blitz”—and thousands of minnows leaped to escape the fish hunting them below, only to be snatched up in the beaks of black-capped terns above.
I studied Ben as he observed the carnage. His body twitched the way some men’s bodies do when they watch a football game, imagining that they are catching the pass. I could tell he would have liked to grab a rod and dash down to the water—which was what my father or Peter would have done—but instead, hearing the rapping on the glass slider, he turned to help my mother, who stood on the other side holding a large round serving board. They beamed at each other as she slipped past.
The birds dispersed and their feeding frenzy ended as ours began.
Malabar lowered the artfully arranged predinner offerings: paper-thin slices of ruby-red venison carpaccio under dollops of horseradish crème fraîche, a bowl of wrinkled and briny olives, two triangles of overly ripe cheese oozing past their soft rinds, and a dish of her ethereally smooth venison pâté tucked in beside a collection of cornichons and slices of pickled onion. The tray was a thing of beauty, each delicacy separated by sprigs of rosemary from my mother’s herb garden and garnished with Lily’s nasturtium flowers.
Malabar admired her handiwork and let loose a hearty laugh. “If something on this board doesn’t kill us, I’m not sure what will,” she said, raising her glass. “To salmonella!”
“Legionnaires’,” Charles toasted.
I raised my glass and took a big swig of ginger ale.
“Bring on the bacteria!” Ben said, taking hold of Malabar’s free hand. My mother had long, slender fingers that curved up like ski tips at the ends. She kept her nails filed into sharp points, ten tiny daggers. Ben kissed her palm. “Malabar, I can think of no better way to go than to be poisoned by you.”
The ice-cold soda got stuck on a knot of remorse in the back of my throat.
Lily registered my distress by rolling her eyes at me, a look that I took to mean I’m not worried, so don’t you be. Pay no attention to these old fools. Seeing Lily’s lack of concern, I relaxed a bit. Still, something on my