trumpeting the latest medical discovery (drinking water causes urination) and the latest political analysis (thecandidate who gets the most votes is likely to win), the preternaturally hepped-up weather people promised a doozy. A summer storm over Lapham’s monstrosity, arriving at the moment for which I have been planning for months. A night on Bald Mountain. The prospect pleases me.
And where is Lapham himself at this hour? I wonder. Guffawing over the telephone at the tepid joke of some yes-man in his employ, about the parrot who walks into a bar? Reveling in a tidbit of flattery deployed by the oily butler? Spooning his granola into an oversize bowl glazed in Florence expressly for him? Flossing? Gaah. Composing an aphm? Smiling at the new day like a rancid pancake? And why am I thinking about him? That is the crime, you see. I am thinking about Lapham. Not a year ago, at this time of morning, I would have been thinking about Dr. Johnson or of Ida Lupino in High Sierra , or of chomping on lobster rolls in Ipswich, Massachusetts, or my first girlfriend, Claire—whose breasts grew so large that she bowed like a Japanese businessman as she walked, but who was nonetheless very sweet and very smart—or of nothing at all. And now?
I lay down my legal pad.
“All done?” Hector asks, knowing that I am not. I do not answer him. “Shouldn’t you be getting the Da Vinci ready?” He thinks if he can shuttle me between the two tasks, I will fail to complete either one.
But I was about to set aside the lecture anyway, since it is the easier of the two projects and if necessary I can wing it, and since it will work only if the Da Vinci also works. First things first.
“Harry!” Dave calls to me over the bullhorn. “We’re going to have a big blow in a little while. It’ll sound like dynamite, but it’s OK. I just thought I should prepare you.”
“I can’t wait.”
“On the brighter side, it’s nearly Kathy Time. Jack tells me it’s his favorite time of day.” The boy smiles shyly at his father’s ribbing. “We’ll be taking a break.”
As will I. Everyone takes a break at Kathy Time.
In the meantime, though, I return to the dock. I carry the forward crosspiece and the spindle heads over to the tarp and crawl under. So far, I have done most of the work at night, out of earshot and away from the prying eyes of Dave and his crew. Because of the narrow space between the Da Vinci and the edge of the dock where it becomes the L, I have had to be careful, maneuvering on all fours and holding the flashlight in my mouth. It has not been easy.
But now I am nearly there. I fit the mortises and test the ropes and the frame. I slip the point of the hook into the eye of the bolt. The trigger requires a knot, a bowline, which I forget for a moment how to tie. What’s that ditty about where to make the loops? “The rabbit comes out of the hole,” I recitealoud. “Goes round the tree and runs back down the hole again.”
“What rabbit?” asks Hector, looking as ferocious as a corn muffin.
I tie the bowline. I tug at the burlap pouch. The ball of pinewood is progressing nicely, though because it is the size of a medicine ball, I had to squeeze it down into the tub. All that remains is to fit the rollers to the plates and attach the skein winch and the winch spanner.
“Don’t forget the horsehair,” says Hector. Not that I would. I leave the dock, and head back up the lawn. He follows, sniffing as if he were searching for drugs in a suitcase.
For some reason, he has taken a particular interest in the fact that I have opted to include genuine horsehair in the Da Vinci’s construction. I simply wanted to be authentic. The original plans drawn up by Sir Ralph Payne-Gallwey in 1903, for which I sent away and have followed to the letter except as to scale, specified the use of horsehair for the torsion spring. So I phoned the people who run the Bridgehampton Classic horse show to ask if they had any horsehair to
And where is Lapham himself at this hour? I wonder. Guffawing over the telephone at the tepid joke of some yes-man in his employ, about the parrot who walks into a bar? Reveling in a tidbit of flattery deployed by the oily butler? Spooning his granola into an oversize bowl glazed in Florence expressly for him? Flossing? Gaah. Composing an aphm? Smiling at the new day like a rancid pancake? And why am I thinking about him? That is the crime, you see. I am thinking about Lapham. Not a year ago, at this time of morning, I would have been thinking about Dr. Johnson or of Ida Lupino in High Sierra , or of chomping on lobster rolls in Ipswich, Massachusetts, or my first girlfriend, Claire—whose breasts grew so large that she bowed like a Japanese businessman as she walked, but who was nonetheless very sweet and very smart—or of nothing at all. And now?
I lay down my legal pad.
“All done?” Hector asks, knowing that I am not. I do not answer him. “Shouldn’t you be getting the Da Vinci ready?” He thinks if he can shuttle me between the two tasks, I will fail to complete either one.
But I was about to set aside the lecture anyway, since it is the easier of the two projects and if necessary I can wing it, and since it will work only if the Da Vinci also works. First things first.
“Harry!” Dave calls to me over the bullhorn. “We’re going to have a big blow in a little while. It’ll sound like dynamite, but it’s OK. I just thought I should prepare you.”
“I can’t wait.”
“On the brighter side, it’s nearly Kathy Time. Jack tells me it’s his favorite time of day.” The boy smiles shyly at his father’s ribbing. “We’ll be taking a break.”
As will I. Everyone takes a break at Kathy Time.
In the meantime, though, I return to the dock. I carry the forward crosspiece and the spindle heads over to the tarp and crawl under. So far, I have done most of the work at night, out of earshot and away from the prying eyes of Dave and his crew. Because of the narrow space between the Da Vinci and the edge of the dock where it becomes the L, I have had to be careful, maneuvering on all fours and holding the flashlight in my mouth. It has not been easy.
But now I am nearly there. I fit the mortises and test the ropes and the frame. I slip the point of the hook into the eye of the bolt. The trigger requires a knot, a bowline, which I forget for a moment how to tie. What’s that ditty about where to make the loops? “The rabbit comes out of the hole,” I recitealoud. “Goes round the tree and runs back down the hole again.”
“What rabbit?” asks Hector, looking as ferocious as a corn muffin.
I tie the bowline. I tug at the burlap pouch. The ball of pinewood is progressing nicely, though because it is the size of a medicine ball, I had to squeeze it down into the tub. All that remains is to fit the rollers to the plates and attach the skein winch and the winch spanner.
“Don’t forget the horsehair,” says Hector. Not that I would. I leave the dock, and head back up the lawn. He follows, sniffing as if he were searching for drugs in a suitcase.
For some reason, he has taken a particular interest in the fact that I have opted to include genuine horsehair in the Da Vinci’s construction. I simply wanted to be authentic. The original plans drawn up by Sir Ralph Payne-Gallwey in 1903, for which I sent away and have followed to the letter except as to scale, specified the use of horsehair for the torsion spring. So I phoned the people who run the Bridgehampton Classic horse show to ask if they had any horsehair to
Similar Books
A Southern Exposure
Alice Adams
Shattered
Kailin Gow
Deadly Betrayal
Maria Hammarblad
Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance)
Abigail Graham
Holly's Wishes
Karen Pokras
Furious Old Women
Leo Bruce
The Bricklayer
Noah Boyd
The Demon King
Heather Killough-Walden
Crawl
Edward Lorn
Suprise
Jill Gates