The Wooden Sea Read Free Page B

an idea.
    Back to the car where I pulled the long feather from beneath the sunshade.

    I slipped it under his collar. Like an Egyptian king going to the hereafter surrounded by his worldly possessions, Old Vertue now had a beautiful feather to carry along. It was getting late and I had other things to do. Quickly filling the grave, I tamped it down as best I could, hoping another animal wouldn't catch the scent and dig it up.

    That night at dinner Magda asked where I'd put him. After I described my adventure in the forest, she surprised me by saying, "Would you like to have a dog, Frannie?"

    "No, not particularly."

    "But you were so nice to him. I wouldn't mind having one. Some of them are sort of cute."

    "You _hate _dogs, Magda."

    "That's true, but I love jou."

    Pauline rolled her eyes and dramatically stomped off to the kitchen carrying her plate. When I was sure she was out of earshot I said, "I wouldn't mind having a cat."

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    My wife blinked and frowned. "You already _have _a cat."

    "Well, then I wouldn't mind a little pussy."

    That night, after a visit from my favorite pussy on earth, I dreamt of feathers, bones, and Johnny Petangles.

    Next morning the weather was so beautiful I decided to drive my motorcycle to work instead of the car. The end of summer sat on the town. It was my favorite season. Everything summery is richer and more intense then because you know it will all be gone soon. Magda's mother used to say a flower smells sweetest when it's just begun to rot. A few of the horse chestnut trees had already begun dropping their spiny yellow buckeyes. They hit the pavement with a crack or clunk on cars.
    When a breeze blew it was thick with the smell of ripe plants and dust. The dew hung around longer in the morning because the real heat of the day didn't start until hours later.
    I have a big motorcycle--a Ducati Monster--and the evil "Fuck me--I'm a god!"
    sound of its 900cc engine alone is worth the price of admission. And there is nothing more pleasant than driving it slowly through Crane's View, New York, on a morning like that. The day hasn't started yet, hasn't turned the sign in its front window to read OPEN yet. Only diehards are out and about. A smiling woman sweeps her front doorstep with a red broom. A young weimaraner, its stump tail wagging madly, sniffs garbage cans placed at a curb. An old man wearing a white ball cap and sweatsuit is either jogging slowly or walking as fast as he can.

    Seeing someone exercising immediately inspired me to think of French crullers and coffee with lots of cream. I'd stop and get both, but there was one thing to do first.

    After a few slow lefts and rights, I pulled up in front of the Schiavo house to see if anything had changed. No car was parked either in the driveway or near the house. I knew they owned a blue Mercury, but no blue cars were in sight. I tried the front door. It was still open.
    We'd have to change that. Couldn't have a thief going in and stealing their painting-on-velvet of the Bay of Naples. I'd send someone over today to put temporary locks on the doors and leave a note for the elusive Donald and Geri.
    Not that I cared about either them or their possessions. Standing with hands in my pockets looking around, it was too beautiful a morning to have a weird little mystery like this to think about, especially when it had to do with diose two jerks. But it was the job to care so I would.

    My pocket phone rang. It was Magda saying our car wouldn't start. She was the queen of I-Hate-Technology and proud of it. This woman did not want to know how to work a computer, a calculator, any thingamajig that went beep-beep. She balanced her checkbook doing multiplication and division with a pencil, used a microwave oven with the greatest suspicion, and cars were her enemy if they didn't start immediately when the key was turned. The irony was her daughter was a computer whiz who was in the midst of applying to tough colleges that specialized in