Read Online A Fine Line by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William G. Tapply
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talk to Ethan, ask him to call me, will you?”
He put the card into his pocket without looking at it, then dipped his head at me. “If I can be of any more service to you, sir, don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“You can count on it,” I said.
S EVEN
T he Thursday afternoon traffic out of Cambridge was typically tangled, and by the time I took the West Concord exit off Route 2, it was close to six o’clock. I stopped at the little grocery store by the train station and bought six cans of Alpo and a bag of dry dog food. Then I went to the liquor store across the street and picked up two bottles of Merlot.
I don’t know anything about wine. Those bottles cost twenty bucks apiece. How bad could they be?
Evie lived in a condominium complex that had been carved out of an old orchard. Many of the fruit trees had survived the bulldozers, so the area bloomed lavishly—and aromatically—in the springtime. A brook meandered through the grounds, and the developers had dammed it up in several places, forming a series of interconnected little ponds. Hundreds of mallards, once wild but now tame, lived there year-round, as did a resident flock of Canada geese. The birds thrived on handouts, and they weren’t shy about soliciting strangers.
I parked in the visitor’s lot, released Henry with instructions not to run away, and watched while he checked out the shrubs, peed on most of them, squatted awkwardly for a massive dump, and then resumed snuffling the bushes. When I called him, he came. I told him he was a fine, obedient animal, snapped on his leash, tucked my bag of groceries under my arm, and we headed for Evie’s townhouse.
About halfway there, a flock of webfoots materialized behind us. They gabbled and quacked, hissed and honked, and Henry nearly yanked me off my feet trying to get at them. I stamped my foot at them, and Henry growled. The dumb birds just stood there with their heads cocked, looking at us.
Evie enjoyed her flock of tame waterfowl, even if they did litter the lawns and parking areas and pollute the ponds. Evie was an amateur ornithologist. When she went fishing with me, she brought her binoculars and prowled around the banks of my beloved woodland streams looking for birds, while I waded in the water looking for trout.
Once, a few months after Walt Duffy’s accident at Quabbin I took her in to meet him. They talked about birds, and he showed her his collection of decoys and carvings. Evie collected bird carvings, too. Walt flirted outrageously with her, and she flirted right back at him.
Afterward, she told me he was a seriously depressed man.
I rang Evie’s bell. Henry sat on the stoop expectantly.
When she opened the door and smiled at me, I felt a little shiver, the way I always did when I first saw Evie after not having seen her for a few days. Evie Banyon was slender and tall—only a couple of inches shorter than me—and her hair was the color of high-grade maple syrup, halfway between amber and gold. Now she had it pulled back in a ponytail, and it cascaded down her back nearly to her waist. She waswearing cutoff jeans and one of my old blue dress shirts knotted over her midriff.
She wrapped both arms around my neck and kissed me hard and long on the mouth. I reciprocated her kiss with equal enthusiasm, but since I had bags of wine and dog food under my arms and a dog on a leash, I couldn’t hug her tight against me the way I wanted to. No need. She pressed herself against me anyway.
Suddenly she pulled away. “Something’s lapping my leg.” She looked down. “Oh. Well, hello there.”
“Meet Henry,” I said. “He’s an orphan.”
Evie squatted down and stroked Henry’s head. He lapped her face, and Evie giggled. “He’s a friendly fellow, isn’t he?”
“He loves you,” I said. “Hard to blame him.”
She stood up. “His name’s Henry?”
“Yes. His full name is Henry David Thoreau Duffy. He’s Walt Duffy’s dog. Actually, you met Henry that time.”
She
He put the card into his pocket without looking at it, then dipped his head at me. “If I can be of any more service to you, sir, don’t hesitate to call on me.”
“You can count on it,” I said.
S EVEN
T he Thursday afternoon traffic out of Cambridge was typically tangled, and by the time I took the West Concord exit off Route 2, it was close to six o’clock. I stopped at the little grocery store by the train station and bought six cans of Alpo and a bag of dry dog food. Then I went to the liquor store across the street and picked up two bottles of Merlot.
I don’t know anything about wine. Those bottles cost twenty bucks apiece. How bad could they be?
Evie lived in a condominium complex that had been carved out of an old orchard. Many of the fruit trees had survived the bulldozers, so the area bloomed lavishly—and aromatically—in the springtime. A brook meandered through the grounds, and the developers had dammed it up in several places, forming a series of interconnected little ponds. Hundreds of mallards, once wild but now tame, lived there year-round, as did a resident flock of Canada geese. The birds thrived on handouts, and they weren’t shy about soliciting strangers.
I parked in the visitor’s lot, released Henry with instructions not to run away, and watched while he checked out the shrubs, peed on most of them, squatted awkwardly for a massive dump, and then resumed snuffling the bushes. When I called him, he came. I told him he was a fine, obedient animal, snapped on his leash, tucked my bag of groceries under my arm, and we headed for Evie’s townhouse.
About halfway there, a flock of webfoots materialized behind us. They gabbled and quacked, hissed and honked, and Henry nearly yanked me off my feet trying to get at them. I stamped my foot at them, and Henry growled. The dumb birds just stood there with their heads cocked, looking at us.
Evie enjoyed her flock of tame waterfowl, even if they did litter the lawns and parking areas and pollute the ponds. Evie was an amateur ornithologist. When she went fishing with me, she brought her binoculars and prowled around the banks of my beloved woodland streams looking for birds, while I waded in the water looking for trout.
Once, a few months after Walt Duffy’s accident at Quabbin I took her in to meet him. They talked about birds, and he showed her his collection of decoys and carvings. Evie collected bird carvings, too. Walt flirted outrageously with her, and she flirted right back at him.
Afterward, she told me he was a seriously depressed man.
I rang Evie’s bell. Henry sat on the stoop expectantly.
When she opened the door and smiled at me, I felt a little shiver, the way I always did when I first saw Evie after not having seen her for a few days. Evie Banyon was slender and tall—only a couple of inches shorter than me—and her hair was the color of high-grade maple syrup, halfway between amber and gold. Now she had it pulled back in a ponytail, and it cascaded down her back nearly to her waist. She waswearing cutoff jeans and one of my old blue dress shirts knotted over her midriff.
She wrapped both arms around my neck and kissed me hard and long on the mouth. I reciprocated her kiss with equal enthusiasm, but since I had bags of wine and dog food under my arms and a dog on a leash, I couldn’t hug her tight against me the way I wanted to. No need. She pressed herself against me anyway.
Suddenly she pulled away. “Something’s lapping my leg.” She looked down. “Oh. Well, hello there.”
“Meet Henry,” I said. “He’s an orphan.”
Evie squatted down and stroked Henry’s head. He lapped her face, and Evie giggled. “He’s a friendly fellow, isn’t he?”
“He loves you,” I said. “Hard to blame him.”
She stood up. “His name’s Henry?”
“Yes. His full name is Henry David Thoreau Duffy. He’s Walt Duffy’s dog. Actually, you met Henry that time.”
She
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