the car. They were both very quiet and thoughtful, two characteristics uncommon in the last two years of melodramatic outbursts, egomania, and unfettered verbosity.
“What was Daryl saying when I came out of the house?” I asked Caron.
It took her a moment to concoct a lie worthy of her innate talents. “We were talking about putting up posters at the grocery store and the library.”
“Oh, really? Colonel Culworthy seemed interested in what he was saying,” I persisted. “I didn’t understand his comment about the cages, though.”
“I didn’t notice,” she muttered. She twisted around in the seat and said to Inez, “I’m spending the night with you tomorrow, right?”
“You are?” Inez said, startled.
“Yes. Remember how we’re going to make missing dog posters so we can put them up Saturday? We were just talking about it, for pity’s sake, Inez. What are you doing back there—giving yourself a lobotomy with your nail file?”
“I was worrying about Nick and Nora,” she said with a trace of spirit.
“Which is why we have to make posters,” Caron said with a lot of spirit. “Remember?”
They bickered until we dropped Inez off at her house, and then Caron turned surly, another talent, and refused to say anything beyond “I don’t know” or “Beats me.” When we arrived home, I found a postcard from Miss Emily. The lavender script informed me that she was having a wonderful time and was bringing me a small desertscape she’d painted herself. The front of the card depicted unsmiling Indians in expensive costumes that were probably made in Taiwan, as was the postcard.
The realization that she’d be home in two weeks did not warm my cockles, presuming I had cockles. The realization that the pet owners were up to something wasn’t all that soothing, either, especially since they’d decided to exclude me from the plan. The plot, I amended. The harebrained scheme. Howitzers and tanks. I knew that Colonel Culworthy had not been listening to Daryl discuss posters at the grocery store; anything that kept the two from arguing had ominous significance.
I wished Peter was in town. I glanced at the unoccupied half of the sofa and sighed, then fixed myself a drink before I lapsed into perilous thoughts. He and I were oil and water, not oil and vinegar. But at that moment, I felt very much alone, and had he been there, might have explored the possibility of vinaigrette.
The following day was a Friday, and usually a fairly decent day at the Book Depot. Caron had taken an overnight bag with her to school and vowed that the Willow Street neighborhood would be plastered with posters by noon Saturday. I made an unrewarded run by Miss Emily’s, then went to the store where I found my hippie waiting under the portico of the bookstore. He snuffled around like a bloodhound and left without buying anything. A woman with the scrunched-up face of a Pekingese and a gratingly shrill voice pawed through the counted cross-stitch pattern books and scolded me for the mess on her way out the door.
The sudden compulsion to categorize people as animals struck me as a symptom of mental degeneration, but I couldn’t control myself. Not when a well-coiffed Siamese cat bought a cookbook, while her two pointy-chinned children whined the entire time and almost knocked over the nonfiction rack. The next customer, a squatty, rumpled wino with a runny nose, had to be a bulldog, I decided as I took a dollar from the cash register and gave it to him, that being the most expedient way to rid the store of the noxious redolence that accompanied him.
I was having such fun that it took me a moment to realize the next customer was neither canine nor feline in essence, but was Daryl Defoe in a trench coat. “Hi,” I said, feeling justifiably foolish.
“I saw you come by Miss Emily’s house this morning,” he said.
“I was nurturing a wild dream that Nick and Nora had come home during the night, wagging their tails behind
“What was Daryl saying when I came out of the house?” I asked Caron.
It took her a moment to concoct a lie worthy of her innate talents. “We were talking about putting up posters at the grocery store and the library.”
“Oh, really? Colonel Culworthy seemed interested in what he was saying,” I persisted. “I didn’t understand his comment about the cages, though.”
“I didn’t notice,” she muttered. She twisted around in the seat and said to Inez, “I’m spending the night with you tomorrow, right?”
“You are?” Inez said, startled.
“Yes. Remember how we’re going to make missing dog posters so we can put them up Saturday? We were just talking about it, for pity’s sake, Inez. What are you doing back there—giving yourself a lobotomy with your nail file?”
“I was worrying about Nick and Nora,” she said with a trace of spirit.
“Which is why we have to make posters,” Caron said with a lot of spirit. “Remember?”
They bickered until we dropped Inez off at her house, and then Caron turned surly, another talent, and refused to say anything beyond “I don’t know” or “Beats me.” When we arrived home, I found a postcard from Miss Emily. The lavender script informed me that she was having a wonderful time and was bringing me a small desertscape she’d painted herself. The front of the card depicted unsmiling Indians in expensive costumes that were probably made in Taiwan, as was the postcard.
The realization that she’d be home in two weeks did not warm my cockles, presuming I had cockles. The realization that the pet owners were up to something wasn’t all that soothing, either, especially since they’d decided to exclude me from the plan. The plot, I amended. The harebrained scheme. Howitzers and tanks. I knew that Colonel Culworthy had not been listening to Daryl discuss posters at the grocery store; anything that kept the two from arguing had ominous significance.
I wished Peter was in town. I glanced at the unoccupied half of the sofa and sighed, then fixed myself a drink before I lapsed into perilous thoughts. He and I were oil and water, not oil and vinegar. But at that moment, I felt very much alone, and had he been there, might have explored the possibility of vinaigrette.
The following day was a Friday, and usually a fairly decent day at the Book Depot. Caron had taken an overnight bag with her to school and vowed that the Willow Street neighborhood would be plastered with posters by noon Saturday. I made an unrewarded run by Miss Emily’s, then went to the store where I found my hippie waiting under the portico of the bookstore. He snuffled around like a bloodhound and left without buying anything. A woman with the scrunched-up face of a Pekingese and a gratingly shrill voice pawed through the counted cross-stitch pattern books and scolded me for the mess on her way out the door.
The sudden compulsion to categorize people as animals struck me as a symptom of mental degeneration, but I couldn’t control myself. Not when a well-coiffed Siamese cat bought a cookbook, while her two pointy-chinned children whined the entire time and almost knocked over the nonfiction rack. The next customer, a squatty, rumpled wino with a runny nose, had to be a bulldog, I decided as I took a dollar from the cash register and gave it to him, that being the most expedient way to rid the store of the noxious redolence that accompanied him.
I was having such fun that it took me a moment to realize the next customer was neither canine nor feline in essence, but was Daryl Defoe in a trench coat. “Hi,” I said, feeling justifiably foolish.
“I saw you come by Miss Emily’s house this morning,” he said.
“I was nurturing a wild dream that Nick and Nora had come home during the night, wagging their tails behind
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