York, Arizona, South Carolina, and Florida. All of Mrs. Winship's houses were located on championship golf courses; she herself didn't play the game, but she loved watching the players traipse in their colorful outfits down the emerald slopes, pausing every few steps to hack feverishly at a tiny white sphere. Mrs. Winship thought golf was the most amusing spectacle that she'd ever seen, and she would spend hours spying on passing foursomes through the special high-powered binoculars that she kept on the back windowsill at each of her fairway residences.
Mrs. Winship spent only two weeks a year in Naples, but during these visits she always invited Duane Jr. and his father out to dinner. If they failed to respond promptly, Mrs. Winship would command her chauffeur to drive her to the Scrod household so that she could personally raise a ruckus.
Which was her intention on this day as she rapped sharply on the screen door and barked her grandson's name over the notes of a Mozart symphony that was blaring from the stereo speakers inside.
Before long, the music cut off and Duane Scrod Sr. shuffled to the door. He was flustered to see Mrs. Winship and made a halfhearted pass at smoothing the tangle of oily hair under his trucker's cap.
"Afternoon, Millie," he said with false cheeriness. "What brings you here?"
"My grandson. What do you think?" she snapped. "Where is he?"
"Wanna come in?"
"I certainly do not. Why aren't you answering your telephone?" Mrs. Winship demanded. "I left a message about a dinner engagement-that was two nights ago, and I've revived no reply."
Duane Scrod Sr. sighed ruefully, and so did the large macaw on his shoulder.
"I see you've still got that stupid bird," Mrs. Winship remarked.
"She's not stupid. She speaks three languages."
"Really? Pick one and have her tell me where D.J. is."
"She doesn't know," Duane Scrod Sr. muttered, "and neither do I."
It was an unsatisfactory answer, as far as Mrs. Winship was concerned.
"We're talking about your one and only child," she said, glaring, "and you don't know where he is?"
Duane Scrod Sr. opened the door and came out on the porch. "He said he was goin' camping somewhere out in the boonies. That was a couple days ago, and I haven't seen him since."
"But what about school?" Mrs. Winship asked. "He said he needed a break."
"Oh, that's rich."
Duane Scrod Sr. threw up his hands, nearly toppling the macaw from its roost on his shoulder. "What d'you want from me, Millie?" he whined. "The boy has his own agenda. I can't make him do what he doesn't want to do."
"Oh, of course not. You're just his father," Mrs. Winship said sarcastically. "Is he in trouble again? And tell me the truth for once."
Duane Scrod Sr. sat down in a rotting wicker chair and vigorously clawed at an insect bite on one of his bare feet.
"A cop was here about an hour ago," he admitted. "Somebody lit a fire out by the Big Cypress, and they think it was Junior."
Millicent Winship closed her eyes and thought: Not again.
Duane Sr. said, "They don't have enough to bust him. They're just fishin' is all."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Duane Sr. reached in a pocket and took out a sunflower seed, which he fed to the macaw. He said, "When D.J. gets home, I'll make sure he calls you. Maybe we can all go to that steak place again, the one up near Bonita Beach."
"Unless he's in jail," Mrs. Winship said, "in which case we can bring him a lovely fruit basket."
"Aw, don't be like that."
"Are you still out of work, Duane?"
"What do you expect? I got no wheels!" Indignantly he pointed at the Tahoe upon which he had painted BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!! "They still won't give me a new transmission," he griped.
"Perhaps it's because you torched their building-you think that might have something to do with it?"
"Beside the point!" Duane Sr. huffed. "I paid my debt to society. I did my time."
Mrs. Winship was more sad than angry. Despite his unattractive personality, Duane Scrod Sr.
Mrs. Winship spent only two weeks a year in Naples, but during these visits she always invited Duane Jr. and his father out to dinner. If they failed to respond promptly, Mrs. Winship would command her chauffeur to drive her to the Scrod household so that she could personally raise a ruckus.
Which was her intention on this day as she rapped sharply on the screen door and barked her grandson's name over the notes of a Mozart symphony that was blaring from the stereo speakers inside.
Before long, the music cut off and Duane Scrod Sr. shuffled to the door. He was flustered to see Mrs. Winship and made a halfhearted pass at smoothing the tangle of oily hair under his trucker's cap.
"Afternoon, Millie," he said with false cheeriness. "What brings you here?"
"My grandson. What do you think?" she snapped. "Where is he?"
"Wanna come in?"
"I certainly do not. Why aren't you answering your telephone?" Mrs. Winship demanded. "I left a message about a dinner engagement-that was two nights ago, and I've revived no reply."
Duane Scrod Sr. sighed ruefully, and so did the large macaw on his shoulder.
"I see you've still got that stupid bird," Mrs. Winship remarked.
"She's not stupid. She speaks three languages."
"Really? Pick one and have her tell me where D.J. is."
"She doesn't know," Duane Scrod Sr. muttered, "and neither do I."
It was an unsatisfactory answer, as far as Mrs. Winship was concerned.
"We're talking about your one and only child," she said, glaring, "and you don't know where he is?"
Duane Scrod Sr. opened the door and came out on the porch. "He said he was goin' camping somewhere out in the boonies. That was a couple days ago, and I haven't seen him since."
"But what about school?" Mrs. Winship asked. "He said he needed a break."
"Oh, that's rich."
Duane Scrod Sr. threw up his hands, nearly toppling the macaw from its roost on his shoulder. "What d'you want from me, Millie?" he whined. "The boy has his own agenda. I can't make him do what he doesn't want to do."
"Oh, of course not. You're just his father," Mrs. Winship said sarcastically. "Is he in trouble again? And tell me the truth for once."
Duane Scrod Sr. sat down in a rotting wicker chair and vigorously clawed at an insect bite on one of his bare feet.
"A cop was here about an hour ago," he admitted. "Somebody lit a fire out by the Big Cypress, and they think it was Junior."
Millicent Winship closed her eyes and thought: Not again.
Duane Sr. said, "They don't have enough to bust him. They're just fishin' is all."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Duane Sr. reached in a pocket and took out a sunflower seed, which he fed to the macaw. He said, "When D.J. gets home, I'll make sure he calls you. Maybe we can all go to that steak place again, the one up near Bonita Beach."
"Unless he's in jail," Mrs. Winship said, "in which case we can bring him a lovely fruit basket."
"Aw, don't be like that."
"Are you still out of work, Duane?"
"What do you expect? I got no wheels!" Indignantly he pointed at the Tahoe upon which he had painted BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!! "They still won't give me a new transmission," he griped.
"Perhaps it's because you torched their building-you think that might have something to do with it?"
"Beside the point!" Duane Sr. huffed. "I paid my debt to society. I did my time."
Mrs. Winship was more sad than angry. Despite his unattractive personality, Duane Scrod Sr.
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