The Wooden Sea

I was tempted to run upstairs and check on Pauline to see how she was doing, reassure her that everything was going to be fine now. But there was no time. Nor did I want her to see Floon’s car and ask questions about what was going on.

Instead I went to the garage to look for the shovel. My car was parked in there, which reminded me of finding the resurrected Old Vertue in its trunk the other night. Which reminded me of having that nice chat with Pauline in the car about what she wanted to do with her life. On and on, everything in that dusty place reminding me of something else, and my nostalgia for my flickering life grew even keener.

I searched the crowded garage for the tool I had already used to bury both my father and a four-hundred-year-old dog (twice). I discovered it leaning next to a rake against a far wall. Next to it was a window that gave a view of the street. Reaching for the shovel I glanced out the window and saw a police car coming up the street. It stopped almost directly across from Floon’s car.

Of course the cops would eventually show up here when they discovered I wasn’t being held captive at the town library (by a man who had just been killed by himself and whose corpse was lying in that car directly across the street from them). The situation was so surreal that it should have been fu

Adele Kastberg and Brett Rudin got out of the police car. That was good to see because both of them were dimwits. I would have been much more concerned if Bill Pegg had showed up now at my door. These two cops walked up our path, but at a certain point I lost sight of them because of my limited view. The doorbell chimed its familiar ding-dong. Unconsciously I found myself mimicking those sounds quietly—ding-dong—just so I could hear them another time and memorize a little more of what would be gone soon. All three of us waited for someone to answer the door. When no one came they rang it again. Pauline had her music cranked way up. I could hear it through the walls of the garage. Could she hear the ring behind that wall of sound in her room? I closed my eyes and willed her to come answer the door. In the middle of that willing, I heard a car engine start. Opening my eyes, I caught sight of the tail end of Floon’s car slowly driving away down the street.

“Where the hell are they going? You gotta to be shitting me!” I bit my hand. It hurt, but I had to do something to vent my frustration.

Two stupid cops stood on my doorstep, effectively trapping me in my own damned garage. And even if I was able to escape, what was I supposed to do now that the car with the evidence had just taken off? Where were they going? What did they think they were doing? In truth I knew exactly what they were doing and it made total sense—they wanted to get out of there because they carried a body in their car. But what the hell was I supposed to do in the meantime—wait there with the shovel until either they decided to come back or my head popped?

Luckily a little police muscle went into action. Knowing Officer Adele and her diplomatic ma

The Isuzu disappeared completely from view just as the music in the house stopped. Some more time passed but then there was Pauline’s voice, joined by the others. I was so relieved that I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. The three of them spoke a while, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then came the sound of the front door closing. I assumed they had all gone into the house. Which meant I had very little time to escape before they came out again. I looked around the garage for anything beside the too-loud and obvious car that could get me away from there fast and silently.

At the begi

I hate bicycles and bicycling. They poke you in the ass and make you pant for no good reason. Bikes are also dangerous as hell and serious traffic hazards. Furthermore, people who use them are invariably self-righteous about various unappealing subjects—ecology, fitness, or their resting pulse rate. The hell with them—when I want my heart to beat fast I’ll have sex.

So dig this—the ultimate indignity: there goes Chief of Police McCabe pedaling furiously down his street like a fucking wacko on a cute little pink bike. And is that a dirty shovel lying across the handlebars of the bike? Indeed it is. But can’t the man see that the tires on it are so low on air that they might as well be flat?

The bike was small, and because I didn’t adjust the seat before launching myself, my knees came up almost to my chest as I pedaled, making the whole experience ten times more uncomfortable and ridiculous-looking.

Follow that Isuzu! But how could I when it had a five-minute head start on me and two hundred more horsepower than I did? Down one street, down another. Looking everywhere for their car. The shovel slipping around on the handlebars and almost dropping a half dozen times.

Passing too many people I knew, I tried as hard as I could not to be seen. Failed miserably.

“Whoa there, Chief. Nice bike!” Smirk.

“Hey, Fran, you suddenly going athletic?” Big laugh.

Or just plain smiles and more chuckles as these people—my friends and neighbors—watched a fool roll by with his high-pumping knees and semiflat tires.

I thought I saw their car going left at the intersection of Broadway and April Street but most likely that was wishful thinking. I kept trying to figure out where they might go. All at once I dropped the shovel and, braking hard, listened to it clatter and dance down the street. I picked it up and started again. George must have been driving the car now because he knew Crane’s View. But where would my friend go? If he were writing the instructions for how to get out of this fix, what would he say?

Pedal pedal pedal—pedaling through town I kept imagining the music from The Wizard of Oz when Miss Gulch rides away on her bicycle with Toto the dog her captive. Pedal pedal pedal– this was definitely not how I had imagined my last days on earth.

I was miserably out of shape; my cigarette lungs were screaming help; every moment I felt like my whole body might just cave in and stop. The number of possible places they might have gone was just too big. I had to make a choice now and go with it before my body disintegrated.

“All right, the woods. Let’s go to the woods.” And that’s what I did. At Mobile Lane I hung a left and took a shortcut toward the Tyndall house that I had been using for forty years. Now that I knew where I was heading I felt better in my head but my body was shot. When she was enthusing about the benefits of her new exercise regime, Magda had told me that riding a bicycle was second only to swimming in total aerobic training. I said uh-huh and continued reading the newspaper. Now sadly I knew what she meant. I was sweating, panting, and cursing at the same time. Simultaneous breakdown on all fronts. Was that aerobic too? And those woods behind Lionel Tyndall’s house suddenly seemed a lot farther away than I remembered. Then again it had been many years since I had gone to that part of Crane’s View on foot, or any kind of pedal other than a gas pedal. Exercise fiends always crow that you see more when you’re walking or hiking. But the only thing I saw more of at the moment was my fury and frustration at trying to move Tinkerbell forward at more than a crawl.