The Wooden Sea

He came over to us and tickled the dog’s nose with the feather. Chuck tried halfheartedly to bite it. “I want to show you something inside the house. But before that, I’ve got an idea I’d like to try. What would you say to burying Old Vertue again, in my backyard this time?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m curious to see what will happen. If he does return again, I won’t have to wait to hear the news from you.” He took Chuck from me, and the small dog went nuts licking his face.

“Which do you think it is?”

“Probably mischief, but I hope it’s the other.”

“I don’t need God putting dead dogs in my trunk, George.”

“Maybe it’s not God. Maybe it’s something else.”

“That kind of shit’s off my Richter scale, bud. I have trouble enough living with a teenager. Remember when I got shot? I was close for a couple hours. Magda said they were thinking of calling a priest to give me the last rites. But did I do out-of-body travel to the big light? No. Did I see God? No.” I rubbed my face. “What about the smell?”

He looked at the ground. “I don’t smell anything.” “What? You can’t smell that? Even now it’s knocking me down!”

“Nothing, Fra

Unlike George, his house is normal. Everything is in order; everything as uninteresting as possible. Magda and I once went over for a di

“What’s this?” I picked up an object that looked like a mix between a CD player and a small Frisbee.

“Don’t touch that, Fra

“How come every time I come here you scold me for something?”

“Here it is.” He pulled out a book as big as a door. Looking at his hand, he grimaced and wiped it on his pants. Then he opened the book and started flipping through the pages. “Wouldn’t you rather be called than tricked?”

“Meaning what?” I picked up the CD Frisbee and put it down again.

“Wouldn’t you like to have a metaphysical adventure rather than track down some bozo who’s just trying to make you look stupid?”

“No. My family won’t let me watch The X-Files or The Outer Limits with them because whenever the strange stuff starts happening, I laugh.”

Judging by his expression, George had tuned me out after I said no. But when he abruptly stopped flipping pages, a smile the likes of which I had never seen rose slowly up his face like a hot air balloon lifting off. Not only that. This was the second time in two days I had seen a look on another’s face that a

“ ‘Fear only two: God, and the man who has no fear of God.’ That’s from the Koran, Fra

Whatever that was supposed to mean, he came over holding the book open with two hands. He put it on my lap and stepped back. I looked at him for some sign but he only pointed at the page, that bizarre smile still locked in place.

I looked down. My eyes widened to the size of planets. “No fuck-ing way!” I didn’t lift my head. My eyes raced round and round the picture. I couldn’t lift my head. “No fuck-ing way!”

“See the title?”

“Yes, George, I see the title! What am I supposed to do now? Huh? What am I supposed to do with this? Did I see the title? Am I stupid? I can read, you know—”

“Take it easy, Fra

On the page in the book on my lap was a reproduction of a painting by an unknown artist, circa 1750. Remember that– seventeen hundred and fifty. It is a portrait of a dog. A three-and-a-half-legged, one-eyed, marble-cake-colored pit bull sitting facing us and looking peacefully off to the right. A white bird—a dove?—with wings spread is hovering over the dog’s head. Behind them in a valley is a castle. Behind that is a bucolic landscape that includes rolling hills, a meandering river, farmers at work in their vineyards. It would be easy to replace the dog with a lord or wealthy landowner standing on a hill above all he owned, all he has achieved in life, his heaven on earth, all there for us to see and envy. But it is not a lord nor is it a human being; it is a pit bull. And a very familiar-looking one at that.

The title of the painting was “Old Vertue.”

“How did you know about this, George?”

“I remembered the painting.”

I closed the book and read the title. Great Animal Portraits. “Does the author say anything about the picture in the introduction?”

“Nothing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this after you saw the body and I told you his name?”

“Because first I wanted to hear how you felt about it.”

I was so angry I wanted to hit him on the head with the book. I was so rattled I wanted to go into the second hole I was going to dig for the dead dog and hide. I dropped the book on the floor. George started for it but when my body tensed, he froze.

“What am I supposed to do about this?”

He squatted down like a baseball catcher and put his hand on the arm of my chair to balance himself. Both of us remained silent. Chuck rolled over on his back and started doing that thing dogs do when they’re happy or feeling goofy: back and forth – flip flop.

“George, what would you do if you were me?”

“Bury the dog again. Then see what happens.”

“Not much else I can do, is there?”

“You could have it cremated at the Amerling Animal Shelter, but I don’t think that would end the problem.”

“It’ll come back, won’t it?”

“I think so. Yes it will.”

“No good deed goes unpunished. That’s what I get for being nice to a dead dog: Fucker comes back to haunt me. This is absurd. Why am I talking this way?”

“Because wonder’s grabbed you by the arm, Fra

A strange, disturbing thought arrived. I couldn’t stop asking, “Is it you, George? Have you done all this? Is that why I came here today—because you set it up? You’re weird. Maybe you’re weirder than I imagined.”

“Thank you, I’m flattered, but you’re still looking for logical answers. Even if I had set you up, how do you explain that painting in the book?”

“You found a dog that looked like the picture. You put it in the parking lot knowing someone would find it.... This is ridiculous. There would be too many coincidences and things that could go wrong.”

“Exactly. You want clear answers where there are none. What you have to do is create a real question and put it honestly in your heart. Then go looking for a clear answer. I’m not involved in this, but I’m very happy you came today. It’s the only time I have ever seen wonder firsthand. And I believe that’s what this is.”

There was a big beautiful apple tree in George’s backyard he planted years ago when he moved into his house. He was enormously proud of it. All year he sprayed, watered, and cared for it. A tree surgeon was called at the slightest sign of anything suspect. Although he never ate any, George spent hours in the fall carefully picking and placing the fruit in large wicker baskets he bought specifically for that purpose. He donated all of it to our town hospital. I had eaten apples from the tree and they were horrible, but don’t tell him that.