The Wooden Sea

by Jonathan Carroll

  “Okay. What’d you do with the dead dog, Chief? Why don’t you leave it for the Schiavos for when they get come home. Put it in their oven! That would shut Geri up for five minutes.”

  I flipped the feather back and forth in my fingers. “I’ll talk to you later. Hey, Bill, one more thing—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Know anything about birds?”

  “Birds? Jeez, I don’t know. Why? What about ‘em?”

  “What kind of bird would have feathers about ten inches long and be incredibly colorful?”

  “A peacock?”

  “I thought of that, but I don’t think so. I know what a peacock feather looks like. This isn’t it. Peacock feathers are more symmetrical in their marking. They have that big circle on them too. This isn’t one.”

  “What isn’t? What are you talking about?”

  I snapped out of it, realizing I was thinking out loud as I stared at the feather. “Nothing. I’ll check with you later.”

  “Frannie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Put the dog in the oven.”

  I hung up.

  How could so many colors exist on one thin feather? I couldn’t stop looking at the damned thing but knew I had to get moving. Outside again, a couple of the kids from before were still standing around, probably hoping for more Schiavo fireworks. I asked if they’d seen anyone leave the house before I arrived. They said no. When I told them the place was empty they couldn’t believe it.

  “There’s got to be someone in there, Mr. McCabe. You shoulda heard them screaming!

  I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around. “What’d they say?”

  The kid took a light from me and blew out a line of smoke. “Nothin’ special. She was calling him an asshole and a creep. But loud. Whoa, loudl You could have heard her downtown.”

  “And him? Did Donald say anything?”

  The other kid lowered his voice four octaves and got a look on his face like he was about to be the life of the party. “Bitch! Fock you, stupid pica! I do what the fock I wan’!”

  “Fie?”

  “Pica. It means, you know, pussy in Italian.”

  “What would I do without you guys? Listen, if you see either of them come back, call me on this number.” I handed one my card.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to the feather.

  “Beautiful, huh? I found it on their floor.” I held it up. We all silently admired it.

  “Maybe they were doing something in there with feathers, you know, like kinky.” The boy beamed.

  “You know, when I was a kid, the kinkiest thing I ever heard about was people dressing up in leather suits and whipping each other. I almost had a heart attack. But you guys know more now than Alex Comfort.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Back in the car, I slid the feather carefully under the sunshade over the driver’s seat. Why was the front door of their house open? And the back door? No one leaves their doors open anymore, not even in Crane’s View. Donald Schiavo worked as a mechanic at Birmfion Motors. I called there and talked to a secretary who said he’d gone out for lunch four hours ago and hadn’t come back. The boss was mad because Donald had a four-by-four still up on the rack and the customer was waiting.

  I shrugged it off. The Schiavos were somewhere. They would turn up. Driving home, I tried to remember where in the garage I had put the shovel.

  An hour later I struck another tree root and flipped out. Flinging the shovel away, I put a filthy hand in my mouth and bit myself. I hadn’t been this frustrated in ten weeks, give or take a few. My plan had been so simple: Drive down to the river, find a nice spot, dig Old Vertue a hole, drop him in, sweet dreams, go back to the office. But I’d forgotten they were laying pipe by the river and what with all the men and equipment around, it was no place for a dead dog and me.

  So I drove around in those big dark woods way back behind the Tyndall house and looked till I found a prime place. Sunlight danced down through the leaves. It was quiet except for gusts of wind through the leaves and birds singing. The air smelled of summer and earth.

  I was in such a good mood that I started singing “Hi-ho, Hi-ho, it’s off to work we go” as I stabbed the shovel into the soft ground. Five minutes later I hit the first root, which turned out to be as thick as the underground monster in Tremors. Undeterred (Hi-ho, Hi-ho), I shrugged and began digging in another place. But it turned put, gee whiz, there were tree roots all over that old forest. And as Old Vertue stiffened in the trunk of the car, my anger stiffened into a rage hard-on thirteen inches long.

  When I had finished chewing my hand and smoking three cigarettes I thought very slowly and with forced calm: I will try one more place. If that doesn’t work... And this is what’s interesting: Furious and frustrated as I was by the earth’s unwillingness to accept my hole, not for a minute did I consider taking the dog’s body to the pound and having it cremated. Old Vertue had to be buried. He had to be laid in the ground with gentleness and care. I didn’t know why that was fixed solidly in my brain, but it was. I didn’t owe him anything. No years of close companionship, a great friend whenever I was alone and down, summer days tossing him a stick in the backyard. Man’s best friend? I didn’t even know him. He was just an old fucked-up dog that happened to die on my office floor. Sure, part of it had to do with what Magda had said—I like losers. Most of the time I was on their side. Failures, liars, empty skulls, drunks, and felons– bring them on; I’ll pay for their drinks. Old Vertue seemed to be all of the above wrapped in one. I was sure if he’d been human he would have had a voice like a coffee grinder and a brain brown from abuse. But there was something more to his having entered my life. If you asked what, I’d be lying if I said I knew. All I was sure of was I had to take care of his burial and I was determined do that. So I put my temper back in its box and picked up the shovel again. This time it worked.

  Digging a deep hole takes more effort than you think. Plus it does a big bad number on the skin of your hands. But I found a spot a few feet over that let me go down as far as I wanted without putting any more obstacles in the way. When I was finished, the hole was about three feet deep and wide enough. He would be all right here.

  The most interesting thing was what came up on the shovel with the last scoop. On top of the dark dirt was something much brighter, almost white. It was such a vivid contrast that no one could have missed it. I lay the shovel down and reached for whatever it was. At first I thought it was a stick that had been bleached of all color. About ten inches long, it was silvery gray and jagged at one end, as if it had been attached to something larger but had been snapped off. As I brought it up closer for a better look, the silver became a kind of creamy white; it wasn’t wood but some kind of bone.

  No big deal. Forests are full of animal bones. I even smiled thinking I had upset one animal’s grave digging a place for another. The final outrage—a squirrel can’t even rest in peace these days. Call the ASPCA! Cruelty to dead animals.

  Pauline was interested in zoology. I thought she might like a look at the bone, so I slipped it into my pocket while walking back to the car to get Old Vertue.

  Popping the trunk, I got a jolt looking in. The dog’s eye had opened and he was staring right at me. No matter how in control you are or used to being around bodies, getting a look from the dead is never home sweet home. There’s still enough life in those eyes to make you lick your lips and turn away, hoping when you look again somehow they will be closed.

  “I’m just going to put you to bed, Vertue. It’s nice here. It’s a nice place to stop.” Sliding my hands under his body I lifted him out of the trunk. He felt heavier than before, but I assumed that was because the digging had tired me. My arms shook slightly as I carried him. The sunlight through the trees went on and off my shoes. Carefully stepping into the hole, I laid him down as gently as I could. The body was twisted a little and I rearranged it. The eyes were still open and the tip of his tongue came out of the corner of his mouth. Poo
r old guy. I stepped out and picked up the shovel, ready to start tossing dirt in on him. But things still didn’t seem right. I had an idea. Back to the car where I pulled the long feather from beneath the sunshade.

  I slipped it under his collar. Like an Egyptian king going to the hereafter surrounded by his worldly possessions, Old Vertue now had a beautiful feather to carry along. It was getting late and I had other things to do. Quickly filling the grave, I tamped it down as best I could, hoping another animal wouldn’t catch the scent and dig it up.

  That night at dinner Magda asked where I’d put him. After I described my adventure in the forest, she surprised me by saying, “Would you like to have a dog, Frannie?”

  “No, not particularly.”

  “But you were so nice to him. I wouldn’t mind having one. Some of them are sort of cute.”

  “You hate dogs, Magda.”

  “That’s true, but I love jou.”

  Pauline rolled her eyes and dramatically stomped off to the kitchen carrying her plate. When I was sure she was out of earshot I said, “I wouldn’t mind having a cat.”

  My wife blinked and frowned. “You already have a cat.”

  “Well, then I wouldn’t mind a little pussy.”

  That night, after a visit from my favorite pussy on earth, I dreamt of feathers, bones, and Johnny Petangles.

  Next morning the weather was so beautiful I decided to drive my motorcycle to work instead of the car. The end of summer sat on the town. It was my favorite season. Everything summery is richer and more intense then because you know it will all be gone soon. Magda’s mother used to say a flower smells sweetest when it’s just begun to rot. A few of the horse chestnut trees had already begun dropping their spiny yellow buckeyes. They hit the pavement with a crack or clunk on cars. When a breeze blew it was thick with the smell of ripe plants and dust. The dew hung around longer in the morning because the real heat of the day didn’t start until hours later.

  I have a big motorcycle—a Ducati Monster—and the evil “Fuck me—I’m a god!” sound of its 900cc engine alone is worth the price of admission. And there is nothing more pleasant than driving it slowly through Crane’s View, New York, on a morning like that. The day hasn’t started yet, hasn’t turned the sign in its front window to read OPEN yet. Only diehards are out and about. A smiling woman sweeps her front doorstep with a red broom. A young weimaraner, its stump tail wagging madly, sniffs garbage cans placed at a curb. An old man wearing a white ball cap and sweatsuit is either jogging slowly or walking as fast as he can.

  Seeing someone exercising immediately inspired me to think of French crullers and coffee with lots of cream. I’d stop and get both, but there was one thing to do first.

  After a few slow lefts and rights, I pulled up in front of the Schiavo house to see if anything had changed. No car was parked either in the driveway or near the house. I knew they owned a blue Mercury, but no blue cars were in sight. I tried the front door. It was still open. We’d have to change that. Couldn’t have a thief going in and stealing their painting-on-velvet of the Bay of Naples. I’d send someone over today to put temporary locks on the doors and leave a note for the elusive Donald and Geri. Not that I cared about either them or their possessions. Standing with hands in my pockets looking around, it was too beautiful a morning to have a weird little mystery like this to think about, especially when it had to do with these two jerks. But it was the job to care so I would.

  My pocket phone rang. It was Magda saying our car wouldn’t start. She was the queen of I-Hate-Technology and proud of it. This woman did not want to know how to work a computer, a calculator, any thingamajig that went beep-beep. She balanced her checkbook doing multiplication and division with a pencil, used a microwave oven with the greatest suspicion, and cars were her enemy if they didn’t start immediately when the key was turned. The irony was her daughter was a computer whiz who was in the midst of applying to tough colleges that specialized in the field. Amused, Magda stared at Pauline’s talents and shrugged.

  “I drove that car all day yesterday.”

  “I know, Poodles, but it still doesn’t start.”

  “You didn’t flood the motor? Remember the time—”

  Her voice rose. “Frannie, don’t go there. Do you want me to call the mechanic or do you want to fix it?”

  “Call the mechanic. Are you sure you didn’t—”

  “I’m sure. Know what else? Our garage smells great. Did you spray air freshener in there? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. The car that was fine yesterday won’t start, but the garage smells good?”

  “Right.”

  One beat. Two beats. “Mag, I’m biting my tongue over here. There are things I want to say to you but I’m holding back—”

  “Good! Keep holding. I’ll call the garage. See you later.” Click. If she hung up any faster I would have given her a speeding ticket. I was sure she’d done something wicked like flood the carburetor. Again. But you cut deals with your partner in marriage; they give you longitude and you give them latitude. That way, if you’re lucky, you create a map together of a shared world both can recognize and inhabit comfortably.

  Work that morning was the usual nothing much. The mayor came in to discuss erecting a traffic light at an intersection where there had been way too many accidents in the last few years. Her name is Susan Ginnety. We had been lovers in high school and Susan never forgave me for it. Thirty years ago I was the baddest fellow in our town. There are still stories floating around about what a bad seed I was back then and most of them are true. If I had a photo album from that time, all of the pictures in there of me would be either in profile or straight on, holding up a police identification number.

  Unlike miscreant me, Susan was a good girl who thought she heard the call of the wild and decided to try on being bad like a jean jacket. So she started hanging around with me and the crew. That mistake ended in disaster fast. In the end she reeled away from the smoking wreck of her innocence, went to college and studied politics while I went to Vietnam (involuntarily) and studied dead people.

  After college Susan lived in Boston, San Diego, and Manhattan. One weekend she returned to visit her family and decided there was no place like home. She married a high-powered entertainment lawyer who liked the idea of living in a small town by the Hudson. They bought a house on Villard Hill, and a year later Susan began running for public office.

  The interesting thing was that her husband, Frederick Morgan, is black. Crane’s View is a conservative town comprised mostly of middle– to lower middle-class Irish and Italian families not so many generations removed from steerage. From their ancestors they inherited an obsession with close family ties, a willingness to work hard, and a general suspicion of anything or anyone different. Before the Morgan/Ginnetys came, there had never been a mixed-race couple living in the town. If they had arrived in the early sixties when I was a kid we would have said nigger a lot and thrown rocks through their windows. But thank God some things do change. A black mayor was elected in the eighties who did a good job and graced the office. From the beginning townspeople realized the Morgans were a nice couple and we were lucky to have them.

  After they moved to Crane’s View and Susan heard I was chief of police, apparently her reaction was to cover her face and groan. When we met on the street for the first time in fifteen years she walked right up and said in an accusing voice, “You should be in prison! But you went to college and now you’re chief of police?”

  I said sweetly, “Hi, Susan. You changed. How come I can’t?”

  “Because you’re horrible, McCabe.”

  After being elected mayor she said to me, “You and I are going to have to work together a lot and I want to have a peaceful heart about it. You were the worst boyfriend in the history of the penis. Are you a good policeman?”

  “Uh-huh. You can look at my record. I’m sure you will.”

  “You’re right. I’ll look very closely. Are you corrupt?”

 
; “I don’t have to be. I have a lot of money from my first marriage.”

  “Did you steal it from her?”

  “No. I gave her an idea for a TV show. She was a producer.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What show?”

  “Man Overboard.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous show on television—”

  “And the most successful for a while.”

  “Yes. It was your idea? I guess I should be impressed, but I’m not. Shall we get to work?”

  * * *

  At our traffic-light meeting that summer morning, we finished with my giving Susan a briefing on what had been going on in town policewise the last week. As usual she listened with head down and a small silver tape recorder in hand in case she wanted to note anything. There really was no interesting news. Bill Pegg had to remind me to tell her about the disappearance of the Schiavos.

  “What are you doing about it?” She brought the recorder to her mouth, hesitated, and lowered it again.

  “Asking around, making some phone calls, putting locks on their doors. It’s a free country, Mayor, they can leave if they want.”

  “The way they left sounds pretty strange.”

  I thought about that. “Yes, but I also know the Schiavos and so do you. They’re both emotional wackos. I could easily imagine them having a big messy fight and storming off in opposite directions. Both probably thinking ‘I'll stay out all night and scare ‘em.’ The only problem being neither thought to lock the doors before they left.”

  “Ah, love!” Bill said, unwrapping his midmorning sandwich.

  “Did you talk to their parents?”

  Bill spoke around a mouthful. “I did. Neither have heard a word.”

  “What’s the usual time frame for filing a missing persons report?”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Frannie, will you take care of that if it’s necessary?”

  I nodded. She looked at Bill and, voice faltering, asked if he would leave us alone for a moment. Very surprised, he got up quickly and left. Susan had never done that before. She was as upfront and direct as anyone around. I knew she liked Bill for his wit and candor and he liked her for the same reasons. Asking him to leave meant something big and probably personal was about to land in that room. When the door closed I sat up straighter in the chair and looked at her. Suddenly she wouldn’t meet my stare.