"And so it just grew and grew."
"And so it just grew and grew. Right. Pop went overseas in the war and fought at Anzio and all up through his old country, then came home. Ray didn't come home; he got shot to pieces on Iwo. Broke Pop's heart. Old Mrs. Woznicki, Ray's widow, she still owns a lot of the company. Anyway, Central Construction grew like Topsy in the postwar boom, and they went into retail… started a lumberyard and supply house along with the contracting company. Now Pop was hiring greaseball architects, for Chrissake."
"Amazing!"
"No, not amazing. You're forgetting it all happened real gradually, Doc, over years and years. And sometimes, growing up, I remember some pretty lean years. But it kept growing mostly, and Pop paid off his notes, and then he did the smartest thing of all."
"What?"
"He got out. As Kenny Rogers says in the song, he knew when to fold 'em. Around nineteen sixty Pop saw the dramatic rise in union scale. The greaseballs were now making more than he was. No good. It was the rock-lath story all over again to Pop. You couldn't pay a guy nine bucks an hour to slam nails. Again, common sense. Forget the financial rags and the guys with MBAs… good old common sense, eh?"
"Right."
"So in sixty-one Pop sold the contracting business for a bundle, and put the money into three big retail stores specializing in what Pop saw would be the new thing: do-it-yourself home improvement. So there you are."
We sat in silence for a minute.
"America is a great country," I said.
"It sure as hell is. Got some warts, but we're the best around. You bet! So come on in now and have some bouillabaisse."
When the fish stew was ready Mary served it in big crocks she had made. Each one held over a quart of bouillabaisse, which we ate with huge wooden spoons. There was a long baguette of French garlic bread, and more cold Soave. Okay, they'd done it to me.
"Well I wish you luck on this bad business, Joe," I said, refilling my glass. "I really hope you catch the guys who did Johnny in. And I hope Sam doesn't get hurt, either. But one thing's for sure: I'm out of it. My mouthpiece is nowhere to be found. So they chucked it into some old trash can somewhere and it's gone for keeps. So that lets me out. Exit Doc." '
"About time," growled Mary, who was cracking a lobster claw in her teeth. "No more screwing around in old factories and getting shot at."
But she was wrong, and so was I. Because my mouthpiece was about to surface in a most surprising manner. And like so many things that come back at you- like the late john Robinson's voice- it came with strings attached.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Life's biggest problem is that it's boring. At least it's boring most of the time. When it's not boring it's terrifying. But when the panic subsides the needle does not settle back to mid-range, which consists of stimulating, interesting, exciting. No. Instead it drops right back into boring. There's no middle ground in life, or precious little of it.
So, in accordance with this zero-to-red line-to-zero pattern of life's tachometer, I was bored and depressed following work the next afternoon. My day's labors had consisted of removing impacted third molars. It's a painful but necessary procedure. It's how I make the bulk of my living. I hate it. None of my patients had been happy to greet me. Afterward, though glad the operation was over, they departed sullenly, with swollen jowls, in anticipation of the pain to come when the local wore off. Bad. I went for a slow run out along the Old Road to Nine-Acre Corners, then back around to Old Stone Mill Road where we live. I took a sauna, assembled and fiddled with my new compound archery bow, and took the mail into the study to go through it. I listened to Wagner. It was the funeral march from Seigfried. Very stirring. Heroic. When the Chicago Symphony plays Wagner, with that great brass section, you can hear the alpenhorns echoing off the purplish far walls of the Jungfrau… The only trouble with Wagner is that if you listen to too much of him, you get to actually believe it. And then it's not too difficult to imagine yourself walking out to the nearest aerodrome, climbing into your Stuka, and roaring off into the wild blue to strafe civilians.
Got to watch it with old Richard Wagner.
Halfway through the mail call I came across a government form bearing a U.S. Postal Service inscription. It was from the post office in Lowell, informing me that "an item of personal property" had been found in one of their postal facilities, and that I could claim said item by appearing there in person, bearing the proper identification, within thirty days.
An item of personal property… found in a postal facility.. . It couldn't be. It was too good to be true. To hell with thirty days;'I hightailed it to the phone and dialed the Lowell P.O. It was after four; I had forty minutes to get there before they closed. After much runaround and holding, I finally got to the young lady who was familiar with the item.
"Well, we were wondering when you'd call back, Doctor Adams. You see, you gotta have the slip in your hand, as well as the I.D. It's just the rules."
"I understand. Well, I'll be right up, so stay put. You want me to describe it?"
"No, not again. I'll be here. 'Bye."
On the drive up I couldn't help thinking that part of her phone conversation had sounded funny. Did she have the correct item? Was she confusing me with someone else? It wouldn't seem likely in a town the size of Lowell.
I arrived just before closing, and soon was facing the young woman across the counter. I showed her the proper identification.
"Should I describe the package?"
She gave a little giggle, as if I were obviously kidding, then gave me a questioning sidelong glance with furrowed brow.
"Your voice change?"
"Hmm?"
"Your voice. It sounds different. Gotta cold, mistah?"
I stared around the building. I was beginning to think I was in a Franz Kafka novel. A fat man appeared next to the young lady and glared at me over his droopy glasses. He looked at me, looked at the slip, looked at me, looked at the slip, looked at me. Later on in the year he was going to try something really challenging, like toilet training.
"Whats a big idea?" he asked me.
"What big idea? I'm here to claim my personal item. I have furnished the required identification and am prepared to describe the item. It's a small package from Investment Alloy Laboratories in Cambridge, which is a dental lab. And the piece is valuable to me."
"Must be, the way you been buggin' us about it," he said.
Back into the Kafka novel again.
"Excuse me. I only called once."
"Frank, he don't sound like the other guy," said the girl. "I asked him if his voice changed."
"What other guy?" I asked.
"A guy named Charles Adams has been callin' us continual for the past two days, did we find a box, you know? But we ain't found no box, till yesterday. Then we send the note out, right?"
"Did he call you today?" I asked.
"Uh-huh. About forty minutes ago."
"No dear, that was me."'
She giggled again. Frank looked at me, looked at the slip, looked at me, looked at the slip…
"That's just what he said each time: it's me." She laughed.
"But I described the package."
"Yeah," said Frank, "four times."
I sighed, and swept my eyes around the place. Somebody else wanted the package. Somebody who knew what it looked like. And also somebody who knew the post office would have it. Who was it? Not the guys chipping at the factory wall, because he thought the package was still in there. Or maybe he was after the newsboy's pouch… the empty pouch…