“Nope. Wouldn’t it be great if they died? No more having to go up there. Nothing’s come in.”
“Call Michael Zakrides at the hospital and check with him. I’m going home to get something and then down to the river. Call me on my pocket phone if you hear anything.”
“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.