blew her nose. Her mouth quivered. Her voice was thin and sad and wobbly.
"I wanted to set the weight down," she said.
He shook his head and gave her a small regretful smile. "Not bloody likely," he said.
11
The snapshot was dog-eared and faded and had lost its gloss. In bright sunlight a blond boy in ragged swim trunks, and a smaller, dark boy in Levi's, shirt open and flapping in the wind, grinned at the camera, side by side. They stood easy, hipshot, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, on a pier. A gull swung above them. Beyond them, through strong scaffolding, the ocean glinted. He had seen scaffolding like that lately. Where?
"That was 1941. Twenty-six years ago. It doesn't seem possible." The little pet-shop woman in her flowered smock peered up at Dave. Her glasses were thick, a circle of white cloth pasted inside one of the lenses. The visible eye was black and bird-bright. Birds surrounded her in shiny cages. Canaries, parakeets, finches. Noisy flowers. "They spent the whole summer at Bell Beach. One of them—I don't even remember now if it was Fox or Doug—sold a dozen silly, schoolboy cartoons to some pulp paper magazine, and so they had a few dollars." Her smile was fond, remembering. "How excited they were."
"It had to be a long time ago." Dave studied the photo. "Kids today don't grin like that."
"No, they don't, do they?" She nodded, troubled. "It's as if they understand already that there isn't much in life to smile about." She sighed. "And that's a shame. They ought to be like birds."
Like a bird in trouble, a kettle shrieked in the back room. She led him there. The place was dim under fortywatt bulbs. It smelled of seed, alfalfa, sawdust—bird food, rabbit pellets, cage litter. Paper barrels, bulging sacks, unopened cartons, dusty unsold aquariums, cages in swaths of brown paper. Behind chicken wire, guinea pigs hopped over the backs of tortoises. A taffy-colored cocker spaniel nursed wriggling pups. A sick monkey hunched by a rain-gray window.
The hot plate stood on a shelf beside a scarred refrigerator. There was an open pound paper box of sugar on the shelf, a jar of powdered cream substitute. She fixed mugs of instant coffee and cracked open a cellophane box to get him a little red plastic spoon to stir his with. They went into the shop again. Hard, bright surfaces under glaring fluorescents. Bouquets of loud plastic flowers. A bubbling green fish tank. Dave lit a cigarette and picked up the photo.
"Doug looks smaller than Fox. Was he younger?"
"Only four months. Fox's birthday was July, Doug's was November. But Doug was never strong. He had rheumatic fever when he was seven. He was delicate. We had to be careful with him always."
"But he ended up in the Air Force," Dave said.
Her laugh was brief and mirthless. "It was a shock. The doctor had sworn his heart was damaged and it'd never be right again. Course, we didn't keep running back and back to the doctor. Couldn't afford it, in the first place. And after all, he never had spells or anything. Just colds and little stomach upsets—the usual. And I watched him to be sure he never overdid. He was naturally quiet, anyway. Never cared for sports."
"And his heart mended."
She snorted. "Doctors! There probably wasn't anything wrong with it in the first place." A myna bird by the front window threw back its head and laughed. It sounded human. She called, "That's right, Rudyard," blew at her coffee, frowned. "It upset Fox something awful. He wasn't taken, you know. Into the service, I mean. Can't say why. And neither of them expected Doug would qualify. Nobody did. Fox went over to the enlistment place with him. When they came home you've never seen such long faces."
She sipped gingerly at the coffee, set the mug down and blinked at Dave. "Do you know . . . I never knew two people as close as those two boys. Not in my whole life." She gave a little thoughtful headshake. "And when Doug came home from Europe
"I wanted to set the weight down," she said.
He shook his head and gave her a small regretful smile. "Not bloody likely," he said.
11
The snapshot was dog-eared and faded and had lost its gloss. In bright sunlight a blond boy in ragged swim trunks, and a smaller, dark boy in Levi's, shirt open and flapping in the wind, grinned at the camera, side by side. They stood easy, hipshot, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, on a pier. A gull swung above them. Beyond them, through strong scaffolding, the ocean glinted. He had seen scaffolding like that lately. Where?
"That was 1941. Twenty-six years ago. It doesn't seem possible." The little pet-shop woman in her flowered smock peered up at Dave. Her glasses were thick, a circle of white cloth pasted inside one of the lenses. The visible eye was black and bird-bright. Birds surrounded her in shiny cages. Canaries, parakeets, finches. Noisy flowers. "They spent the whole summer at Bell Beach. One of them—I don't even remember now if it was Fox or Doug—sold a dozen silly, schoolboy cartoons to some pulp paper magazine, and so they had a few dollars." Her smile was fond, remembering. "How excited they were."
"It had to be a long time ago." Dave studied the photo. "Kids today don't grin like that."
"No, they don't, do they?" She nodded, troubled. "It's as if they understand already that there isn't much in life to smile about." She sighed. "And that's a shame. They ought to be like birds."
Like a bird in trouble, a kettle shrieked in the back room. She led him there. The place was dim under fortywatt bulbs. It smelled of seed, alfalfa, sawdust—bird food, rabbit pellets, cage litter. Paper barrels, bulging sacks, unopened cartons, dusty unsold aquariums, cages in swaths of brown paper. Behind chicken wire, guinea pigs hopped over the backs of tortoises. A taffy-colored cocker spaniel nursed wriggling pups. A sick monkey hunched by a rain-gray window.
The hot plate stood on a shelf beside a scarred refrigerator. There was an open pound paper box of sugar on the shelf, a jar of powdered cream substitute. She fixed mugs of instant coffee and cracked open a cellophane box to get him a little red plastic spoon to stir his with. They went into the shop again. Hard, bright surfaces under glaring fluorescents. Bouquets of loud plastic flowers. A bubbling green fish tank. Dave lit a cigarette and picked up the photo.
"Doug looks smaller than Fox. Was he younger?"
"Only four months. Fox's birthday was July, Doug's was November. But Doug was never strong. He had rheumatic fever when he was seven. He was delicate. We had to be careful with him always."
"But he ended up in the Air Force," Dave said.
Her laugh was brief and mirthless. "It was a shock. The doctor had sworn his heart was damaged and it'd never be right again. Course, we didn't keep running back and back to the doctor. Couldn't afford it, in the first place. And after all, he never had spells or anything. Just colds and little stomach upsets—the usual. And I watched him to be sure he never overdid. He was naturally quiet, anyway. Never cared for sports."
"And his heart mended."
She snorted. "Doctors! There probably wasn't anything wrong with it in the first place." A myna bird by the front window threw back its head and laughed. It sounded human. She called, "That's right, Rudyard," blew at her coffee, frowned. "It upset Fox something awful. He wasn't taken, you know. Into the service, I mean. Can't say why. And neither of them expected Doug would qualify. Nobody did. Fox went over to the enlistment place with him. When they came home you've never seen such long faces."
She sipped gingerly at the coffee, set the mug down and blinked at Dave. "Do you know . . . I never knew two people as close as those two boys. Not in my whole life." She gave a little thoughtful headshake. "And when Doug came home from Europe
Similar Books
