Inflating a Dog (The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy) Eric Kraft (beautiful books to read .TXT) 📖

“So you come to talk to us, Peter,” said Big Ernie.

“Yeah,” I said, looking down at my shoes.

“I’ll bet you’ve come to talk to us about Captain Macomangus’s old boat, Arcinella,” said Mrs. Lodkochnikov.

“Yes,” said Mr. Lodkochnikov, twisting his smirk into a sneer. “I’ll bet you’ve come to tell us that Captain Mac’s old Arcinella is sinking.”

“That’s right,” I said, surprised.

They laughed. They actually laughed.

“It’s widely known, Peter,” said Little Ernie.

“It’s been widely known for quite some time,” said Big Ernie. He snorted.

“The poor old thing’s been on the way to the bottom with unseemly haste for upwards of a year now, Peter,” said Mr. Lodkochnikov.

For a moment, I was relieved. It wasn’t my fault. She wasn’t sinking because I had rammed her into the bulkhead; she’d been sinking for a long time before that. Whew. Then, of course, the truth dawned. We’d been swindled, and it was my fault. I’d inspected Arcinella and pronounced her sound. I should have known. More to the point, I should have asked. Six clamboat experts, any one of whom could have told me what I had needed to know, stood there with their arms crossed, smirking, inviting me to realize that I had done a foolish thing, several foolish things, actually, and that the first of those several foolish things had been not asking for their help and advice. I understood, standing there looking at them smirking at me, that within a certain segment of Babbington everyone must know that I had done a foolish thing. All of Babbington along the waterfront must have known that Arcinella was sinking, certainly all the clamdiggers. I recognized it now, but, of course, too late.

“What a jerk,” I said, shaking my head.

All six Lodkochnikovs emitted nearly identical snorts.

Mrs. Lodkochnikov asked, “Why didn’t you come to us before you bought the boat, Peter?”

The tone of voice in which she asked this question told me that she was far more hurt than annoyed, and I realized that I had hurt her. I understand now, and I think that I understood even then, at that moment, when I raised my head to look at them and saw them with their brows knit, waiting for an explanation, that I’d committed a terrible sin of omission against our friendship: I hadn’t come to them for advice in the one area in which they could lay claim to having mastered all the mystery.

They were poor people. Because they had so little, they must have found it particularly hurtful not to have been asked for one of the few things they possessed in abundance, their knowledge of sinking clam boats. My not asking them, my apparently disparaging the value of their counsel in the one area where they were rich, must have called into question my entire attitude toward them, made them wonder whether, behind my smiles and apparent demonstrations of friendship, I didn’t think they were worthless. I hung my head again. I had betrayed my friends.

“Well, I — I don’t know,” I lied.

“Yes, you do,” she said, “but even though you already know why, I’m going to tell you why, just so that we will both be aware that we both know why you didn’t come to us for advice when it could have been most useful to you. Are you ready?”

“I guess.”

“You fell victim to the sin of pride.”

“I did?”

“Yes. And arrogance.”

“That too?”

“You’ve reached that point in life when you think you know more about the world than you actually do. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Peter.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“A little knowledge tempts one to ignore the advice of people who have more than a little knowledge. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” She was beginning to sound like Dudley Beaker.

“You have let the arrogance of the ignorant get you into trouble.”

“Yeah,” I said, wondering how much more of this I’d have to endure.

“If you’d come to us, we might’ve had an opportunity to warn you against letting the arrogance of the ignorant get you into trouble.”

“I know, I know,” I said. I hung my head lower still, and shook it at my folly, and scuffed my shoes on the worn planks of the porch. I hoped that this was nearly over now, that in another moment they would be slapping me on the back and telling me all was forgiven and inviting me to borrow their bilge pump. That didn’t happen. Instead, Mrs. Lodkochnikov pointed out another of my failings.

“And it wasn’t only our advice that you eschewed,” she said. “You should have gone to your grandfather Leroy before you even looked at a boat. You should have asked him to come along with you when you looked at boats. You should have asked him to negotiate for you when you were striking a bargain — ”

All of that was true.

“You’re right,” I said.

“You were pig-headed,” said Big Ernie.

“You were a fool,” said Little Ernie.

“You can always count on my boys to sum up a complex argument in a few words,” said Mr. Lodkochnikov, pounding his huge offspring on their backs, “a few words that even a pig-headed fool can understand.”

They turned and disappeared into the dark of the house, leaving me with the terrible feeling that I had lost the best friends I’d ever had, and the likeliest source for the loan of a bilge pump.

Chapter 33

Pride, Vanity, and Folly

THE LODKOCHNIKOVS wouldn’t help me, so I was going to have to go to my grandfather Leroy and admit that I had been a fool when I advised my mother to buy Arcinella, and, worse, admit that I had dismissed as irrelevant or useless all that my grandfather had over his long life learned about boats and their tendency to sink, most of it probably learned the hard way.

My grandfather knew boats, really knew boats. He had built three: the sailboat Rambunctious, aboard which I had passed many happy summer days; the nameless little dinghy that he pulled behind the