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

We were glum. I wished, in the inarticulate way that one wishes for things, that I could make us all happy, and I happened to glance upward, at the sky, at the clarity of the sky, the glaring emptiness of it that threatened to expose our hopes as delusions, ourselves as self-deluded fools, and in the mysterious manner of all inspiration, its accusatory clarity afflated me. Pausing to look at the sky, holding my hand out as if to feel the rain, I burst into song: “Trickle, trickle — ”

Patti understood at once; to my call she responded, “Splash, splash — ”

We were off, singing “Trickle, Trickle,” a song recorded by the Videos, now recognized as a doo-wop classic, and a favorite of Patti’s and mine from the moment we first heard it, but a commercial flop when it was released. We packed up and drove home in the mood of people whose summer picnic plans have been disappointed by a downpour, people who are singing to keep their spirits up but singing as if they were singing because their spirits are up, floating quite well on their own, undampened by that downpour, needing no songs to keep them up.

TUESDAY: On Tuesday, as departure time neared, I saw a couple walking toward us along the road from the area near the Lodkochnikovs’ house. They were clamdiggers, with the look of peasants — good, sturdy, honest folk, but not the sort that one would ordinarily expect to be interested in taking an elegant excursion. However, as they drew nearer, it began to seem to me that they really were headed for Arcinella. “Hey,” I said to my mother, not much above a whisper, “I think we might have some customers.”

She looked down the road and said, doubtfully, “Really? You think so?”

“I guess you must be Ella,” said the woman when she reached us.

“Why, yes,” said my mother. Certain now that she really did have a couple of customers, she added, formally, “Good evening. Welcome to Ella’s Elegant Excursions.”

“We heard that the trip was very restful and romantic,” said the woman, who didn’t seem to notice my mother’s offer to hand them safely aboard and clambered onto the foredeck unaided. “That’s what old Lord Caught-yer-cough told us.”

“Lord — ? Do you mean Mr. Lodkochnikov?” I asked.

“Lod — ? Say it again?”

“Lodkochnikov.”

“Is that how you say it?” She seemed astonished.

“Well, I think it is,” I said. “It’s how Mrs. Lodkochnikov says it. And it’s how I say it when I’m talking to him, and he’s never corrected me.”

“Never corrected me, neither,” she said, “and I been calling him Lord Caught-yer-cough ever since I’ve known him, which must be” — she became coy and gave me a poke — “let’s just say quite a few years.”

“That’s all anybody ever calls him,” muttered the man.

“Maybe I’ve got it wrong,” I said. “But I’m really glad he suggested that you come for an excursion.”

“He said it’s restful and romantic,” the woman said again, nodding her head.

“But be sure to bring your own food, he told us,” said the man, “because otherwise you don’t get enough to stuff a guppy.” He held up a paper bag.

We gave them the full treatment. They drank the champagne, refused the caviar, sampled the little sandwiches out of politeness, ate the fried chicken and potato salad they had brought, and held hands and smooched in the sunset.

WEDNESDAY: On Wednesday, while we were loading supplies on board, the harbormaster came by. I knew right away that he was the harbormaster because he came chugging up in a launch with HARBORMASTER painted on the side in big red letters.

“Ahoy, Arcinella,” he called out.

My mother said, “Oh, hello,” and then rather self-consciously corrected that to, “Ahoy — um — Harbormaster.”

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said my mother.

He swung the launch alongside with consummate skill and nonchalance, hopped aboard, and looked around. After a while, he said, “Nice job you did on the paint. Very nice.”

“Why, thank you,” said my mother. “Would you care for a glass of champagne?”

“No, no. I couldn’t do that.”

“How about a sandwich?” asked Patti.

The harbormaster considered the plate of sandwiches very carefully, and very carefully selected a pink one. Juggling the sandwich and his clipboard, he said, “Happens that I’ve got something for you. Mm, delicious. You see, Arcinella is still registered to Captain Macomangus.” He began filling out a form. “Doesn’t really taste pink, if you know what I mean. Tastes like clam dip.”

“It is,” said my mother.

“No kidding. Well, she’ll have to be re-registered in her new owner’s name before next Wednesday.” He finished filling out the form on a pad that made four copies, tore the bottom one off, the one that was almost illegible, and handed it to my mother. Then he saluted us briskly and hopped back into his launch.

“What’d you do, use those Tintoretto’s Tints to get it pink like that?” he asked, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle.

“Yes,” said my mother.

“Cute idea,” he said, and chugged off, waving what remained of his sandwich.

My mother, Patti, and I huddled over the form.

“It’s expensive,” said Patti.

“Oh, not that expensive,” said my mother.

“More than we’ve brought in so far,” I pointed out.

THURSDAY: “Somebody in Babbington has got to be looking for a good time,” said my mother, pacing the deck.

“You’re right!” said Patti. “Here they come!”

Four carloads of noisy people pulled up and began spilling out of their cars. They’d already been drinking, and they’d brought their own liquor. They were not an elegant bunch.

“Uh-oh,” said my mother.

By the time we had reached the bay it was clear that the group was indeed looking for a good time, but their idea of a good time was getting good and drunk and tossing their inhibitions into the bay. One of the women — tipsy, voluptuous, and, to be frank about it, thrilling — cornered me in the wheelhouse while Arcinella was on her long arc at midpoint in the excursion.

“Hi there,