Orphan Pirates of the Spanish Main Read Online Free Page B

though Bill seems sharp enough to me. Just a little nuts. The view from the pulpit must get to you after a while. I’m reminded of Myrna perched on an ottoman in the back room of the house watching her chaotic flock of squirrels. It’s her favorite thing to do. How crazy is that?
    Clyde, sensing Bill’s need, rolls over in my lap, plops down on the floor, and leaps onto Bill’s knees like a flying ham. Bill cradles him in his arms. Clyde gazes at him in bug-eyed adoration, snorting sweet nothings, and Bill tells him what a good boy he is.
    I rise, bid farewell. “I’ll bring the dogs by in the morning. Our train leaves at ten.”
    *   *   *
    I’m in the berth above, Katyana and Dylan sleep below. The ceiling is close, the stars beyond. We’re rocketing through the night inside the pleasant roar of the train. I lied to Bill in a way, made it sound like nothing: Impotence. Trouble is, desire persists. Can even grow. Like a cancer. Another unwelcome manifestation of overenthusiastic life.
    I’ve just spent the day traveling with my beautiful wife and child who look at me as if they don’t know we’re all pretending to be a happy family who love one another. She cradled my white-whiskered face in her hands before I ascended to my berth and said, “Thank you for being such a sweet, sweet man,” and kissed me softly, lovingly, on the lips.
    She had no intention to render me sleepless, to break my heart. Sweet means patient mostly, not being a self-centered asshole. It’s amazing how many men find this difficult. This is no easy journey we’ve undertaken, and I’m not talking about the train. Sweet’s easy. I can do it in my sleep, but dreaming of sweet Katyana, I can’t sleep. Longing with no relief. Not a problem I had foreseen, not a bad problem for a man my age to suffer from. I could just not care anymore, like the surgeon said would happen eventually, inevitably. Not that I put much stock in what the surgeon says these days.
    I roll out of bed and head for the snack bar, where I find the conductor at one end doing his paperwork, and Ollie in the middle checking his messages. The concession is shut down and dark.
    I sit down across from him. “I couldn’t sleep.”
    â€œMe neither,” he says. “I heard from Camille. She says House stinks worse than ever, and he’s acting out with me not there. He chewed up her flip-flop.”
    â€œI’m impressed. I didn’t think he still had it in him from what you told me.” House is an eleven-year-old basset-Doberman mix with chronic odor problems, a constant source of Ollie’s distress, one of many tributaries. Ollie’s always got distress. He stocks up at Costco, clips coupons. I take it as a good sign Camille’s looking after the dogs. She must still love him. I don’t remember the other dogs or their troubled stories, but you can bet they’re a handful.
    â€œThe vet wants to give him antibiotics, says the skin issues might point to an underlying infection. He looks like shit. Coat’s dull and patchy. He scratches himself all the time. I tried tea-tree oil. Nothing.”
    â€œAloe?”
    â€œHaven’t tried that. You think that might help?”
    â€œMake him feel better anyway.”
    â€œWhat do you think about the antibiotics? This vet. She’s new. Girl right out of school. I don’t trust doctors.”
    â€œMe either. But I’m alive because I have three mini Slinkies in my heart: Doctors have their moments. My old lab Alice had something like what you’re describing, and antibiotics cleared it up when nothing else would. You don’t really think that’s a postcard from Mom, do you?”
    â€œWhat do you think it is?”
    â€œI think she had postcards made of the sand painting, and Katyana’s father, Simon Deetermeyer, got ahold of them.” I’ve explained to him about