The Wooden Sea Read Online Free
Author: Jonathan Carroll
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Contemporary, Dogs, Police chiefs
the field. Amused, Magda stared at Pauline's talents and shrugged.
"I drove that car all day yesterday."
"I know, Poodles, but it still doesn't start."
Page 12
"You didn't flood the motor? Remember the time--"
Her voice rose. "Frannie, don't go there. Do you want me to call the mechanic or do you want to fix it?"
"Call the mechanic. Are you sure you didn't--"
"I'm sure. Know what else? Our garage smells great. Did you spray air freshener in there? What did you do?"
"Nothing. The car that was fine yesterday won't start, but the garage smells good?"
"Right."
One beat. Two beats. "Mag, I'm biting my tongue over here. There are things I want to say to you but I'm holding back--"
"Good! Keep holding. I'll call the garage. See you later." Click. If she hung up any faster I would have given her a speeding ticket. I was sure she'd done something wicked like flood the carburetor. _Again.
_But you cut deals with your partner in marriage; they give you longitude and you give them latitude. That way, if you're lucky, you create a map together of a shared world both can recognize and inhabit comfortably.
Work that morning was the usual nothing much. The mayor came in to discuss erecting a traffic light at an intersection where there had been way too many accidents in the last few years. Her name is Susan Ginnety. We had been lovers in high school and Susan never forgave me for it.
Thirty years ago I was the baddest fellow in our town. There are still stories floating around about what a bad seed I was back then and most of them are true. If I had a photo album from that time, all of the pictures in there of me would be either in profile or straight on, holding up a police identification number.
Unlike miscreant me, Susan was a good girl who thought she heard the call of the wild and decided to try on being bad like a jean jacket.
So she started hanging around with me and the crew. That mistake ended in disaster fast. In the end she reeled away from the smoking wreck of her innocence, went to college and studied politics while I went to Vietnam
(involuntarily) and studied dead people.
After college Susan lived in Boston, San Diego, and Manhattan. One weekend she returned to visit her family and decided there was no place like home. She married a high-powered entertainment lawyer who liked the idea of living in a small town by the Hudson. They bought a house on Villard Hill, and a year later Susan began running for public office.
The interesting thing was that her husband, Frederick Morgan, is black.
Crane's View is a conservative town comprised mostly of middle-to lower middle-class Irish and Italian families not so many generations removed from steerage.
From their ancestors they inherited an obsession with close family ties, a willingness to work Page 13
hard, and a general suspicion of anything or anyone different. Before the Morgan/Ginnetys came, there had never been a mixed-race couple living in the town. If they had arrived in the early sixties when I was a kid we would have said nigger a lot and thrown rocks through their windows. But thank God some things do change. A black mayor was elected in the eighties who did a good job and graced the office. From the beginning townspeople realized the Morgans were a nice couple and we were lucky to have them.
After they moved to Crane's View and Susan heard I was chief of police, apparently her reaction was to cover her face and groan. When we met on the street for the first time in fifteen years she walked right up and said in an accusing voice, "You should be in prison! But you went to college and now you're chief of _police?"_
I said sweetly, "Hi, Susan. _You _changed. How come I can't?"
"Because you're horrible, McCabe."
After being elected mayor she said to me, "You and I are going to have to work together a lot and I want to have a peaceful heart about it.
You were _the _worst boyfriend in the history of the penis. Are you a good
"I drove that car all day yesterday."
"I know, Poodles, but it still doesn't start."
Page 12
"You didn't flood the motor? Remember the time--"
Her voice rose. "Frannie, don't go there. Do you want me to call the mechanic or do you want to fix it?"
"Call the mechanic. Are you sure you didn't--"
"I'm sure. Know what else? Our garage smells great. Did you spray air freshener in there? What did you do?"
"Nothing. The car that was fine yesterday won't start, but the garage smells good?"
"Right."
One beat. Two beats. "Mag, I'm biting my tongue over here. There are things I want to say to you but I'm holding back--"
"Good! Keep holding. I'll call the garage. See you later." Click. If she hung up any faster I would have given her a speeding ticket. I was sure she'd done something wicked like flood the carburetor. _Again.
_But you cut deals with your partner in marriage; they give you longitude and you give them latitude. That way, if you're lucky, you create a map together of a shared world both can recognize and inhabit comfortably.
Work that morning was the usual nothing much. The mayor came in to discuss erecting a traffic light at an intersection where there had been way too many accidents in the last few years. Her name is Susan Ginnety. We had been lovers in high school and Susan never forgave me for it.
Thirty years ago I was the baddest fellow in our town. There are still stories floating around about what a bad seed I was back then and most of them are true. If I had a photo album from that time, all of the pictures in there of me would be either in profile or straight on, holding up a police identification number.
Unlike miscreant me, Susan was a good girl who thought she heard the call of the wild and decided to try on being bad like a jean jacket.
So she started hanging around with me and the crew. That mistake ended in disaster fast. In the end she reeled away from the smoking wreck of her innocence, went to college and studied politics while I went to Vietnam
(involuntarily) and studied dead people.
After college Susan lived in Boston, San Diego, and Manhattan. One weekend she returned to visit her family and decided there was no place like home. She married a high-powered entertainment lawyer who liked the idea of living in a small town by the Hudson. They bought a house on Villard Hill, and a year later Susan began running for public office.
The interesting thing was that her husband, Frederick Morgan, is black.
Crane's View is a conservative town comprised mostly of middle-to lower middle-class Irish and Italian families not so many generations removed from steerage.
From their ancestors they inherited an obsession with close family ties, a willingness to work Page 13
hard, and a general suspicion of anything or anyone different. Before the Morgan/Ginnetys came, there had never been a mixed-race couple living in the town. If they had arrived in the early sixties when I was a kid we would have said nigger a lot and thrown rocks through their windows. But thank God some things do change. A black mayor was elected in the eighties who did a good job and graced the office. From the beginning townspeople realized the Morgans were a nice couple and we were lucky to have them.
After they moved to Crane's View and Susan heard I was chief of police, apparently her reaction was to cover her face and groan. When we met on the street for the first time in fifteen years she walked right up and said in an accusing voice, "You should be in prison! But you went to college and now you're chief of _police?"_
I said sweetly, "Hi, Susan. _You _changed. How come I can't?"
"Because you're horrible, McCabe."
After being elected mayor she said to me, "You and I are going to have to work together a lot and I want to have a peaceful heart about it.
You were _the _worst boyfriend in the history of the penis. Are you a good
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