Albert E. Cowdrey by Animal Magnetism

Author:Animal Magnetism
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2012-01-29T21:11:16+00:00

The moon was new. Silver-fringed clouds parted like theater curtains in the aftermath of an April shower. Down below, all the world throbbed with life—frogs mating in ditches, clover blossoms exploding across dark, wet, verdant lawns like firecrackers at a Chinese New Year celebration.

Henry sat huddled in his recliner. He had a headache, a new and painful hemorrhoid, heartburn, sweating palms, conjunctivitis, cold feet, and a conviction of impending disaster. A red eye was winking at him, but he paid no attention.

“Still a week to go,” he muttered to Trixie, who was gnawing gently on one of his shoes. “I’m not gonna make it this time. I’m too old for this. I’m sure I have a heart condition. AIDS. Erosive esophagitis. Something.”

It was ten past midnight and he’d just gotten home. How easy it was, he reflected, to take on new clients in the dull days of summer, forgetting you’d have to do their taxes the following spring.

He finally noticed the winking red eye. Red-eyed himself, he stared at it for almost five minutes before realizing that his phone had a message for him.

“Hi, Honey!” exploded Marylou’s overloud voice. His heart sank another notch. He knew that tone; his sister was about to fix him up with a guy she’d just met, who was exactly right for him.

“Didn’t want to bother you at work, and your cellphone was turned off. So listen, Hen. I just met the most wonderful young man. He’s a Fellow of the Academy of Interior Design, and he’s redoing my house, and he’s loose at the moment. So why don’t you drive over on Wednesday for dinner, and—”

Henry’s eyes traveled over the room in which he sat. His maid’s idea of cleaning was to run a damp mop just to the edge of the furniture, for fear of disturbing the dust bunnies underneath. The sofa’s cushions sagged from bygone sexual adventures, of which busted springs were the only memorial. The rug had been gnawed years ago by Orlando, more recently by Trixie. Moths were batting around inside the tattered shade of an old brass lamp for which Henry felt great though obscure affection.

Into this dump—so dearly loved, every grungy square foot of it—he was supposed to bring some interior decorator with a queer eye for the queer guy?

He hit the delete button, dialed Marylou’s number, and told her machine, “Thanks for thinking of me, but right now I’m worked to death, and after the fifteenth I’ll be, uh, traveling. Love you. Bye.”

After that he put his face in his hands. He wished he was anywhere else. He wished he was anybody else. He wished Morris Gelhorn had sent him to Westward Bound instead of Mark. He wished that he, too, could just go and keep on going.

A paw was laid on his knee, and he raised his burning eyes and looked into Trixie’s concerned blue ones. Contrary to that night when he’d gone looney, she couldn’t talk, but dogs and masters were supposed to develop a

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