He makes a simple statement sound like a threat: “Harmony doesn’t need another short-order cook.”
“I’m not applying for a job, sir.”
“What are you doing here, Harry Potter?”
“Seeking the meaning of my life.”
“Maybe your life doesn’t have any meaning.”
“I’m pretty sure it does.”
“Life is meaningless. Every life.”
“Maybe that works for you. It doesn’t work for me.”
He clears his throat with a noise that makes me wonder if he indulges in unconventional personal grooming habits and has a nasty hairball stuck in his esophagus. When he spits, a disgusting wad of mucus splatters the pavement, two inches from my right shoe, which no doubt was his intended target.
“Life is meaningless except in your case. Is that it, Harry? You’re better than the rest of us, huh?”
His face tightens with inexplicable anger. Gentle, sentimental Donny has morphed into Donny the Hun, descendant of Attila, who seems capable of sudden mindless violence.
“Not better, sir. Probably worse than a lot of people. Anyway, it isn’t a matter of better or worse. I’m just different. Sort of like a porpoise, which looks like a fish and swims like a fish but isn’t a fish because it’s a mammal and because no one wants to eat it with a side of chips. Or maybe like a prairie dog, which everyone calls a dog but isn’t really a dog at all. It looks like maybe a chubby squirrel, but it isn’t a squirrel, either, because it lives in tunnels, not in trees, and it hibernates in the winter but it isn’t a bear. A prairie dog wouldn’t say it was better than real dogs or better than squirrels or bears, just different like a porpoise is different, but of course it’s nothing like a porpoise, either. So I think I’ll go back to my cottage and eat my candy bars and think about porpoises and prairie dogs until I can express this analogy more clearly.”
Sometimes, if I pretend to be an airhead and a bit screwy, I can convince a bad guy that I’m no threat to him and that I’m not worth the waste of time and energy he would have to expend to do bad things to me. On other occasions, my pretense infuriates them. Walking away, I half expect to be clubbed to the ground with a tire iron.
Three (#ulink_50b8bd88-f7a7-58fb-9d68-625502be84a8)
THE DOOR TO COTTAGE 6 OPENS AS I APPROACH it, but no one appears on the threshold.
When I step inside, closing the door behind me, I find Annamaria on her knees, brushing the golden retriever’s teeth.
She says, “Blossom once had a dog. She put an extra toothbrush in the hamper for Raphael, and a tube of liver-flavored toothpaste.”
The golden sits with head lifted, remarkably patient, letting Annamaria lift his flews to expose his teeth, refraining from licking the paste off the brush before it can be put to work. He rolls his eyes at me, as if to say This is annoying, but she means well.
“Ma’am, I wish you’d keep your door locked.”
“It’s locked when it’s closed.”
“It keeps drifting open.”
“Only for you.”
“Why does that happen?”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“I ought to have asked—how does that happen?”
“Yes, that would have been the better question.”
The liver-flavored toothpaste has precipitated significant doggy drool. Annamaria pauses in the brushing and uses a hand towel to rub dry the soaked fur on Raphael’s jaws and chin.
“Before I went snooping, I should have warned you not to watch television. That’s why I came back. To warn you.”
“I’m aware of what’s on TV, young man. I’d as soon set myself on fire as watch most of it.”
“Don’t even watch the good stuff. Don’t switch it on. I think television is a pathway.”
As she squeezes more toothpaste onto the brush, she says, “Pathway for what?”
“That’s an excellent question. When I have an answer, I’ll know why I’ve been drawn to Harmony Corner. So how does the door open just for me?”
“What door?”
“This door.”
“That door is closed.”
“Yes, I just closed it.”
“You lovely boy, pull your tongue in,” she instructs the dog, because he’s been letting it loll.
Raphael pulls in his tongue, and she sets to work on his front teeth as just the tip of his tail wags.
The caffeine has not yet begun to kick in, and I have no more energy to pursue the issue of the door. “Up at the service station, there’s this mechanic named Donny. He has two personalities, and the second one is likely to use a lug wrench in ways its manufacturer never intended. If he comes knocking at your door, don’t let him in.”
“I don’t intend to let anyone in but you.”
“That waitress you spoke to when you rented the cottages—”
“Holly Harmony.”
“Was she … normal?”
“She was lovely, friendly, and efficient.”
“She didn’t do anything strange?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like … she didn’t pluck a fly out of the air and eat it or anything?”
“What a curious thing to ask.”
“Did she?”
“No. Of course not.”