porch-style afterdeck overhung by the cantilevered sun deck.
Orson was reluctant to go into the stateroom, which looked cozy and
welcoming in the low light of a nightstand lamp. After Roosevelt and I
stepped inside, however, Orson vigorously shook IT the condensed fog
off his coat, spraying the entire afterdeck, and then followed us. I
could almost believe that he’d hung back out of consideration, to avoid
splattering us.
When Orson was inside, Roosevelt locked the door. He tested it to be
sure it was secure. Then tested it again.
Beyond the aft stateroom, the main cabin included a galley with
bleached-mahogany cabinets and matching faux-mahogany floor, a dining
area, and a salon in one open and spacious floor plan. Out of respect
for me, it was illuminated only by one downlight in a living-room
display case full of football trophies and by two fat green candles
standing in saucers on the dinette table.
The air was redolent of fresh-brewed coffee, and when Roosevelt offered
a cup, I accepted.
“Sorry to hear about your dad,” he said.
“Well, at least it’s over.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is it really?”
“I mean, for him.”
“But not for You. Not after what You’ve seen.”
I frowned. “How do You know what I’ve seen?”
“The word’s around,” he said cryptically.
“What do You-,, He held up one hubcap-size hand. “We’ll talk about it
in a minute. That’s why I asked You to come here. But I’m still
trying to think through what I need to tell You. Let me get around to
it in my own way, son.”
Coffee served, the big man took off his nylon windbreaker, hung it on
the back of one of the oversized chairs, and sat at the table. He
indicated that I should sit catercorner to him, and with his foot, he
pushed out another chair. “Here You go, dog,” he said, offering the
third seat to Orson.
Although this was standard procedure when we visited Roosevelt, Orson
pretended incomprehension. He settled onto the floor in front of the
refrigerator.
“That is unacceptable,” Roosevelt quietly informed him.
Orson yawned.
With one foot, Roosevelt gently rattled the chair that he had pushed
away from the table for the dog. “Be a good puppy.”
Orson yawned more elaborately than before. He was overplaying his
disinterest.
“If I have to, pup, I’ll come over there, pick You up, and put You in
this chair,” Roosevelt said, “which will be an embarrassment to your
master, who would like You to be a courteous guest.”
He was smiling good-naturedly, and no slightest threatening tone
darkened his voice. His broad face was that of a black Buddha, and his
eyes were full of kindness and amusement.
“Be a good puppy,” Roosevelt repeated.
Orson swept the floor with his tail, caught himself, and stopped
wagging. He shyly shifted his stare from Roosevelt to me and cocked
his head.
I shrugged.
Once more Roosevelt lightly rattled the offered chair with his foot.
Although Orson got up from the floor, he didn’t immediately approach
the table.
From a pocket of the nylon windbreaker that hung on his chair,
Roosevelt extracted a dog biscuit shaped like a bone. He held it in
the candlelight so that Orson could see it clearly. Between his big
thumb and forefinger, the biscuit appeared to be almost as tiny as a
trinket from a charm bracelet, but it was in fact a large treat. With
ceremonial solemnity, Roosevelt placed it on the table in front of the
seat that was reserved for the dog.
With wanting eyes, Orson followed the biscuit hand. He padded toward
the table but stopped short of it. He was being more than usually
standoffish.
From the windbreaker, Roosevelt extracted a second biscuit.
He held it close to the candles, turning it as if it were an exquisite
jewel shining in the flame, and then he put it on the table beside the
first biscuit.
Although he whined with desire, Orson didn’t come to the chair. He
ducked his head shyly and then looked up from under his brow at our
host. This was the only man into whose eyes Orson was sometimes
reluctant to stare.
Roosevelt took a third biscuit from the windbreaker pocket.