Cockatiels at Seven (5 page)

“You’ll miss half the good footage,” Blake grumbled.

“We’re recording it, aren’t we?” I asked. “I’ll rewatch it later, when I can give it my undivided attention.”

That mollified him a little, though he did keep frowning whenever I rustled papers or snapped the binder rings open or closed.

“Your friend will probably be back to claim Timmy before you finish that,” Rob said, during one of the commercials.

“If she is, great,” I said. “But in the meantime, I’m tired of having to leaf through this whole wad of paper every time I need some bit of information.”

“Quiet!” Dr. Blake said. “I’m on again.”

At least Timmy seemed to be enjoying the show—an
Animal Planet
special on sea turtles, with a lot of emphasis on the problems they faced from poachers and smugglers. He spent the commercial breaks begging turtle rides from Michael and Rob. Fortunately, turtle rides were much less strenuous than horsie rides, since they consisted of sitting on the turtle’s back while it crawled at a comfortable pace.

“I’m a turtle,” Michael said, whenever Timmy urged him to go faster. “This is as fast as I go.”

And I had to confess that it was interesting to watch the show with Blake in the room, and get some of the inside scoop. He beamed with pride during some segments, but he was clearly still outraged by the poachers and smugglers and frustrated by what I gathered were network limitations on how savagely he could condemn them.

“In some cultures,” the on-screen Dr. Blake intoned, “sea turtle eggs are erroneously believed to have an aphrodisiac effect.”

“Should have let me say which damned ignorant cultures,” the live Dr. Blake muttered. “Bloody peasant superstition.”

“This belief—which is completely without any scientific validity—has tragic consequences for the sea turtles,” said the on-screen Blake.

“Tragic? Try criminal,” the real Dr. Blake said. “If more people would think with their brains instead of their—”

“Dr. Blake!” Mother exclaimed, with a pointed look at Timmy.

Dr. Blake subsided into the occasional growl.

The final segment of the hour featured a raid on some suspected turtle-egg smugglers.

“This next part’s quite dramatic,” Dad assured us, while Dr. Blake beamed. The picture switched to Dr. Blake, crouching beside a ramshackle building, explaining in hushed tones how dangerous the upcoming raid could be.

“The smuggling of animals and animal products generates billions of dollars in profit every year,” Blake was saying. “It’s second only to the illegal drug trade—and very often, the same ruthless criminals are responsible for both. Which means that the turtle smugglers we’re after today are probably also smuggling drugs using the same routes, the same carriers, and the same modus operandi. As a result, both the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and Drug Enforcement Administration agents have a keen interest in apprehending these dangerous lawbreakers—lawbreakers who have no scruples about turning their Uzis on the law enforcement officials who attempt to arrest them.”

He glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure the Uzi-toting smugglers hadn’t sneaked up on him while he was talking to us. I suddenly realized that the ramshackle building looked remarkably familiar.

“That’s one of our sheds,” I said. “What’s our shed doing in your documentary?”

“It was while you were on your honeymoon,” Dad said.

“You found armed turtle-egg smugglers in our shed while we were on our honeymoon?”

“No, but the raid took place at night,” Dr. Blake explained, pointing to the screen, where blurred and
out-of-focus shapes were dashing around haphazardly, accompanied by the occasional burst of gunfire. “We didn’t get good footage.”

“So you faked it using our shed!”

“We just needed a plausible-looking exterior for the intro. We don’t actually say we’re at the site of the raid.”

“And our shed makes a plausible-looking smuggler’s den? Didn’t I hear something earlier about the squalid and filthy conditions the smuggled turtles were found in? Do you mean plausibly squalid and filthy?”

On screen, the picture cut to a DEA agent talking about a raid in which they had seized hundreds of kilos of cocaine along with other contraband, resulting in indictments of dozens of members of a major drug cartel.

“Oh, great,” I said. “Now everyone in town’s going to think we’re part of a drug cartel.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dr. Blake said. “Shh!”

“Other contraband,” the on-screen Blake said, shaking his head. “Sea turtle eggs may be only an afterthought to the DEA. But to these magnificent giants of the ocean, their eggs represent the future, and the illegal trade in these eggs threatens the survival of one of the planet’s most unique inhabitants.”

The documentary cut to some footage of several turtles swimming across the screen with ponderous grace. The background music was more than a little reminiscent of the shark theme in
Jaws
and managed to give the impression that a pack of dastardly egg smugglers was lurking off camera, ready to pounce. Then, the music swelled to the sort of tragically doomed theme that usually means the movie’s hero is walking off, chin high, to sacrifice himself for something or
other. The turtles continued to swim stoically into the distance as the closing credits rolled in front of them.

“So what are you doing with our sheds this week,” I asked. “Turning one of them into a replica of an alligator shoe factory? Or perhaps the lair of an ivory smuggler? Maybe reenacting one of the cockfights you raided?”

“We’ve already wrapped up those shows,” Dr. Blake said. “And we’ll only be using your shed to keep a few birds in. I doubt we’ll need to do any filming there this time. Anyway—time I went home.”

Since Dr. Blake had lost his driver’s license about the time he turned ninety, these words were, as usual, a signal for someone to offer to drive him back to his hotel. Mother and Dad had offered to let him stay with them—for that matter, they’d also offered to let him stay with me and Michael. But he seemed to prefer the independence of staying at the Caerphilly Inn. Or perhaps he suspected, rightly, that staying with family wouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as staying in a five-star hotel.

“Come on, Timmy,” I said. “Bedtime.”

Timmy, his eyes still glued to the television, moved about three inches toward the stairs.

“Timmy . . . ”

“I’m coming,” he said.

“Sometime tonight.”

“I’m a turrel,” he said, grinning up at me. “This is as fast as I go.”

“What an enormous sea turtle!” Michael exclaimed. “I wonder if I can pick it up.”

He swooped down and snatched up Timmy.

“I’ll put him to bed this time,” he said over his shoulder as he carried away the giggling toddler. “By
way of apology for the fact that I’ll be in more damned faculty meetings all day tomorrow.”

Rob, as usual, ended up chauffeuring Dr. Blake. Mother, Dad, and Rose Noire kissed me good night and took off for the farmhouse.

I sat down and changed to the local news. The headline stories were the heat wave and a house fire in neighboring Clay County. No reports of fatal traffic accidents or unidentified female bodies turning up. I tried Karen’s home and cell phone again before going upstairs.

From down the hall, I heard Michael doing an animated reading of
Yertle the Turtle
. I did my usual nighttime washing and toothbrushing routines. When I stuck my head out in the hall again, Michael had moved on to
Horton Hears a Who
. Timmy had already heard all dozen Dr. Seuss books on hand either during the day, at nap time, or during our first attempt to settle him down for the evening. I wondered how many he was good for this time.

I curled up in bed with Timmy’s instruction manual. While I’d been punching holes in it and sorting it into tabs, I’d decided from its relative cleanliness—at least when I’d first received it—that Karen had probably prepared it especially for Timmy’s visit with me. Was it possible that hidden in the midst of all the childcare instructions Karen might have let slip some clue to where she was and why she had disappeared?

Somewhere in the middle of a description of how to cook the fruit concoction I was supposed to administer to Timmy at the first signs of constipation, I must have dozed off.

Michael woke up in a good mood. I woke up worrying about Karen.

“So what are my chances of talking you into embarking on a Timmy of our own,” he said. I couldn’t tell if those were the first words he uttered or simply the first that made it through my early morning fog.

“Arg,” I said. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“Can I at least talk you into a practicing for the real thing?” he asked, in a tone that would normally have distracted me immediately. I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t expecting my answer.

“We should talk about that later, too,” I said.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, but the Timmy we already have is standing right here at my side of the bed,” I said. “Good morning, Timmy.”

“Kiki hungry,” Timmy announced.

Michael sighed.

“And what would Kiki like for breakfast?” he asked, as he rolled out of bed.

“Pizza.”

“Pizza? We’ll have to see about that. Do you have pizza for breakfast every day?”

Timmy nodded.

“It’s got protein,” I said, sinking back into my pillow. “And if you give him the leftover supreme, it’s even got vegetables.”

“You’re joking, I hope,” Michael said. “Come on, Timmy. Do you like oatmeal?”

“Yuck,” Timmy said.

I listened for a minute as their voices disappeared downstairs, and then I felt around the bedside table until I found my cell phone.

Karen didn’t answer again. Of course.

I confess, I was preoccupied during breakfast. Not too preoccupied to notice that Michael was wonderful with Timmy. In spite of the page in Timmy’s instruction manual warning that he was a fussy eater and refused to consume anything for breakfast but French toast with real maple syrup, Michael managed to get him to eat the same thing he usually fixed for the two of us—oatmeal seasoned with bits of raisin, walnut, and apple, and a side of yogurt. And while clearly he was doing his best to demonstrate what a helpful, fully involved father he could be for our own children, he also seemed to be enjoying himself.

I decided there must be something wrong with me. Everyone else found Timmy amusing and didn’t mind helping out with him. Clearly I must have been lacking some important gene that would have made me adore small children uncritically.

Then again, everybody else was just helping out with him. I was the one responsible for him. “There
just isn’t anyone else I can trust,” Karen had said. I found myself wishing she’d lingered long enough to tell me if there was anyone she particularly distrusted. If she had, at least I would have a little bit of information to give Chief Burke when—if—I had to report her disappearance.

And maybe the time for that report had come.

“Meg? Something wrong?” Michael asked.

“It just occurred to me that perhaps I should search for a certain missing friend,” I said. “And maybe if I don’t succeed in finding her, I should talk to Chief Burke.”

Michael glanced at Timmy, who was pretending to feed the nuts and raisins to Kiki before eating them. Then he nodded.

Fortunately, before Michael raced off to his day’s meetings, I managed to ingest enough food and caffeine to fuel my morning with Timmy. Transferring him from pajamas to day clothes, accompanied by a change of diaper, took over half an hour.

Rob showed up about the time I had Timmy theoretically presentable for meeting the outside world. This was early for Rob to be up and about, which probably meant that he’d slept upstairs in his sleeping bag. Well, at least he was handy.

“Here,” I said, turning Timmy over to Rob. “Amuse him for a minute. I’m going to make one more try.”

“Horsie-horsie!” Timmy said, holding up his arms in a not particularly subtle plea for Rob to pick him up and give him a ride.

“I think I can skip the gym this week,” Rob said. He settled Timmy on his back, pawed the ground a few times with one foot, neighed, and trotted away. I picked
up the kitchen phone receiver and dialed Karen’s home number again.

Once again it rang unanswered. I let it go until the voice mail kicked in, then hung up. No sense leaving any more messages unless I had something to say. Something other than “Where the hell are you and when are you coming back to pick up Timmy?” I’d left enough variations of that already. Rob trotted through the kitchen again, prancing dramatically while Timmy squealed with laughter.

“No answer?” Rob asked. “What do you supposed has happened to her?”

With Timmy around, I couldn’t exactly list the host of unsettling possibilities that came to mind. I didn’t really think the running off to Bali thing was very likely, but what if she was deliberately trying to dodge me? What if something had happened to her? What if—

I hung up and dialed her cell phone. Again it rang until the call answer picked up. Rob and Timmy cruised into the kitchen again. Timmy’s enthusiasm seemed unabated, but Rob was prancing a little less energetically.

“Dammit,” I said, slamming down the receiver. “This is ridiculous.”

“Dammit!” Timmy echoed. I winced.

“I’m going over there.”

“And do what?” Rob asked, prancing in place by the counter.

“Find her, if she’s there.”

“And if she’s not?”

“I don’t know. Leave notes. Interrogate the neighbors. If I find her, I can apologize for Timmy’s deteriorating
vocabulary. If I don’t, maybe I should drop by and talk to Chief Burke. Report her as missing.”

“Don’t you have to wait forty-eight hours for that?”

“I think they can waive the waiting period if there are suspicious circumstances,” I said. “Like abandoning a toddler to the care of highly unsuitable persons. Timmy, want to go for a ride in the car?”

“Dammit!” Timmy shrieked, waving his arms with such enthusiasm that he almost knocked himself off Rob’s back.

“You’re going now?” Rob swung Timmy down to the floor and rotated his no-doubt aching shoulders.