The End of the Pier Read Online Free PDF Page B

muted them, blurring the pinks, turning them lavender. And then she realized she could no more see such mutations than Sam could hear whose voice that was. Someone—a man, she thought—broke away from the group and walked slowly down to the dock and stood there smoking.
    â€œIt’s not about Key West,” she said when she saw Sam fold a stick of gum into his mouth. He did this sometimes preparatory to leaving, and she did not want him to go.
    â€œIt says it is in the title. ‘The Idea of Order—’ ”
    She sighed hugely. “Oh, for god’s sake.” She started to lecture him and thought she should change her tone if she wanted to keephim there. Patiently, she explained. Re-explained. “It is about a kind of order—”
    â€œI figured that out. It says so in the title.”
    â€œIt is about a person’s ability to order things. In this case it’s a singer making some sense out of the sea . . . No . . .” She held up her palm as if to stave off some objection Sam had clearly not been about to make—yet. “To ‘master’ it.”
    â€œTina Turner, for example.”
    She refused to speak to him now.
    Diplomatically, he changed the subject.
    â€œThat cat’s going belly-over off this dock in one more minute.”
    â€œWhat?” she shouted.
    â€œWell, for Christ’s sake, there’s no need to scream. All I said was, that cat—”
    She looked at the black cat. It was hunched down nearly half-over the edge, as if it had some serious business under there, something on the underside of the splintered wooden plank. “It’s okay.” But it wasn’t okay with her that now her attention had been drawn again to the cat; at least, though, its bad eye was turned away from her. “Don’t you know if that cat belongs to anyone?” She knew the tone was accusatory; the implication was that he was a policeman and he should know the comings and goings of the village’s animals.
    â€œNo. It’s just a stray. It’s not wild, though.”
    Maud fingered out the olive in her glass and sucked on it. “Why isn’t there a vet around here? That cat’s really sick.”
    â€œWell, there’s one in Hebrides. You thinking of taking that cat to a vet?”
    â€œThe tumor’s getting bigger. How can I? I don’t have a car.”
    â€œThere’s the Merk.”
    â€œIt doesn’t run, you know that.” She knew the black Mercedes fascinated Sam. Where had Maud ever got an old Mercedes?
    â€œTrouble could be in the transmission, the main cylinder.”
    Main cylinder. What was he talking about? Maud wondered if itwas the main cylinder that was burning out or grinding down in her brain. The glass sweated in her hand and she put it down on the barrel top, closed her eyes, and listened to the water slapping out against the pilings.
    Sam went on talking about someone on Route 12 who was a transmission specialist, named Paul. A genius at it. “And blind as a bat,” Sam said, with a little, wondering shake of his head.
    Maud turned her gaze from the dancers over there, who seemed to be drooping against one another like flowers. She knew there were blind musicians but not blind transmission specialists.
    â€œHe’s got the touch. It’s all in the fingers, you think about it.” Sam ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers, back and forth, eyes shut, as if he were feeling some delicate mechanism. “You know, if you’ve got no use for that car, give it to Chad. This is his last year; by summer Paul could have that car—” He stopped.
    â€œLast year.” It was an implicit, unspoken agreement between them that Chad’s last year in college was not to be talked of as such.
    Now Sam was making as much noise as he could crumpling his can of Coors, and talking so fast about cars in general he might have been the auctioneer