The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Read Online Free PDF Page B

exactly three hours, until her chain had come off and clattered to the floor. She, grief-stricken, had thrown the bike to the ground. Martin had quietly replaced the chain while she sobbed in my lap, elevating him to her instant hero when he was done. If only it was that easy now, I thought.
    Just about to add corny music to my inner thoughts, I heard the back door open. It was the hero. He was still grumpy about the raccoons, which were still treating our property as their own private holiday resort, complete with bed-and-breakfast services.
    “Do I have some news for you!” I said, greeting him in the hallway as he sat to take off his boots.
    He looked up at me wearily.
    “Can you guess?” I asked, trying to sound mysterious.
    “You made meatloaf for dinner?” he asked halfheartedly.
    It was obvious he didn’t want to play. But I wasn’t giving up that easily.
    “Let me give you a clue. If you listen closely, you might start to hear the faint pitter-patter of tiny feet running up our hallway.”
    He let go of a long, slow breath and slumped forward.
    “Don’t tell me that those darn raccoons have made it into the house now.”

    I recounted the rest of the conversation with Stacy to him over dinner, but he only seemed to be half-listening as he peered at a book propped up against the saltshaker entitled How to Catch a Critter . He smirked when I mentioned our daughter’s feelings toward her pregnancy.
    “She’d be disappointed if the angel Gabriel popped down from heaven to tell her the meaning of life, this week’s lottery numbers, and where the treasure is buried,” he quipped. I could tell he was secretly delighted.
    “I think it’s because she’s such a perfectionist,” I said protectively. “She likes to feel she’s in control of everything, and pregnancy is a classic situation that is completely out of her control.”
    Martin raised his eyebrows over his book suggestively.
    “And don’t you go and blame me for her attitude,” I added defensively. “She takes after your mother!”
    Martin shook his head in bewilderment. He had long since stopped trying to figure out our daughter, who as an adult had quietly removed his superhero cape and in return offered him a cape of indifference.

    Later that evening I wandered outside to find Martin whistling to himself as he lashed yet another thick rope around the top of our trash can. On the deck was a large roll of duct tape and a huge bag of newly purchased birdseed.
    “I’m building the perfect trap!” said the Wizard of Oz.
    Smiling to myself, I surveyed his equipment, which looked suspiciously like materials needed for the shoddy affair I’d seen on the Internet.
    When I asked him if he been surfing the Web, he screwed up his face and shook his head with disgust. “I prefer to consult with people who know what they’re talking about,” he stated with indignation. “Dwayne was over earlier. This is a special trap that he told me about.”
    I couldn’t help smiling as I went in the house to make a cup of tea. Maybe Dwayne wasn’t everything he was cracked up to be; maybe he was just the Grizzly Adams of the World Wide Web.

    Martin’s hopes were dashed the very next morning, when not only had our trash can mysteriously disappeared but also half the chicken feed that had been locked in an outside shed.
    He shook his head and muttered something about not understanding why the birdseed and duct tape trap wasn’t working. Standing in mutual commiseration with him for about five seconds, I left him staring at the empty space where our trash can used to be. I informed him that though I would love to go on a wild trash can hunt with him, I really needed to get ready for work. Then I realized my purse was missing.
    Now, if I lived in a big city, I might have rushed to call in the police, SWAT team, and K-9 patrol, screaming about burglaries. But I lived in a town where everybody left their keys in the car so they could find them, and we all still