Michael Malone - Weebly

was, "Sid. I hate being called Sidney. Just Sid. Okay?"
"Okay."
At last, he was on his way.
chapter 18
Frankly, Winslow Abernathy had found little
consolation in the sonnet Mrs. Canopy had left for him
in a terra-cotta bell jar outside his door. In it she had
voiced a presentiment that Beanie would soon be home
to change "the raven, Rumor, back to Truth's own
dove/Through heaven's magic trick—transforming
Love." But Beanie wasn't back. The Seville was not in
the garage, Big Mutt was not on the lawn, there was no
note on the bedroom dresser, no telephone call, no
telegram, no hospital, no police station, no apology,
nothing forwarded from his Boston hotel, no repentant
wife come into his office, where he had sat until 6:30,
waiting. There was no Beanie.
Since his return at three, Abernathy had received
five invitations to dinner for that evening. As if I were
abruptly widowed, he thought, and judged helpless to
care for myself. A solicitor in need of solicitude, of