Apologize, Apologize! (30 page)

“I promise,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and grinning up at me.

“Come on,” I said to him. “Don’t be an asshole. Climb in.” But he dove deep beneath the water’s surface and disappeared.

“Oh, my God, where is he?” My friends were in a panic, pulling off their shoes, getting ready to jump in after him.

“Forget it,” I said to them. “He’s fine.”

“How do you know?” someone asked me.

“He’s my brother. He was born with gills—and shit for brains.” I couldn’t resist.

“What’s he doing out here? Aren’t you worried? He’s been underwater all this time. . . .”

Three minutes, then four, five minutes passed, and up he popped. Waving, he slid onto his side, blowing bubbles, and then he glided away from the boat, heading with smooth, rhythmic strokes toward home.

“Holy mackerel,” said my friend.

“I guess,” I said.

I shut my eyes, and all these pictures appeared: the Falcon alone among his newspapers, feeding shortbread to Cromwell, talking to him about the state of the world as the edge of daylight recedes. Back at home, Bingo is running from the porch, pale and shining under the summer moonlight, stripping away his clothes as he runs, kicking off his shoes and hollering, the dogs following after him as he hits the water with a splash, and Pop’s singing along with his favorite songs, and Bingo’s back from his midnight swim, hair slicked away from his forehead, Uncle Tom’s making scrambled eggs, and Ma and Bingo are dancing to Pop’s music, drifting apart from us in ever widening circles, laughing in the kitchen, the dogs sweetly spinning.

Through the window, I caught sight of shifting shapes going from dark to light and light to dark and moving in slow motion and formal as they made their way to the beach. Down on my knees, the window open to the ocean, I leaned forward on my elbows for a better look, squinting gently, trying to focus on what was quietly out there among the gray shadows.

Gazing into the night, by the pure white light of a crescent moon, tiny blackbirds darting and moths and fireflies, I could see Uncle Tom, bareheaded and undistinguished at the heart of a solemn procession.

Gilda was in front and Nuala fanned out to the side, the stately Irish wolfhounds, long muzzles like tapers, Brendan and Kerry followed along like acolytes, the odor of early summer rolling in on violet waves. It was getting darker, the blackness lit by the moon and the stars, Uncle Tom’s old red cardigan glowing like a ruby and fringed with starlight, his gray hair like silver now, the dogs in golden shadow and silent.

I can hear the wind blowing in the mountains a thousand miles away.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A
pologize, Apologize!
would not exist in its current form were it not for the marvelous contributions of many people, starting with Emily Heckman, wonderful first reader, editor, and friend, and my fabulous agent, the unsinkable Molly Friedrich, who made the whole process entertaining, educational, and fun. Special thanks to Paul Cirone and Jacobia Dahm. Enormous thanks as well to my editor, Jonathan Karp, at Twelve for his intelligence, insights, and generosity of spirit, and to Angelika Glover, Diane Martin, Susan Traxel, Michelle MacAleese, and Louise Dennys at Knopf Canada for their superb editorial suggestions, support, and enthusiasm. They and the hardworking, talented members of their teams have made this experience a pleasure.

I would also like to recognize help and interest extended to me along the way by James D. Hornfischer, Jeff Gerecke, and Leigh Feldman. Thanks, too, to Deone Roberts, of the American Racing Pigeon Union, for her aid with research and for contributing anecdotal evidence concerning those pigeons who may, indeed, have walked home. I’m also indebted to “The Planet that Hums,” which appeared in
New Scientist
, September 1999.

I want to express my love and gratitude to my mother, Doris Nightingale Kelly, who always kept the ship afloat regardless of the weather; to my siblings, Virginia, Susan, Arthur, and Rooney; and to my dear children, Caitlin, Rory, and Connor; with special thanks to my brothers-in-law, Andrew Judge and Robert Armstrong, my sister-in-law, Marilyn Pettitt, and my friend Debora Kortlandt.

I am forever indebted to the Kellys, the Monahans, and the Nightingales, who enriched my life in typically complicated fashion and who taught me that we love people as much for their weaknesses as for their strengths—the world is a quieter place without them.

This book honors the heart and mind and remarkable editorial skills of my daughter Flannery Dean, my toughest critic and greatest supporter. And to my husband, George Dean, the largely unsung hero of my life, thank you.

Finally, I want to pay tribute to my beloved little dog Marty, who kept me company as I wrote.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Kelly was born in Brantford, Ontario, Canada. She is an award-winning magazine journalist and editor and lives in a little village in eastern Ontario with her husband, four dogs, and three cats.

About TWELVE

TWELVE was established in August 2005 with the objective of publishing no more than one book per month. We strive to publish the singular book, by authors who have a unique perspective and compelling authority. Works that explain our culture; that illuminate, inspire, provoke, and entertain. We seek to establish communities of conversation surrounding our books. Talented authors deserve attention not only from publishers, but from readers as well. To sell the book is only the beginning of our mission. To build avid audiences of readers who are enriched by these works—that is our ultimate purpose.

For more information about forthcoming TWELVE books, please go to
www.twelvebooks.com
.