Patricia Reis was getting on in years. Her long auburn locks had given way to gray and white. She held the wild tangle back with a tortoise shell headband sporting blue hydrangeas.

She sat at a cherry meeting table, picking at her scone. She wore a a broach of a golden broken rifle over her ample breast.

Boyd Maynard, a thirty-something trust manager, sat in his office just off the meeting room. A hand on his brow, a thin waft of strawberry blonde hair barely cutting the shine from his pate.

“Becky, I cant do this. I didnt go to Dartmouth to deal with witches like this. Cant you just tell her I’m out of the office?”

“Mr. Maynard, that’s just unprofessional. Besides, I’m pretty sure she saw you run behind the room divider and into the lavatory when she came in.”

“BOYD! Momma wants a BALLOON! Get in here!”

Becky smiled. “You heard her – Momma awaits!”

Maynard gathered up manila folders, flung himself forward, and shuffled into the conference room.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Reis. How can I hel….”

“Boyd, I need a balloon. A big ass balloon. One of them balloons what sails the skies with pretty colors and a helluva fire underneath. I’m entering the balloon race next month.”

“The All-State Regional Championship?”

“Thats the one, by jiminy!”

“Ms. Reis…”

“Son, I have a mighty hefty portfolio there. If you wish to continue managing this account, you’ll call me ‘Momma Pat’.”

Maynard pursed his lips. Let out a breath.

“Momma Pat, you’re seventy-four years old…”

“Seventy two.”

“Ma’am, you were born in…”

“Typo, boy! Its a typo!” snapped Reis.

A long sigh.

“Ma’am, you cant possibly learn to pilot a hot-air balloon by mid-July. My father is in that race and he’s been flying for years.”

“I know. That’s why I’m entering the race.”

“I… I beg your pardon?”

“Your daddy, Mitchell Maynard, he stood me up for the bingo last week. He’s a lyin’, no-good, sumbitch and I intend to beat his ass at the balloon race.”

“Ma’am, my father has won hundreds of hot air balloon races. He’s won the prestigious ‘Coupe Aéronautique d’Hupengubler’ twice! You cant possibly think you’d beat him…”

“I can, and I will. Now you just cut me a check for two thousand five hundred dollars.”

“You want twenty five hundred dollars for what?”

“I’m buyin a balloon and I’m staking Jean-Piere L’Oiseau to pilot it.”

“L’Oiseau? I thought he was dead.”

“No. Not dead. Drunk? Yes. Dead? No. But I’ll have him sobered up and ready to whoop your daddy’s polka dotted ass next month!”

“Ma’am, I cant possibly condone the use of your money like this. This is an enormous amount for shear folly.”

“Son, you will cut me that check, and you will cut it immediately. I will be there in my own fancy balloon when they shoot that flamin’ arrow to start the race, or you, sir, will be in a dingy apartment doin free taxes for a livin’.”

“Ma’am…”

“NOW BOY!”

---

Jean-Pierre l’Oiseau

On the edge of Lurleen there once flowed the Okliven River. Inexplicably, with little warning, the State removed Patterson Dam, leaving a gaping gash of mud, and eventually dirt and dust, along the southern edge of town. The sudden egress of water left scattered recreational sail boats on their sides like asphyxiating fish left to die on a dirty shore, miles and miles of a wasteland of trash, tires, car parts, cinder blocks and chains, random hunks of metal, and closer to town, a small, rusting black barge, still moored to Pierce Hall Pier, ten feet above.

A taxi turned into the deserted ferry parking lot. A thin man in a seersucker suit stepped out with a briefcase and said something to the driver. There appeared to be some sort of disagreement. The driver shrugged his shoulders, the thin man cocked his yarrow colored hat back, set the briefcase down, and reached for his wallet. A moment later he returned his wallet to his back pocket. As he picked up the briefcase and the driver immediately gunned the engine and drove away. The thin man began to chase the taxi, but gave up after only a few steps.

After a moment the thin man turned and walked to the pier. Looking over the side one could see the barge, slightly askew in the now dry river bed. A tangle of electrical wires ran from the barge up the side and disappearing under the pier. Slapdash plumbing from the dark recesses of the pier and into the barge. Leaking. The belly of the barge crusted in rust rested in the dry riverbed, save for patches of oiled sand, trash, and indistinguishables.

“Ahoy!” yelled the thin man. The distant sound of cicadas from the tree line on the far side shore.

“I say, AHOY there! On the barge!”

No response. A line of ants marched along the pier, down the side, along the plumbing to the barge.

Struggling to hold the briefcase, the thin man awkwardly made his way down a makeshift ladder to the barge. His foot landed on the rusting black deck with a clang. His steps echoing in metal rapports as he made his way to what appeared to be the cabin. A rickety screen door covered an open metal hatch.

Banging on the screen door, the thin man once again bellowed, “Hello? I’m looking for Jean-Pierre l’Oiseau? Hello??”

He heard movement from somewhere in the cabin. “Mr. l’Oiseau? Is that you?”

From the darkness of the cabin, a falsetto voice – “Im sorry, eez nobody home! Go away now!”

“Mr l’Oiseau – my name is Hayden Harris. I represent Ms. Patricia Reis. She would like to employ you to fly her balloon in the upcoming race.”

A silent pause.

Then, again in falsetto, “eez nobody HOME! You go away now! Go away! S’en aller!”

“Sir, please, just allow me to speak to you for a moment. I think you’ll change your mind if you hear me out.”

“I do not fly no more. I do not fly! Go away now!”

“Mr. l’Ouiseau, I can offer you $10 for your time…”

“$100”

Harris took his wallet out, counted bills.

“Sir, the best I can do is $32 and,” checking his pockets, quietly, “well, a token for the circus I suppose…”

A silhouette stepped toward the door.

“Which circus?”

“Ah. Well, it says ‘Carpa de Mulas Voladore'”

“The one with the diving mule?”

Harris investigated the wooden token closer. A faded image of a four legged creature, outstretched diagonally, forelegs pointing to an oval. Rubbing the token between his fingers, Hayden Harris took a moment to assess the moment.

He saw his alma mater, Yale, in his mind. The stately buildings, the legendary library, the smell of the paneled lecture halls. He recalled the late nights studying. Fraternity balls. His mind wandered through the years of hard times during apprenticeships. Then years of building his own well respected firm. The relationships forged from hard work, dedication to the customer, unwavering commitment to the job at hand.

And now this is where he stood.

Harris sighed and said, “Yes. The one with the diving mule.”

An olive skinned man with greased black hair and handlebar mustache appeared on the other side of the screen door.

“My apologies, monsieur Harris, please, come in. I was just… having breakfast when my, uh… assistant announced your visit. Please, do come in,” opening the screen door.

Remnants of balloon fabric, faded red and yellow stripes, covered the ceiling. Along the walls a myriad collection of news articles about balloons, photos of balloons, diagrams of balloons. A wooden fireplace mantel leaned against a steel wall, atop it trophies with gold and silver statuettes of balloons. A large sterling cup with a faded inscription.

Harris leaned in toward one moderately sized trophy of a golden balloon affixed to a hardwood plinth. A bronze plate engraved, “Course de Aérostation, Chateau de Moineaux,” a date, and the next line, “La Deuxième Place.”

“My friend Antoine du Beau lost his life in that race. He had a pet pig he could not part with. During races, when it became apparent he needed to lose ballast, he would prepare the pig with a parachute, and set it aloft.

“Unfortunately, after this race, Antoine was found in a heap in Rechaussier, just outside of Avignon. The pig, enjoying the sun, munching meadow daisies, set in his parachute. The lines of the parachute wrapped about Antoine’s ankle.

“They found his ballon fifty kilometers east near Bonnieux. If he’d been able to stay in the ballon he would have won the race and set a record.”

Harris lifted the cup.

“I received that as co-pilot for H. Mitchell Maynard. We won the ‘La Competición de Resistencia en Globo de Torres’ in Torres, Brazil. While not quite the world record, we set the record for South America. Just over one thousand kilometers. Maybe close to 650 miles.

“It was a wonderful time, then.”

L’Ouiseau began drawing shades back, filling the dark cabin with light.

“We traveled mostly by train to Torres, but occasionally, if the winds allowed, we would take out the ballon and fly some ways.

“We took with us three ground crewmen. Billy Maddock, Terrance Leary, and Pedro Marsala. Pedro, of course, was our translator, though I know a little Spanish myself.”

L’Ouiseau began clearing off the small dinner table in the middle of the cabin.

“We needed big, strong lads to handle the gondola, the envelope, the ballast, you see.

“Billy Maddock was from a small place in New Jersey just outside of Allentown. A farm boy raised on pitching haybales and chopping wood. Smoked a clay pipe.

“Terrance Leary was a coal-black black man. Dark as midnight. As big as a mountain. You’d think being raised by a sharecropper in south Alabama he would have been as dumb as he was big, but that was not the case. Terrance’s mother taught him to read, then snuck books to him from the library where she worked as a custodian. Terrance was particularly interested in weather. He read every book he could get on meteorology. He was a great help with navigation.”

Mr. Harris raised an eyebrow.

“Pedro Marsala was a small man, but one hell of a competitor. He was a jockey for a period of time, winning a few races throughout Mexico. He took to car racing immediately after having seen his first car. He was a madman behind the wheel, but that won quite a few races in his time. But something about ballon racing drew him in deeply. He crafted and flew his own ballon in small expositions throughout Mexico. He learned as much as he could from Maynard and myself, going on to compete and win a few prestigious events himself over the years. I believe he won the Hupengubler and placed very high in the Bennett.”

Harris returned the cup to the makeshift mantle.

L’Ouiseau continued.

“H. Mitchell Maynard was already a very famous pilot. He, himself, had won the Bennett Cup just a few years prior to this. I felt truly blessed to be asked to co-pilot. I felt there was much I could learn from this man. And I did. I learned more than I bargained for.”

L’Ouiseau stopped. Stood still for a moment, head cocked, staring at a corner.

He continued.

“We arrived by train in Torres. Maynard sent Pedro to buy a truck and supplies. Terrance and Billy unloaded the ballon, gondola, gear. I recall it didnt take long for Pedro to return. Maynard went to secure a place to stay while we four loaded the ballon into the truck. We drove to the course and set up camp. Maynard returned and we studied maps for the rest of the day. Terrance had studied as much as he could about weather patterns in Brazil, but actual records were in Spanish. He had Pedro translate some, but he knew he’d get better data locally. He and Pedro chatted up some of the competitors and then went into town to interrogate locals.

“Billy set up camp. While Maynard was staying at the Palacio de las Rosas, we would stay in canvas tents with the ballon.”

Jean-Pierre offered a wooden chair to his guest at a small wooden table, then sat opposite. Mr. Harris took a kerchief from an inner coat pocket and attempted to dust off the chair. Giving up, he placed the kerchief on the table and slowly sat down.

“The challenge,” L’Ouiseau continued, “was that the winds generally blew north north-east, which would take us out over the South Atlantic. We would have to be very precise in our navigation to follow the curve of the coast. One bad gust and we could find ourselves over the open ocean. A very dangerous situation as you may imagine.”

In front of Monsieur l’Oiseau an off-white ceramic bowl, a brown paper bag, and a half bottle of whiskey. From the bag l’Oiseau withdrew a partially eaten baguette. l’Ouiseau poured whiskey into the bowl, then dipped the baguette therein.

“Is that…?” began Mr. Harris

l’Oiseau interrupted – “Breakfast?”

Harris winced in shock.

“Oh, pardon!” l’Oiseau exclaimed, “would you care to join me?”

Tearing a piece off the baguette, he shoved the bottle toward Harris.

“Ahem, no, thank you, no.”

Jean-Pierre squinted, arms floating above the small table. He raised an eyebrow and shook the baguette at Mr. Harris.

“No, no thank you. Please, continue your story about flying with Mr. Maynard.”

L’Ouiseau slowly withdrew his arms, then again dipped the baguette in the bowl and took a bite.

“Just north of Torres is the Gran Pradera. It was from there we would embark on our journey. Six other ballon would compete with us. They, with their own crew.

“The plan was to hug the coast. Our crew would attempt to stay ahead of us as Terrance would release sounding ballon to track air currents at different altitudes. We had contrived hand signals so we could communicate altitude, wind direction, if we were going to land, things of this nature.

“On the morning of June tenth, we set aloft. Once we rose to approximately one thousand feet, Pedro and the crew started north. The first few hours were uneventful, traveling mostly north with some slight movement east. Eventually we saw the coast.

“With our field glasses we were able to track the crew. The only black truck on the roads for miles.

“I regularly checked the map, our course, the compass. Monsieur Maynard watched the horizon for cloud formations. Flying along the coast can be challenging, but somewhat predictable. In the mornings, as the sun heats the ground, the cooler air from the ocean moves in, in the evening as the land cools the wind blows back out to sea – most of the time.”

L’Ousieau dipped his baguette.

“Typically, Monsieur Harris, a ballon lands for the evening. Very, very dangerous to fly a ballon at night you see. We had previously arranged to contact the crew around 4pm to plan our descent befor the night. I found them with the glasses a few miles north. Pedro signaled to land about 10 miles north east of our position near the Itapocu River. I confirmed and relayed the message to Maynard. We were both hungry and ready to get dinner.

“However about thirty minutes later I noticed the wind had died some. We were not moving at a pace I was comfortable with. Dead wind is a bad omen. Very bad. Eventually we did stop moving.

In the distance I made out the other competitors, roughly at our altitude, maybe slightly higher. They were moving north, slowly, but we remained motionless.

“Monsieur Maynard made the decision to gain altitude in hopes of catching that vein northward. He ordered that I drop thirty kilos of ballast. I did and we began rising, but not fast enough for Monsieur Maynard. He ordered that I drop another 30. Mind you, without this ballast we would have to be careful to land. The only way to come down is to release gas, and that can be a very tricky thing.”

L’Ouiseau wiped crumbs from the table.

“We rose to about 3000 feet and caught a strong north push. The sun was getting low. I noticed we started tracking east. Over the course of the hour we drifted closer and closer to the shoreline. I scanned the roads in hopes that our crew knew we were in trouble. The sun was maybe five degrees above the horizon when I made out the black truck. I could see Terrance waving his arms. He was making the signal to descend, descend, descend.

I informed Monsieur Maynard that our crew, Terrance in particular, was insisting we descend immediately. Maynard cursed Terrance and said very unkind things about him and his race that I shall not repeat here out of respect for my camarade. Maynard insisted the wind would push us enough to make at least Barra Velha, giving us an edge in the morning against our competition.

After another half hour and I made out we were only a few miles west of the tiny Ilha dos Remédios.

“Then off the horizon of the ocean I saw it. Maybe 30, 40 miles. Flashes of lightning illuminating a thundercloud. I turned to inform Monsieur Maynard and was met with a warm gust of wind from the east. As the sun disappeared the wind grew stronger.

“Maynard ordered me to again drop ballast. I surmised his thinking was the wind wasnt blowing as eastward at a higher altitude. The problem here was the air is colder at higher altitudes which causes the ballon to sink. And, it was now nighttime.

“We eventually came close to 5000 feet. I watched the storm to our east. Over time I began to feel the breeze become stronger, blowing us more toward the shore. I believe we were just east of Curitiba when we finally flew out over the ocean. There was no landing now. Nothing but cold, cold sea below us.

“Monsieur Maynard began to panic. He started pulling the vents to descend. I pleaded with him to stop. He cussed and pushed me, nearly shoved me overboard. In a fit of anger I bashed him in the head with my fist, sending him to floor of the gondola. He did not get up but simply slumped in the corner.

“The night was cold. We were at four, maybe 5000 feet, dressed for summer and no food or drink. I graciously took the first watch. Maynard, he sat in a corner and wrapped his arms around himself. Within minutes he was snoring. I remember thinking there was no way I could sleep in such a predicament.”

L’Ouiseau shivered. Then dipped the last of his baguette in the bowl.

Mr. Harris’s eyes were wide.

L’Ouiseau poured whiskey into a shot glass and slid it to Harris. Without taking his eyes off L’Ouiseau he threw back the whiskey, setting the glass down slowly.

“By my navigation we were traveling due north-east. A true heading of forty-five degrees. I knew if I could keep the ballon strictly in that direction we might be able to reach Ilhabela, near São Paulo. Of course, I had no idea where we were to begin with. We could have just drifted out to sea.

Shrugging his shoulders, “C’est la vie!”

“That was a long night, Monsieur Harris. A very long night.

“Monsieur Maynard refused the next watch. Ainsi soit-il. So be it. I would not have slept anyway.

“I watched the storm on the horizon. How far off I could not tell. It seemed to grow. The lightning it was magnifique! Such a light show to die watching.

“Over the night I checked our course. Occasionally I had to turn the ballon this way or that, to maintain our heading. I remember that sunrise, Monsieur Harris. How beautiful. The warmth on my face. The frost on the gondola beginning to thaw. Monsieur Maynard would not wake, even kicked me for trying to rouse him.

“Throughout the morning the thunderstorm shrank. The wind began to take us more westward as it made its way inland. I believe it was somewhere around 10am when I could make out land through the field glass. An hour later I could tell by the map it was Ilhabela. By this time Maynard was awake and pacing. His eye had begun getting darker and blood was caked in the corner of his mouth.

“See? I asked Maynard, I told you I could do this! The man, he growled at me.

“I determined we needed to start descending just over Ilhabela, but very very slowly. This meant opening vents in the ballon quickly, in short bursts. I knew we had to be very careful. I wanted to be sure I was inland enough that I wouldnt risk landing in the water. I waited an hour or so after crossing back over land to be sure.

“Unfortunately the terrain in that area is very mountainous. I did not want to put us down atop a remote mountain. With great care I attempted to navigate to a small town called Arrozal. There, I brought the ballon down in a cotton field belonging to Senor Juan Alajandro Sanchez. Unfortunately the cotton it is hard and pointy and can, apparently, cut a ballon envelope to shreds in mere moments. Monsieur Maynard was quite angry.

“Senor Sanchez had never seen anything like a ballon. He was amazed and asked so many questions. My Spanish, it was very poor. Senor Sanchez fed Maynard and myself breakfast. He and his sons retrieved the gondola and what was left of the envelope and stored it in his establo. Maynard had silver and paid Senor Sanchez for his effort, soliciting a ride to town, leaving me there.

“In three days the crew caught up to us, very happy to find us. Our story had traveled hundreds of miles away, guiding them to Senor Sanchez’s hacienda. I was glad to see them. Senor Sanchez was growing weary of me. I drank a lot of his cachaça. A lot.”

L’Ouiseau winked at Harris.

“Pedro and the boys loaded the gondola and what was left of the ballon into the truck. We proceeded to São Paulo where we were greeted with great fanfare. The mayor threw a grand party and awarded us a huge silver trophy commemorating our accomplishment. It was then we were told we had traveled just over 1000 kilometers. A record for all of South America!

“The mayor then presented me with that cup you have in your hands, Monsieur Harris. A token for having co-piloted the craft.”

L’Ouiseau threw back a shot of whiskey and slammed the glass on the table.

“We took the train to Brasilia. Monsieur Maynard was uncharacteristically quiet. It was in Brasilia that Monsieur Maynard just, disappeared, leaving us to find our way home. Can you imagine?”

Mr. Harris leaned back in his chair.

“Let me tell you how we got home,” Jean-Pierre began.

“No, no, no more. We must get on with our transaction,” Mr. Harrison pleaded.

“Well then, monsieur,” l’Oiseau said, pouring another shot, “Please, tell me of your proposition. How much are you willing to offer for my services?”

“You will need to discuss this with our benefactor, Ms. Patricia Reis. Ms. Reis would like to commission you to pilot her balloon in the upcoming All-State Regional Championship. We have procured a balloon from the East coast and expect its arrival a few days before the competition.”

“C’est impossible! I cannot possibly become ready for a race without at least a week!”

“The balloon will be arriving from France no earlier than the 9th. From Vincennes, I believe.”

l’Ouiseau’s baguette fell from his frozen hand, mouth agape.

“Montgolfier…?” he whispered.

Harris opened his briefcase, shuffled papers and folders, then retrieved a pamphlet.

“Is that how you pronounce this?” Harris said, handing the pamphlet to l’Ouiseau.

l’Ouiseau’s eyes widened. “Mon dieu… its a Montgolfier…”

Hayden Harris closed the briefcase, snapping it the clasps smartly.

“You will be flying against, among others, H. Mitchell Maynard.”

The pamphlet fell from l’Ouiseau’s hand.

“Ms. Reis will meet with you day after tomorrow at Maynard and Son’s Lawfirm in town, 8am, sharp.”

l’Ouiseau stared at the pamphlet, his hands shaking slightly.

“Oui, 8am sharp…” quietly, still staring at the pamphlet.

Mr. Harris rose from his chair.

“I’ll see myself out.”

---

H. Mitchell Maynard

In the anteroom sat a young boy. Slightly older than a toddler, dressed in Peter Pan collared shirt tucked into four-button seersucker shorts, saddle shoes in tall socks. Playing quietly with a wooden truck.

The white carpet under his feet led to the family room, great panoramic windows overlooking the valley west lit the cavernous space. Dark wood contrasts throughout. Thin, angular furniture. Almost very item of furniture either one of two colors: off-white, not quite beige, or dark wood. Cherry, walnut, mahogany.

The boy got down and rolled his truck into the family room, making the noises. He stopped at the fireplace and looked up to the stone mantle. From his vantage it appeared to be the most wonderful toy he’d ever seen – an incredibly detailed model balloon, with ropes and flags, sand bags and colorful envelope. Instinct told the boy he couldnt reach it, so he returned to his wooden truck and drove to the trophy cabinet.

From the panoramic windows, light bounced around the room, the trophies glistening and sparkling in the boys eyes. He put a small hand on the glass.

“Marion G. Maynard! Dont you dare touch that glass with your grubby little mittens, boy!”

Marion snapped his head around. Carrie was coming.

He loved Miss Carrie. A fit, middle-aged black woman dressed in a light blue uniform, white apron, white shoes. She smelled of clean laundry. She adored him and he knew it.

With two steps Miss Carrie swooped up the boy, dark arm around his chest, wiping the tiny fingerprints from the glass. After tucking the napkin into her apron she spun the boy around to face her. He laughed and put his arms around her neck, hugging her tight.

“Listen, my little handsome man, you gonna have to behave. You know yo grandpappy dont like fingerprints all over his fine things. Look at me. Look at me boy!”

The boy giggled, through his head back.

“Look at all that mess on that boys face. Let me see! Be still you little monster!”

The boy laughed and gave Miss Carrie a breathy, “rowwwwrrr!”

Carrie picked up the wooden truck and crossed the room, wiping the boys face.

They stood at the floor to ceiling window.

“Looka there, boy,” she said, pointing to the veranda bellow them.

“Daddy!” Marion squealed.

“Yessm. Your daddy and your grandpappy. They discussing business.”

“Bipnest.”

“Yessm.”

Turning to the boy, pulling his fingers from his mouth, Carrie said, “You gone live a wonderful, wonderful life, boy. I sure hope you thank the Good Lord every day.”

He turned to look out at the valley, fingers in his mouth again.

“Would you like Miss Carrie to make you a sandwich, boy?”

“Sammich!”

“Lets go. What’ll it be? Peanut butter and banana?”

Marion hollered, “Nana!!”

Upon the stone veranda stood Boyd Mitchel. His father, H. Mitchell Maynard reclined in an white iron chair, holding a small, troubled little dog, and spinning a champagne glass filled with a delicate sparkling prosecco.

“Father, she’s hired l’Ouiseau, for the Hupengubler.”

Maynard snapped his head to his son.

“l’Ouiseau? I thought he was dead!”

“No sir. Drunk, yes, dead, no. He’s living in a barge just outside of town.”

“God almighty. That man is dangerous.” Maynard stood quickly and handed the dog to his son.

Boyd Maynard held the dog out. It growled a rolling growl, from its throat to the corner of its mouth, and back again.

“Dont look him in the eye, you’ll be ok.”

Mitchell addressed the dog, “Petey, he’s ok, no kill, do not kill.”

Pistol Pete quivered in Boyds hand, growl rolling back and fourth in its quivering body.

With his back to his son, fluted glass in hand, Maynard walked to the stone wall, looking out over the expanse before him.

“She bought him a Montgolfier, sir.”

“What in the hell? Why the hell did you let her do that, son?”

“She’s mean, dad!”

“Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick, son!”

Mitchell turned and snatched the prosecco bottle from the white iron garden table.

The dog twitched. Instinctively Boyd looked at the dog to see what was the matter.

Instantly the dog went into a rage, writhing and wriggling, every muscle and tooth intent on shredding Boyd Maynard to bite sized pieces.

“I told you not to look at him! Pull him to your chest and stroke his head gently. Petey, settled down!”

Boyd looked at his father, then to the dog. Again, the dog went into a rage.

Over the commotion, Boyd said, “She’s mean! She smells like lavender and cat pee!”

“I know!” snorted Mitchell, “I refused to take her to some gathering at her church. The wretched beast. We’ve been introduced but I’ve never actually spoken to the woman until last week. I attended a social function for the Little Sisters of Monte Verde Alms House Charity for Cats and Dogs.”

Boyd slowly pulled the shaking dog to his chest, under his arm.

“Normally I avoid such insipid events, but its the darling of my veterinarian, Dr. Valentine.”

Mitchell refilled his champagne flute.

“She asked me to join her at some function at her church. Knowing her financial state, I felt I should play along, help Valentine out, you see. I said something to the effect of, ‘If I’ve the time, I’d love to. Get the address to my son, I’ll see what I can do.'”

“And you didnt go,” surmised Boyd.

Mitchell looked at his son. Pistol Pete looked at him, too. Boyd looked away.

“Good God no, son. God no.”

“Well sir, she’s very upset. Shes determined to humiliate you in the Hupengubler. I tried to talk her out of it, but she’d already hired l’Ouiseau. I then refused the balloon, but she threatened to withdraw her account. Thats a sizeable loss, sir.”

Mitchell looked down at his glass.

Taking a seat, Mitchell said, “I’ll never forgive that filthy Frenchman for that Brazilian affair.”

“Hand me my boy,” he said.

Keeping his eyes toward the valley, Boyd slowly handed the dog to his father.

“Sir,” Boyd said,” I know the story. No need to…”

“I paid an exorbitant amount of money for that trip, you know,” his father began.

“To make things worse he insisted on bringing three of his comrades. A hillbilly, a darky, and a filthy Mexican. To this day I dont know why he had to have them along.”