Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon(90)

“He’s been corrupted by civilization,” Doc said. “We must push him out of the nest.”





    With that, he tipped the perch so it slanted rather steeply toward the window. George shrieked in terror.





“Stop that, this instant!” I ordered as I rushed over and tried to set the perch level again.





“Fly free, little bird!” Doc shouted, shaking the perch.





“He can’t fly free, for heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed. “He’s got only one wing.”





    Doc gaped at George, whose lopsided condition was now obvious - he was flapping his single wing wildly, trying to regain his balance, but unsuccessfully - he was sliding inexorably toward the open window.





“Oh, my God!” Doc exclaimed. After gaping for a few moments, he lunged out and grabbed George just as the buzzard’s first foot slipped off the end of the perch. George, not surprisingly, interpreted Doc’s lunge as an attack. He lashed out with beak and claws and then vomited on Doc. When the squawking died down and the blood, feathers, and other things stopped flying, George and Doc were sulking in separate corners, nursing their wounds and glowering at each other.





“Doc,” I said. “If you really want to find George a better home, I’m all for it. He doesn’t belong in a reception room. I’m sure there are places that take wounded birds of prey and try to help them lead the most normal lives possible. Come back and tell me you’ve gotten George a berth at one of those places, and I’ll help you carry him out. But until then, leave him alone.”





“Should I dress his wounds?” Doc asked.





    We both looked at George, who fluffed his feathers out, bobbed his head, and shrieked.





“You can try, if you like,” I said.





    Doc limped out. I considered and discarded the idea of moving George back to his original corner. He was a little in the way, but I figured he wouldn’t appreciate moving again right now. I cleaned up the reception room as well as I could, removed the old newspapers, and spread out a new set beneath George’s stand.





    By this time I calmed down and felt bad about hanging up on Michael. But now, of course, he wasn’t answering his cell phone. Chill, I told myself. He’s probably on the set, with it turned off. I’d catch up with him sooner or later, and make peace. And maybe it was better if I didn’t until, say, tomorrow - when I would already have made my final late-night visit to the office and wouldn’t be lying when I promised never to do it again.





    About two o’clock, a call came through the switchboard that made me do a double take. A rather officious secretary asked to talk to Dr. Lorelei Gruber and, when I told her the doctor was out, left not only her boss’s name and number but also their firm name. A law firm whose name sounded familiar, probably from when I was looking up numbers for the attorneys Rob recommended. I pulled out the yellow pages to check.





    Yes, there it was. Savage and Associates, divorce attorneys. The wonderful aptness of the name for a lawyer specializing in divorces had made it stick in my mind.





    Was Dr. Lorelei, the self-proclaimed expert on relationships, looking for a divorce?





    Of course, there could be some perfectly innocent reason for a divorce attorney to call her. Perhaps he referred clients to her, clients who had some hope of reconciliation. Perhaps he was her client - even divorce lawyers must sometimes have troubled relationships. Perhaps he was her cousin.





    Or maybe she was getting a divorce. Had she, perhaps, found out about her husband’s secret life as Anna Floyd?





    Normally, I pretended to be oblivious of the contents of the messages I gave people, but I couldn’t resist. When Dr. Lorelei strode into the office after lunch, I looked her straight in the eye as I was handing this one over.





“Your lawyer called,” I said.





    She started visibly and looked around the reception room as if to see if anyone else had heard. “I hope you realize how inappropriate it would be for you to gossip about this,” she said.





“I hope you realize how insulting it is for you to even say that,” I replied.





    She looked hurt, and I wondered if I’d been too sharp. Then she began fumbling in her purse, pulling out a half-shredded tissue, and I realized that she was blinking back tears.





“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is very difficult for me.”