The Wicked Flea

after all? Not introjects, that’s what!
And then there’s the unexamined matter of this miserable kitchen. Taking forever, costing hideously in excess of estimate. Did not mention to Dr. S. Should have! But with his encouragement, am concentrating on controlling my breathing as panic rises, avoiding hyperventilation when subject arises, as it inevitably does! And remains erect, so to speak! What would Freud have said?! Him and his damned chow chows, of which Dr. S. persisted in reminding me. “Love without ambivalence.” Hah!
     

Chapter 19
     
    As often happens in my local newspaper, Wednesday’s sports section was divided into two subsections, the first of which concerned the NBA, the NFL, pro hockey, tennis, golf, American and National league baseball, and so on. The second part was devoted to deaths. It’s a bit odd to see mortality categorized as a form of competitive recreation. Tennis, anyone?Fatality? Will that be singles or doubles? Still, there’s nothing new about exploiting the possibilities of demise as a spectator event. Anyway, the typical death notice here, as elsewhere, is written by someone who flunked ESL because of a failure to grasp English word order. It starts something like this:
     
HARBINGER—Of Melrose, Thalia (Conroy), age 75, beloved wife of William L., devoted daughter of the late James C. and Fiona W. Conroy, dear sister of Penelope Conroy, loving mother of Jane (Harbinger) Sheffield of Nahant and Harry C. Harbinger of Brookline, cherished grandmother of Mary Ellen Sheffield. Survived also by many adoring cousins, nieces, and nephews.
     
    The notice goes on to give details about the funeral home, its location, visiting hours, the funeral itself, the interment, and the charity to which memorial donations should be made in lieu of flowers and in honor of the beloved, devoted, cherished, adored deceased.
    Here’s Sylvia’s death notice, which appeared in Wednesday’s paper:
     
METZNER—Of Newton, Sylvia (MacFarlane), age 54, wife of the late Ian Metzner, mother of Eric L. Metzner, Oona S. Metzner, and Pia (Metzner) Goodenough, all of Newton.
     
    That’s it. In its entirety. Not so much as a single beloved or devoted, not even the slightest hint about visits, services, flowers, charitable contributions, or anything else at all. Not so much as Bye, Mom! Nice knowing you!
    On Thursday the paper ran a short article about the discovery of Sylvia’s body. After popping a batch of liver brownies in the oven, I poured myself a third cup of morning coffee and read:
     
Dog Finds Pooch Wrangle Adversary, Slain Sunday
 
NEWTON. The body of Sylvia M. Metzner, 54, was discovered on Tuesday afternoon by a dog walker in search of his wandering pet. According to a Newton police spokesperson, Metzner had been shot in the head and chest at close range. The victim is believed to have been killed on Sunday. The body was found in a secluded area of Clear Creek Park, scene of a recent and controversial altercation between Metzner and Newton Police Officer Jennifer Pasquarelli that resulted in Metzner’s arrest on charges of assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. Metzner, in turn, charged Pasquarelli with brutality and violations of civil rights. A dispute about Metzner’s dog sparked the controversy. Conflict between dog owners and opponents has led to the widespread use in Clear Creek Park of noise-making devices to drive off unleashed dogs. It is thought that an aerosol alarm or similar device may have been used to mask the sounds of the gunshots. Authorities are pursuing their investigation of Metzner’s death.
     
    You could hardly expect the death notice to include a discussion of why there’d been a mess of broken pottery at the murder scene, but it would have been perfectly appropriate for the article to mention the oddity and maybe even explain it. Unless the police were keeping the detail to themselves? When I’d given my name, address, and blessedly little other information to the Newton police, however, no one had ordered me to keep quiet about the blue and white china. No one had asked Ceci, either, and when she’d asked one of the handsome officers what the stuff was doing there, he’d said that he didn’t know.
    As I was pondering the problem, my eyes wandered over the newsprint and suddenly locked on a photo of a group of people and a golden retriever. Yes, take a wild guess what caught my eye first. But at second glance, I realized that the people looked