The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [292]
Francis held the decoy at a distance where he could see it clearly without putting on his reading glasses. Jim was pulling out other boxes. “Got one more to go, then I ship ’em off. Guy from Austin, Texas. He got himself an art gallery as a ‘ship to’ address, so maybe it doesn’t matter if he’s got no real idea what he’s doing,” Jim said. “Guy wants nothing but mallards, O.K., but if you’re going to set out decoys, then, yeah, you can have mallard, mallard, mallard, mallard—lots of ’em. But you throw in one of these—” He set another box on the table, and unwrapped a beach towel. “This is your egret. You put all the mallards out there, but if you’re going hunting you need something like this egret, for a confidence decoy.”
Francis had never heard the term, but he understood. In any case, the egret was a real piece of art.
“Yeah, like things are just nice and casual,” Don said. “An egret happens to be standing around, you know? Could be something else. A crow. Got to mix it up a little bit, so the ducks don’t get suspicious. ‘Hey, look down there, quite a flock of ’em, even an egret wandered in. Let’s go down and see if we can join the party.’ ” Don put his beer and Francis’s on the table. “Bang!” he said loudly.
“That’s the idea,” Jim said.
“How many of these did you make for the man in Texas?” Francis said. He was amazed at the detail. He stared at the black eye, and it seemed to stare back, the way it reflected light.
“Just over a dozen. If he’s a hunter, which I doubt from the way he talked and looked, maybe he’s been having bad luck. That’ll change when he gets this confidence decoy. Might have overdone it just a bit, carving an egret, but what the hey. You know, if you’ve got ’em in fields, most of them will be eating, but then there’s always one at least that acts as a sentry head. You think about all that while you’re working. About how the whole flock’s gotta look.”
“Well, the detail is just incredible. You say you learned this from your grandfather?”
“Learned a couple of things on my own, I guess. Went to some shows, got some ideas.”
“I do the naming,” Don said. “I’ve got a kit. I’m enrolling in a course in special writing at night school, come fall.”
“Calligraphy,” Jim said. “We’re a team.”
“I wonder if you would be offended if someone who didn’t hunt wanted a mallard just as a beautiful piece of handwork to put on his desk?” Francis asked.
Jim shrugged. “All the same to me,” he said.
“May I ask what they cost?”
“Two twenty-five,” Jim said. “Cost of eyes just went through the roof.”
“They’re worth every penny,” Francis said. “They—I’m sure they do the job, but just as something to look at and contemplate . . .” He trailed off. “Would you have time to make one for me?”
“This is what I do,” Jim said. “Sure.”
“Well, may I give you a down payment? That, and of course I wanted to tip you, because the way you drive, you’re sure to get to my house in Connecticut before I do!” Without waiting for a response, he reached into his back pocket. His finger slid through. His wallet was not there. He quickly patted his jacket pocket. Only the cell phone was inside. Then he jerked the chair back and felt shock reddening his face. He almost ran out to see if the wallet was on the ground, but tried to remember that nothing would be gained by being in a rush, by being sloppy. He walked back to the car, sensing both of them conferring silently behind him, searching too. The wallet had been full of cash, because he’d known that he would need to tip them. How would he drive without a license? He would have to notify the bank, American Express, too many places to remember.
“Bad break,” Jim