Creature Discomforts

plain white T-shirt and no jewelry except tiny pearl stud earrings. With that incredible bone structure, she needed no flattery, no defenses against age, no fancy wardrobe, no gold or silver. She had gorgeous blue eyes.
    “You’ve heard about poor Norman Axelrod,” she informed me in an incredible voice: low-pitched, warm, husky, sensuous, and utterly unself-conscious. Although no one was around to overhear, she switched to a tone that made me feel singled out as the chosen recipient of an opinion that she wouldn’t have shared with just anyone. “I keep thinking that he must have had some sort of premonition and that’s why he always hated the outdoors. He must’ve had a vision of falling on a wet day. No wonder he hated hiking! He was right! The park was the last place he should ever have gone.” She sighed affectionately. “Norman was a terrible curmudgeon, but he was our curmudgeon, wasn’t he?”
    Whose, exactly? Hers and mine? I’d evidently known Norman. But how?
    Caressing the little white dog, who sat alertly in her lap, she went on. “I just talked to your father.”
    Was this my mother? I couldn’t ask. I’d sound like some foolish animal character in a children’s book: Little Holly the Hedgehog asked, “Are you my mommy?” Besides, I was too busy trying to control the dogs to respond. Having been diverted by the arrival of the Volvo, the beasts were now straining to get into it. Or maybe they just wanted to jump on the door, poke their heads through the window, and lick the woman’s face. From nowhere, however, a phrase replete with warning popped into my consciousness: hors d’oeuvre breeds. Small dogs. As seen through mala-mute eyes. Worse, as crunched by malamute jaws. Oh, my aching arms!
    “I was hoping my hero would get here tonight,” the woman continued, “but he can’t.” Her hero? My father? “He’ll be here tomorrow. I wanted him to have a chance to get together with Malcolm Fairley, but maybe it’s just as well. I’ve gone ahead and invited Opal and Wally.” Her eyes had a mischievous gleam. “That bumper sticker might make things just a tiny bit awkward. Quint and Effie are going to be very peeved with me, but it’s my party, not theirs, and as developers go, Opal and Wally are better than most. And Opal and I have been friends since forever. I simply will not cut her off.” She paused. “Holly, are you all right? Your face is scratched to pieces.”
    “I slipped on some wet rocks,” I said dismissively. “I’ll be okay.”
    Restarting the Volvo, then shifting gears both automotively and conversationally, she said, “I have to run and get the lobsters! I’ll see you at seven. Do bring the dogs. Everyone else will.” With a smile and a wave, she and the bichon frise drove off. I felt a little bereft. According to the directions with Gabrielle Beamon’s letter, her house was at the end of this road. Therefore, the woman running out to get lobsters just about had to be Gabrielle Beamon. She was clearly not my mother. The letter and directions were from a hostess to a guest, not from a mother to a daughter. And how many wives refer to their husbands as “my hero”?
    As the dogs impatiently dragged me to the side door of the cottage, names danced in my head: Opal and Wally, Quint and Effie, Norman Axelrod, Malcolm Fairley. My father, whose name I didn’t even know. Ridiculous though it may sound, my only memory of my father was that he was unforgettable. Suddenly, for the first time since I’d regained consciousness, I was close to tears. Whatever his name was, he’d be here tomorrow. And for reasons I couldn’t understand, the prospect did nothing to alleviate my anxiety.
    The interior of the cottage was normal and cozy. The back door opened into a tiny, old-fashioned kitchen with a small gas stove, a noisy refrigerator with rounded shoulders, an old white sink, and shelves stacked with cast iron pans, muffin tins, aluminum cooking pots, heavy mixing bowls, and a great many serving dishes, plates, cups, saucers, and drinking glasses. Almost everything except the microwave, the coffeemaker, a set of big pottery coffee mugs, and a few utensils dated from forty or fifty years earlier. On top of the refrigerator, a twenty-pound bag of premium dog food and a wastebasket escaped plunder. Boxes of cereal and crackers, a loaf of bread, and other edible odds and ends had been tucked between dishes and glasses on high shelves.
    The tiny kitchen opened to the