Creature Discomforts

accident.”
     

Chapter Nine
     
    THE ODDITIES OF MEMORY and its loss being what they are, I retained solid expectations about the spending habits of New England white Anglo-Saxon Protestants. Consequently, I wasn’t surprised to find that the toast to Malcolm Fairley was to be drunk with cheap champagne. What amazed me was that there was champagne at all. And lo and behold, more than a single bottle for the whole crowd! Two bottles, to be precise. But by Yankee WASP standards, especially rich Yankee WASP standards, the supply was generous. I’d have bet on ginger ale, and little of that.
    In response to the mosquitoes and the darkness, Wally Swan had erected a half dozen bug-repellent torches in a circle around the fire. The flames efficiently illuminated the stinky black plumes of smoke that emerged from the wicks. Effie O’Brian limited her protest to loud coughs and a stagy display of fanning away the fumes with her hands.
    “They do smell rather awful,” Gabrielle remarked, “but they look festive, don’t they!”
    Effie grumbled something.
    “What’s that? Well, you know, I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Gabrielle said. “It’s only citronella, isn’t it? And, really, in no time, it vanishes into the air. That’s one of the nice things about being next to the ocean. It washes everything clean.”
    It was unnecessary to see Quint and Effie to perceive their reaction to this bit of environmental wisdom. I could practically feel a wave of rage emanate from them and churn through the air. Kimi, who’d been peacefully lazing at Tiffany’s feet, suddenly got up, moved purposefully to Effie, and planted herself there, as if expecting to be told what the problem was and what she could do about it. Effie reached out and stroked Kimi’s dark head. “What an intuitive dog you are. Good boy.”
    “Girl,” I said reflexively.
    Meanwhile, Wally Swan, who served almost as Gabrielle’s butler, had opened the champagne and was pouring it into small plastic cups that his wife, Opal, distributed to everyone.
    “I was hoping Anita would be here by now,” Gabrielle said.
    “Steve, too,” Malcolm Fairley added.
    “Yes, of course, and Steve, too. We are all dying to meet him. But what I meant was that all of us who support and, uh, benefit from the foundation owe our thanks equally to Malcolm and Anita.”
    “Anita’s the foundation’s attorney,” Tiffany muttered to me. “Malcolm’s daughter.”
    Lifting her small plastic glass, Gabrielle intoned in that extraordinary voice of hers, “To Malcolm Fairley! And the Pine Tree Foundation!”
    Voices rose. “Hear, hear!”
    Malcolm Fairley benignly accepted the tribute. He had the good manners not to drink in his own honor. I didn’t exactly drink to him, either, not out of disrespect, but out of the conviction that champagne in my bloodstream would end up as bubbles in my brain, which felt quite foamy enough already, thank you. I settled for bringing the plastic cup to my lips and miming a sip.
    “And to Anita!” Gabrielle added.
    After drinking to his daughter, Malcolm Fairley cleared his throat and proposed a new toast. “To the absent friends who make our work possible!” Norman Axelrod’s name flew across my mind. I brushed it away. For one thing, Axelrod wasn’t just absent; he was dead. For another, he didn’t seem to have been anyone’s friend except Gabrielle’s and possibly mine; from what I’d heard, he’d been more enemy than friend to the Pine Tree Foundation. Also, there’d been only one of him, of course, and Fairley has clearly said friends. Plural. Fairley elaborated. “To the generous benefactors of the Pine Tree Foundation for Conservation Philanthropy! Our deepest gratitude!”
    “They make matching contributions,” explained Tiffany, my self-appointed interpreter. “That’s why the rate of return can be so high, because of their contributions.” In innocence, I asked aloud, “Who are they?” Lowering her voice, Tiffany said reverently, “Philanthropists, really. Very wealthy people who are totally committed to the environment. And to M.D.I.” She translated. “Mount Desert Island.”
    In case you’ve never smashed your head on rocks while visiting Acadia National Park, let me assure you that you can do so without forgetting the name of the park’s principal benefactor, mainly, I guess, because it’s a household word: Rockefeller. Well, not household, exactly. Mansion-hold? Anyway, I’ve