Creature Discomforts

myself.”
    “You would,” Effie told him fiercely.
    As Effie and Wally engaged in this stupid interchange about spuds, my father caught my eye. Having done so, he turned his head to the side, stuck one arm in front of him and the other in back, bent his elbows, and stuck out his flattened hands at some weird angle. Another collision: My father was not just embarrassing. No such luck! No, he was outright mortifying. I couldn’t imagine what he doing this time. His face wore an odd little smile. Reading my look of incomprehension, he exaggerated the peculiar posture. Just as I finally decoded his ludicrous effort to pantomime an ancient Egyptian, he quit. Now, still looking at me, he rapidly used both hands to sketch something in the air. Buck, I should note, loves charades. I hate the game. Still, I understood: What he meant was pyramid.
    ft seemed to me that Buck’s foolish performance would kill his romance with Gabrielle; he might just as well have pulled out his handgun and shot Cupid dead. I was wrong. As it tarns out, Gabrielle adores charades.
    Politely ignoring the potato dispute and Buck’s lunacy, Quint said, “The point Effie was starting to make is that although Norman was deliberately oppositional, he genuinely did not support environmental causes. And he did not believe in charitable giving.”
    “He didn’t even understand it,” Effie said. “Entirely lacking the philanthropic impulse himself, he simply couldn’t identify it in other people. All he saw were reflections of his own selfishness and spite.” She paused. “Honi soit qui mal y pense, “ she finished.
    With no hint of playing charades, Buck took a mighty step forward. Effie had broken his command to speak English. He wasn’t actually going to shoot her for it, was he? Honi soit qui mal y pense, I thought. Evil unto her who evil thinks.
     

Chapter Twenty-six
     
    BUCK DIDN’T DRAW HIS GUN . Effie was, I suppose, as disappointed as I was relieved. I am convinced that she longed to see him shoot a developer or, failing a developer, almost anyone else. Still, my father shot from the hip. He had the advantage of being bigger than everyone else. Everything about him, from his oversized skull to the deep resonance of his voice, made him the kind of dominant presence that Rowdy is in the show ring, at least on the days he wins. My dogs, I might note, had been taking an interest in the human snarling and growling, but neither had shown a sign of feeling or wanting any personal involvement. The Alaskan malamute, the most hierarchical of breeds, is, however, exquisitely sensitive to the emergence of an alpha leader in any pack, canine or human. When Buck took that step forward, Rowdy’s and Kimi’s ears alerted, and I could almost feel surges of strength radiate from their bodies. Suddenly, the action had something to do with them.
    Perhaps the shift in power did. The content didn’t. “Let me get this straight,” my father said. “Norman Axelrod never invested a cent in the Pine Tree Foundation.”
    No one replied.
    “Did he or didn’t he?” Buck demanded.
    Now everyone answered all at once. For a change, everyone agreed. Certainly not!
    “A ninety percent return in six months,” Buck said. Malcolm Fairley smiled proudly. Heads nodded.
    Buck said, “So here’s Axelrod, surrounded by people who were getting rich quick.”
    “That’s not how we prefer to think of it. Our primary purpose is charitable,” Malcolm Fairley hastened to correct him.
    “God Almighty,” Buck said, whether to God, himself, or no one, I don’t know. Then he addressed Fairley. “But he could’ve gotten in on it.”
    “Norm?” Fairley asked.
    “I didn’t mean God,” Buck said. “His rate of return is half decent without your help.”
    “I invited Norm,” Gabrielle said. “So did Malcolm.”
    “You didn’t!” Effie exclaimed. “Gabbi, how could you?”
    “It doesn’t matter now,” Gabrielle said in self-defense. “I knew that he didn’t share the beliefs and goals of the Pine Tree Foundation, but his investment would still have benefitted the environment. And it didn’t seem fair to leave him out.”
    “Norman Axelrod was outright ««charitable!” Effie spat. “And he hated trees!”
    “That’s something I don’t understand.” My voice was weak and timid. “Everyone agrees that Norman Axelrod hated the outdoors, hated exercise, and was not exactly physically fit. So, what was he doing on a hike? And not just a hike,