Scratch the Surface

pages of the West Suburban directory, Felicity studied the listings and, on the basis of its Newton location and the possibly feline connotation of its name, picked out Furbish Veterinary Associates. Having called the veterinary practice, stated her name, and requested an appointment for a cat, she was only somewhat surprised to be told that Dr. Furbish could see the cat at eleven o’clock this same morning. As Felicity was enjoying what she interpreted as evidence that her name had weight in the world of cats, she was taken aback by the request for the cat’s name.
    Stalling, Felicity said, “Her name.”
    “Yes. The cat’s name.”
    It had never before occurred to Felicity that the cat possessed such a thing as a name. Furthermore, having named hundreds of characters in her many books, she hadn’t even toyed with the possibility of giving the cat a temporary name that would do until the real one was discovered.
    “The cat’s name,” she said, “is a mystery! The cat came to me under strange and baffling circumstances, and her true identity is, for the moment, entirely unknown. Let’s think of her as X, shall we? The unknown quantity.”
    Felicity’s self-congratulation for this inspired solution was short-lived. Before hanging up, the veterinary assistant informed Felicity that all animals needed to be restrained while in the waiting room. For a few seconds, Felicity could make nothing of the requirement. Restrained from doing what? Scratching people? It emerged that the cat would have to be in a carrier or on a leash.
    The plethora of cat supplies Felicity had bought did not include a leash, but did include a large carrier complete with a quilted pad. Missing from the armamentarium, however, was any sort of clever device that would automatically entrap a cat and deposit it in the carrier; it would, alas, be necessary to perform the operation by hand—thus risking a scratched or bitten hand.
    It was nine o’clock. To delay the cat-capturing expedition, which would take her into the wilds of one of her own guest rooms, Felicity took a shower, fixed her hair, and, in preparation for her first public appearance with her new PR agent, put on gray woolen pants and a patterned sweater with patches of amber. After locating a pair of leather gloves that would offer some protection against scratches, she postponed the daunting task that lay ahead by placing a phone call to her mother, who would inevitably hear about the gray man and, just as inevitably, find a way to blame or ridicule Felicity for the episode. If Felicity broke the news herself, at least her mother wouldn’t be able to complain that she’d had to wait until someone else told her.
    Although Felicity’s mother, Mary Pride, lived a mere twenty-minute drive from Newton Park, Felicity visited her as seldom as possible. Whenever Felicity felt guilty about the infrequency of her visits, she reminded herself of other destinations that were also within twenty minutes of Newton Park: waste recycling depots, funeral homes, and slummy neighborhoods infamous for drive-by shootings perpetrated by drug-crazed maniacs on innocent bystanders such as herself.
    Her mother answered the phone with a thick-voiced, “Hello? Hang on while I turn down the television.” Minutes later, she said, “Who is it?”
    “Mother, it’s Felicity.”
    “Who?”
    “Felicity!”
    “Who?”
    “Your daughter. Your older daughter. Felicity. Remember me?”
    “Oh, you. I thought it was Angie. She calls me all the time. Last night she called when I was in the middle of one those nature shows I love. About leopards.” Mary pronounced leopards and, indeed, everything else, with the Boston accent that Felicity still labored to remove from her own speech. Leopards! And not leh-puhds! Truly, the accent was her mother tongue.
    Mary’s fondness for programs about wild animals had originally mystified Felicity. Her mother had never owned a pet of any kind and had refused to allow her children, Felicity and Angie, to have even so undemanding a pet as a solitary goldfish. It had finally occurred to Felicity that the attraction of the nature programs was their savagery: Program after program showed wild animals engaged in slaughtering one another.
    “Mother, I called because something terrible happened. Monday night, I did a signing, and—”
    “A what?”
    “A signing. I was signing my new book at Ronald Gershwin’s store. Newbright Books. You’ve been there.”
    “You know