U Is for Undertow

sure.”
    We voiced polite farewells and I watched her return to her car. Off she went, down the street, around the corner, and then she was gone. I turned and walked back to the studio with a mounting sense of dismay. What I was sure of, in retrospect, was my ass had been frosted and handed to me on a plate. Grand took in orphans? I was pissed off again.

    I cleared the kitchen counter, tossing spoons, cups, and saucers into the sink. I ran hot water, squirted in a stream of liquid detergent, and watched the bubbles pile up. I turned the water off, washed the dishes, and put them in the rack. When I opened the kitchen cupboard, another little moth fluttered out.
    “Shit!”
    I began removing items from the shelves, inspecting them gingerly. The flap on a half-empty box of cornmeal bore a tiny slip of something in a web, like a wee insect hammock. I looked in and saw grubs crawling in the cornmeal like kids playing in the sand.
    I got out a brown grocery bag and dropped in the box of cornmeal, followed by a bag of flour I didn’t even bother to check. I couldn’t remember now why I’d bought flour and cornmeal in the first place, but the two had been in my possession long enough to spawn vermin. In the interest of sanitation, I tossed out crackers, two stray packets of cereal, a package of dried pasta, and a round cardboard oatmeal container the lid of which I didn’t dare lift. Impatient with the process, I put the bag on the counter and emptied the cupboard entirely. At the end of my rampage, there was nothing left, which meant I could scrub the shelves. Good. How perfect. I would start life afresh.
    When the phone rang I left the kitchenette and crossed to the desk. I took a deep breath before I picked up the handset, lest I snap at the poor sucker on the other end of the line. “Hello?”
    “Kinsey?”
    “Yes.”
    “P. F. Sanchez down in Puerto. I came up with the vet’s name and thought I’d pass it on to you.”
    “You did? Well, how cool! I didn’t expect to hear from you.” I pulled a scratch pad closer and opened the top drawer, looking for a pencil or a pen.
    “I thought it might surprise you. I was pretty sure I knew where the file was, but I had to reorganize everything else while I was looking. That’s the downside of hoarding. Things are always getting out of hand. You have a pen and paper?”
    “I do. Fire away,” I said.
    “Guy’s name was Walter McNally. He had on office on Dave Levine. McNally Pet Hospital. I’ve got the address and the phone number that were in service at the time.”
    He rattled them off and I made a note of the information.
    “Did you say ‘Walter’ or ‘Walker’?”
    “Walter, with a t .”
    “Weird. I think I went to high school with his son,” I said. “What about the date when Ulf was put down?”
    “July 13, 1967.”
    “Thanks. You’re a doll.”
    “You’re welcome. Glad to be of help. If you learn anything of interest, will you call me back and let me know?”
    “I’ll do that.”
    After I hung up, I hauled out the telephone book and turned to the yellow pages, looking under the listing for veterinarians. There was no entry for Walter McNally or McNally Pet Hospital. I flipped to the white pages, but the only McNallys listed were Walker and Carolyn in Horton Ravine. I made a note of their address and phone number. I picked up the handset and paused.
    While I knew Walker to speak to, our relationship was otherwise nonexistent. During my senior year Walker McNally and I had been in the same American history class. At the time, I was in my rebellious phase (which lasted all through high school), so I’d been more interested in cutting classes than attending. As a result, I hadn’t done well. Then again, I didn’t do that well when I wasn’t truant, so no harm accrued as a result of my bad behavior. The only history class I remembered was the day we discussed the differences between the English and the American social structures. The teacher wanted us to appreciate the reasons the colonists had established this brave new land of ours and why they’d eventually broken away from the tyranny of the Crown. By his account, the Brits were rigidly class-conscious, while in America we were not. You can imagine my surprise. There followed a lively exchange of opinions, most of them voiced by the kids from Horton Ravine, whose families were well-off and therefore deeply committed to the notion that life was equitable. Of course, everyone in