Creature Discomforts

by Susan Conant

  Ripping the female’s saddlebags from the Velcro strips that held it to her vest, I dumped it in the car, and then got both dogs in. After adding water to the steel bowls, I lowered myself into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and put on the air conditioning. Tepid air drifted from the vents. Damn. Worse, an accidental glance in the rearview mirror revealed that rice or no rice, I was unmistakably Caucasian. My first impression was of a human golden retriever.

  But the car offered at least a little good news. According to the gas gauge, the tank was full. Opening the big map that had been in the dogpack, I located the Nature Center, which was just off Route 3 near the intersection with the Park Loop Road. In one direction on Route 3, at no great distance, was the town of Bar Harbor. Did I have a motel room there? The Blackwoods Camp Ground lay in the opposite direction. Were we camping out? Could we rent a hotel room? The wallet held, among other things, a bank card with a MasterCard number and seventy-six dollars in cash. The deciduous trees here in the valley between Dorr Mountain and what the map identified as Huguenot Head held yellowish green leaves tinged with red. My ailing brain sputtered out the warning that autumn was still tourist season in Bar Harbor, which even off-season was an expensive resort.

  In desperation, I rummaged through the glove compartment. It yielded another map of Mount Desert Island, a guide to the carriage roads of Acadia National Park, and two sheets of the sort of heavy cream writing paper I associate with wedding invitations. On one sheet, however, was a note handwritten in charmingly baroque script. The other sheet, in the same script, was headed Directions to the Bea-mon Guest Cottage.

  The note read:

  Dearest Holly and Pups,

  What a treat for me that your work calls you to M.D.I.! I will be positively thrilled to see you and to have you and your beautiful dogs fill the lonely emptiness of the Beamon Guest Cottage, which, although perfectly private, is quite near the Big House. Consequently, I look forward with great eagerness to inflicting (!) my hospitality on you for as long as you care to stay.

  All best wishes,

  Gabrielle Beamon

  The directions instructed me to take Route 3 from Ellsworth, cross the causeway onto Mount Desert Island, go left on 3, and follow it through Bar Harbor, past the Jackson Laboratories, the Sieur de Monts Spring entrance to the park, and quite a few other landmarks. After a considerable distance, I was to watch for a small arrow on the left pointing toward the Beamon Reservation. There, I was to turn. A hand-drawn map at the bottom of the page depicted various rights and lefts that would eventually take me to a three-way split in the dirt road. Directly ahead of me would be the parking lot for the Beamon Reservation. To the right would be a private road that, on the map, ended at an X labeled “Quint and Effie’s.” An X beyond the one for Quint and Effie’s was marked “Axelrod.” I, however, was to go left on another private road. The Beamon Guest Cottage would be the first house on my right: yellow with green shutters. The door would be open, the key on the kitchen table. The dogs and I were to make ourselves at home. I assumed that we already had. The car that wasn’t my Bentley contained no luggage.

  Soon after pulling out of the lot and turning right onto Route 3, I passed The Tarn and then came upon a Park Service truck and sedan parked on the sandy shoulder, together with civilian vehicles that probably belonged to hikers still on the trails. The guidebook map of the area had somehow failed to photocopy itself onto my memory. Still, I had the sense to realize that the man who’d fallen to his death must have done so in this area, on the face of Dorr, beyond The Tarn.

  Still fighting the irrational fear that a ranger would stop me to ask unanswerable questions about what I remembered, I drove by at the speed limit. Continuing, I scanned the roadside in search of the sign for the Beamon Reservation. On my first pass, I overshot the turn because, as I discovered after reversing direction, the arrow pointing toward the reservation was the approximate size of a toothpick. The hand-drawn map, however, proved accurate. Turning off Route 3, I followed twists and turns over dirt roads until smack ahead of me was the entrance to a small, unpaved parking lot with a gigantic sign mounted on a rustic wooden frame. The sign read:

  WELCOME TO THE BEAMON RESERVATION!

  Hours: Open daily from dawn to 5:00 P.M.

  No vehicles beyond the parking lot.

  No overnight parking.

  No strollers.

  No bicycles.

  No pets allowed.

  No camping.

  No camp fires.

  No picnicking.

  No alcoholic beverages.

  No smoking of cigars, cigarettes, or pipes.

  No littering.

  Hunting prohibited. No firearms of any kind!

  No ball playing.

  No fishing or clamming.

  No gathering of mussels.

  No swimming.

  No berry picking.

  No boat launching.

  No radios, tape players, or CD players.

  Do not feed or approach the seals or other wildlife.

  Stay on marked trails. Respect private property!

  Groups desirous of visiting the Reservation must make arrangements in advance.

  Parents are responsible for assuring that children abide by the regulations of the Reservation.

  At the bottom of the sign was yet another injunction. Considering the list of prohibitions, it hit me as a jarring afterthought:

  ENJOY YOUR VISIT!

  Chapter Four

  THE RULES OF THE BEAMON RESERVATION stopped just short of banning human beings from setting foot on the property. Consequently, it gave me an illicit thrill to veer left onto a narrow road plastered with Private Property, Keep Out, No Trespassing, This Means You signs. I, of course, had been invited; therefore, I was among the elite to whom the Private Property, Keep Out, No Trespassing, This Means You malarkey did not apply. As I’d wound through the lanes toward the Beamon Reservation, the dogs had begun stirring. The female, who’d been dozing at the rear of the Bronco, got to her feet and gave herself a preparatory shake-all-over. The male, who’d had to be prevented from leaping into the front and then, presumably, into my lap, was now happily taking in the less-than-spectacular scenery. It consisted of low balsam firs, dull maples, ordinary birches, and other secondary and tertiary growth. Now the two big dogs were up on all paws, and both plumy tails were wagging.

  Before long, a yellow clapboard cottage with green shutters appeared on our right. The tidy little house looked unfamiliar to me, but then, so did everything else. As I pulled into a grassy, lightly rutted parking area next to the cottage, waves of anxiety sent hot blood to my face. What was so frightening? The guest cottage had been freshly painted in an especially inviting shade that blended buttercup with rich cream. Far from dangling in sinister disrepair, the deep green shutters created the happy illusion that the cabin’s front windows were two bright eyes radiating a thick-lashed welcome. White geraniums and mottled ivy grew lushly in window boxes, and the shiny green front door practically smiled.

  Hansel and Gretel.

  But where else could I go?

  By now, the handsome male had squeezed his big head past my left shoulder to stick his face out the half-open driver’s-side window. When I twisted around and made a brave, if futile, effort to force him to the rear of the car by shoving on his massive white chest, the female took an opportunistic dive into the front passenger seat. With exquisite delicacy, she stretched her powerful neck and aimed those intelligent almond-shaped eyes past my face toward the opening in the window, as if calculating the odds of soaring over me and into the outdoors. In desperation, I cranked up the window and fished for both leashes, which were still fastened to the dogs’ collars. Gripping the leashes as tightly as my sore hands allowed, I eased open the door. Seconds later, I found myself braced in the bent-knee, flexed-arm semicrouch appropriate to a Godzilla-like professional wrestler with the bulk and muscle to control these beasts.

  It never occurred to me to let the dog
s loose. My own vigilance failed to register on me. I did, however, find a peculiar reassurance in my body’s mindless preparation to have both dogs simultaneously hit the ends of their leads in a massive double wham that could otherwise knock me to the ground. The wrestler stance was unnecessary, not because the dogs spontaneously decided to behave themselves, and certainly not because I exerted any influence on their behavior. Rather, it was the appearance of a brand-new white Volvo station wagon that diverted the beasts from what was evidently going to be a headlong gallop for the cottage door. The car approached from the direction opposite the one I’d just driven.

  The driver slowed and stopped alarmingly close to the dogs and me. When she lowered her window, it took my eyes a second to distinguish between the woman herself and the curly-haired white powderpuff of a dog in her lap. As testimony to the erratic and bizarre effects of head injury, let me point out that I not only instantly identified the dog as a bichon frise, but remembered her name: Molly. With absolute certainty, I also knew that the woman had chosen the car to match the white of her dog and that if Volvo had offered a model with a fluffy coat, she’d have been driving it now. The woman herself had straight hair in flattering transition from blond to white. The short, soft cut framed her face. She’d clearly never bothered to protect her fair skin from the sun; her face was tan, and her slightly plump arms were mottled with sun spots. She wore a 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 malamute 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 living room. Since the one-story cottage was uninsulated, the interior walls and the high ceiling showed bare wooden planks and beams. The grain of the wood and the age-darkened knotholes made the kinds of eye-of-the-beholder pictures you see in clouds. The living room had one obviously new feature: a sliding glass door that led to a deck. At the far end of the room was an old fieldstone fireplace with a raised hearth. Bookshelves filled the walls on either side of the fireplace. Grouped invitingly around a glass-topped coffee table in front of the hearth was a set of white wicker furniture with fat cushions covered in a cheerful print of pastel flowers. At the opposite end of the room, by the kitchen, was an almost antique dining-room table with six mismatched chairs that somehow belonged together. Against a wall near the table, a small desk held a tall pile of notebooks and manila folders, and a combination telephone and answering machine with the message light blinking.

  The digital display showed one message. I didn’t want to hear it. In fact, the innocuous flashing of the tiny red light made my heart pound. In a desperate effort to relieve the stupid, senseless tension, I pressed the Play button. “Holly? Bonnie here.” Nothing dire so far. Bonnie, whoever she was, sounded altogether friendly and pleasant. What was I expecting? Not, in any event, what I heard next. “Just wondered about any progress you might’ve made on the arsenic front,” Bonnie added blithely. “Give me an update when you have a chance! Hope you’re getting in some hiking. I can use that, too. Bye!”

  Dumbfounded, I replayed the message four times. Arsenic? Progress I might’ve made on the arsenic front? I struggled to connect the poison to my fear. A phrase came to mind: Arsenic and Old Ladies. I knew there was something wrong with it. I couldn’t think what.

  Chapter Five

  THE AMORAL BONNIE engages Holly Winter, professional assassin, to rid her of an inconvenient husband. Or a hated rival. Little care I! Like a catalog clothes shopper mentally trying on an outfit, I slipped into the role of contract killer. It was a bad fit. For one thing, wasn’t arsenic a strange choice of weapon for a hired gun?

  If I were a killer, my most likely victim seemed to be the late Norman Axelrod, who’d apparently been the man who’d fallen to his death. I had, admittedly, been nearby. I did not, however, feel like the sort of indecisive or doubly cautious person who’d have dosed Norman with arsenic and then shoved him onto some rocks; it seemed to me that I’d have made up my mind one way or the other. Besides, if I’d had a contract to do
him in, wouldn’t I be reveling in the afterpleasure of a job well done? Or greedily collecting my pay?

  Most of all, what I’d learned about myself so far suggested that I was a decent human being. Caligula probably felt the same way about himself. Still, the worst character trait I’d discovered in myself so far was a harmless, if pathological, attachment to uncooked rice. I was kind to animals. Clean, too!

  At the moment, for example, I was under a hot shower shampooing my hair. Naked, I’d found far less physical damage than I’d expected. My knees were scraped, and the area around my right elbow was badly bruised and abraded, but most of the blood that had pooled with rainwater had been from superficial scratches on my face. The muscles that ached now would scream tomorrow morning. From my scalp rose a large, tender lump that seemed to account for something important. The medical term eluded me. What I caught was a fleeting memory about the need to awaken a victim every two hours to check the pupils of her eyes. For what? When I got out of the shower, I wiped the steam off the mirror over the sink and stared at myself. To my persisting annoyance, I was definitely not Asian. Although my eyes were distinctly Caucasian, there was nothing else wrong with them, at least that I could see, except for fine lines at the corners. The pupils weren’t of different sizes and appeared neither enlarged nor contracted. Great! I wasn’t a drug addict. I tried to guess my age. I remembered looking at my driver’s license, but if I’d read the birth date, I’d now forgotten it. The face was over thirty and under forty. As to its aesthetics, my main response was considerable relief that I looked less like a golden retriever, even a wet golden, than my earlier glance in the rearview mirror had led me to suppose.