Read Online An Ornithologist's Guide to Life by Ann Hood - Free Book Online Page B

was at a time in her life when she should not have to get screamed at and be accused right in her own kitchen, before she’d had her tea.
    She concentrated on the kettle, the way it shook slightly as the water began to heat.
    â€œYou haven’t told me what she had,” Dora said.
    A puff of steam rose from the spout, then the low whistle began.
    Peter’s voice was soft now. “A boy,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.
    A sharp pang of regret shot through Dora’s gut. A baby boy. Her Dan’s grandson. Her own great-grandchild. She tried to keep her hand steady as she poured the boiling water into her mug, a lumpy thing that Tillie had made in a pottery class some years ago. For an instant Dora believed that she would turn around and find her children there: Dan’s facestill creased from sleep, his frown deep, Tillie’s sunnier self humming tunelessly. She would turn, Dora let herself think, and her children would ask for French toast and quarters for treats after school and their mittens and erasers for their pencils and hair ribbons and papers that needed signing. She took a breath and spun around expectantly. But of course there was just this other boy. Peter. Still crying, his face blotchy and swollen now, he waited for something from her, something she could not possibly give him.
    D ORA DID NOT know what to do for Peter, who moved around the house noisily, slamming cabinets shut, muttering to himself. He called the girl constantly, as if she could give him answers. Dora heard him say: “But they were cool, right? Like in their pictures?” And: “They seemed in love, right? Like they’re not going to get divorced, right?” Another time she heard him asking softly: “Did he have any hair? Did he look at you or anything?” It took Dora a moment to understand Peter was asking about his baby, not the man who adopted him.
    After several days of this, Peter appeared in front of her as she dozed over a mystery novel.
    â€œI’ve got to do something,” he said.
    Dora stared at him, trying to sort out who exactly he was and why he was standing in her parlor.
    â€œPeter,” she said finally.
    â€œYeah. Right.” He was jumping up and down a little. “I’ve got to do something.”
    â€œLet’s go to dinner,” Dora said, getting to her feet, eventhough a small roasting chicken was defrosting in her kitchen sink.
    Once in the car, she couldn’t think of where to go. She drove around the city, confused. She didn’t really like all this renovation that was going on, the way they rerouted the entire river and made all the roads go in new directions.
    â€œMaybe I should have talked her into keeping it,” Peter was saying. “Maybe I should have married her. I mean, I will never see that kid. Ever.”
    Dora nodded politely. Weybosset Street, Washington, Dorrance. None of them seemed to be in the right place. It was twilight now, and the lights came on unexpectedly, out of nowhere.
    â€œI mean,” Peter said, “it’s like he vanished.”
    â€œYes,” Dora said. “Well.”
    Then a thought occurred to her. She and Bill used to take the kids to The Blue Grotto, up on Federal Hill, for special occasions. It had white tablecloths, good martinis, chicken marsala and spaghetti with bolognese sauce. Tillie liked to get a Shirley Temple there and Dan had a Roy Rogers, both with extra cherries.
    â€œDo you like Italian food?” Dora said, getting her bearings.
    â€œLike the Olive Garden?”
    Dora sighed. She didn’t know what the boy was talking about most of the time. “I suppose,” she said.
    Federal Hill, at least, had not changed: it was still impossible to get a parking space. After circling a few times, Dora suggested they park and walk the six or seven blocks to the restaurant.
    â€œWhatever,” Peter said.
    It was one of those summer nights where in