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thinking about it: terrible poetry, if not a prophecy exactly. But the meaning was plain: better to be a dog-purse than a ’fraidy cat.

 
    Four
    Family Feud
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    M Y DAD WAS HOME when I got up next morning. He sat at the kitchen table wrapped in his old bathrobe and looking saggy-faced and gray around the eyes, with a script spread out in front of him. He pushed the pages with their wide-spaced, narrow columns of type aside when I came in. Amazing that they paid him all that money for such small amounts of writing.
    â€œHey, Amy,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
    â€œFine, Dad,” I said. “How was L.A.?”
    He wrinkled his nose. “Foul. We wouldn’t be going there if the income wasn’t spectacular.”
    I sat down across from him with a bowl of cereal. “Did you find us a place to live?”
    What a relief when he answered, “Not yet, still looking. I’ve got my eye on a couple of possibilities, though. I brought some pictures—”
    I didn’t want to see any pictures. “Where’s Mom?”
    â€œGone to Shell’s apartment with your aunt Jennie,” he said, sighing. “There’s lots to do over there, and pretty soon people will be coming around to sit shiva today.”
    â€œSomebody could have got me up to go with them,” I said. All of a sudden I felt like crying.
    â€œHey, Nougat,” he said, reaching over to give my arm a pat. “Let them have some time alone at Shelly’s place. I know you have private memories of your own about Shell, right? Well, your mom has hers to sort through, too.”
    Worse and worse, though he meant well. Still, it felt really good to have him home. I blew my nose into my napkin.
    â€œHow long before you have to go back?” I asked.
    Another huge sigh. “I’m not sure yet. There’s a story conference early next week,” he said. “It’s great to be wanted, but why now? ”
    I said, “Did you tell them about Shell?”
    â€œSure I told them. But they work under deadlines that do not move at the whim of a mere writer. And believe me, in Hollywood, there’s nobody merer.”
    He hadn’t shaved yet and looked, I thought, just a little bit like Humphrey Bogart. Cousin Shell had idolized Humphrey Bogart, and I had seen all of his ancient movies on her VCR.
    â€œI think you should stay here, and tell them to go jump,” I muttered around a mouthful of cereal.
    â€œI could,” he said, nodding, but I knew by his tone that he wouldn’t. “But then there’s a good chance my sweetheart of a daughter, the apple of my eye and the peg o’ my heart, wouldn’t be able to go to a decent college.”
    â€œI’ll work my way through college,” I said.
    â€œAs what, a heart surgeon? Tuitions everywhere are sky high and climbing, and the California state system is in trouble.”
    â€œWho says I have to go to college?” I said.
    There was a pregnant pause. Dad chewed on the pencil he’d been using to mark his script. Then he said, “Your choice, of course, Bunnyhunch. But you know, don’t you, that Shelly particularly wanted you to go? She’s left you some money, rumor has it, to help with your college expenses.”
    Now I did cry. Shelly had loved to travel on her vacation time, as much as she could on her not-tremendous income. Imagine her putting aside some of her funds for me, cutting days off her one-time visit to Mazatlan, or her Maine Coast cruise to study plant life in the tide pools!
    â€œHey, hey,” Dad said soothingly. “That’s what I hear, anyway. First there’s some Sturm and Drang to get through, so I’m not counting your chickens and you shouldn’t, either. It seems that Aunt Diane has some kind of claim on the estate—”
    â€œDiane?” I said. “They couldn’t stand each other! Shelly always