The Blue Pen

by Lisa Rusczyk

PARKER

  “More wine?”

  Cleo swung an arm over the back of her chair. “The wine you serve reminds me of that night. I think it brought out that part much more vividly for me.”

  Parker poured more wine into her glass.

  “What about you, reporter?”

  He reluctantly poured more into his own glass. He didn’t want his memory to get fuzzy on the details, but he could sense that it would put Cleo more at ease this way. “Are you hungry, Cleo?”

  “I am used to going without food for long periods of time.”

  “But are you hungry?”

  She twisted her hair and laughed. “I guess I should be happy for your hospitality. Yes, I could eat. What did you have in mind?”

  “I could order some Chinese food. I don’t have much in the way of food in my fridge.”

  “I haven’t had Chinese in a long time. That would be delightful. Thank you.”

  Parker called in some Kung Pao chicken and vegetable Lo Mein. Just as he was hanging up, he had another call come in.

  “Parker, my man.” It was the Dean.

  “Hi.”

  “Got a private moment?”

  Parker glanced at Cleo, who was smoothing out the already flat placemats. “Sure, one sec.” He walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom. After he closed the door, he asked, “What’s up?”

  “Sunday afternoon. You still with her?”

  “Yeah. We’re talking.”

  The Dean paused. “You sound a little buzzed.”

  “She likes drinking company.”

  The Dean clicked his tongue. “Take care that you are in here tomorrow morning, now.”

  Parker chuckled. The Dean wouldn’t care either way because he knew about Parker’s tendency to get completely into his stories with no abandon. “What makes you call on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “A few things. First, how’d this Cleo know you wanted to talk to her?”

  Parker told him about how Cleo had appeared at his apartment the morning the magazine came out.

  The Dean said, “Worry you at all?”

  “Does what worry me?

  “Magazine came out and four hours later the woman shows up. Weird. How’d she get the news so fast?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shows up in your car, then she’s there the minute you drop a word about her.”

  Parker grinned and shook his head. “Well, we haven’t gotten to the homeless part of the story, but I’m guessing someone told her. It’s not like the homeless don’t read and have a lot of connections with each other.”

  “How you know that?”

  Parker didn’t have an educated answer. “I just figured.”

  “She bring stuff with her?”

  Parker thought of the gray kitten. “Just her clothes.”

  “When she passes out before you from the drink,” he paused, “And make sure that happens, look through her clothes.”

  “Why?” Parker thought that might break some kind of trust they had built up over the last couple of days.

  “Got another call from Belle, the daughter. So-called daughter.”

  “Yeah? And?” Parker felt defensive, like the Dean was pointing out that he had been too trusting, like Missy used to do.

  “Said Cleo had a way with networking. Something about, well.” He hummed a little hrmm. “You should talk to this Belle, I think.”

  “Why? You think she really is a daughter? You didn’t sound like you thought that before.”

  “Just watching out for you. Covering all the bases. Would it hurt for you to at least have lunch with the woman?”

  “Why do you think she was so evasive before?”

  “Don’t know, kiddo. But got to be informed on all leads.”

  Parker heard a noise in the hallway. Was Cleo listening in on him? “I’ll give it some thought, okay?”

  “Sure, you’re the boss here,” he said sarcastically. Parker smiled. The Dean continued, “She say she had any other kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s the name of the first one?”

  Parker heard his door shuddering. “I have to go. See you in the office tomorrow.”

  The Dean was quiet for a minute. “Don’t make me have to dictate from a hospital room again.”

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  Parker hung up the phone and opened his door. The gray cat sat in front of it looking like it had been angry that Parker took so long to open the door. It said, “Mahrraharrah!”

  “Okay,” Parker told the little thing. “Okay, come on, I’ll give you some tuna fish.” He walked down the hall to the kitchen with the cat traveling one step ahead of him on its tiptoes, glancing its green eyes back at him every few steps.

  Cleo had finished half her glass of wine. She said, “Is he hungry? You really should name him. Cats like having a name.”

  Parker got a can of tuna out of the cabinet and dug around in a drawer for a can opener. “I don’t know what to name it. Him. What do you think?”

  Cleo was quiet for so long while he was opening the can of tuna that, as he drained the juices, he looked back at her. Her eyes were closed.

  “Cleo?”

  She opened her eyes. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  What did she need that for? He said, “Yeah, let me feed it first.” He put the whole can of tuna in a bowl and put it on the floor. The gray ate immediately.

  Cleo said, astonished, “You don’t feed him all that at once! He will puke on your beautiful floors. Cut the portion in half and refrigerate the other half.”

  Parker scooped up the bowl, with many “Mahhhhhhs,” from the cat, and sloshed half of the tuna into another bowl. He set the original bowl down on the floor and opened the fridge and put the rest of the tuna inside.

  Cleo shook her head and pointed at Parker. “You need to cover that tuna with something so it doesn’t dry out. It could make the kitten sick.”

  Parker found a roll of plastic wrap and covered the bowl, then put it back in the fridge. “All happy now?”

  “I need a pen and paper.”

  Parker sighed. He got a black pen from a pile of pens in a drawer. He used them all the time. He pulled a small notepad out of the same drawer. “Here. What do you need those for?”

  “We are going to find the right name for the cat.”

  Parker took his seat and drank deeply from his afternoon wine. “Okay, you are going to write a bunch down and we are going to pick one?”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes, holding a pen out to a blank piece of paper. “Just wait. Drink. It will only take a minute.” She took a sip of wine with her eyes still closed and sat with her pen at the ready for several minutes.

  Parker didn’t know what to do, but he felt for some reason he should be quiet. The only sound was the cat smacking on the tuna fish. After a time, Cleo began writing on the paper with her eyes still closed. After scribbling for a moment she opened her eyes and picked up the pad. “It says ‘Jack.’ His name is Jack.” She raised an eyebrow at Parker and turned the notebook to face him.

  On the pad it said in clear, black cursive, “Jack.”

  “Okay,” Parker said. “We can call him Jack.” He thought that was quite a production just to name a cat.

  Cleo looked down at the eating cat. She called out in a soft, cooing voice, “Jack!” and made a clicking sound with her tongue. The gray paused in his feast and looked up at Cleo. “Mahh.” He turned back to the food and continued to gorge himself like it was his first meal in weeks.

  Parker had an uneasy feeling just then, like Cleo had done something in her head that was questionable, and his neck prickled, but Cleo interrupted his thought with, “All cats like that sound, the clucking tongue sound. They always pause and look at that. But now he knows you will call him Jack. Like I said, cats like having names. They like repetition.”

  Parker sipped from his wine and poured mo
re into both their glasses. He liked what he was getting out of her more now that she was getting drunk, and that little nagging thought that this might be a bad idea tinkered around in his brain. He shouldn’t use her weakness to drink, if it was there, to ply information out of her. He shook his head of the thought. She was just a person who could choose to drink or not to drink. It wasn’t his fault if she did it. And if she did, he was getting good material out of it. He found Cleo’s story fascinating so far.

  “What are you thinking, reporter?”

  “About Jack. Why he is so nosey.”

  “Cats are curious. Once they pick a person, they are dedicated. Jack has picked you. No telling why. But he is your cat now. And you need to get a litter box. They like to do business in a clean place, a routine place.”

  Parker knew better than to antagonize someone he was interviewing. The cat was gone when Cleo was gone. No question about that.

  “And he needs fresh water, but I’ll get that.” Cleo rose and refilled the mug with tap water, set it on the floor. The cat was uninterested.

  “Cats don’t usually like to be watched drinking water, unless they are very thirsty. Then they don’t care.”

  “Why is that?”

  Cleo puckered her lips. “Never been able to figure that one out.”

  Parker leaned back in his chair as Cleo sat down next to him again. “So, Cleo, did you go to the shore?”

  She smiled as though she were looking at old photographs. She said, “Do you like the way I speak?”

  Parker said, “I think you are eloquent.”

 

  CHAPTER NINETEEN