by Clea Simon
For most people, it’s noisy. As I walked through the crowded waiting room, it was maddening—the cries of confusion, of anguish, of joy. I tried to focus on the latter: the reunions, the dawning realization that the hard times in the wild were over. I’ve been learning to tune out the voices, to get some control over this strange sensitivity. Wallis says it’s a skill her kind master as kittens, learning selective deafness. Still, it was hard for me, and I must have been standing in front of the reception desk looking blank for several moments before a popping sound broke through.
“Earth to Pru.” Pammy was chewing gum. She was also twirling one strand of her dyed blonde hair. It was an impressive feat of coordination for her, and to impress me further, she blew a bubble. When it popped, she pushed the gum back into her mouth with a lacquered finger, tilted her head up toward mine, and asked again. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Doc.” I resisted the temptation to answer honestly: No, but maybe you can help yourself. “Would you buzz me in?”
A raised eyebrow showed she was considering turning down my request, but laziness got the better of her. Rather than query her boss, she hit a button.
“Thanks.” I called as I walked by her, another bubble on the way.
The working part of the hospital wasn’t quiet, far from it. But it was better—the whines and whimpers toned down to a manageable roar, one I was able, with a little concentration, to put out of my mind.
I found the white-haired vet seated at the desk in his office. A tiny room, overrun with books, it served as a consulting room for the people who determined their animals’ lives. Doc Sharpe looked up when I entered, knocking on the opened door to announce my presence. He had a book open before him—an old-fashioned ledger that seemed to contain more red ink than black—and he pushed his glasses up a potato of a nose and nodded toward the one guest chair. I removed the pile of folders from it and sat.
“How may I help you, Pru?” Unfailingly polite, he managed a smile, but I hesitated. The old vet looked tired.
“I think maybe I should be helping you more, Doc.” I looked around. A tray of vials had been laid out, probably by Pammy. FVRCP the labels read. Feline distemper. Good. I had a specific favor in mind, but it couldn’t hurt to start by offering one of my own. “At least with the animals, if not with all this paperwork.”
He managed a smile that looked more like a grimace. “If it were only the animals, I could keep up.”
I nodded. The old Yankee and I were alike in that way. Work was our tonic. “Is it billing?”
“Not exactly.” He rubbed his eyes, dislodging those glasses. “More our funding. Things may be looking up, however.”
“Oh?” This was great news. County General, as its name implied, was largely supported by public funds. Those covered the basics, barely. Any extras—and that meant my work as a freelance behaviorist—came from the Friends of County, a nonprofit whose books grew and sank depending on the weather, the stock market, and the popularity of other causes as the hip charity of the moment. “Did we get a new Friend?”
He shook his head. “Lost one—what does my granddaughter call them? A frenemy? David Canaday. In fact, well, his demise might prove timely.” He looked up at me, blinking. “He’d been a supporter, but he’d always insisted on looking over our shoulders. Looking over every expense. He called me, you know, the morning he died. I was…well, to be honest, I was avoiding calling him back. I thought…I didn’t know what to think.”
“It was probably about the kitten.” I kept my voice soft. No wonder the old vet felt so guilty. “That’s all, Doc. I’m sure. The little fellow was a gift to Canaday from one of his daughters.”
“Maybe you’re right. I hope so.” A slight smile played at the edge of Doc’s mouth. “It’s funny,” he said. “ I never had any reason to believe that the man was fond of animals.” He looked back down at the ledger, at all that red. “He certainly was not fond of animal-related charities.”
“Well, the kitten may have killed him. At least, one of his daughters thinks so.” I gave Doc the outlines of the story—allergy, bad heart—end of story. He had the grace to look shocked.
“That’s terrible. His poor daughters.”
I nodded. This was playing the way I wanted. “His oldest wants the kitten killed.”
“Well, I can understand the sentiment.” A frown creased his round face.
“Doc, there’s no reason to take it out on a kitten!” I had looked to the vet to be on my side.
“No, no, I agree.” He raised a hand, as if to block my objections from proceeding further. “And I’m not saying it should be done. Simply, I understand the emotion. Something you, Pru, might want to work on.”
“Doc, you work with a lot of the same animals I do,” I countered. This wasn’t what I had come here for. “If seeing how we treat them doesn’t turn you off the human race…”
“I understand what you are saying. Honestly, I do.” He cleared his throat, usually a sign that he was about to say something that made him uncomfortable. “But, Pru, at times I have come to wonder if, well, you have either made a conscious choice to consign yourself to the outskirts of society or, if perhaps, you might benefit from some kind of assistance with, well, socialization.”
That shut me up. I knew Doc Sharpe worried about my ability to support myself. I didn’t realize he worried about my emotional health as well.
“I do fine socially, Doc.” I wasn’t about to spell out my relationship with Creighton.
“I don’t mean to pry.” That hand again. Poor Doc. He’s got a Yankee’s reticence for talking about personal matters. To go this far meant he really must be worried, and so I bit my tongue. “This matter did predispose me to pursue a proposal, however.”
“Yes?” Tongue biting only goes so far.
“She should be here by now.” He looked past me to the open door.
“Wait.” I twisted around. I’d been ambushed.
“Hi, Ms Marlowe—I mean Pru.” Jill Canaday was standing in the doorway, looking pretty and fresh in pink scrubs.
“You look nice.” From my mouth, it wasn’t a compliment. Doc Sharpe probably got that. I heard a small choking sound behind me. Jill Canaday simply blushed, the pink in her cheeks bringing to mind her older sister’s more dramatic coloring.
“Thank you,” she said. “If I had known you were coming in today, I would—”
“What?” I had been startled. I hate being startled. “Avoided me until you’d stolen all my clients?”
“Pru, please.” Doc Sharpe hates conflict. “She’s not—”
“I’m not getting paid.” Jill broke in. “I’m here as a volunteer. Honestly, Pru. I was only going to say that I would have arranged to meet you here. I just want to learn. ”
I eyed her. Cute as a kitten, this one, but kittens could kill. I wanted no part in training her—or in letting her learn anything about me.
“Ahem.” Doc Sharpe can make even clearing his throat sound reticent. “Pru, if I may, this is the—ah—kind of situation we’ve discussed.”
“You’ve talked about, you mean.” I was beginning to feel cornered. Those distressed barks and whimpers were leaking through. I could feel beads of sweat on my brow, down my back.
“Pru, are you feeling ill?” Doc Sharpe stepped toward me.
“I’m fine.” Now it was my turn to bark. “But I don’t like to be—”
I stopped myself. What was I going to say? Ambushed? To Doc Sharpe—to any outside observer—I was the one with the power here. Jill the acolyte, looking for guidance. No, I had enough problems without getting a reputation for misogyny. Any more of one, that is. Besides, I needed something from this family.
“Surprised.” I finished my sentence with a smile to match the one on her pink face. “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
“No problem
.” She certainly bounced back. “But since you’re here, maybe we can talk sooner. I was just about to clean the cages in the cat room. Want to come with me?”
I paused. Okay, I got it. She was doing the kind of volunteer work I really didn’t want to do. Unless this was all an act to lull me into accepting her. Doc Sharpe was looking at me. Waiting.
“Sure,” I kept the smile in place. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I watched her go before turning to the old vet. Maybe I could turn this to my advantage. “Doc?”
I waited for him to apologize. Waited for his usual reticence to play out with a downcast gaze and an open, if vague, offer. I’d worked with Doc Sharpe for some years now. Long enough to think I knew him.
“Yes?” When he looked at me, gray eyes light and clear behind those glasses, I was a bit taken aback. He didn’t think he’d wronged me, I realized. He thought he’d done me a solid.
“About the kitten…” I hesitated. I’d been going to ask if he could sneak the little fellow in. Give him his shots and maybe make up a story about quarantine. Just until I had things figured out. “You know, the one I got from the Canaday family?”
He reached up to rub his eyes again. Took his glasses off to do so. Allergies, I thought. As well as fatigue and money woes.
“Pru.” He shook his head, his fingers still pressing into his eyelids. “You aren’t helping yourself, you know.” His voice was sad as he reached behind him for a tissue. Dabbed at those reddened eyes. “Give the kitten back to Jackie Canaday, Pru. You’ve got to start making people your priority.”
When I stood, it wasn’t anger. It was more a straight animal instinct—the desire to flee from a place that felt confining. Dangerous. But as I did, I saw that tray. Those vials. I pocketed two of them, as well as a hypo. And with a few mumbled words, I took off.
Chapter Twenty-six
I couldn’t run. No matter how much I might want to, I knew better than to act suspicious. Couldn’t take my booty and scamper. If I were lucky, the vials wouldn’t be missed. I had no idea how many kittens came through here, but I knew there were a lot. Just as I knew for sure that Pammy wasn’t always careful or neat. If there were a discrepancy in the numbers, she’d take the heat—for carelessness or loss. Was I endangering some other animal? I thought of what Doc had said, about the hospital’s money woes, and I put them from my head. I was doing what I could for the one animal in my care. Doc Sharpe would understand. I’d make him—if I were caught.
As I closed the door behind me, I had managed to mutter something about Jill. And so now, to make that part of my story true, I went to find her, walking down the long hall to the animal rooms, all too aware of the glass vials bouncing in my pocket.
I found the youngest Canaday in the first cat room, cleaning cages. To do her justice, Jill didn’t ask me to help. Instead, she went about her work with the minimum of cooing or complaining while I leaned back and watched. She’d removed the cage’s occupants—in this case, a new mother and three nursing kittens—to a travel case as she emptied their temporary home of soiled newsprint and food. The kittens were oblivious; they didn’t care as long as mom was nearby. The mother, however, was a bit anxious. Change was scary, especially now that she had little ones to care for. Where was her safe closet nest? Her person, the little girl who always brought treats?
I couldn’t tell her. Didn’t want to tell her that her kittens would probably be taken as soon as she had weaned them. And that her chances, if her family wouldn’t take her back, weren’t the best. Instead, I did my best to tune out the feline queries and contemplated how I could use this time—since I probably couldn’t bill for it.
Jill was the first to break the silence.
“I really do admire you, you know,” she said, as she wiped down the tray. “I’ve been hearing about your work with animals for ages.”
“From Doc Sharpe?” A twinge of guilt, easily dismissed.
“No,” she shook her head. “From my father.”
That made me stand up straight. “I didn’t think he was much of an animal-lover.” I was downplaying even Doc Sharpe’s restrained comment. Then again, I was fishing.
“No,” she shook her head as she reached for the paper towels. “That’s not true. He just believed that things should be done a certain way. That’s what makes it weird that Judith would…” She broke off. The kitten, I knew. I figured Jill was either too young to know about her sister’s pet name or Judith had invented that story for reasons of her own.
“I gather that Judith and your father had a falling out?” She’d raised the topic. That made it fair game.
“Yeah, before she left.” She wiped down the tray and turned away, looking around her as if for a misplaced sibling.
More likely, she wanted the bottle of disinfectant. I reached for it and paused. The way Judith had put it, her wanting to leave had been the problem—not the solution. As I handed Jill the spray bottle, I asked, my tone as even as I could make it. “Do you remember what they fought about?”
A shrug as she spritzed the empty cage. “I was so young then, I don’t really know.” She paused and looked back at me. “She’d been taking courses at Berkshire Community for a couple of years by then, off and on, but I don’t think she was ever really the college type. So when her job ended and she and Dad started fighting, I guess it made sense for her to leave.”
She handed me back the bottle and started refilling the cage with clean bedding.
“I get it. I mean, I didn’t visit as often as I should have. Maybe once every few months. He talked about you, though—my dad did. I guess he kept seeing your name in reports. And when I was home, I heard him on the phone arguing with Dr. Sharpe about you.”
The expense. Of course.
“And that made you want to seek me out?” Something wasn’t scanning here.
Another shrug. “My father could be difficult. But I—I could usually see beyond that.” See how to manipulate him, I translated. “He listened to what Doc Sharpe said, you know. He wasn’t a bad man.”
No, not if you were the one getting all his money. I waited. It’s a cop trick. Facing silence, most people rush to fill in the blank. Jill was better than most, I’d give her that. She finished up the cat room and I followed her to the small mammal cages before she started talking again.
“So, you’re wondering what I’m trying for,” she said, looking at me with a hopeful smile.
“Not really.” That was true.
“I want to work with animals.” She opened a cage that housed a family of gerbils. They seemed pretty calm as she reached in for their food dish, as calm as gerbils can be, anyway. “Like you do.”
“There are a lot of good animal behavior programs.” I waited, letting in more from the gerbils. No, they weren’t overly concerned. Then again, gerbils aren’t the best judges of character. “You’re up in Vermont? I can give you some recommendations.”
“No.” She shook her head as she replaced the dish. “I mean, I am taking some classes. I’m thinking of veterinary school. But I want to do what you do. You make their lives better.”
I looked at her. She appeared serious, which only made me more uncomfortable. “Well, if you want to help, you can try working on your sister.”
“What?” She shook her head, uncomprehending. “You mean Judith?”
“Jackie. She wants to have the kitten put down.”
“What? Why?” Her surprise seemed real. Then again, I doubted the sisters talked much.
“She seems to blame the kitten.” I watched her, waiting for a reaction.
Jill shook her head in disbelief. “That’s crazy. You won’t let her, right? The kitten—where is it? Is it safe?”
“He’s safe.” If her sister hadn’t shared the kitten’s location, I wasn’t about to. “For now. But if you want to help an animal, I would suggest starting at home.”
>
She nodded. “I will. Jackie’s not herself. She’s been going on about that day, about visiting with our lawyer, Mr. Wilkins.” I bet, I said to myself. But Jill didn’t miss a beat. “After—when all this stuff with my father is straightened out, will you think about taking me on?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. For sure, I would. Talking about Ernesto had made me antsy to get home to him. I fingered the vials in my pocket—and thought about the woman who had brought the kitten into my life. “Hey, what did Judith do here, anyway?” I asked. “Before she took off for LA?”
“Didn’t you know?” The round face that looked up at me was all innocence, eyes as wide as Ernesto’s. “She took care of Mrs. Wilkins in those last few months. Everyone thought she was going to become a nurse.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
I left County with one answer but a lot more questions. Some of those I floated, asking in an offhand way as I drifted toward the door. Most of them were pointless. Jill didn’t remember Wilkins’ wife, Melissa, well. Didn’t recall anything more than a pale woman on a daybed and didn’t think her sister did much more than sit with the ailing woman, since Judith had been just a few years out of high school at the time. But what she had told me did leave me with a little more understanding for Judith. I’d been a caregiver, too. I wouldn’t volunteer to do it again either.
It also made me wonder about their father. After all, from what Jill said, her middle sister had been quite conscientious. Surely, she was allowed to make some choices for herself, after her one charge had died? Unless, of course, he thought her early choice was the one she should stick with. Maybe he had some inkling of his own future incapacity then. Maybe his kitten was supposed to become a house cat.