by Clea Simon
“Yeah, I like it.” Tess took a long draft, managing to look elegant even as she wiped the foam from her mouth. She shrugged. “I mean, sure, it takes some getting used to. I keep waiting for the sound engineer to yell ‘cut.’ And for the checks to come in.” We both laughed. “But that’s why it’s good to have the day job, you know? I don’t need to fill the room, and I can play what I want to—and only what I want to.”
“I can see why you’re into it, I guess.” I tried to imagine the tedium of studio work, with its endless repetitions until someone hidden in a booth said you’d gotten it right. The money alone might have kept me going, but there was no point saying that now. “At any rate, your new stuff is really great. Mournful somehow. I don’t know, a couple of pieces sounded like they were real folk songs—hundreds of years old or something. Like they’re part of life already.”
“Thanks,” she said, rolling the bottle between her slim hands. “But you know, those tunes aren’t new, most of them. I’ve been working on them for years. I just never got a chance to play this stuff with anyone in New York. It didn’t ‘rock’ enough for them.”
I wanted to ask her about the New York days and the wisdom of moving back. Wasn’t the studio work at least a better day job than what she was doing now? But just then Sunny appeared, wearing the multi-pocketed vest that identified her as a photographer and guaranteed her free admission. Without asking, she flopped into a chair and pulled it up to our table.
“Theda! Tess! Well, isn’t this arts central.” We greeted her in return and Tess, more polite than I—and taller—signaled to the waitress to come back over.
“Hi, Sunny! What’s your pleasure?”
“Sam Adams,” said Sunny, turning her red face back to us. I thought she usually stuck with the cheaper Bud on tap, but never mind. “Now, Tess, you’ve got something there.”
“That’s just what I was telling her.” I’d always found Sunny a little overeager, but hearing her praise my friend softened me up.
“You’re going to do an album, right?” Tess started to open her mouth, but Sunny didn’t pause. I could almost see the connections clicking in Sunny’s head. She knew who Tess had worked with, too. “I’d love to do the cover. Love to. I could do some new publicity shots for you, too. Make you look like the new Michelle Shocked or Gillian Welch or something. Will you call me?”
Tess smiled and nodded, but Sunny had already turned her pixie-ish face toward me. “You still writing for the Mail , Theda? I haven’t seen your byline recently.”
“Well, I don’t know really.” What I didn’t know was how much I wanted to get into with Sunny. “I’ve had sort of a falling out with my editor there.” The poet was reading again by then, but Sunny wasn’t listening to either of us.
“Who is your editor, Tim Smathers? I know him. I mean, I’ve met him. Do you think I could use your name with him?” Wouldn’t do me any harm, I figured, so I just nodded and smiled and turned away from the table to focus on the stage. Sunny stayed a few minutes longer, sipping the beer Tess had paid for, and then moved on. When the poet finished her bit, Tess said goodnight, too.
“I’m a member of the working class, my girl.” She stooped to hug me and I kissed her warm cheek. “I’ve got to get up in the morning.”
“Well, it was great to see you. And great to hear what you’ve been working on all this time as well.”
“Thanks, doll.” She beamed as if I’d handed her a million bucks, and I sat back to mull over the meaning of success.
***
That was the topic on my mind the next morning, once I’d rung off with Lannie. If I was going to pursue it, I had to get to work. Pulling on some sweats and grabbing a proper pad, I figured I’d make some phone calls and then go for a belated run. With assignments like these, getting in touch with the subjects was three-quarters of the job. If I could come up with a few good general questions, something that touched on the struggle, making it, and what that meant, the piece would write itself.
Lannie had given me numbers for Monica, the web whiz, and for the designer’s South End studio and I left messages at both, explaining the assignment and asking them to call me back as soon as was convenient. Cool was easier. I called the Ritz and asked for Ronnie, her personal manager. I figured a classy hotel might deny that a celebrity of her stature was staying there. But Ronnie was a civilian rather than a household name and, sure enough, they put me through.
“Hey darling, how’re you doing?” Twenty years in New York, New England, and California hadn’t robbed Ronnie of his Southern twang or that Carolina languor. I suspected he maintained both for their professional advantage. Despite his apparently lazy ways, Ronnie could be a tough negotiator.
“Fine, Ronnie. And by you?” We shot the breeze for a few minutes, but through the charm I could hear an unusual impatience.
“I’m calling for City Magazine ,” I explained, figuring it was time to get to the point. “They want to include Cool in a round-up story, a follow-up to that ‘Women of the Millennium’ feature she was in a few years ago.”
“And they called you in to do it? They asked you ?” I didn’t think Ronnie meant that question as a slight, but it caused me to sit up. Did he think I’d pitched the story claiming special access? That I’d been trying to capitalize on our old acquaintance?
“Yeah, Ronnie, they did.” I heard the edge creeping into my voice. “They called me this morning to see if I could write the whole feature. Profile four different women actually.” Cool was special, but c’mon…
“So it’s nothing about her in particular, right?”
“What do you mean, Ronnie?” This was mystifying. “I mean, she’s still a big deal here in her old hometown. And she was one of the original subjects. Is there going to be a problem?”
“I’m sorry, darling.” He relented. “Didn’t mean to sound so sharp. We’ve had some, well…the move has been hard on everybody.”
I waited, silent. Ronnie had pretty much used up the friend factor, and he hadn’t answered my question.
“I’ll talk to Cool and get back to you just as soon as I can,” he said, finally. A heaviness had crept into his voice, almost replacing the charming drawl. “That’s the best I can do.”
“Fine,” I replied, although he hadn’t asked for my consent. I gave him my number, since it didn’t sound like Cool would have it anymore, and hung up.
The whole interaction left such a taste in my mouth that I was tempted to leave off work for the rest of the morning. Go running. Greet the day. I unlocked my back window, lifting it open for what I hoped wasn’t the last time of the season. Musetta jumped up on the sill to enjoy the view over our fire escape, and purred as I stroked her. What a bird watching team we made! But some residual twinge of discipline kicked in and I reached for my address book, looking for the Rose Blossom Cattery and the gentle round woman I’d recently come to know.
After about a dozen rings, I’d given up on a human and was waiting for the machine when I heard the clatter of a receiver being picked up. “Hey, Rose,” I called out, thinking she’d just rushed in from cleaning the cages or maybe grooming one of her long-haired beauties. But all I heard was panting, a desperate panicked sound that had made me fear she was ill. I called out to her: “Rose? Are you all right?”
“Theda? Theda Krakow?” Rose nearly barked, her voice tighter and loud with something—anger, fear—that I couldn’t place. “Theodosia Krakow?” Not many people knew my full name, the same as the silent film vamp—incidentally, another nice Jewish girl—but Rose had a memory like a Rolodex, which was a great asset in the breeding and show game. “How do I know that’s really you?”
“Because you recognized my voice, Rosie.” I hoped using her pet name might calm her down. “Because Musetta will vouch for me, if you want.”
I heard her sigh.
“Rosie, it is me. It is Theda.” I prompted again, wondering if I should call a doctor. Or really put my cat on the line.
“Oh god, thank g
od. Oh, I’m sorry.” Another big sigh. This wasn’t like the Rose I’d come to know. I’d met her over the summer, when the older woman had been the voice of sanity at one of the region’s biggest and most frenzied cat shows. Since then, she’d taught me something about the competitive circuit, a crazy world that she regarded with gentle affection and humor. She wasn’t chuckling now.
“What is it, Rose. What’s happening?” I realized I was standing, holding the phone in a clenched hand. I made myself sit.
“I’m just so glad it’s you, dear. I’ve been so scared.”
“Scared?”
“The catnappers, Theda. The cattery thieves. They’ve called me.” I could hear the panic creeping back into her voice, the tone rising as if she was forgetting to breathe. “I’m going to be next and there’s nothing I can do. Unless I pay them, that is. They’re going to call me back and tell me how to pay them. They want twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand! And if I call the cops, if I tell them anything, they won’t just rob me.” Her voice dropped down to a whisper. “They’re going to kill my cats!”
Chapter Four
“I’m coming over.” Rose lived right up Massachusetts Avenue, in Watertown. I could be there in fifteen minutes.
“No you’re not. You can’t!” Her voice was rising again into hysteria. “They said if I called anyone they’d know! They’d know!”
“But you didn’t call me. I called you.” I waited a moment for the logic to sink in. “I called you for an entirely different reason. I want to interview you for a story. Really, I do. And now I just want to come over to do a little pre-interview chat with my friend. Perfectly innocent.” I could tell from the labored breathing I heard over the line that it wasn’t working. “Rose? Rosie? Remember, it’s just me. I don’t look like a cop. Do I? And wouldn’t it be good to talk this over?”
“You’re right, Theda. But you can’t rush over, not right away. They just called, you see? It would look suspicious. Give me an hour. No, two. And then be casual about it, won’t you darling?”
“I’ll do my best.” I looked at the clock; it wasn’t even noon. “So I’ll come by at around one?”
I heard her sigh again. I knew I was pressing her, but couldn’t see how facing this alone would be any better. And she needed a friend—a lot about this just didn’t make any sense. “Rosie?”
“Make it two.” I heard her voice fall, as if bowing to the inevitable. “And, Theda? Thanks.”
There was no way I could go back to work after that, so I steeled myself for that belated run. Lacing up my sneakers, I reached for a Clash compilation disc I'd burned for Bill, weeks before. Somehow he kept leaving it at my place, but for once I was grateful. The great British punk pioneers—the “only band that mattered”—had gotten me through a lot of hard times in high school. Their raw energy, politics propelled by guitar-laced passion, was just what I needed to clear my head now.
Stretching out in silence on the stairs inside my apartment, I pressed the play button as I pushed open the door. Crash! The cymbals kicked in as I hit the pavement, crossing ahead of a black Honda. Despite the slight reggae lilt in the rhythm, the underlying beat was a straight four-four, the sound of dancing or fighting in the streets. I thought of that fighting spirit as the furious bass line got me up to speed, and I was already turning the corner as Joe Strummer’s strangled vocals cried out to me, distracting me from Rose’s call, from Ronnie’s strange reticence, from my own financial mess, from Bill. Forty minutes later, when I walked the last two blocks home to cool off, I felt like I’d sweated out the cobwebs. Or most of them: Was that the same car, driving around the corner, and had it been behind me as I’d loped down Mass. Ave? Stretching a bit longer than usual, I lied to myself, saying I wanted to hear the denouement of one more song. Must have been a student, I figured. Or a lost parent looking for the college. Rose’s paranoia was contagious, but what was the point of running if not to work out all those negative feelings? I took one more turn around the block at a slow jog and felt my equilibrium returning. The exercise had left me invigorated, ready to take on what I could. Rose was going to get my help, whether she wanted it or not.
***
The phone was ringing when I let myself back in, but as I bolted toward the phone a small black linebacker threw herself at my ankles. A quick leap saved me from punting my pet and left me panting. Watching her bounce down the hall, I tried to regain my equilibrium and decided the machine could pick up the call.
“Theda? Are you there?” It was Cool, her deep voice bubbling up from under, and there were other voices, talking behind her. She wasn’t alone. “She’s not there,” I heard her say, to be answered by a murmur in the background.
“Wait!” I lunged for the phone again. Musetta, at the hallway’s end, just watched. “I’ve got it. I’m just back. Cool, are you still there?” All was silent. I thought I’d missed her and grimaced. Musetta began to wash one already spotless foot.
“Yeah, yeah, Theda. I’m here.” I tried to regulate my breathing as I pulled up a chair. Panting is unattractive in humans. “Returning your call. Ronnie said you called ‘cause you sold a story on me or something?”
No wonder the reception had been frosty. Years of fame had taught her to steer clear of so-called friends who wanted to piggyback on her renown. “Sort of.” I figured truth was the best route. “Only, I didn’t pitch it. That magazine City wants me to profile you as a follow-up to the one they did on you back in 2000. The one they called ‘chicks of the century,’ or something like that? And here you are, still a big star.” I forced a chuckle as my breath returned. Cool didn’t join in. “But I would’ve been calling anyway. I just found out that you were back in town!”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been laying low this time out. Real low.” Cool’s voice always had a lazy feel, but this time she slurred the words together into a fatigued growl.
“Cool, are you okay?”
“Of course. Why are you asking?” The edge was back in her voice with a snap, and I wondered if I’d imagined that tired drawl. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing.” I felt like I couldn’t say anything right to my old buddy. Had LA changed Cool that much? Was it just my mood: the hangover from the weekend, or my earlier conversation with Rose? “I’m sorry, I thought you sounded tired, or something.”
“Tired, huh? Well, I’ve got a lot on my mind these days.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” She snorted. I tried to rewind. “So how long have you been back? What are you up to?”
“You don’t know?” There was silence for a moment. “No, I guess you don’t. A couple of weeks. Two, I guess. And, well, I don’t really know what I’m up to. Trying to take it easy, you know?”
“Yeah.” I guess I hadn’t imagined the stress in her voice. I hated to ask what came next. “So, could we get together? I mean, I really would like to interview you for this article. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay, too. I’ll make some excuse to the editor. I’d just like to see you.”
“No, no, it’ll be fine.” She exhaled with a force that implied the opposite, but then continued. “Look, why don’t you come by, I don’t know, Thursday? How does Thursday lunch sound?”
At any other time, it would’ve sounded fine. Right now, I was hoping she’d make it till then. I reached for a pad.
“Great. How about one?”
“It’s good. Oh, and Theda?”
“Yeah?”
“Ask for Ronnie. Nobody’s supposed to know I’m in town. Fat lot of good that’s done.”
She rang off before I could follow up on that particular bit of crypticism, and I realized that my wet shirt had dried onto my skin. Musetta would not approve. Time for a shower and visit to Rose. At least her problems had a clear-cut cause.
***
I was crossing the quiet tree-lined street to Rose’s house when I saw her. Peeking out from behind a holly bush, her unnaturally auburn bob could have been an unusually large berry against th
e dark spiney leaves. She was gesturing, frantic. “Theda!” Her stage whisper reached me at the sidewalk. “Theda! This way!” She motioned me over to the side of the low-slung white ranch house, her eyes darting over my shoulder to the vacant lane I’d just crossed. “Did anyone follow you?” I thought again of that car, the black Honda from earlier. Only one of the most common cars on the road. Her fear must be getting to me. I shook my head. “Come in, then. Come in.” She took my arm and walked me toward the back door. “I didn’t want anyone to see you.”
“But shouldn’t we be acting as if this is just a normal visit?” I leaned over her to be better heard. “And why are we whispering, anyway?”
“I told you! They’re watching me.”
And they wouldn’t see us sneaking around the house in broad daylight? It seemed a question better left unanswered, and instead I followed my friend in through the back.
“New wig?” After a bout with breast cancer several years ago, before we’d met, her hair had changed. It grew back, Rose had told me, but was “never right.” Now she kept an everchanging roster of hairpieces busy, almost as if they were additional pets. I was trying not to stare at the purplish red of today’s pick.
“It’s Malaysian. Do you like it?” Her voice returned to normal as she double bolted the door behind us, and I was thankful that any need for me to respond was cut off by the loud, insistent mews of four adolescent cats who came barreling into the room.
“Pussums! Pussums! Calm down.” Slim, silky kitties weaved figure-eights around our legs, making forward progress difficult. “Pussums!”
Many breeders advertise that they raise their cats “underfoot.” The theory is that if the cats are constantly around people they become used to us, our noises and our movements. That not only makes them better suited to the lights and attention of the show ring, it gives the non-show quality animals better chances at good homes. Well socialized cats make better pets and, in all fairness, most breeders do try to spend a lot of time with all their charges, even taking them out on errands so they can become accustomed to fuss and sounds. In Rose’s case, however, the term was literal and the people in her house found themselves accommodating the cats. As we shuffled with our escorts into the front room that served as her main sitting room and cat den, we were besieged by several more of the petite, long-haired Angoras.