Cattery Row

by Clea Simon

  I looked around my apartment, which seemed more of a mess than usual now that I was cooped up in it, and decided at the least I could do something about that. I managed to neaten up a towering newspaper pile that the cat had toppled, and slammed the back window before it could let in more of the chilly drizzle. Then I opened my one big closet to expose the disorder of shoes and god knows what else that lay within. Which is how I found myself curled up under my comforter on the couch watching some stupid entertainment news show when Violet called. I let the machine answer.

  “Theda, are you okay? Bill called to tell me the hospital let you go.” The TV and I were just getting to the juicy bits about Orlando Bloom’s sex life, so I wasn’t going to pick up. I heard Violet rambling on sympathetically, which I enjoyed, but then her tone changed. “I still haven’t found the kittens, Theda. I’m worried.”

  “Hey, I’m here!” I reached over and grabbed the receiver.

  “Oh, I thought maybe you were napping.”

  “Just watching E! and screening my calls,” I confessed. “I didn’t realize it was you.” What was one lie? She started in by asking about my health, so I quickly moved her up to the problem at hand. “What’s up with the kittens, the new ones?”

  “I can’t find them.”

  “They couldn’t have gotten out?”

  “No, no way. They were still in isolation, in the upstairs kitten room.” I’d forgotten that new arrivals, especially sickly ones, were always put in the small, safe room on the second floor. With just one small window, it was easy to keep warm. That window hadn’t been forced, and although the room door didn’t lock, it did close quickly and latch automatically to keep sick kitties from straying out.

  “What, there were three kittens?” My head still felt fuzzy.

  “Yeah, three came in together, sick as—well—dogs. But the bigger two were already doing better. They’re the ones missing, the ones I was keeping in the kitten room. I was going to let them join the rest today. The littlest one still had some congestion. I was keeping her in my bathroom, with the humidifier on. She was hiding behind the toilet when I looked in, but she was there, all right. It’s her older sisters I don’t know about.”

  “And you checked around the baseboards, right?” I tried to visualize the kitten room, to picture if anything in that one small enclosure could hide two healthy furballs.

  “Theda…” Not only had I sounded condescending, I was casting aspersions on the excellent renovations Caroline had done. There wouldn’t be any loose boards or stray holes in one of her walls that a kitten could get lost in.

  “Sorry. I just can’t see why anyone would steal kittens from a shelter. I mean, you’d be putting them up for adoption soon anyway, right?”

  “Right. But you know, I don’t let just anyone take a cat. We have a lot of things we check first. So it has got to be someone who wouldn’t qualify, and that worries me, especially so close to Halloween.”

  “Feline felony,” I muttered to myself. “The case of the kidnapped kittens.” Violet was in no mood for a chuckle, and I did understand her concern, but I was just musing. Something she’d said rang a bell, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Why would someone steal two kittens?

  Just then my call waiting beeped, and the trace of an idea was gone. “Violet, can you hold for a minute? That’s my other line.”

  It was Bill, checking in. I told him I was fine, and when I added that I was watching TV on the couch while talking to Violet, I think he believed me. I promised to touch base again later, and rang off. Violet and I hung up soon after; she was distracted, and talking had aggravated my head. I made myself some scrambled eggs, adding an extra one for Musetta, and sprinkling some aged Parmegiano-Reggiano that I’d splurged on so I could call it lunch. Back on the sofa, I found an old movie that hadn’t been colorized and settled in, pushing my kitty’s eggs to her side of the plate. Naturally cautious, she first sniffed mine, which I’d also doused with Tabasco, and backed away as if slapped.

  “I know, kitty. I’m weird and nobody understands me. But you still love me, don’t you?” In response she washed her front paws and face, and promptly fell asleep.

  ***

  By the next morning I felt almost like myself again, albeit an older, stiffer version. The rain had given way to a dense, billowy overcast, but I didn’t think I could face a run. So after swallowing some aspirin I steeled myself to make some calls. Knowing I should get in touch with Bunny, and wondering still what to say to Rick, I looked through my pad for the notes I’d taken on the City story. Work can be easier than life, I thought, as I dialed Lynn Ngaio’s number.

  “Ngaio Design,” said a cultivated and accent-less voice, leading me to make a note about the pronunciation, a sort of cat-like take on “now.” “If you’d like directions to our showroom, please press 1. For our hours, please press 2. If you are calling to place an order, please contact our distributor directly.”

  I waited through the rest of the message and left my own. At least someone was doing well. I had better luck reaching Monica Borgia, the one-time web whiz whose business had crumbled.

  “Theda Krakow, I’ve read your stuff!” Monica sounded surprisingly chipper for someone who’d made and lost more than a million dollars, if the reports I’d read could be believed. I looked at the details my editor had given me: Yes, she was young. At twenty-five, maybe the future still looked bright.

  “So, I’m calling because City magazine wants me revisit the ‘Women of the Millennium.’” I started to explain, but Monica interrupted me.

  “Oh yeah, Sunny told me all about it. She’s coming over to shoot tomorrow. Want to come by then?”

  Sunny had beaten me to the subject? I wasn’t sure why that bothered me, but I did know I didn’t want to conduct an interview with a photographer—any photographer—around. How can you establish rapport when your subject is being asked to hold still, to turn, to look like she’s typing something into the computer?

  “I’d rather get you alone, if that’s okay. This will just be easier without distractions.”

  “That’s fine. My time’s pretty much my own these days.” She laughed. Clearly, bill collectors weren’t hanging around her door. “How about this morning?”

  “You mean, now?” I’d hoped to schedule something for later in the week. Not that I still felt shakey, not really. But I’d figured making some phone calls would be my labor for the day. Still, an interview in the hand was worth something. And, yeah, Sunny’s timeliness irked me. I took a breath. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great, do you know where Beacon Street crosses into Somerville?” She gave me directions to a onetime industrial building not ten minutes away, and I told her I’d head out as soon as I’d made a few more calls.

  “Hey, Sunny, this is Theda.” I couldn’t get her pulled from the assignment, but I wanted to make it clear that this was my story.

  “Hey, Theda, how’re you doing?” We went through the pleasantries, and I found myself growing more annoyed. Maybe it was just that my head had started hurting again.

  “I’m sort of confused, Sunny.” Musetta began to rub against my ankles and I reached down to pet her, feeling my blood pressure begin to subside. When she suddenly nipped me, I blamed Sunny. “We’re both on this City story, but shouldn’t you be waiting until I do the interviews? I mean, how do you know what angle I’m going to take?”

  “What angle are you talking about? Borgia’s a computer pro. Ngaio”—she mispronounced it to rhyme with “Ringo”—“makes clothes.”

  “But it’s not always that simple. I mean, I just interviewed Rose Keller and only after we talked for a while did she tell me she’s judging a cat show this weekend. And that’s where the good photos will be.” A bummer thought pounded into my head. “You haven’t already shot her in her home, have you?”

  “Keller, no.” Sunny sounded supremely unenthused. I thought I heard a refrigerator open in the background. “I figured I’d get around to her. She’s not going anywher
e. I mean, she’s hardly a player, right?”

  “And Monica Borgia is?”

  “She’s one to watch, just you wait.” The more Sunny sounded like a City cutline, the worse my head hurt. She crunched something loudly, maybe my nerves.

  “Well, Rose Keller’s in the story, too. But don’t call her yet, okay? I’m going to ask her about the judging on Saturday, see if we can set up something special.”

  “Suit yourself, Theda.” I fumed as she chewed. “Hey, have you talked to your editor at the Mail yet?”

  “Not yet.” Like I was going to tell her I’d been effectively fired. “It’s on my list.”

  We hung up and I tried Rose’s number, to give her a warning if nothing else, but there was no answer. When voice mail picked up, I left a greeting, and then gathered my tape recorder and two pens that both seemed to work, and headed out of the house.

  ***

  Monica Borgia’s office was about what I’d expected: a big, nearly empty loft space with a huge flat computer monitor, a few chairs, and hidden speakers playing the new Modest Mouse. Monica was not. Oh, she was energetic, all right, bouncing over to meet me as I came off the industrial lift. But instead of a chic young thing, I was greeted by a little butterball of a girl, short dark curls framing a cherubic face, in a bright pink sweatshirt that made no attempt at camouflage.

  “Monica?” I asked the obvious.

  “And associates!” She spread her arms wide and I took in the layout, which included three marmalade cats lounging on the large windowsills. “They don’t really do much. But I needed to sound as established as I could to get one more loan, and ‘Borgia and Associates’ sounds so much better than just ‘Monica Borgia,’ doesn’t it?”

  I agreed and she began to walk me around the stripped-bare premises, all that remained of her once thriving Internet business. The music segued into Guided by Voices, and I wondered if she’d figured my age into the mix.

  “We got hung up on the distribution,” she was saying, telling me about the online music outlet that combined cutting-edge commentary and state-of-the-art cross-referencing with customized mix CDs. “These days, with everything being available as downloads, we might have made it. We could have offered compilations and emailed them directly to the user. But a few years ago, most folks didn’t have the high-speed hookups.” She motioned me over to the black leather chairs by her worktable; only the gears and levers on the side revealed they’d been ergonometrically designed for computer work. “And when push came to shove, they didn’t want to wait a week for UPS when they could get overnight delivery from Amazon.”

  Turning to face the screen, she began to call up web pages, clicking through to show me how her plan had worked. I had to slow her down at that point, feeling like every one of the eight years I had on her put me a decade behind in technology. Pretending I just wanted to hear it in her words, I let her talk me through her old business model, and she was gracious enough to comply. As I took notes, I remembered hearing her name around town. I’d known scribes, other music lovers, who’d felt lucky to contribute “content,” that is, reviews, to her site. She’d encouraged them to stretch, letting them post pithy, opinionated critiques that would guide listeners to additional—and often preferable—choices. Plus, she’d paid well.

  “In some ways, it seemed like you wanted to educate listeners.” I wasn’t doing really well with the questions. “Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” She laughed at the idea, and I felt absolved. “Truth is, the selling was an afterthought, just kind of tacked on to make my pet project a business. I guess it was really more of a web ’zine. I got so caught up in the rush that I didn’t realize that at first. Didn’t realize it for a long time.” Her round face grew pensive. “Sometimes it takes a crash to make you clean up your system, you know?”

  I got the theory, but it was the energy to restart that astounded me. Before I could comment on her resiliency, however, Monica had jumped up, clapping and stamping her sneaker-clad feet. “Colette, no! No! No! No!”

  I started up with a jolt—how long would my nerves be like this? But then I looked over and saw an orange streak as one marmalade longhair scooted off a tabletop and into a closet. “Bad girl! Bad!” She chased after the cat, clapping her hands.

  “Sorry about that,” she said a moment later, retrieving the chair, which had rolled in the opposite direction. My breath had slowed to almost normal. “They can do anything, but they can’t be on my work space. Colette, especially, gets jealous of the time I spend there. A few months ago she vomited right into a new set-up, blew the entire monitor.”

  “Destroyed it?” The desktop arrangement in front of me had to include five grand of equipment easily.

  “Completely. In the old days, when I was building my own machines out of old Kaypros, I could’ve just taken it apart and wiped it down. These new components are just too sensitive.”

  “And you think it was intentional on the cat’s part?”

  “It wasn’t a hairball, and she wasn’t sick. You tell me.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, and so instead we moved on to her current project. After going bust, she explained, she had come to terms with her real motivations.

  “I love music. I love talking about music. I love that online you can tell someone about something and they can instantly hear a sample. What I don’t care about is selling.”

  What she was saying resonated with me, but I had to ask the obvious question. “So how do you feel about file sharing?” Call it the Napster litmus test. I was waiting for a statement about how art should be free, how information “wanted” to be free. But Monica wasn’t that naive.

  “Entire songs? I’m against it. I believe artists should get paid for their work. And I’m selfish: I want them to keep producing! But samples, especially with some good encoding? That’s different. Play it once, copy twenty seconds for your friends. Write what you think for others to share. That’s what I’m about now. The key,” she wheeled back to the wave-shaped keyboard and started typing, “is in the code.” She pecked away. “Here, try this.”

  “Welcome Theda,” the screen read. “What do you like?” In a nod to present company, I started to type in Guided by Voices, but as soon as I’d gotten a few letters into the Ohio alt-rock band’s name, the keyboard filled it out for me. “If you like Guided by Voices, have you checked out Redd Kross?” I typed in yes, then erased it and clicked on a button labelled “Tell Me More.” Immediately, the screen directed me to audio and video clips of interviews, one of which started playing on a small inset window. Six print articles, with headlines and leads showing, popped up, too. One of the stories had my byline on it. I pointed it out to Monica, with a chuckle.

  “Okay, so there are still a few bugs in the system.” She grinned and hit a key. My review disappeared, and another popped up to replace it. That story had been written by Rick, and I turned away from the screen as if I didn’t care. I had more questions anyway, and Monica and I talked for another half hour, rambling from the details of her business to the latest releases by some of our shared favorite bands. I really had more than I could use, but didn’t mind. The morning had been invigorating, as if some of the younger woman’s elasticity had bounced into me. When I wished her luck, I meant it, and we both said we’d keep in touch. Driving away from her building I wondered again if I’d simply become too much of a hermit recently. I should be more social, more spontaneous.

  As I turned onto Mass. Ave, I thought about Rose. I could get to her place in less than five minutes probably, and make her come out for lunch with me. Sunny’s flip dismissal of her still rankled, and I wanted to let my old friend know she mattered. Besides, I’d skipped breakfast and I’m not constitutionally created to go without food for long. My favorite college station was playing something abrasive and loud, so I turned up the volume and turned left for Watertown, and the Rose Blossom Cattery.

  ***

  “Hey Rose! It’s Theda!” Nobody had answered the doo
r, and my friend’s old Saab was in the driveway, so I’d walked around back. I sidled past the big holly, looking for any sign of her. Despite Rose’s strange behavior of the other day, I hadn’t thought she’d be avoiding her front door. But who knew? More likely, I figured, she was raking the yard free of its red-gold blanket of leaves, or taking out the trash. That one Angora female had looked near her time, and with a litter of kittens due imminently, the conscientious Rose wouldn’t be far from home, at least not for long. “Rose? Are you there?”

  The side door, off the garage, was ajar and I let myself in, calling so as not to startle her. “Rose?” If something had happened to one of the cats, she’d probably have the vet come by, rather than move a pregnant feline. “Rose?”

  I walked through the kitchen and into the living room. The wall of cages rocked as agitated cats paced back and forth. “Rosie? It’s me!”

  Then I saw it, on the ground by the sofa, rich, bright red and glossy. Quickly, I ran my mind through Rose’s menagerie, trying to figure out which animal could be lying there so still. Then my brain kicked in, and I realized what I was seeing was no cat. That was Rose’s wig, her new favorite. And on the other side of the couch lay my friend, her sparse, gray hair no longer covered by anything but blood.

  Chapter Seven

  I recoiled out of Rose’s house without thinking, slamming into my own car door before I remembered that I no longer had a cell phone stashed in the glove compartment. Cursing my stupidity, the feet that kept tripping me up, I couldn’t bring myself to go back and instead banged on first one door and then another before a neighbor opened up enough to understand that I had to call the police, an ambulance, emergency. Now! I was sprawled on that poor neighbor’s stoop when both the police and the EMT arrived. (The neighbor had enough faith to make the call. I couldn’t blame her for not letting me in.) But when I saw the covered stretcher emerge from the same opened side door that I had used it was like getting hit over the head again myself.