by Clea Simon
“How’d you get these back?” I started leafing through the pile. Records of litters born and breeding fees. Notes on buyers and potential buyers. Rose’s meticulous handwriting, even in these pale copies, made me smile. Looking through these would be bittersweet.
“Our attorney.” I looked up at my hostess and recognized, even in the rumpled hausfrau , the steel matron I’d seen before.
“Attorney?” I was becoming a parrot.
“They wanted to hold onto everything until the investigation was complete. Small-town cops.” She sniffed. “We had our attorney explain that this was an ongoing business and its value once through probate depended in large part on access to records. All the records.” Ivy reached over and patted the pile of paper. “We had to remind them again yesterday. Rather firmly. But these copies arrived by messenger a few hours ago. I trust we’ll get the originals back in good time.”
There were advantages to confidence and an iron will. Not to mention the money to hire what must be powerful lawyers. I wasn’t going to complain. Thanking Ivy, I reached for the chair beside the oversized desk, took out a pad and pen to make my own notes, and settled in to work. The letters about judging assignments, including several from out of state, looked promising. Had Rose cancelled a trip that would have taken her from harm’s way?
“You don’t mind if I start with these here, do you?” It occurred to me that Ivy might want to lock up and leave. I assumed the vet tech had her own keys.
“Not at all. I’ll be in the other room for a few hours yet. There’s lots to do.”
The idea of Ivy, even in her modest outfit, cleaning out her sister’s house seemed out of place. Maybe doing chores was her way of mourning, or doing penance. “Cleaning out closets?” I remembered doing that for my parents. It had been difficult, but full of sweet memory as well.
“Taking care of the kittens!” With that Ivy turned on her heel and left me alone with a huge pile of paper and a stunned look on my face.
Two hours later, I conceded that it was hopeless. I’d only gotten through the judging requests and first three inches of unsorted papers, bills of sale for the most part, but these hadn’t shown anything out of place. Rose had been scrupulous about her breeding and judging schedules, making no plans at all whenever one of her cats was coming to term. What she had done was keep careful account of where her cats went. In addition to the address and contact numbers of her buyers, she’d jotted down Social Security numbers and brief descriptions of the people and their own pedigrees: “Childless couple. Last year had one grand champion, Russian blue,” read one entry, stapled to the back of a bill of sale. “Bit boisterous but very gentle with the cats. He seems afraid of people, knows his longhairs very well,” read another, which came attached to a phone bill that showed a long series of what must have been follow-up calls on that particular cat. I thought of Sally’s description of Rose’s judging, the careful noting of important characteristics, the desire to educate those in the audience. I could see the same impulses at work here, the desire to find good homes for her cats matched only by her wish to enlighten the human populace. Had either of these traits gotten her killed? It all seemed so unfair.
Especially when there were kittens in the house. Using my long reporter’s pad to weigh down the remaining papers, I went off in search of Ivy and the new litter.
“Ivy?”
“Up here!” Climbing the stairs, I followed her voice into what I remembered as Rose’s second bedroom. Ivy and a young woman I didn’t recognize were sitting on the floor inside, next to the open door of what seemed to be coat closet.
“Theda, this is Joy, from the veterinarian’s. Joy, Theda—a friend of Rose’s.” For Ivy, her voice was soft. Joy and I exchanged quiet greetings and I got down on the floor to join them. There, just inside the closet, was the kittening box. An old cardboard box, the size that would have held a sweater as a Christmas gift, had been filled with newspaper and what looked like some wool socks. Whether it was what Rose would have chosen, it looked warm, cozy, and safe, and I could see the vet tech had been keeping it clean and dry. In short, perfect for the new family.
“May I see?”
“Sure.” Joy moved over to make room for me. I knew that Rose had insisted that all her kittens be handled from the day of their birth, but I didn’t want to disturb the new family. Sliding closer over the wood floor, I saw four little kittens, eyes still closed, curled up against their mother, who looked up at me with sleepy eyes.
“Good girl. What a litter!” After extending my hand to have the momma cat sniff it, I gently touched the kittens, smoothing two fingers along each downy back. One dark little presence woke and kicked. His rounded, flat face looked up toward me briefly, perhaps sensing a new admirer, and then turned back toward warmth and a nipple. The others merely nestled in, taking up any slack their sibling’s motion may have created.
“They’re gorgeous,” I whispered, hushed by the scene. “They’re all okay?” Joy’s continued presence could signal a cause for concern if she were here in her professional capacity.
“They are now,” she smiled calmly. “We had some worries about that little fellow.” She pointed to the kitten now nursing, the darkest of the four except for his minuscule pink feet. “He was a little weak at first and we had to warm him up. But he’s been making up for lost time ever since. I think they’ll all be just fine!”
I believed her, but the tiny kittens looked so vulnerable it was hard not to feel like a protective momma cat myself.
“You know you can’t sell them for weeks yet.” I looked up at Ivy, remembering her financial interest in the cattery. “You shouldn’t even think about it for two months!”
She reared back as if slapped. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“Well, you’d talked about selling them before they were born.” I was trying to keep my voice down, and hoped she would take the hint. The queen had already woken up and was washing her progeny with single-minded intensity.
“That was before.” Ivy’s voice grew soft again. Maybe it was the shadowy light, but I thought her face did, too. “Before I saw these little darlings. Now I wonder how Rose could’ve parted with any of them. They’re so cute. And their momma is such a beauty. Aren’t you darling?” She reached over to rub the queen behind her ears and the cat lifted her head appreciatively, moving so that Ivy’s fingers slid under her jaw. “Yes, you are.”
The sound of purring filled the room. If only Rose were here to make the family complete.
It would’ve been impossible to go back to the tiny office after that. But when my butt grew numb from the wooden floor and Joy moved to gather more clean bedding, Ivy surprised me yet again. Even before I asked, she told me I could take Rose’s papers home. “Just make sure you get them back to me,” she’d said, albeit quietly and with just a vestige of her former sharpness, when I finally creaked to my feet to leave.
Carrying the bundle out to my car, I thought once more, sadly, of her sister, my friend, who had made this little cattery so homey and just maybe had made Ivy more human, too. It was so unfair that she wasn’t here to share all of this. Even the day had turned beautiful, clearing to a classic October crispness. The trees might be almost bare, but driving home I noticed several jack-o-lanterns decorating porches, some carved into childish faces, others obviously helped by adult hands. Someone, somewhere was breaking in a fireplace or burning a last load of leaves, as well, the tang of wood smoke scenting the air. I’d try Bill one more time, I decided. He’d understand why days like this mattered.
***
“Bill,” I rehearsed what I’d planned on saying. “We need to talk. Our time together deserves that much.” No, that wasn’t going to work. I’d have to wing it. I reached for the phone and dialed. As I’d expected, his voice mail picked up.
“Bill, it’s me. Theda.” So much for great beginnings. “I’m going to Central Café tonight, going to get some dinner, stay for the music.” The little restaurant had been
one of our favorite hangouts, with good food and interesting acoustic acts on Wednesdays. “I’d love to see you, and I think we need to talk. If you think so too, you can find me there.”
“Do you miss him, too?” That was to Musetta, who was trying to body-check my shins by throwing her full weight against them, purring her grunty little in-out purr all the while. “Yes, we do, don’t we?” Lifting the elastic feline into my lap, I settled in for a good petting session, working on her ears with one hand and leafing through Rose’s papers with the other.
Two hours later, Musetta had fallen asleep and I was close to joining her. To say that Rose had kept careful records was an understatement. Financial records for her home and car, various insurance policies, and complete histories of both human health and veterinary care were in perfect order. The details on the cats, particularly, bordered on obsessive: Each kitten sale, it seemed, was followed up by copious notes, many of them made after the cat had settled into its new home and Rose had called or visited to check on its well-being. Each stud fee was noted along with facts about the male cat who had stayed in the little cattery, as well as numerous health certificates, and for the queens that Rose’s studs had impregnated, descriptions of the catteries and the accommodations where the mating couple had spent their brief honeymoons. Several of these files ran to twenty pages or more, with receipts and phone bills stapled in, along with copies of Rose’s hand-written notes.
I pitied the clerk or secretary who’d been stuck by the copier, Xeroxing all of this and trying to keep it all in order before restapling it, and could only imagine the clout Ivy’s high-priced lawyer had brought to bear on the department to expedite it so quickly. But none of what I was reading sparked any suspicions. As far as I’d gotten—up to the week before she’d died—Rose seemed to be making ends meet, barely but solidly, with no unusual deposits or wild expenditures on equipment, food, or new cats. And all the kittens she’d sold looked like they were bred in her Watertown home. There was no evidence of suspect cats, or even other breeds besides her beloved Angoras, being sold. No outside cats had been placed as pets or show cats. If Rose had joined a conspiracy to steal and sell show cats, she’d done it just days before her demise.
I’d wanted to get through all the papers, and clear my friend’s name. But by seven the numbers were beginning to blur. It was time to put the files, and my own snoozing kitty, aside. As scary as the thought of facing Bill was, the need for something besides financial records—something that would include food—served as spur enough.
***
The air had turned from nippy to downright cold, but that enticing smell of wood smoke lingered as I retrieved my Toyota and headed over to Jamaica Plain. Maybe the café would be grilling pizzas. Bill and I could share one, if…. Not wanting to think too much about the confrontation ahead, I turned on the radio. My favorite college station was playing the news, so I let the tuner drift. A commercial, another commercial, and some sports. Then, suddenly I heard a familiar voice. It was Cool, crooning into a torch song, only her guitar and a bit of piano behind her. She sounded like a young Billie Holiday on this song, from her first album. Her timing, her phrasing—sexy, but hurt—called for you to pull over and listen.
I kept driving, but did catch myself singing along. Which made it all the more jarring when the song ended and the DJ back announced the cut with a question. “That was Cool Coolidge from her debut CD,” he said, his smooth FM voice conveying some mild form of unhappiness. “Now what ever happened to her?”
I’d have to call Cool tomorrow, or tonight if I ended up home early enough. She seemed so strong now, so pulled together. But even if she kept it together, and had heard the last from those would-be blackmailers, could she recapture her audience? The idea of being washed-up before forty seemed preposterous, especially for someone who had such a gift. But that DJ had probably voiced the feelings of a lot of her fans: wistful, maybe, but ready to move on.
Was that how Bill and I would be? I pulled into an almost-legal space on Central Street and hesitated for a moment before getting out of the car. Is that what I wanted, how I wanted it to end with him? Just a week before, I’d been wondering if things were moving too fast. Then Rick had re-entered the picture, confusing everything for a moment. That wouldn’t work, I knew that now. Rick was still the same charming boy, but I wasn’t going to be content to be his sometime girl, his club buddy, no matter how much we loved the same bands. Still, I had to keep the obvious in mind: Rick and Bill were not the only options out there. Was I missing Bill just because I didn’t have anyone else around? Because he took care of me when I was hurt and scared? Or was it something special about the gray-eyed man I’d come to know?
These were the questions that I chewed over as I sat in the café and waited for the music to start. I’d grabbed a two-top, wishful thinking perhaps, but positioned myself facing the small corner that served as a stage. The café wasn’t so crowded that I was keeping anyone else out of a seat, and in a few minutes I’d give in and order myself a solo dinner. Bobby Rains would be playing soon; he’d greeted me in the bar area on the way into the café proper. His rockabilly would sound a lot more like country with just himself and one guitar, but one look at his greased-up hair and flashy Western shirt and I knew he’d put on a fun show, albeit quieter than usual. Bill or not, I could still enjoy a few hours here.
“Another pint?” The waitress broke into my solitary thoughts.
“Thank you, yeah. And I’d like to look at a menu, too.”
“Be right back with both.” I watched her as she took my empty glass through to the bar and caught my breath as, right after, a familiar face appeared. Bill, looking around and not yet seeing me, his long face a little hesitant, a bruised look around his eyes giving evidence of a couple of days of hard work, or lack of sleep.
“Bill! Over here!” I couldn’t help yelling, nor jumping out of my seat. Even the old fisherman’s sweater, which I’d tried to patch in a moment of domesticity, made me smile.
“Theda.” He nodded and made his way over, but the weary look remained.
“Hey.” I could feel myself smiling and felt absurdly happy. “How are you? I’ve missed you.”
“I’m okay.” He said it tentatively, like at any moment something could break, and ran one large hand over his salt-and-pepper hair. I realized then that he was as nervous as I’d been.
“Bill, before you say anything, let me explain.” Damn, I’d meant not to use that word. “Saturday night. When you showed up, what you saw.…That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He jerked back as if I’d slapped him.
“No, I don’t mean that you weren’t supposed to be there.” This was getting all confused. “I meant that Rick wasn’t supposed to kiss me. I don’t think of him like that anymore. I don’t. I really don’t.” As I said it, I realized just how true that was.
He looked down at the table and picked at the tablecloth. Only when he looked back up could I see how close to tears he was. When he spoke again his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Would you be saying that if I hadn’t run into you there?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. He and I are over. That was just…” I scrambled for the right words. “It was making sure that we no longer fit.”
“You looked awfully happy.” Bill sounded more like his regular gruff self suddenly, but that also meant more like a cop.
“I was happy.” Would I ever get over my defensiveness? “Violet’s band was playing, and they sounded great. I was out with my friends. I was dancing. I didn’t even know Rick would be there. I mean, I had told him about it.” Honesty pulled that last bit out of me.
“You didn’t tell me about the show.” Bill looked down at the table again and for a moment I was speechless. Then he looked up, laughing. “Christ! Can you believe I just said that? I’m sorry, Theda. I don’t know what’s been up with us. But, why didn’t you tell me about Violet’s gig?”
“I didn’t think you’d like it.” That sounded lame. “I m
ean, I think you just put up with half of my music just to humor me.” I tried to remember what I’d been thinking. Had it only been four nights ago? “Plus, well, things have been sort of strained between us.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I went over to the club that night. I mean, you’re right. I like Violet, but her music….” He shook his head slowly.
“I think she’s great.”
“I know, I know, Theda.” He reached out now, palms up, waiting. I put my hands in his. Now was the time to broach the big subject.
“You see, Bill. That’s one of the things I’ve been thinking about. I mean, for so long that music, that community has been my life. It’s not my entire life, but it’s a big part of it, and I don’t want to give it up.”
I looked up into his face, into those gray eyes, and realized he was watching me intently. “I, well, I know that you and I have a connection, Bill. And I’ve never meant to hurt you. But I can’t give up part of myself because it doesn’t fit into your world. And I can’t keep dragging you around trying to force you to fit in.”
His smile lifted half his mouth. A start. “My eardrums thank you.”
I didn’t share the humor and pulled back, my hands balling up into fists. “That’s what I mean, Bill. I’m saying that I don’t feel heard. That you’re not hearing what I am trying to tell you about my friends, my crowd, my scene. That—I don’t know—maybe it’s because you’re older than me or because you’re a cop. But sometimes I feel like you just brush me off, like I’m being some silly kid.” Was I overreacting to a joke? Probably. “Okay, maybe I am overreacting,” I said aloud. “Maybe I am silly, too, but that’s who I am right now.”
I opened my mouth to continue, but realized that I’d said it all. The big issue—the age disparity, the power, the presence—the whole ball of wax. And he was still sitting there, listening.