by Clea Simon
I was so caught up thinking about her that when my cell rang I almost automatically said her name. I was climbing up the stairs from the T, and didn’t even look to see who it was.
“Krakow!” It was Tim. I was disoriented. He didn’t sound like himself.
“Tim?” Hadn’t we just spoken?
“No, Perry White. Krakow, enough fooling. That story you were talking about. Pet poisoning. I like it. What’ve you got on that?”
With everything else going on, I’d almost forgotten my speculative news story. “I don’t know, Tim. I’m going to follow up, but I haven’t been able to reach the vet in charge.” Wrong words.
“Haven’t been able? Aren’t you a reporter? Isn’t this your beat?”
Well, no, actually. I’m a music critic, and my beat is the local club scene. “If you want me to do more reporting for you…”
“Krakow!” I was toying with him, and he knew it.
“Actually, Tim, I was about to try the vet again. There’s something else I need to ask her about anyway.”
“Does it add to the story? Do I care?” This was his mantra—“make me care”—but for once I took his words literally.
“You might.” I was thinking aloud. “I don’t know if there’s anything in it. I mean, I hope not. But there’s a possible tie-in with kitten season.”
“Kitten season?” From the sneer in his voice, I thought he was imagining fluffy baby animals, cavorting in the grass. “Should I get my rifle?”
I tried not to groan. “It’s when intact animals breed, Tim. It’s when the shelters are flooded with young animals, most of which end up being killed because there’s no space for them and no chance of a home.” He was quiet, waiting for the link to his story. “Anyway, the city shelter started a big campaign last year. There’s a national movement to stop euthanasia of healthy animals, and Dr. Weingarten signed on. She got a lot of attention, and probably a decent amount of money for it, and if she’s dropping it now, well, that’s a bad thing.”
“You mean, like the shelter has been taking donations when they don’t mean to follow through? And that could be related to the poisoning?”
He had it, but hearing my editor spell it out gave me the creeps. “Well, it’s just a rumor and I wouldn’t want to write anything until I knew. I don’t even like to ask, really. I mean, it’s kind of harsh.”
“That’s the job, Krakow.” The job? What job exactly? I bit back my response. I did want to talk to Rachel, needed to talk to her, really, and not just for the Mail. There were too many questions floating around, and feelings were running high. I was pondering how to broach this latest powder keg, but Tim misinterpreted my silence.
“Krakow?” His voice sounded tentative, the usual bark gone. “I need you to do this. For me.” Tim needed something from me? As much as we’d fought, he had been my ally, giving me my column and letting me write it how I wanted to, more or less. And besides, I realized, having an editor in debt to me couldn’t be a bad thing. Especially if I did take that job.
***
I stood in the Square, the first of the rush hour commuters beginning to swarm out of the T. Like them, I wanted to go home, play with my cat, have something to eat. Make a few calls. I pride myself on my phone skills. A good journalist can reach anybody within three calls. But if you’re trying to winkle the truth out of someone, or just get someone to talk at all, broaching him—or her—in person works best. With a sigh, I walked back down to the T entrance. At least I had a monthly pass, and besides, going up and down the stairs would probably be all the exercise I’d get today.
The shelter and its attached clinic stayed open till seven on Wednesdays, and sure enough the beginning of the post-work rush was hitting there as well, as nine-to-fivers picked up their pets or browsed the adoption area, hoping to find some four-legged love. The din in the reception area was considerable. The phone ringing nonstop, while a printer behind the front desk rattled, unbalanced, as it spewed out invoices and whatnot on its rickety stand. Two young girls squealed with delight over a huge white rabbit. Over by the cages, layered three deep up the far wall, a young teen stuck his finger through the bars, letting a gray-spotted kitten bat at it. The kitten, wide blue eyes still too big for its face, had a look of intense concentration—that finger was going down—while the youth wore a smile that belied his grim gray hoodie and anonymous denim. Those two were going to be good for each other.
I was a little less certain about the little boy in the corner. From his tears, I could only assume he’d recently lost a pet, and when I heard his mother say something about a puppy, I was sure. Maybe the missing puppy would turn up, brought in by a concerned neighbor or picked up by city Animal Control? Amy, sitting at the front desk, was handling the calls. Moments later a volunteer in bright pink scrubs came out to greet the mother and son, walking them back through the far door to where new animals were kept in quarantine.
“Busy day?” I sidled up to the front desk to be heard.
Amy rolled her eyes. “Everything on two and four legs. You want Rachel?”
“If I can.” The family with the rabbit had started filling out paperwork. That bunny was getting a home, but even as I stood there, another family came in. The shelter had the feel of an old jalopy cruising way too fast. One false move, and this place was going to fall apart.
“Hold on.” Amy ignored the two blinking lines to page Rachel. I stepped aside to watch the frenzy, both human and animal. Would Musetta like a colleague? The spotted kitten was adorable, but he had a litter mate sleeping in the back of the same cage. All black, I thought, until he woke up and yawned a ferocious yawn, revealing a white bib down his front. A variation on Musetta’s own coloring. What would the male version be, Musetto? Marcello? Or would my timid housecat react with horror, regarding even a tiny newcomer as some kind of foreign invader, a usurper in tuxedo fur?
Mulling over the possibilities, I didn’t notice Rachel come up beside me.
“Theda.” The utilitarian bun that pulled her hair back tight did nothing to hide the fatigue in her face. “I got your calls.”
“I know you’re busy, but I wanted to follow up about the food from Violet’s shelter.” I didn’t want to jump in with accusations. Like Violet, I wanted to know why she hadn’t called us back. But perhaps the bustling reception area was reason enough. “About your tests.”
“I’ve sent some of the kibble over to the city labs, but there are a few other things I can do here.” She smoothed her already flawless hair with a sigh. “It’s been crazy. Kitten season. Plus, of course, we’re expecting the usual flood of abandoned animals when all the colleges get out.”
“I’d forgotten about those.” We both looked around at the crowd. Usually Rachel would invite me back into her office. Was she trying to get rid of me? “But I hear you’re prepared?”
“Why? What did you hear?” Her voice grew sharp and she looked up at me. I’d been thinking of Piers, of the extra room, but the edge in her voice made me wonder if Violet had been right.
“Hey, relax.” I hate it when people say that to me, but Rachel looked so fierce the words just popped out. “People talk to me.” She stared at me, not speaking. “And I’m a journalist, Rachel, so I have an obligation to ask. I mean, I heard about the work you’re doing here. Piers was telling me.”
“Piers? You’re talking to Piers?” Her voice rose in volume. Amy looked over at us and a woman pulled her little girl close. “What do you know?”
“Why? What’s wrong with you seeing Piers? Rachel, what’s going on?” There was no reason for her to be so sensitive. He was a nice guy, and if he was willing to help out, so much the better.
“It’s nothing. He’s—I don’t want people talking. It’s complicated.” She browsed through the papers in the printer tray, selecting one before she turned back toward her office.
“Wait, Rachel!” I reached for her, bumping the teen aside. Why was she acting so touchy? “Rachel! ” People were staring. I dropped my vo
ice to a whisper and moved closer. “Look, I don’t care if you and Piers are an item. I’m happy for you. Really. But what’s going on here? Are you going to start—”
“Don’t say it!” She spun on her heels to face me, positively hissing the words. “Don’t you have any sense at all?” She looked around and I followed her gaze. The room was filled with families. Another volunteer, this one wearing mint green, was even holding up a toddler so she could see into a puppy cage. Not the place to talk about killing cats or dogs.
“Sorry.” She was right. “But Rachel, talk to me.” I moved in close so we could have something like privacy, and saw Amy start to rise from her seat. Were fights that common here? Between the humans? “What aren’t you telling me?”
Her dark eyes spoke volumes, if only I could translate. “Not now, not here.” She ran her hand over her head again, and I couldn’t help thinking that the gesture was for comfort, as if she were stroking a cat. “Can we talk later? Why don’t you bring Musetta in tonight after closing? Ring the after-hours bell at the back. I’ll be here. We can keep her overnight and I’ll do her teeth early tomorrow, before the clinic opens.”
That was a peace offering if I’d ever heard one. “Thanks, Rachel. That would be great.” I smiled in relief. “You wouldn’t believe how foul her breath is. She’s a little dragon.”
“Fire breather, huh? Well, we’ll take care of that. Ring the bell on the back door. I’ll be in my office till ten at least.” Some of the fatigue lifted as Rachel smiled back. “But look, I’ve got to run. I’ll see what I can do about the other stuff.” A glance around warned me she didn’t want to talk. “I should have some results by the end of the day, okay?”
“That would be great.” A load slid off my shoulders. “Thanks so much.”
She shot me a grin, her old self again, But I couldn’t help noticing the puzzled look Amy gave me, as her boss—my friend—disappeared back through the security doors. Too late, I remembered the cat food bag. Whatever she did with the kibble, wherever it came from, I wanted that bag. I banged on the little window, tried rattling the door. It was locked, though, and when I turned back toward Amy, she turned away, unwilling or too busy to be bothered with a troublemaker like me.
“Someone’s going to be hungry.” I was talking to myself, imagining my plump kitty, but the woman next to me shot me a look. Even the hooded teen ducked his head and stepped aside as I walked to the front door and out.
Chapter Nine
I returned home to a call from the copy desk and a sweet message from Bill.
“Hey, babe. I was sorry to run this morning. Any chance of catching up later?” It wasn’t much, but just the fact that we were in touch again warmed me and I longed to call him back. Six o’clock. No, he’d be at the Last Stand already, any chance of a leisurely phone chat was long gone. Better I should deal with my column, bring my kitty in to Rachel, and then trot on over to see Bill in person. There was another band I needed to check out tonight, a retro garage unit—all guitar and tambourine. But if I started my evening at the Last Stand, there was a better chance that I’d be ending it there, too, or at least with my guy. I knew I’d miss Musetta tonight, and I could use the consolation. But if I was going to go anywhere, I had to take care of my column first.
“Theda Krakow here. You had some questions on ‘Clubland’?” Not that long ago, I’d have known every copy editor on the desk, and they’d have known me from my years checking commas and clauses. But in the year I’d been gone the desk had changed as much as the rest of the paper.
“Hi, Theda. I’m Jesse, just come over from news.” I was glad she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. No matter how interchangeable upper management thought we were, there was a world of difference between editing news and editing arts. I mean, we didn’t necessarily know where Whitten Avenue crosses from Dorchester to Roxbury, but we couldn’t trust them not to condense a concertina down to a concert, or to differentiate power chords from power cords—or power pop, for that matter.
“I wanted to ask you about some of the terminology here. In the second sentence you’ve got what looks like ‘emo.’ Is that a typo?” This wasn’t going to be easy, and sure enough we spent the next fifteen minutes compiling a glossary of contemporary rock. Musetta, with her feline sixth sense, must have known something was up, demanding access to my lap and kneading me throughout the edit.
“Comping, it’s just, you know, comping.” I should explain that it referred to the pianist’s rhythmic chords, the bottom that allowed even the bass to solo. But I was tired. Musetta settled down, her purr fading as she fell asleep. “You know, like in jazz?”
“I believe you. I really do.” She sounded exasperated. “I’m sorry, Theda. They’re floating me around this week and they just threw this at me. These aren’t even my questions.”
“Wait a minute, Jesse.” Something wasn’t making sense. Tim knew me, knew my work. “Whose questions are in my piece?”
“Hold on.” I heard keystrokes as Jesse tracked back, looking to see whose electronic footprint had stepped on my copy last. “The logon’s RCASH. That anyone you know? ”
I must have started, because Musetta jumped down. “Yeah, I do.”
Twenty minutes later, we were finally through and I was wrung out. Time for a snack, but when I walked up to my tiny kitchenette, Musetta was there before me, waiting by her bowl. Poor kitty, I’d made her as food fixated as I was. But I wasn’t having anesthesia in the morning.
“Neh?” In any language, it meant “dinner.” In response, I stroked her smooth black head and chucked her under her chin until I could feel a purr start and then I walked away from the kitchenette. My stomach rumbled with hunger, too, but if I couldn’t show a little solidarity, what kind of human was I?
***
Musetta does not go quietly. A half hour later, we were in the car and I was hearing about it, with a series of chirps and mews that increased in volume the longer we drove. “Are you trying to tell me something?” A loud howl greeted that question, but as I’d also gone over a pothole I was more inclined to echo her complaint than to question it.
What with the last of the rush hour traffic clogging up the South End and parking, it was nearly eight by the time I walked up to the back exit, trying very hard not to swing Musetta’s case. A bright safety light made a puddle of illumination around the steel door, but the building otherwise looked dark. I rang the bell. It should have buzzed all through the back hall, which ran from the offices all the way past the wards and storage rooms to the loading dock. But there were no windows on this side of the building and everything seemed still. Even the loading dock, off to my left, looked dark. Rachel wouldn’t have forgotten, would she? Quiet now, Musetta moved in her carrier, causing the box to tilt.
“Whoa, watch it kitty.” I righted the box and tried the bell again. “Getting dropped will be less pleasant than getting your teeth cleaned.” Through the metal grill, she stared up at me. “Kitty, this is for your own good. Really.” She blinked. I leaned on the bell and heard a noise within.
“Sorry about that.” Rachel pushed open the heavy door and stepped out. “We’ve got a new alarm system on this door. It’s a bear. Everyone’s just been using the dock. Nippy, isn’t it?” The temperature hadn’t gotten out of the forties all day, but she probably hadn’t come up for air since lunch, if then.
“Doesn’t seem like it’s almost April, does it?” I moved toward the open door. Rachel stepped in front of me and reached for the carrier.
“I can take her.” Our hands met on the wire handle and Musetta hissed. For a moment, I fought the urge to yank my cat back. Vocal as she was, Musetta wasn’t usually a hisser. Something was wrong. But Rachel was unfazed.
“It’s the smell.” She glanced down at Musetta and smiled. “No matter how often I wash, I smell a little like every animal I’ve seen today. I won’t take it personally.” We were both shivering by then, and I peered down at my cat. Even Musetta looked surprised at her own outburst, her fur f
luffed and her green eyes, staring back at me, wide open. Despite her silent plea, I released the cage.
“Rachel, what about the tests?” She looked up, puzzled. “The cat food? From yesterday?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m still working on it.”
I shook my head. “Rachel, I know the food came from your shelter. That’s not—”
“What?” She stepped back, jostling Musetta’s cage against the door frame. I reached for it automatically. “No.” Rachel held up a hand. “Please,” her tone softened. “It’s complicated. Give me a little time to sort things out.”
I stood there, dumbfounded. Was this about Piers? I didn’t care. Hell, I was happy for her. Still, she seemed awfully worked up. Was there something in Violet’s theory? Was something wrong with the shelter? The desire to grab the carrier back and run was intense.
“She’ll be fine, Theda.” Rachel must have read my mind. “You can pick her up around eleven tomorrow.”
I looked up at her and back down at my pet. This was Rachel, our vet. She’d done surgery on Musetta. Helped out both me and Violet a dozen times before. I needed to trust her—with my pet and with my questions—at least for the night. I stepped back, raising my hand farewell. “Well, okay, then. She hasn’t eaten since before I got home, around six at the latest.” Musetta was licking her chops. I swear she was trying to send me a message. But I’m not psychic. “You’ll take good care of her?”
“Of course, Theda. We’ll just have our girls’ night out tonight, and tomorrow you’ll see her again.”