by Clea Simon
“Wait a minute!” Might as well try to stop electricity, I realized, as the scrawny cat zipped by me and into the kitchen. He certainly knew where he was headed. So did I, which made me hesitate a moment as I remembered how I’d found Lillian there. Then another imperious cry summoned me. He was waiting by a cabinet, trying to pry it open with one paw. I pulled it open for him and we were both rewarded. About two dozen cans of generic cat food were stacked there, sorted into tuna and chicken flavors, right by an industrial-size bag of dry food. I looked through the upper cabinets for a dish, my progress only slightly impeded by the happy cat doing anticipatory figure-eights around my ankles.
“Here you go.” I pulled the top on one of the chicken-flavored cans and emptied it into a saucer—there didn’t seem to be any dishes devoted especially to the cats. But if I’d expected the half-starved animal to wolf his food, I was mistaken. He dove into it eagerly enough, lapping and biting off chunky bits to chew in that particular open-mouthed cat fashion, head held sideways so he could really get his teeth into it. But when he was a little more than halfway through, he stopped, sat, and proceeded to wash his face and paws.
“Watching your boyish figure, are you?” He eyed me for a moment and then moved on to his ears. A cat washing himself, even an ugly cat, is a beautiful sight and I was lulled. Standing there, leaning on the counter, I didn’t think what I would do with this stray or whether I should bring him down to the shelter. I just observed as he moved on to forelegs, then hind legs and bottom, finally reaching around to wash the hard-to-get places in the small of his back.
“Are we done now?” I asked as he began to slow his pace. The phrase “criminal trespassing” had jumped into my head, although I doubted the cat would understand. “Shall we go back outside?” I reached for his somewhat sleeker fur. But the shaggy tiger who had been so overtly friendly before now had other ideas. Slipping between my hands, he darted out toward the porch.
“Okay, we are going out.” I stood to follow him and stepped onto the enclosed area. The cat was nowhere to be seen.
“Kitty? Kitty? Come here?” I cursed my complacency and started making the whispering hiss call that works on almost any cat. “Kitty? Psst psst psst psst?” I bent to look under a woven vinyl lawn chair and behind some cardboard boxes. Nothing. “Kitty?” Then I saw a head, a head with one ear, poking up from the very edge of the porch, where more boxes and some magazines tied with twine rested on an aluminum chaise lounge. “Kitty?” He ducked back down, but I’d seen him and carefully picked my way over. He’d cornered himself between the boxes and the wall and now hung loose-limbed and pliant as I lifted him by his thin middle.
“New!” He mewed louder than he had before, perhaps because of the indignity of my grasp. He didn’t struggle, however, and I found myself following his gaze. Doubled over in my hands he was staring straight at the floor. There, almost wedged between the box and the corner, right where he’d been sitting, was a thumbprint-sized white plastic oval strung on a broken metal chain. I transferred the tabby to my left hand, he was that light, and reached for the object with my right. I took both of them out to the yard and put the cat down to examine what he’d shown me in the bright afternoon light. I didn’t have to, really. I knew that I was holding Lillian’s safety device, the missing medic-alert alarm.
Chapter Twelve
There were dozens of possible explanations for how that little plastic pendant could have ended up on the floor in the corner of the porch. I went through them, once I was home, as I picked up around the house and filled Musetta in on the events of the day. The chain might have broken months ago, when Lillian was loading those boxes or tying up that bundle of magazines, and the miniature alarm fallen unnoticed to the floor. She might have pulled it off in annoyance when it got tangled in her curls once too often. Perhaps it dangled and enticed a plumper kitty than the one I’d met—one who had hung on it until it broke, ending up as a feline trophy. Maybe she had several and liked to toss them in corners. Who knew? I gave up on my apartment and its piles of books and magazines—it was what it was—and stepped into the shower. Violet’s paranoia was really getting to me. But I’d bring the white plastic bit over to the police, or at least give Detective Sherman a call, maybe on Monday. This was Saturday night, and I had other plans.
Planning was what I was doing, once I was out of the shower and beginning to get dressed. This was a first date, but who was I kidding? Connor was smart and funny, as well as cute. I pulled out the satin bikinis, the purple ones edged with lace, and the matching flimsy, but decorative bra. Bunny would have my head for moving so fast, but that was why I hadn’t called her, wasn’t it? By tomorrow’s brunch, I’d have more to tell. For a moment, I thought about canceling that date. What if we wanted to lounge? No, that was going too far. Nice undies were being hopeful. Clearing out all of Sunday was obsessive. Musetta, watching from the bed, seemed to agree.
I opted for the same jeans I’d worn to the service. Despite the shelter visit, they still seemed clean and were undoubtedly my nicest pair. Then I fussed with my hair until quarter to eight, when I finally accepted that it would do whatever it wanted, date or no.
I walked the couple of blocks to the Casbah and opened the door on the familiar din. Connor had already secured a table, over by the wall, and he stood and waved me over with a big welcoming grin.
“Hey, gorgeous!” He leaned in to give me a quick kiss of welcome, startling me and thus stopping my automatic bullshit detector that says guys call women “gorgeous” when they don’t remember our names.
“Hey there,” I replied, aiming for casual. I sat down harder than I meant to, already a little flustered. “Sorry I’m late.” What was I apologizing for? I gave myself a mental kick.
“You’re not late.” I glanced up from the menu and he was leaning toward me. He almost took my hand, but seemed to stop himself, content to look right at me. “You’re right on time. You’re perfect, and I’m glad to see you.” Oh god, he could tell how nervous I was. “I took the liberty of ordering some appetizers.” He leaned back in his seat, the serious moment forgotten. “Hummous and baba ganoush. Marisa’s baba is the best in town. And what about beverages?”
I was daring and ordered a rye and ginger, rather than my usual Blue Moon. I needed to calm down, and fast. If Connor could tell how ill at ease I was—and how could he not?—he was doing his best to be gracious.
But Risa poured a strong drink and the sweet rye whiskey did its job. Before long we were digging pita triangles into the messy, tasty dips, laughing like children as we competed for the last olive that had studded the Middle Eastern treats. He had told me about moving to Boston, how he had heard that the scene here was happening. Ralph had been right: Connor was an artist. In Boston he was hoping to actually find professional support, maybe a gallery, and a social network to boot.
“You paint?” He hadn’t specified his medium, but I could envision his tall, lean frame standing before an easel.
“Oils, mostly. And houses. That’s how I did this.” He tapped his chipped front tooth. “Ladder accident.” He laughed and I joined in. Most of the visual artists I knew had day jobs of some sort; the writers, too, for that matter.
“Well, the painting season is starting.” I thought of the peeling coat on Lillian’s house. In New England almost all outside employment is crammed between April and November, though I’d seen a few hardy souls up on ladders in down parkas and wool hats in March. “Unless you’re already working?”
“No, not yet. I should, but I’ve been caught up in one of my own pieces.” I should have noticed that his hands didn’t have the usual cold-weather chapping. I looked down at those hands now, at his long, strong fingers, and was momentarily mesmerized. “I was painting all afternoon, trying to get this last canvas done before earning season.” He sighed. “It’s hard, you know? One of these days, I won’t need to work for jerks.” I understood that well enough. We raised our glasses to such a future. “But enough about me. Tell me
about writing. How did you end up doing that?”
“I need another drink for that,” I smiled at him and he signaled our waitress. She was bringing our entrees anyway, we’d both ordered the eggplant, and she followed with another round as I explained my progress from copy editor to freelancer. By the time we’d cleaned our plates, I’d told him about my career path, such as it was, and even a bit about Rick, about how his doubts had fostered mine.
“I think it was a question of confidence, as much as anything.” I found myself saying, trying to explain why I had left writing for so long. “I don’t know that I’ve ever really doubted my basic skill—I don’t know if I feel comfortable calling it talent—or my perseverance. I mean, I know I can do a serviceable job, write a printable, articulate story and get it in by deadline. I know I can do that as well as most of the bozos I read in the paper. It’s just that it’s hard to rely only on yourself, you know?”
“I do, Theda. And I know, too, that until you believe in yourself it’s really hard to get others to trust you.” I looked up at him. He got it.
“Does that affect your work?” I was curious now. Painting—fine art—seemed solitary by nature.
“It’s a different field,” he said as if reading my mind. “But the confidence aspect is the same. You’ve got to market yourself to dealers, to gallery owners, if you want to sell. Even if you want to be seen. It gets tiring.” He looked down at his plate.
“Do you have a gallery in Boston yet?” I didn’t want to push, but it seemed the natural follow-up.
“No.” He looked up again, smiling. “I told you I’ve been lazy, right? Hey, how about another drink? Then we can go hear some music.”
So he wanted to change the subject, that was okay. How many men would spend an hour listening to my story? And how coherent was I at that point? Stopping the waitress before she could place her order, I switched mine to a beer, and let Connor pay the tab, promising to get the next round as we both stood and walked toward the back room.
“Hey, Theda! Good to see you!” I turned and saw Tess, an old friend from the club scene. Another friend, I realized with a stab of guilt, I’d lost touch with over the last few months.
“Tess, you’re back!” The tall, lean beauty played bass well enough to get studio work, and her exotic good looks—the inheritance from her Angolan father and Irish mother—helped open other professional doors as well. Even enveloped in my winter’s haze, I’d heard she’d left to try her luck in New York. “This a visit?”
“No, I’m here for good.” She smiled and chuckled, shaking her head at my inquiring gaze. Her long jet curls fell in her face, and with a shy duck of her head she brushed them aside. “I’m back about a month now, girlfriend, trying to figure out what to do next. Where’ve you been? I’m the one who should be lying low, licking my wounds.”
“Long story.” Connor coughed gently. “Tess, this is Connor. Connor, Tess.” They shook hands and Tess shot me a smile and a look.
“Call me, Theda. We need to catch up.”
“Will do,” I promised. She clearly had a story for me. Maybe I’d even have some news for her after tonight.
Leaving Tess with a quick hug, I walked Connor by the door man, who looked at me and waved us both in. A small crowd had already gathered for the first band.
“Theda!” Nick and Lucy, both fanatical garage-band fans, were already waiting. “You’re here!” Lucy hugged me, and I introduced them both to Connor. “We thought about leaving a message for you,” said Nick. “These guys do an entire set of Outsiders covers, it’s amazing!” I looked at Lucy. “I know,” she said, grinning. “I told him we’d have a better chance of getting you out to hear them if he didn’t tell you that.”
Connor raised his eyebrows, and I resisted the temptation to elbow him in the ribs. Boston music fans followed trends that never registered on any Billboard chart, but surely rooming with Ralph he’d become accustomed to that. Or maybe he hadn’t; I thought of Ralph’s taste, his little prejudices. If Connor had gotten his indoctrination into Boston rock solely from Ralph, the whole garage scene might be new to him. He may never have realized that an entire subculture existed here that dedicated its money, free time, and listening hours to the pursuit and re-creation of British Invasion-era American rock, Farfisa organs and all.
“Get ready for a truly hi-fi experience,” I leaned over to whisper in his ear. “These guys would play in mono if they could.” Just then, the band kicked in with a roar of distorted guitar and the wheezy wail of an electric organ. Both arms flying, the drummer threw all his weight into a simple beat and the crowd began to bob. Nick and Lucy turned from us to push their way up front, exposing another layer of the crowd. In its midst, I recognized Ethan. Signaling Connor that I’d be back in a moment, I pushed my way up to him.
“Hey, stranger! You following me around?” I trusted my grin would signal the joke.
Ethan smiled back. “Hey! Theda, right?” He caught his glasses just as they started to slide. “Warm in here, isn’t it?”
“It’s a good crowd. You here with friends?”
He shook his head no. “Just poking around really. Trying to find out what’s up.”
He was new in town, I reminded myself, and remembered my resolution. “There are a couple of folks I know here tonight. Hang on, I’ll introduce you.” I looked around for Nick or Lucy or Connor, but Ethan was shaking me off.
“No. Don’t bother. I really don’t want to deal with the whole social thing.”
I smiled, trying to think of what else to say. “So, are you interested in trying to break into the Mail?” He leaned forward, staring at me. The volume had gone up. I tried again. “You’re looking for assignments?” I was nearly yelling.
“Yeah. Maybe. If—” The music drowned out his words.
“Call me.” I was mouthing the words so he could read my lips. “I’m listed. I may have some ideas.” He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. I thought he was going to say something, but then he turned and disappeared into the dancing pack.
“Thought I’d lost you,” said Connor, coming up behind me. Poor Ethan, he must not have realized I had a date.
“Too much for you?” I shouted back.
“It’s not the music,” said Connor. I could barely hear him over the roar. The heat from the crowd was rising with the volume, as well, and I could feel his breath on my ear. “It’s the crowd. Who was that?” He paused and I thought about trying to explain. It was too loud for details, and after a moment he was laughing anyway. “Do you know everyone in this club?”
“Just about!” It was an exaggeration, but I’d been captured by the music. The keyboard player had taken the lead, banging out chords to a tune I knew, and soon the bass and guitar were joining him in a simple three-chord riff that circled and filled the room like smoke. I grabbed both our empties to put them on the bar, and started to dance, pulling Connor to face me.
He was a good sport, and more graceful than most men I know. But after two songs, he pulled away with a grin. “Air! Air! I need a breather!” I could feel moisture on my brow and the sweat dripping between my breasts and followed him without complaint to the back of the room-length bar, the end farthest from the stage. The drummer had picked up a syncopated tattoo designed to mimic the guitar’s vibrato effects.
“Blue Moon, right?” I nodded, still short of breath, and held my damp hair up off the back of my neck. So much for all my fussing with it.
“These guys rock!” Connor mimicked the drummer, tossing his head to the beat, but his shorter dark hair didn’t quite fly around like the band members’ did.
“You need more hair,” I yelled back. “Like this!” I tossed my own mop of curls forward and then back, and felt tendrils sticking to my damp and no doubt rosy face.
“You’ve got it,” said Connor smiling, as he reached forward to brush a curl off my cheek. I was feeling the alcohol, the music, and his presence and didn’t trust myself to speak. We smiled at each other. The cold beers went dow
n fast.
“Another dance?” I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stage, not waiting for an answer. Soon we were right up front by Nick and Lucy, all jumping around more or less to the beat as the set drew to a frenzied close.
“Let’s get out of here.” Connor reached for my hand as the sound man’s tape mix came back on. The volume was lower, but just barely. I followed him, expecting him to lead back to the main room, where we could catch our breath and have another beer. He veered left instead, toward the door to the street.
“We’re leaving?” The night, I had thought, had just begun.
“Let’s try the Friar,” he said as he pushed open the door to the cool night air. The Friar, back across town, was a tiny pub with no windows and a sound system that fit into one packing case. On weekends, however, the old regulars made way for an enthusiastic young rock crowd, winning the club the nickname of “fryolater” during summer months.
I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Nick and Lucy, and I had been enjoying the music. But Connor had already hailed a cab, so I followed him inside and up to the Friar’s front door, where a booming beat promised fun inside.
“What are you drinking?” he asked as soon as we’d each forked over the five dollars cover. The Friar did not deal in specialty beers.
“Bud!” I called out, scanning the room for familiar faces.
“See anyone you know?” Connor asked as he handed me the longneck.
“Don’t think so.” I took a long pull from the bottle. Dancing had given me a powerful thirst.
“Good.” His voice was low and close to my ear, and I felt his lips on my neck, cool from the beer. I turned and we kissed, then broke away as the band started.
“Excellent! I love these guys,” I said, pointing with my bottle to the two women who’d just taken the stage, a slightly raised platform at the end of the bar. The night was filling up with happy surprises. I really did like this duo, and the kiss had been wonderful. I could still feel its warmth traveling down my body. But I wanted a moment to think, to gather my resources or maybe just to savor the moment. I took another long drink, the metallic beer taste not quite erasing the feel of his lips.