Paco and I exchanged grins, but we didn’t say a word because Michael reached over and took the key lime pie off the kitchen counter and set it in the middle of the table.
“Mmmm,” I said. “What were we just talking about?”
Paco said, “I have no idea. Pass the pie!”
All in all, it had been a normal, ordinary end to a long, surreal, and crazy day. I helped clean up the kitchen, kissed Michael and Paco on their handsome cheeks, nuzzled the top of Ella Fitzgerald’s head, and staggered up the stairs to my apartment, drunk on good wine, good company, and good key lime pie.
Just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard a little voice in my head say, Well, at least tomorrow can’t be any crazier than today!
Sometimes that little voice in my head is dead wrong.
7
My morning routine is pretty much written in stone. I get up, stagger to the bathroom to splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and twist my hair into a ponytail. I stumble into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, and then I’m out the door in my regulation cargo shorts, white sleeveless tee, and a fresh pair of clean white Keds. The secret to being a good pet sitter is having good shoes. I’m on my feet about as much as a big-city mailman, so I have a row of clean Keds drying on a rack at all times. The minute a pair starts getting even the slightest bit raggy, out they go.
On my porch, I took a minute to inhale the clean salt air and to nod good morning to the glossy sea. At that hour, only a few early birds are walking along the shore’s edge picking up the choicest goodies brought in on the overnight tide. There were a couple of snowy egrets standing perfectly still, watching a small team of piping plovers that were running back and forth in the sand to the rhythm of the waves rolling in. Some sleepy chirping sounds came from the trees as other birds opened an eye and nudged one another awake, but mostly I had the fresh new day to myself. I need that moment of connection to life, need to pull it into my lungs and feel it climbing from the soles of my feet up my bones.
When I was fully aware, I clattered down the stairs, shooed away a brown pelican who had roosted on my Bronco overnight, and turned on my headlights for the drive down my twisty lane. I went slowly so as not to wake the parakeets, but they’re so sensitive they rose from the treetops in agitated flutters that made me feel guilty. At Midnight Pass Road, where a line of mailboxes stand guard, I turned left and headed off to bring food, fun, and frivolity to all the pets that were home alone and waiting for my arrival.
As always, morning or afternoon, my first stop is the Sea Breeze, a big pink condo building on the Gulf where Billy Elliot lives. Billy Elliot is a greyhound that Tom Hale rescued. Like most race dogs, once Billy Elliot stopped winning races, he wasn’t much use anymore and his days were numbered. Tom is a CPA, and in exchange for his handling my taxes and anything else having to do with money, I go over to Tom’s and let Billy Elliot drag me around the parking lot a couple of times a day. It’s a perfect arrangement. I’m not good with money, and Tom can’t run because he’s been in a wheelchair ever since a wall of lumber fell on him in a freak accident at a home-improvement store.
I rode the mirrored elevator up to Tom’s floor and then used my keys to open the door. Tom was sitting at the kitchen table with a computer in front of him as usual, probably working on someone’s taxes. He spends a lot of time in front of a computer, and since I have no interest in computers at all, he is my sole connection to the Internet. He looked up and waved, and I waved back. He has a sweet, round face with warm eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses and a head of curly black hair. He looks like a slightly pudgy Harry Potter.
Billy Elliot came trotting up to say good morning, his tail wagging like an out-of-control whirligig. I patted him on his head, and he snuffed and snorted in that way dogs do when they’re happy to see you. I didn’t want to interrupt Tom’s work, so I snapped on Billy Elliot’s leash and headed out for our morning session.
A lot of older greyhounds suffer from all manner of long-term side effects from the way they were treated during their racing careers. Broken toes are common, torn ligaments, fractured bones, chronic arthritis. Most retirees are happiest when they’re lying on a nice soft bed at the feet of their humans, but Billy Elliot is different. He likes a good run at least twice a day, and that’s where I come in.
The Sea Breeze has a circular parking lot with an oval spot of grass in the middle that makes a perfect practice track. After Billy does his morning business and pees on every bush in sight, he starts out at a slow trot around the lot. This is completely for my benefit. He’s learned over the years that he can’t wear me out too fast or I’ll collapse from exhaustion after just a couple of laps. Gradually he works up to a good jogging pace, and we keep that up for about fifteen minutes. Usually it’s so early that we’re the only ones out. Sometimes I’ll let him off the leash and he’ll race around the track a few times at warp speed just to prove he’s still got it. Then we ride back up in the elevator, both of us panting happily.
Billy Elliot is like my own personal fitness guru. If Tanisha is the little devil on my shoulder trying to plump me up with her scrumptious cooking, Billy Elliot is the angel on my other shoulder, cheering me on as I burn off all those fat calories.
Tom was still working when we got back, so I hung up Billy Elliot’s leash, gave him a good scratch under the ears, and left quietly.
It was about seven thirty when I got to the Harwicks’ house. From the outside, it looked like a Mediterranean castle from some far-off country that had been uprooted and flown across the sea. It just didn’t fit, as impressive as it was. The long paved driveway sloped up to the grand entrance, lined on either side with palms and oak trees and bougainvillea in full bloom, scenting the air with their bubble-gum and cherry blossoms. There were turrets around the upper balconies of the house, where there were more flowering plants spilling over: trumpet vine, jasmine, honeysuckle, flame vine. There were ruby-throated hummingbirds and yellow butterflies flitting about everywhere. I felt like I was strolling through a postcard of a quaint Italian village as I walked up to the big wooden double doors. I pulled out my ring of keys and my notebook with the alarm codes written on it, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. A loud beeping sounded throughout the house. I opened the cover to the little keypad on the side of the entrance and punched in the private code.
Charlotte was waiting for me at the bottom of the marble staircase, sitting in a sphinx posture and gazing straight ahead as if she didn’t notice I was in the same universe as she was, just as unfriendly as she’d been when I’d met her the day before. But she didn’t fool me. If she’d really wanted to shut me out, she would have been hidden somewhere.
I knelt in front of her and extended the back of my hand for her to sniff.
I said, “Hi, Charlotte. Remember me? I’m going to make your breakfast today.”
She didn’t respond, just watched me as I stood up and walked to the kitchen.
Her food bowl was on the floor with some stale crumbs of dry cat food in it. I wrinkled my nose, threw away the stale stuff, and washed the bowl. I don’t like to leave cat food sitting out because it affects a cat’s appetite the same way it would affect a human’s if the same food was always sitting on the table growing stale and unappealing. Yuk. When I feed a cat, the food is left out for fifteen minutes, then it’s tossed. Cats learn they’d better eat up when they have the chance. That way they look forward to mealtime and their appetites never become jaded. I leave them a kitty treat to enjoy between meals, but only one. I’m not sure how long they wait to eat their treats, but I imagine them sitting and watching the clock, thinking they’ll wait just a few more minutes before they pounce on it.
While I washed out her food bowl, Charlotte came into the kitchen and walked around with her tail swishing and little growls coming from her throat like a chef getting ready to shout obscenities at the kitchen staff because they’re too slow.
I said, “Oh, you’re so right. Yes, it is a lovely day.
And did you see that moon last night? Beautiful!”
Charlotte stopped talking and stood with her front paws spread apart, ready for a showdown. She obviously did not suffer fools gladly.
I washed her water bowl and gave her fresh water. She watched me with a highly suspicious look on her face. I opened up the pantry and surveyed the rows and rows of cat food.
I said, “Which do you prefer, wet or dry?”
She swished her tail some more. Not in a friendly way.
Since I approved of the dry food more than the canned, I put a couple of scoops in Charlotte’s bowl and set out a kitty treat for later. When I put the food bowl down on the floor, Charlotte waited a few seconds before she crept forward to sniff at it.
I said, “Oh, were you thinking I would bring a taster for you to make sure your food isn’t poisoned? Sorry, Queen B. Eat up while I go check to see if you’ve committed any royal offenses.”
I scurried through the house on the lookout for overturned wastebaskets or chewed paper, upchucked hairballs, or flowerpots used as litter boxes. Everything seemed okay. In a spare bathroom, I hurried to empty the litter box, wash it, spritz it with my ever-handy mix of hydrogen peroxide and water, then rinse the heck out of it with scalding hot water. Cats like their toilets to be as clean as their food dishes. I’m like that myself, so I understand.
The big canopy bed in the master bedroom had indentations on the pillows suggesting Charlotte had slept there. I didn’t smooth them out or vacuum up the cat hair because I figured those spots gave Charlotte comfort while the Harwicks were gone. I could clean and straighten them later before they returned. Now it was time to feed the fish.
Still looking side to side for signs of things to clean up, I loped down the short hallway lined with mahogany dressers and swung open the door to the master bathroom. I came to such a quick stop that my Keds squeaked on the marble tile.
There on the floor, curled up in a ball, was the Harwicks’ daughter, Becca.
I gasped as she jumped to her feet, wiping her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were puffy and red, and there were wet trails of mascara streaming down her cheeks.
I said, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!”
She said, “Hello? Ever heard of knocking?”
I turned to leave. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I’ll come back later.”
“Wait wait wait,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day. Please don’t go.”
She was wearing the same clothes and big black boots she had on when I’d met her the day before. I wondered if she hadn’t spent the entire night on the floor in front of the fish tank crying.
She said, “After my parents left, I had a huge fight with my boyfriend. Well, he’s not really my boyfriend but he kind of is, and now he’s not talking to me and … and…”
She dropped down to her knees and started whimpering softly. I remembered what it was like to be her age, when hormones are raging through your body like flames through a fireworks stand and your brain can’t keep up with the tsunami of emotions that wash over you every minute. Every little thing feels like it’s the absolute end of the world.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “I think you just need some food and a little rest.”
“No,” she wailed. “You don’t understand. I’m pregnant!”
She collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing hysterically. I don’t know why, but people are always telling me their deepest, darkest secrets. I can be minding my own business in a grocery store, picking out an avocado or reading the ingredients on a cracker box, and suddenly a perfect stranger will strike up a conversation. The next thing I know they’re blurting out things they wouldn’t tell a priest in a confession booth.
I knelt down beside her and patted her shoulder while she cried. In this situation, there’s nothing to do but wait for the tears to work themselves out. Then all you can do is listen. When a man pours his problems out to you, he wants you to give him solutions. He wants you to fix it and make it all better. A woman already knows how to fix it. She just needs you to listen.
“We’ve been dating for a few months, and my parents don’t even know about it, and if they find out they’ll kill me. And he came over last night and I told him I was pregnant. And then he started saying that I don’t really know him and there are things in his past that nobody can change and he isn’t any good for me … and now everything is just ruined!”
I patted her back some more while she sobbed and snuffled and blew her nose into a tissue.
“I just want to get out of here! And he won’t even answer his phone and I don’t know what I did to him. What did I do to him? Why would he treat me like this? Why won’t he just tell me what’s wrong?”
She looked up at me with big brown eyes welling with tears. The angels in the overhead mural were all flying around with their harps and flutes, gazing down at me too, waiting expectantly for me to say something brilliant and comforting. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say except “love sucks,” and I didn’t think that would go over too well.
“I think it might be a good idea to talk to your mom about this.”
“I can’t talk to my mother about anything! And she already told me I was spending too much time with him and not to talk to him again. But of course it’s okay for her to talk his ear off every time he’s here.”
“Your mother knows him?”
She threw her arms out with her palms up, as if to say That’s all, folks! but instead she rolled her eyes at me. “Duh? It’s Kenny!”
I tried not to let my jaw hit the floor.
“Kenny Newman? The pool boy?”
“He’s not a pool boy. He just cleans pools for money. He’s an artist and he’s the most amazing guy I’ve ever known! Nobody knows him like I do.”
Now it was me that felt like falling to the floor in a heap. Not because I felt sorry for Becca (although I did; this was certainly a pickle she was in) and not because I was mad at Kenny for putting her in this situation (it takes two to tango, after all), but because it was just so stupid and irresponsible on Kenny’s part. How in the world could he allow himself to get involved with the daughter of one of his clients? A teenager, for God’s sake! It made me wonder, too, if Paco and Michael hadn’t been right about Kenny—that there was something suspicious about him, something he was hiding. And right this very minute, he was in the house of one of my clients, caring for the beloved pets of people who trusted me implicitly. Perhaps I had made a huge mistake in hiring Kenny. Perhaps he wasn’t at all who I thought he was.
Becca must have noticed I was a little distracted.
She stood up and said, “Ugh! You think I’m a total idiot, don’t you?”
“No, I just think you’re in over your head and maybe your mom could help.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You know, I’m not a little girl. I’m in college. I don’t need help from anybody.”
“Becca, that’s not what I meant at all. This wouldn’t be easy for anyone. You’re in a very difficult situation, and of course you’re upset. You just have to think about what’s best for you.”
“Oh, really? No shit, Sherlock!”
She threw her sodden tissue at the trash can and stormed out of the room. Before she even got to the door she was crying again and was only about halfway to the bedroom when she turned around. With her head hanging down, she clomped back into the bathroom, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, honey.”
She stepped into my arms and hugged me. I suddenly felt like I was hugging a younger version of myself, remembering what it was like to feel alone and helpless. When our mother left, as young as I was, I knew she was never coming back and I knew my life would never be the same. But my brother was there for me. He filled in the holes that my mother made. I couldn’t have survived without him. Everybody needs someone there to help pick up the pieces when the world comes shattering
down.
She said, “I’m sorry, I’m a total mess. I just love him so much. He’s the sweetest thing I’ll ever know.”
“It’s okay. We all have our moments.”
She stepped back and looked at me. “Please don’t tell anybody about this.”
“Becca, if you can’t talk to your mother, maybe your stepfather could help.”
Her pale cheeks flushed with rage. “Yeah, right. Guess what? We’re rich! Do you have any idea why my brother had to get a job at that stupid golf club?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’ll tell you why, because my stepfather talked my mother into completely cutting him off when they found drugs in his room! What do you think they’ll do to me when they find out about this? You have any idea what will happen if the press finds out? My stepfather would probably kill me! ‘Sonnebrook Heiress in Pool Boy Scandal.’ I can just see it now!”
“Honey, they’re going to find out sooner or later.”
The anger fell from her face, and her eyes welled with tears. “I know.”
While she cried some more, I held her in my arms and looked around the bathroom in all its glory: the tank with its quiet world of fish floating about in peaceful bliss, completely unaware of the human drama just on the other side of the glass. The mermaid looking coyly over her shoulder, staring into the distance, her expression frozen forever. The golden toilet, the crystal chandelier, and all the angels flying about. It suddenly seemed so odd to spend so much money on a room where basically waste gets flushed away. Like throwing money down the toilet, my grandmother always said.
Hugging always makes me think of my grandmother. She was quick to give me a smack on the butt when I deserved it, but whenever I needed a little tender loving care, she was just as quick to snatch me up in her arms and hug me back to myself.
There’s no better medicine than that.
8
The Cat Sitter's Cradle Page 6