by Dee Davis
“Well, I, for one, think we ought to be out searching for them,” Anderson said. “We can sort out what happened after we know that they’re all right.”
“It’s been a long time. Do you think they could have left the building?” Mr. Walderstein asked. “They could be anywhere by now.”
“They’re cats,” I said, anger mixing with trepidation. Waldo had never been gone this long before. “They’re not likely to have taken a taxi or the F train.”
“I heard about a cat who accidentally boarded a plane to France. They sent it home first class,” Anderson offered.
“You’re not helping,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“All right,” Richard said, taking charge. “I think we should divide the building into sections and each of us can take one.”
Mrs. M. opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again at an almost ballsy glare from Mr. Walderstein. It didn’t take long to divide up the floors. I drew the short straw—the basement levels, which included a laundry room, the incinerator (don’t even think it), and various other dark and dingy places that house the mechanics of the building.
Oh, joy.
Fortunately, Mrs. M. had joined forces with Mr. Walderstein, and Richard had called the super so that he could access any empty apartments. That left Anderson to team with me, which meant that I had company for my descent into hell.
The basement of our building is old. I mean really, really old. It even predates our building, which has been around since the turn of the century (the one before last). Suffice it to say, it’s not someplace where you’d want to spend a great deal of time.
But Waldo was my first priority.
“So if you were Waldo, where would you hide?” Anderson asked.
“Anywhere but here?” I said, turning around the dingy hallway in a circle. Before you start thinking I live in a tenement slum, let me assure you the basement was scrupulously clean. It’s just that it was surrounded by dank, dark earth, which meant a certain degree of debris and whatnot accumulated despite the erstwhile efforts of the building staff.
And there was the prospect of rats. No matter where you live in Manhattan, they’re always an issue. And the lower you go, the more likely you are to encounter beady eyes and sharp little teeth.
Hey, why do you think I have a cat?
“Waldo?” I called, somewhat timidly. I mean, maybe there was a rat with the same name, and I really didn’t want to be calling him.
“Waldo,” Anderson said, with considerably more force. “Come on, kitty.”
We waited a moment with the ridiculous notion that he’d answer. But, of course, there was nothing but silence.
“Waldo,” we cried again, this time moving into the laundry room. Five dryers and eight washers later, we hadn’t had any luck. And judging from the interminable silence of my cell phone, neither had anyone else.
“Mr. Walderstein is right. They could be anywhere.”
“So you do think they’re together,” Anderson said.
“I don’t know. I just figure it’s too odd for them both to be missing on their own. And Waldo has always managed to be a bit of a troublemaker.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to take care of his lady love.”
“Anderson Wright, you’re an unabashed romantic.”
“Wouldn’t do you a bit of harm to be a bit more that way yourself. One of these days Mr. Right is going to show up at your front door and you’re not even going to notice.”
“Don’t be silly. No one can show up on my doorstep without being announced first.”
“And that, my dear, is the whole problem.”
Since I had absolutely no idea what Anderson was talking about, I ignored him. “Waldo, come out here this minute,” I said, trying to imitate my mother’s most authoritative voice. Unfortunately, it didn’t work any better on Waldo than it worked on me.
“Shall we tackle the boiler room next?” Anderson asked.
I’d never been in a boiler room in my life, but the word called up images of The Poseidon Adventure. You know, spewing oil and fire. Sweaty men without shirts . . . Okay, maybe that’s from another movie. “All right,” I said, preparing myself for the worst.
Instead of finding brimstone and glowing embers, Anderson opened the door to a hobbit-like living room or study. Made up of castoffs from the building, nothing matched, but the decor took second place to the warm comfy feeling of the place. In the corner, the boiler, which wasn’t much larger than a Dumpster, hummed merrily in the background.
There was a battered old rocker and a plaid lounger straight from the fifties. There were tables and books, a couple of hideous lamps, and a gilded mirror that was probably worth money. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure. Isn’t that the way the saying goes? The room was evidence of recycling at its very best.
“Does someone actually live here?” I asked, picturing a street person with secret digs on the Upper East Side.
“No. I think the staff comes here. The mechanics, at least,” Anderson said, hands on hips as he looked around the room. “It’s actually kind of cozy.”
“Puts new meaning to the idea of shabby chic.”
“Maybe the trend originated here,” he said with a smile.
“Well, if Mrs. M. was chasing after me, I’d certainly consider hiding in here.” I moved farther into the room. “Waldo?”
Nothing.
“Waldo?” Anderson said, searching among the accumulated bits and bobs.
“He’s not here, either,” I said, my heart sinking. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t take care of himself, it was more that I depended on him. His silent understanding. His warmth. Even the two o’clock in the morning kitty breath as he settled on my pillow to sleep.
“Waldo?” I called, praying for an answer.
Nothing.
Anderson’s gaze met mine, and with a sigh I followed him toward the door. Maybe he was in one of the storage rooms.
Behind me the boiler’s humming stopped, the ensuing silence heavy.
And then there was a squeak. A tiny, tiny squeak. Followed by Waldo’s less melodic meow.
“Did you hear that?” I spun around, eyes searching the room. “Waldo?”
This time his answer was crystal clear.
“He’s here,” I said, smiling at Anderson. “We’ve found him.”
Anderson called him again, and this time his head poked out from a big calico-lined basket that I actually remembered from the trash room. Someone’s abandoned Christmas gift.
“What are you doing in there?” I asked Waldo, half expecting an answer. “We’ve been worried about you.”
Not looking the slightest bit repentant, he ducked down again inside of the basket. Anderson, who was closer, knelt down by the basket. It was tucked into a corner, next to the boiler and a pile of old newspapers. “Well, would you look at that,” Anderson said, his tone so full of amazement, I ignored the grimy floor and knelt beside him.
Waldo wasn’t actually inside the basket. It had been an illusion. He was sitting just beside it, half-hidden behind the newspapers. Inside the basket lay Arabella, a self-satisfied half smile on her furry white face. And next to her were six mewling balls of fluff.
Waldo and Arabella’s kittens.
As if reading my mind, my cat lifted his head, preening in the light from the cast-off lamps. “Waldo’s a father,” I said, reaching out to touch one of the little kittens. It squeaked and wriggled closer to its mother’s warmth.
Anderson flipped open the phone and spread the news, and soon the boiler room was teeming with humanity. Mr. Walderstein was doing everything but passing out cigars, and Anderson was answering questions from a television reporter who lived in the building. Even my cat, it seemed, was newsworthy.
Mrs. M., predictably, had reacted with scorn and downright revulsion. But then an amazing thing happened. Richard had taken one of the tiny fur balls and laid it in Mrs. M.’s hand. At first, she stared at it as if
it were a roach or a slug. But then the tiny creature sucked on her finger, snuggling deeper into the palm of her hand.
If you’ll excuse my using yet another cinematic example, it was as if her small heart grew three sizes that day. Make no mistake, I’m sure it’ll shrink back as soon as the kittens are old enough to claw up her furniture—I don’t keep an upholsterer on speed dial for nothing—but at least for now, she was transformed.
After settling the kittens and the exhausted mother, still in her basket, in Mrs. M.’s apartment, Waldo and I went home.
And it wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning, when aforementioned kitty breath roused me from sleep, that I realized I’d forgotten to call Cybil. In fact, for the first time in days, I’d forgotten about the bet. And even more important, I’d forgotten about Mark Grayson.
I reached out to stroke Waldo and slid back into sleep, dreams of marriage and merger mixing with kittens and, oddly enough, the sweet floral smell of Chanel N° 5.
Chapter 21
Just Cats. 244 East Sixtieth Street (between Second and Third avenues), 212.888.2287.
It’s always about the dogs. Dog couture, dog parlors, dog runs, dog, dog . . . dog. Well, sometimes it’s all about the cat. With a collection of fabulous feline accoutrements strictly for cats and cat owners, the Upper East Side boasts Just Cats. The perfect place to adopt a new friend, outfit her with only the best, and pick up a few feline-inspired human treasures to boot.
—www.nykatz.net
∞∞∞
Okay, call me an overenthusiastic grandmother, but I wanted to find something special for the kittens. And what better place to do it than Just Cats? The matchmaker of the feline world, they were responsible for pairing hundreds of Manhattanites with their beloved pets.
Not me, of course, since I’m more the abandoned-cat-from-the-shelter kind of girl. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good thing when I see it. And besides, I needed advice. I’d never bought a baby gift for a cat before.
In an effort to kill two birds with one stone, I’d asked Cybil to meet me there. But so far, she was a no-show. Which was most likely explained by the early hour. Thanks to the proud father, I’d woken to a paw patting my cheek with the insistence of a Nuremberg inquisitor.
Fifteen minutes after that (I had to take a shower), I’d followed my jubilant cat over to Mrs. M.’s where we’d been admitted for a viewing with somewhat less disdain than she normally showed us. Still cooing over the kittens, I had to admit the woman had risen to the occasion. Her vet was just leaving, pronouncing all six bouncing babies perfectly healthy.
Leaving Waldo to watch over his brood, I’d woken Richard and Anderson, dragged them to breakfast, eaten way more of a Belgian waffle than I should have, sent them home again to keep an eye on Mrs. M., aroused Cybil (after three phone calls), and insisted she come out to meet me. Not bad for a couple of hours’ work.
The shop was full of wonderfully whimsical items for cats and cat fanciers alike. It was almost impossible to decide what to get. I could go the practical route and buy food or litter, or maybe the designer route with one of the lovely little cat baskets. But then they already had one of those.
There were treats of all kinds, and toys that squeaked, squawked, and jingled. Catnip and cat grass, cat coats and cat bowls. I finally settled on six tiny collars, four pink and two blue, each studded with rhinestones that glimmered in the light. Okay, so I’m a sucker for style—even when we’re talking about cats.
The shop attendant was just ringing them up when Cybil walked in, looking resplendent in black jeans and an asymmetrical silk sweater she’d bought at Bergdorf’s. “You look great,” I said by way of greeting, taking the sack of collars.
We walked out into the morning sunshine and down the street to a Starbucks on Sixtieth. Then, drinks in hand, we went out again, settling onto a bench in front of Bed Bath and Beyond. There’s something really nice about Manhattan in the morning. The light is softer, the city seems fresher, and, most important, the inhabitants are mostly in a good mood.
Not that I get to see any of it very often.
Cybil smothered a yawn and had a sip of her latte. “So what was important enough to drag me out at this hour of the day?”
Cybil was even less a morning person than I was. She’d had a boyfriend once in college who was one of those happy rising sorts. You know, the kind who jump out of bed, smile on their faces, ready to start the day. He lasted about three months, and only that long because she couldn’t smuggle him into the dorm, except on weekends.
“It so happens I have good news.”
“Something beyond the late-night arrival of Waldo’s offspring?”
“That was pretty exciting, actually. Sort of like a good, sappy movie. I mean, it’s the first time in the six years I’ve lived in the building that Mrs. M. was actually nice.”
“Kittens have a way of doing that. I mean, isn’t there a song about it?”
“Huh?” I frowned and took a sip of my coffee. “Not following that at all.”
“You know, noodles, strudels—kittens.”
Suddenly Julie Andrews was twirling through my mind. “It’s ‘whiskers on kittens and warm woolen mittens.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she said, singing loudly enough for anyone within a five-mile radius to hear.
“Great,” I said. “And now everyone on the street is humming it.”
She laughed. “Well, there are worse songs. So spill it. What’s so important?”
I smiled, a smug self-congratulatory expression on my face. “I got Mark Grayson.”
“He’s agreed to a match?” Cybil almost choked on her latte, which somehow made the moment even better.
“Yes. And he’s calling you today.”
“You told him about me? Don’t you need to sign contracts or something first?”
“That’s almost exactly what he said.” I was frowning now. This wasn’t the response I was looking for. “But I told him I owed him. And that we’d work out the details later. I figured it was better to get the ball rolling before either of you got cold feet. Is there a problem?”
“No, of course not.” Her smile was a little too bright. “It’s just that I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.”
A light bulb went off. “You mean you didn’t think it would happen at all.”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t think it was likely.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“It’s not you,” she said, reaching over to touch my arm. “It’s Grayson. And all the adverse publicity the bet has garnered. I just figured he wasn’t the kind to offer up his private life by doing something so tabloid-worthy.”
“He’s not. But matchmaking is more than filler for the tabloids. It’s serious business. And I think Mark realizes that. I mean, why else would he have agreed to do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just surprised he said yes, that’s all.”
“Well, he did. And now I need you to give it a chance.”
“So you can win the bet?”
“No. So you can be happy.”
“I am happy,” she said. “I was singing friggin’ Mary Poppins not five minutes ago.”
“It was The Sound of Music. And besides, one song does not a happy person make.” We glared at each other for a couple of minutes and then broke out laughing. You know, the kind that won’t stop until it’s taken your breath away.
If singing had garnered a little attention, you can imagine what giggling uncontrollably did. But somehow that just made it all that much more hysterical. Finally, with a little help from Starbies, we sobered up.
“You haven’t changed your mind?” I held my breath, waiting.
“No,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll go.”
“Fabulous,” I said, not feeling anything of the sort. It’s amazing to me how your mind can rebel at the most ridiculous moments. This is what
I’d been working for since the night of the bet. But here I was again, with that telltale pit of the stomach lurch. Maybe it was fear of failure.
After the week I’d had, that totally made sense.
“He’ll be calling sometime today. I asked him to give me time for a heads-up.”
“And he really seems interested in this?” she asked.
“I can’t imagine why he’d agree to it if he wasn’t. You should have seen him last night, Cybil. He was wonderful. First he stood up for me in front of practically everyone we know. And then he cut Althea off at the knees, announcing that he’d decided to give my services a go. And then, he bailed me out at the 19th Precinct.”
“Hang on.” She held up a hand. “He bailed you out?”
“Not in the literal sense. He went with me to help out a client. And, quite honestly, I don’t think I could have managed without him. Although he said that I could. That’s what’s really great about him, Cybil. He makes you feel like you can do anything.” I stopped to draw a breath, wondering if I’d maybe laid it on a bit too thick.
“Sounds wonderful,” she said with a smile, but I could see something else in her eyes.
“What is it?” We’d been friends since the dawn of time. I knew her every mood. “Something’s bothering you.”
She leaned forward, her glasses making her eyes appear even bigger than they were. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes, of course I am. I told you—and in fact, I told him—the two of you are perfect for each other. Like attracts like, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said, still eyeing me speculatively. “It’s just that you talk about him as if you’re the one who’s interested.”
“Interested in what?” I asked, the answer dawning about two seconds later. “In dating Mark Grayson? Me? There’s a laugh. We have nothing in common. Nothing at all. It would never work.”
“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” she said, shaking her head. “Where’s he taking me?”
The one-eighty almost left me spinning on the sidewalk. “I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to wait and see. But he does have great taste in restaurants.” Dinner at the Flatiron Building had been fantastic, not to mention i Trulli.