Lawyer for the Cat (2 page)

“I hope you'll bring your mother to the holiday party,” says the woman. “She could meet some of our neighbors! There's a very nice older man who's just moved into the penthouse.”

“I'm sure it will be a lovely event.” I remember last year's party. I showed up in slacks and a sweater, my mother in a black wool dress and pearls. Most of the other women were in sequins and chiffons. Mom took one look and insisted on going back up to our apartment to change clothes. By the time we got back, the crab dip and the ham biscuits had been devoured.

“Where's your little friend—that adorable schnauzer?” asks the woman.

“Sherman's gone back to his family. I was just taking care of him for a few days.”

“Oh, that's a shame. It must have been hard to let him go!”

“Yes.” Now I remember: It's Mrs. Furley, rhymes with Curly. Josephine Furley. She has a head of black ringlets, dyed to match her dog's.

“Well, then, you must get one of your own!” she says as we walk down the hall. “Your mother would like that, wouldn't she? And then when she's gone—I know you don't want to think about that, dear … but when she's gone, you won't be all alone.”

Of course I won't tell Mrs. Furley the truth: that it's actually not at all hard for me to think about life without my mother. Maybe I'm a terrible person, but I often imagine this apartment to myself, these rooms that feel so cramped with her furniture, the equipment left over from the last hospitalization (the walker, the bedside potty), not to mention the bottles of pills and the giant-sized bottles of Metamucil that crowd the kitchen counter. It's not scary at all to imagine coming home to silence, to my own space, without Mom and her sitters: Delores on weekdays and Shenille on nights and weekends if I need her. I would miss Delores, with her great laugh and good sense, but sometimes I sit out on my little balcony overlooking the harbor and imagine how it will be when I'm free of them all.

“You don't have to do this,” my friend Ellen said, the last time I complained. “Your mother wouldn't want this for you.”

“I can't put her in a nursing home. I thought I could, but—”

“You deserve a life.”

“I have a life.”

“You know what I mean,” she said. “Like maybe a life with Tony.” Tony is the vet. “I'm beginning to think you're using your mother as an excuse not to make a commitment.”

“Mom has nothing to do with it. We're just taking our time.”

“Bullshit. He's crazy about you. And you know what I think about you and your damn ‘time'? I think you're running out of it.”

Maybe Ellen's right, and undoubtedly Shenille, who's sitting in the living room watching a sappy romantic movie, would agree. She looks up at me, scans my outfit (white silk blouse, black pants, silver earrings), opines, “You're still kind of pretty for your age. Seems like there'd be some nice man out there for you.” Shenille is overly generous with such observations, but she's also very patient with my mother (who once referred to her as “the sweet little white one,” to distinguish her from Delores) so I ignore the comment.

She gives me a brief report on Mom's evening—she ate all her dinner except the broccoli, spilled some juice on her bathrobe (in the dryer now), went to sleep after
America's Got Talent
—and hands me a piece of paper on which she's written a name and a number. “He called right after you left. Said something about a cat case. I told him I didn't expect you back till late, but he kept on talking, about how his mama was crazy. Sounded kinda crazy himself, but I guess you're used to crazy people, with all those divorces you do.” She says ‘divorces' as if it's a nasty word. She's twenty, recently married, and has told me (another unsolicited observation) that she would never, ever get a divorce, because “no judge can divide what God has bound together.” She gathers her purse, her jacket. “Oh, and he said he's a friend of your husband. That's what made me think maybe he had the wrong—”

“He probably meant my ex.”

“He was talking so fast I got confused.” She gathers her purse, her sweater. “See you tomorrow night, Ms. Baynard.”

“I wish you'd call me Sally.”

“But your checks, they say Sarah.”

“Sally's my nickname.”

“Sarah's prettier. Like, more fancy or something.”

*   *   *

I check on my mother, who's sleeping soundly, then settle into bed myself, read until the book falls on my chest, turn off the light, then can't go back to sleep. I miss the vet. I miss the smell of him.

We could have this all the time
, he said last weekend. We were lying in the hammock on his screened porch overlooking the creek, under a blanket because it was chilly. The three dogs—Susie and Sheba, his two golden retrievers, and Carmen, the beagle abandoned by her owner—stayed close, Carmen's tail thwacking the floor contentedly, in rhythm with the hammock.

I have my practice,
I said.
And my mother. This place is too small for the three of us. And what about when your son visits?

Then we'll get a bigger place.

And I'll commute every day?

Or I will. I told you I'd be willing to do that.

That doesn't make any sense. Your clinic's right down the road. It's a perfect setup for you.

He rolled halfway out of the hammock, stuck his foot out to make it stop swinging.
If you don't want it to work, Sally, you can find a hundred reasons why it won't.

I'm just trying to point out—

Spare me the lawyerly logic!

I followed him into the kitchen. The dogs followed, too.
I just want us to take our time,
I said.
I don't want to screw it up.

That's what you say about Carmen.
He poured himself some juice, didn't offer me any.
Here's this wonderful animal—
he reached down, scratched the beagle under the chin—
who needs somebody to love her. You say you want her, but somehow you can never bring yourself to take her home. Do I see a pattern here?

Okay,
I said.
I'll do it.

Which, take the dog, or marry me?

Let's start with the dog,
I said.

He laughed. Thank God he laughed.
One thing at a time, I guess,
he said.
You want to take her tonight?

Not tonight. Soon. I promise.

He pulled me close.
Just don't break this poor animal's heart, okay?

 

Trouble All Over It

Most of the Probate Court is housed on the fourth floor of the new judicial center, but Judge Clarkson's office is in the old courthouse on the corner of Meeting and Broad—“The Historic Courthouse,” they call it—and this seems appropriate for a judge about to retire, who's spent most of his life dealing with the business of the deceased: wills and trusts, testators and executors, the detritus of the dead.

Probate Court is foreign territory for me. I know my way around the Circuit Court and Family Court. In my younger days as a public defender I handled hundreds of criminal cases in the Circuit Court, defending the indefensible. And these days I spend almost all my time in the Family Court. I know its courtrooms and corridors as well as I know my own condo. The clerks and deputies call me Sally. The judges all know me, too. One of them, the Honorable Joseph H. Baynard, is my ex-husband. Once, when a client protested, “You can't possibly understand what it's like to go through this!” I could say, in all honesty,
Yes, I do.
And I knew better than to send her off, after I'd handed her a certified copy of the divorce decree, with a silly “Congratulations!” because I've learned the hard way that this piece of paper might end the marriage, but it doesn't end the sadness.

This morning in the Probate Court I feel like a neophyte lawyer all over again. I don't even know which way to turn when I get off the elevator. It's reassuring, then, when the woman behind the sliding glass window says, “Ms. Baynard, Judge Clarkson's expecting you. He's in his chambers. First door on the left.”

The judge rises slowly from behind his desk, which is almost completely covered by stacks of files. “Old cases,” he says, “going to storage. Time to retire them, like me.” We shake hands. “Baynard,” he says, as if he's taste-testing the name. He has a bulbous nose, outsized ears, a shiny bald head. “You married John Baynard's son. From upstate, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir. Columbia.” No need to go into the divorce if he doesn't remember.

“This cat case … Have a seat.… Thought I'd seen it all until this one. Heard you like animals.”

“I like them, sir, but I'm not sure that qualifies me—”

“Oh, don't sell yourself short.”

“I don't do probate work, Your Honor.”

“I know that. You stay over there in the Family Court most of the time, don't you?” He breathes heavily, as if talking is too much exertion.

“These days, yes sir.”

“Well, that's perfect. Then you know how to handle yourself in a cat fight!” He laughs hard, pats his plentiful belly as if to congratulate himself on being so clever. “Seriously, I hear you don't let anyone push you around.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Heard about that dog case. You managed that one pretty well, I'm told.”

“It sort of settled itself.”

“Anyway, this cat case … very unusual. Ever heard of a pet trust?”

“Like Leona Helmsley?”

“Exactly. She set one up for her dog.… What was its name?”

“Trouble.”

“Right. Anyway,” the judge continues, “I've seen a few of these trusts since the law was passed here in South Carolina. They're usually pretty straightforward, but this one's got trouble written all over it!” Again he laughs, pats his belly. “But mind you, I'm not asking you to do this pro bono. There's plenty of money in it for the trust enforcer.”

“The what?”

His chair squeaks as he swivels around to the bookcase behind him, pulls a volume out, opens the book to a page he's marked. “Here. Section 62-7-408:
Trust for care of animal.
‘A trust authorized by this section may be enforced by a person appointed in the terms of the trust or, if no person is so appointed, by a person appointed by the court.' That's where you come in. The settlor—that's the deceased, Lila Mackay—didn't appoint an enforcer, so I'm going to do that.” He slams the book shut. “You want my set of the Code? Can't even give it away.”

“No, sir, but thank you.”

“I know, all you young'uns do your research on the computer, right?”

“I can't really call myself a ‘young'un' anymore, but yes, I do my research on the computer.”

“Not the same, though,” he says, “as with the books.”

“It's faster.”

“Maybe, but you don't feel the heft.”

“Sir?”

“These books, they've got the weight of history in them. Sometimes you need to feel it. Anyway, as I was saying, since Mrs. Mackay didn't appoint a trust enforcer, I'm going to do that, considering the amount of money involved and the, uh, rather elaborate terms of the trust. Here, I've made a copy for you. Read on down to paragraph 5, and you'll see what our problem is. Burney should have advised her against that, if you ask me.”

“Burney?”

“Her lawyer. Burney Haynes. Had his office out there on Edisto Island, near Lila. Honest fellow, but had no business handling an estate of this size. Never did understand the first rule of practicing law:
Don't mess around with what you don't know.
Dead now, so he can't do any more harm. Take a look at paragraph 5 and you'll see what I mean.”

I read out loud: “‘I hereby appoint one of the following as caregiver for my cat, Beatrice, to be chosen by the Probate Judge at the time of my death or at such time as I may become unable to care for Beatrice myself: Gail Sims, my groundskeeper; Katherine Harleston, Assistant Librarian, Charleston County Library; Dr. Philip Freeman, my nephew; or any other suitable person.'”

“Now,” he says, “does anything strike you as strange about all this?”

“This phrase ‘or any other suitable person.' It's almost like she wanted to make it complicated,” I say.

The judge nods. “Like I said, it's unusual. Keep reading.”

“‘I direct that the chosen caregiver shall reside with Beatrice, during Beatrice's lifetime, at my home, Oak Bluff Plantation, on Edisto Island, South Carolina, and shall endeavor to provide Beatrice with the same lifestyle, routine, and emotional environment as she has become accustomed to in my care.'”

“You see what I mean,” says the judge. “What the hell is a cat's ‘emotional environment'? You can bet old Burney didn't come up with that poppycock—it's got Lila written all over it—but he should have advised her against it.”

“I guess ‘emotional environment' means she wanted the caregiver to love the cat as much as she did.”

“Look at Paragraph 8.… You think fifty thousand dollars a year is enough for loving a cat?”

“Wow. And what's this about some notebooks?”

“She left a box of stuff—I didn't go through it, but it looks like she kept notes on the cat—and those go to the caregiver.” He points to two cardboard boxes on the floor. “I'll have it all delivered to your office.”

“It's an interesting case, but I don't know what you need
me
for. There's a trustee, right?”

“South State Bank, but their role is solely to manage the money. I need someone to choose the caretaker and make sure the cat's properly cared for.”