Lawyer for the Cat (26 page)

I'd like to slap him. “Your ‘history' together?”

“We were both unhappy in our marriages.”

“Did my father know about it?”

“I don't think so. He never said anything. But your father wasn't one to talk about his emotions.”

“That doesn't mean he didn't have any.”

“I know this is hard for you, but you must have known your parents' marriage wasn't a good one.”

“My mother had unreasonable expectations.”

“Is it unreasonable to expect a thoughtful Christmas present from your husband?” Ed asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“One year, shortly before your mother and I—before we fell in love—he gave her three handkerchiefs for Christmas. He'd picked them up at the dime store on his way home.”

“Daddy didn't believe in expensive presents. We didn't have the money.”

“But
handkerchiefs
? He didn't even bother to wrap them.”

“So how long did the thing between you and Mom go on?”

“Two years, and then when he began to have the heart trouble, she ended it. But we remained friends.”

“Maybe
you
gave him heart trouble.”

He bristles. “That's not fair.”

“It's not just a coincidence that you ended up here in Charleston, is it? In the very same building where my mother lives?”

“As a matter of fact, it
is
a coincidence. Before my wife died, we spent a lot of time in Charleston. She loved the restaurants, the Spoleto Festival, the architecture. She convinced me to buy the condo here, but right after we'd signed the contract she became ill, so she never got to enjoy it. It was sitting empty for a couple of years. I almost sold it, but my daughters were urging me to sell the big house in Columbia, so I decided to move. The change has been good for me. And finding your mother here was a miracle.”

“I want you to stay away from her.”

He retrieves his jacket from the hall closet, throws it over his shoulder. “Since you're such an expert on relationships, I'll let
you
explain to her why I've disappeared.”

*   *   *

When Tony calls it's close to midnight, but I haven't slept. “Any news about the cat?” he asks.

“She's right here. It's a long story. I'll tell you all about it when you get back.”

“So, what are you going to do with her?”

“I've almost made up my mind, but there are some logistics to work out. I'm leaning toward Gail, the caretaker, but she has a fiancé, and they don't want to move into Mrs. Mackay's house. Maybe I can change their minds. If not, does it really matter so much where the cat lives, as long as she's with someone who'll love her and take care of her? That's what matters to a cat, right?”

“That's what matters,” he says. “To cats, to dogs. To everybody.”

“But if Beatrice doesn't end up at Oak Bluff, I'll feel I've let her down.”

“The cat?”

“Yes, but also Lila Mackay. I feel like … it's strange … like she's almost become a friend. Anyway, how's it going—with your son?”

“Better, I guess. We've been talking.”

“Good.”

“He might spend part of summer vacation with me. He can help out at the clinic—that way he won't be just sitting around the house.”

“Good idea.”

“I feel like I'm starting from scratch with him, almost.”

“It's hard when you go for so long between visits.”

“He won't say so, but I can tell he feels like I just dropped out of his life.”

“You're not the one who moved to California,” I say.

“But I haven't been trying hard enough. I have to make him my priority now.”

There's a long silence, the only sound our breathing, then he says: “You weren't ever going to move in with me anyway, were you?”

“I'm trying to work it out, Tony.”

“You've been saying that for quite a while.”

“Didn't you just say you have to make your son the priority now?”

“I didn't mean it
that
way.”

“Let's talk about it later. I hate the telephone.”

“How's the beagle?” he asks.

“She's sleeping with Mom. Seems right at home. She's got this raw place on her leg, though. She keeps gnawing it.”

“Does it look infected?” he asks.

“No, it's just kind of … a place where she's rubbed the hair off.”

“It's probably stress. She's getting accustomed to her new surroundings.”

“She seemed really upset when the cat was missing. Like she knew something was wrong. Sometimes I think we don't give animals enough credit. But she's better now.”

“Okay, I'll let you get back to sleep,” he says. “Take care.”

“You, too.”

After we hang up it feels like the silence is full of things unsaid, and it's only the cat's steady purring that eases me back into sleep.

 

For Old Times' Sake

I'd looked forward to the drive out to Edisto, a morning away from the office. Maybe, I hoped, the cat would do me a favor and ride quietly, distracted by her fake mouse. But Delores called in sick, so now I have my mother in the backseat, with the howling cat, and Carmen in the front with me. Carmen's amazingly calm, resigned to the cat's moods. Or maybe she's just exhausted from the commotion of the past few days. She closes her eyes, rests her chin on her paws. I wish I had her attitude.

“We need to go back to the condo!” shouts my mother.

“But you
like
plantations!” I shout back.

“We forgot Ed!”

“Ed can't come today, Mom.”

In the rearview mirror I watch her face crumple, and then, as we pass Rutledge Avenue, the tears rolling down her cheeks, little rivulets through the makeup she applied by herself, too heavily. I'm thinking I'd better turn around, go back home, call Shenille to see if she can stay with Mom. And then I see him: the old man in the black hat and overcoat, walking with a cane up Gadsden Street. It's Simon Witowski. The wind's blowing hard against him, and just as I pass Gadsden, it lifts his hat and tosses it into the air. He turns to search for it, and something about this—the old man by himself, the hat sailing down the street—convinces me to turn the car around.

“Oh, hello!” he says when I pull up next to him.

“I think it blew into those bushes,” I say, pointing.

“Is that Ed?” asks my mother.

“No, Mom.”

We never find the hat. He was just out taking his morning walk, he says. He tries to get out every day unless it's raining. But it's colder than he realized, so yes, it would be nice to take a little ride; it's been a long time since he visited Oak Bluff. Yes, that would be nice. For old times' sake.

And that's how Simon Witowski ends up in the backseat with my mother, the cat in her carrier between them, quieter now. “She's a gorgeous creature, isn't she?” he says.

“Thank you!” my mother answers, though he wasn't talking about her.

*   *   *

“Lila refused to pave this road,” Simon says as we bump along the dirt road to the house. “She always said she wanted people to slow down, so they would notice the world around them. Look—that's a big one, isn't he?” The buck's antlers catch the sunlight before he darts into the brush.

“We can't stay long,” I explain. “Gail's just meeting me here so that she can lead me to her trailer—we're going to meet her boyfriend there.” But I know my mother will enjoy seeing the house, and Simon has already assumed the role of tour guide.

“Oak Bluff was constructed about 1800,” he says. “By then Lila's great-great-grandfather, who built it, had gotten rich off sea island cotton, a variety that was only grown on the islands of South Carolina, Georgia, and northern Florida.” I stop the car, and before I know it, Simon's helping my mother out, a maneuver he somehow accomplishes while leaning on his cane. “There's a story that the Pope's garments were made from Edisto Island cotton. “

“The Pope was here?” asks my mother.

“No, but the Marquis de Lafayette was entertained at a plantation just down the road,” says Simon. “Of course, the wealth would not have been possible without slavery. All the planting and the picking was done by hand. It was backbreaking labor.” He looks down toward the river. “Lila loved this place, and she could be sentimental, but she was also an expert on its history. I think it haunted her.”

Beatrice knows she's home. With a shrill “meow” she demands to be let out of the carrier. “Not yet,” I say, lifting it. “Wait till we get inside.” Carmen's already bounded out of the car, and we wait while she relieves herself behind a camellia bush. “Okay, honey,” I say to her, “if you behave yourself, you can come in, too.”

There's a fire in the fireplace on the ground floor, a stack of wood at the end of the hearth, and Lila's old quarters have been swept and dusted, the books removed from the long table behind the sofa and put back on the bookshelves, the papers organized in neat stacks on the desk. “Ah,” says Simon, “she loved this room in winter. So much cozier than the ones upstairs.” There's something simmering in a pot on the stove, but Gail's not in the kitchen. I settle Simon and Mom on the sofa in front of the fire, the cat in Simon's care.

The beagle follows me up the stairs. Gail's in the dining room, sorting through the papers on the long table. “Oh, I didn't hear you come in,” she says, and when she turns toward me I see the purple bruise around her eye, the red mark across her cheek.

“What happened?”

She touches her face. “Billy.”

The story she tells is a variation of the one I've heard in my office a hundred times:
This isn't the first time, but it's the worst. I've finally made up my mind.
She hopes it's okay that she's been staying here for a few days. “He was lying to me the whole time,” she says. “He has a wife and two kids in North Charleston. The trailer belongs to
her.
I guess
she
had enough sense to get away, too.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “You should get a restraining order.”

“He won't bother me anymore,” she says. “Not after what I did to him.” He'd chased her around the trailer, pushed her against the refrigerator, “but I grabbed a saucepan off the stove. It wasn't hot or anything, but I hit him pretty hard. For a minute I thought I'd killed him … and you know what? I wasn't even sorry. It was like … when he came to, he had this whole different look on his face, like he finally understood he wasn't going to mess with me anymore. And you know what else? Since I been here, it's almost like she … It's hard to explain, but I feel like Lila's here with me, that's she's proud of me.… Where's Beatrice?”

“Downstairs. I brought my mother, and an old friend of Lila's. I hope that's okay.”

“Sure.”

“The house looks great, by the way. You've been doing a lot of work.”

“I just thought, as long as I was here I might as well.… And I was thinking that when the weather warms up a little I can start painting the outside. But if you've found someone else, I can be out tomorrow.” She touches the bruise again. “My sister lives up in Summerville; she has an extra bedroom.”

“Before I drove out here I felt you were the best choice, but I was concerned that you didn't want to live here. But if you've changed your mind, that's ideal. It's what Lila wanted—for Beatrice to live here.”

“So I can stay?”

“As long as you're willing to take on the responsibility.”

“I feel like … like it's kind of an honor. To be chosen.”

“What about your other cats?” I remember what Tony said about cats being territorial.

“Billy wouldn't let me take them. He's nicer to them than he is to me.”

“So, you feel okay about staying here alone? What about the ghost?”

“It's funny, since I been here—since I got away from Billy—I'm not afraid of anything anymore. And I won't be alone. I'll have Beatrice.”

“Come downstairs and meet Lila's old friend, Simon Witowski.” But I hear Simon and my mother across the hall, in the living room, and Beatrice, loosed from her carrier, has found Gail.

“Good heavens!” Mom says, peering into the living room. “This place could certainly use a decorator!” She's breathless from the climb.

Simon's at one of the big windows. “Look, Margaret,” he says, his arm on her elbow again, “from here you can see the river, and beyond that … see?… the ocean.”

But Mom is busy surveying the room. “It could be a showplace, but it would take a lot of work,” she says. “And even if we could afford it, the problem is finding good help. These days it's almost impossible to find good help. So I think it might be too much for us, don't you?”

Simon's response is perfect: “You're right, Margaret. It would be too much. But we can enjoy the visit, can't we?”

“And besides,” she says, “my daughter says there's a ghost.”

“There's a ghost, all right,” says Simon. “But he's a friendly one. He was in love here, and though it turned out badly for him, he keeps coming back—looking for her, hoping she'll change her mind.
I'm
the ghost.”

“But you're not dead!” she says.

“It's the ghost of my younger self,” he says. “He's a dreamer. He just won't give up.”

 

Watching the Tide Go Out

We should have a Christmas party,
said Mom, and I said
Maybe,
hoping she'd forget, but these days her brain's a grab bag: She'll reach in and pull out a surprise, often a story from decades ago, less often something that happened recently, and more and more, something that hasn't happened at all. She'll insist that someone has stolen her diamond necklace, though she's never had a diamond necklace, or she'll tell me she needs to take her Cadillac in for repairs, though it was Ed Shand's wife who had the Cadillac.