Lawyer for the Cat, page 12
“I told you, I’m not hungry.”
Before I can say no, he’s poured two glasses of wine, set a plate of cheese and crackers in front of me. “Sit!” he says.
“What?”
“I was talking to the dogs.”
The crackers are stale, the cheese rubbery, but I’m hungrier than I thought. “Who is she?”
“You’re really determined to make a big deal about this, aren’t you?”
“You’re really determined not to answer my question.”
“Jesus, would you give it a rest?” He gets up without touching his wine, heads toward the bedroom, the retrievers following. I finish my flip through the magazine on the table, Veterinary Practice Today. The beagle rests her chin on my knees.
By the time I get back to the bedroom he’s asleep, a book across his chest, the cat with her back against him, paws in the air. Her eyes open for an instant, then close, as if to signal my insignificance. I turn off the bedside light, undress in the dark, slide in beside them. Beatrice turns away. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but I can’t tell if he’s heard me.
* * *
My sleep is deep but troubled. There’s the old, bad dream: me as a child of five or six, at the beach with my parents on one of our rare family vacations. A huge wave catches me off guard, smacks the back of my head and drags me under, spinning me until I can’t tell up from down. Just when I think I’ll surely drown I’m thrown onto the sand. I’m grateful to be alive, but fearful ever after of that vast and unpredictable force.
In the middle of the night I wake to the sound of water running, wonder where I am, remember. He’s in the bathroom. When he comes back to the bed he doesn’t reach for me; from the sound of his breath—a long letting go, more than a sigh—I know he’s turned away.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’m sorry about last night.”
“I guess jealousy is better than indifference.”
“I was just surprised, that’s all. You never told me about any ex-girlfriends.”
“She was my high school girlfriend, a year behind me. We broke up my first semester at Clemson. She’s married, three kids. Lives a mile down the highway. One of her boys was my son’s best friend. When she brought her dog in this morning, she asked if she could leave the car in my parking lot for a few days—it’s a Christmas present for the oldest kid; she wants it to be a surprise. So I said she could keep it over here. You told me to keep a car parked out front, remember?”
“Oh.”
“So that’s it. No drama.” He sits up, against the headboard. “I can’t go back to sleep.”
I touch his hand. “I overreacted. I had a bad day.”
“That’s the problem,” he says. “Does it ever occur to you that I might have a bad day?” I’ve never heard his voice like this. “For example, last night. I was going to tell you, but you didn’t seem interested in anything but your own stuff.”
“Tell me what?”
“My son called. He said he didn’t want to come for Christmas.”
“It happens in a lot of my custody cases, especially with teenagers. In my experience, the best way to handle it—
“I’m not asking for legal advice.”
We’re quiet for a minute. “I know it’s hard.”
“You have no idea how hard. For Jake, mostly.”
“But it’s awful for you, too.”
“I gave in.”
“So he’s not coming?”
“He was supposed to come for two weeks, but he said he wanted to hang out with his friends in California. I said fine, I’ll come out there.”
“Is it because of me?”
“He doesn’t know about you yet,” he says.
“Maybe that’s better.”
“But I was going to tell him before he got here.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything for a while. Until we’re sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“Okay, let’s forget it for now,” he says. “I’ll be gone for a week, give us both a breather.” He slides down next to me. There’s something desperate, this time, about our lovemaking, as if we’re both trying too hard. When we’re finished he holds me until we fall back to sleep, until the sun creeps through the blinds.
“You’re just like her,” he says, pointing to the cat, who’s sitting on the chair next to the bed, observing us.
“How so?”
“You’re more content on your own. It’s not that you don’t enjoy affection, you just don’t need so much of it.”
“And you?”
“I’m more like a dog. I’ll always be bounding up to you with my tongue hanging out,” he says. “Hopelessly needy.”
“Speaking of cats and dogs, who’s going to take care of them … while you’re in California?”
“My receptionist—Maureen—will come over, let them out a couple of times a day, feed them. She’ll look after Beatrice, too, if you’re okay with that.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Friday morning.”
“I’m flying to New York Thursday, to interview Mrs. Mackay’s nephew, so I can’t take Beatrice now, but I’ll be back Friday night. Tell Maureen I’ll pick Beatrice up then.”
“She’ll be fine here if you want to leave her,” he says.
“I just don’t feel right about it, if you’re away.”
“I thought you said you were worried about Delores.”
“Delores won’t be working over the weekend. I can take care of her myself. And once I’ve talked to the nephew, I’m pretty much finished with my investigation, so I can make a decision about Beatrice.”
“I’m going to miss her. Like I said, she reminds me of you.”
“Just make sure you lock the house.”
“The key’s hanging on a nail behind the bush to the left of the front door—remind me to show you before you leave.” He kisses me. “Time for this vet to get to work, I guess.”
I keep him in bed long enough to tell him about my mother and Ed Shand and their improbable reunion. “Wow,” he says. “That’s quite a story.”
“But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. And that poor old guy has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”
“And I guess we’re so much wiser?”
Maybe He’s the One
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say to Gina. She’s in the combination bathroom/storeroom, looking for something in the cabinet where we keep our recently closed files. “You okay?”
“I ran into some traffic on the crosstown, and Rutledge was flooded.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad out there.”
“I wish you wouldn’t mess with this file cabinet,” she says, still rifling through the drawer. “Everything’s out of order.”
“I try not to bother you if I can get something myself.”
“But if you don’t put them back the way they … it just makes more work for me.”
“Which file are you looking for? I have a few on my desk.”
“Okay, I’ll try back there.” She slams the drawer closed, turns around and almost knocks the coffee cup out of my hand. “Shit, would you watch what you’re doing?” she says. And then, just before I’m about to give her the response she deserves, she’s crying, her head collapsing on my shoulder, and I’m hugging her, patting her back. “I’m sorry.… I don’t know what I…” she manages between the sobs.
“It’ll be okay,” I say, without knowing what “it” is. I lead her back to my office, settle her on the sofa, hand her the box of Kleenex.
“Thanks,” she says, dabbing at her eyes. Her face amid the ruin of her mascara would be comical if it weren’t so pathetic. “I guess he’s right—I’m not acting like an adult.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Rick. He says he doesn’t know if I’m ready for an adult relationship.”
“I’d say that’s the pot calling the kettle…” I pause. “You want some coffee or something?”
“I’ll be all right. It was a bad night.” The phone’s ringing, and after a few rings I hear Gina’s sunny voice on the answering machine: Our office hours are nine to five, and we close between one and two. Your call is important to us, so please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. “He’s meeting with Larry Mantel this morning, about a prenup,” she says.
I do my best to act surprised. “That’s what’s got you so upset?”
“It’s not the prenup, exactly,” she says, wiping a black rivulet of mascara off her cheek. “It’s what he said about … I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Tell me what he said.”
“He was explaining why he wants a prenup, and it all sounded reasonable, until he got to the part about women. He said his experience with women has taught him … Let me get this right.… His experience with women is that he needs to protect himself.”
“That sounds like Rick.”
“So I was trying to be understanding, not to overreact, and I asked him to be more specific,” Gina says. “And then he launches into this, this rant, about his mother and his sister, his first girlfriend, a string of other girlfriends who ‘betrayed’ him—that was his word, ‘betrayed.’ And then he got around to his wife. I said something like, well, your wife probably felt pretty betrayed, too, when you left her for that other woman.”
“Good point,” I say.
“Which made him furious. He doesn’t yell, but his face got really red and he just said in this kind of too-calm but really mean voice, ‘That just goes to show you don’t understand me at all.’”
“I think you understand him more than he wants to admit,” I say.
“He can be really nice, and so generous, but I don’t know … it’s like he’s always holding back something.… It’s hard to explain.”
“I think you should trust your instincts.”
“I tried to tell him I would never betray him, but the more we talked the more I had the feeling, no matter how hard I try, I’ll end up disappointing him.” She’s crying again, fingering the diamond on her finger. “We were talking about adopting a kid and everything.”
“Really? His daughter’s in her twenties.”
“Yeah, I know we’re too old, but I’ve always wanted another one, now that Carrie’s all grown up.” The phone’s ringing again. “Anyway, sorry I was such a bitch this morning.”
“I’m here if you want to talk some more.”
“By the way, it was his file I was looking for, but I don’t need it after all,” she says. “You want another cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. Is everything set up for New York?”
“Good to go. I’ll print out your boarding pass. You’re scheduled to meet with Dr. Freeman at ten on Friday morning, his apartment.”
“I thought he was a poet.”
“He was a professor, too, before he retired. So I guess that’s why he calls himself ‘Doctor.’ By the way, I booked you in a really nice hotel,” Gina says. “I figured Mrs. Mackay wouldn’t mind some of her money going to put you up in style. If she can give a cat a whole plantation and a bundle of money, she can at least put you up in a nice hotel, don’t you think? And it’s practically right next door to Dr. Freeman’s apartment building. Speaking of the cat, how’s she doing?”
“She’s at Tony’s house. The dogs don’t seem to bother her. But I’m going to pick her up when I get back from New York. Some weird things have happened.…” I tell her about the note on my windshield, and the one on Tony’s kitchen counter. “I think it’s Randall.”
“God. No wonder you look kind of frazzled. I guess you called the sheriff.”
“Tony’s going to call. But nobody’s hurt, nothing’s stolen, and the cat’s fine, so what are they going to do?”
“It was a burglary, right?”
“Probably not, because there’s no evidence that whoever went in had the intent to commit a crime inside.”
“Then trespassing, at least.”
“Yes, but the sheriff won’t take that too seriously.”
“You want me to keep the cat while you’re in New York?”
“I thought you said you couldn’t have animals in your building.”
“I’m not supposed to, but I could probably get away with it, for one night, anyway.”
“I’d rather not move Beatrice around any more than necessary,” I say. “Tony’s receptionist is going to be going over there a couple of times a day to check on things. If it was Randall, and he wanted to harm Beatrice, he’d have done that already, don’t you think?”
“But haven’t you always said it’s irrational to predict the behavior of irrational people?”
* * *
Ellen’s daughter Mandy seems older than her eighteen years. She’s tall, almost six feet, and she carries herself with a self-assurance that’s unusual for someone her age as she strides down the hallway to my office, blond hair swinging. If she’s gained weight from the pregnancy, it doesn’t show. She declines my offer of something to drink and doesn’t even want to sit down. “I don’t want to waste your time,” she says, her aquamarine eyes unwavering. “I know you’re just doing this for my mother.”
“I was there when you were born, Mandy. I feel like we’re family.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, “but—”
“I drove your mother to the hospital that night. Your dad was out of town.”
“And you’ve been a good friend to Mom,” she says, still standing with her feet planted wide apart, as if she won’t be moved. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with you and Mom.”
I take a chance: “Your mom would be appalled at how rude you’re being. Sit down, would you?”
And she does, though with another exaggerated sigh and then a little smile that says, Okay, I’ll humor you, but don’t take too long. “I just want to make it clear that I’ve made up my mind,” she says.
“Tell me what your plans are, then.”
“I don’t have it all totally figured out yet, but I just know I can handle it,” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, barely audible, which she tries to cover up by talking fast.
“I notice you’re not saying ‘we.’ What about the boy … what’s his name?”
“Peter. He’s eighteen, so he’s not a boy. I can do this without him.”
“I don’t think it’s so easy to raise a child alone.”
She doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking, because I see it in her glare: What the hell do you know about raising a child? “Of course it won’t be easy—I’m not stupid. Listen, I know you’re just trying to—”
“I’m not trying to do anything except make sure you’ve considered all the options, before you make a decision that will affect the rest of your life.”
“I’m not getting rid of it, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Again those steady eyes, so full of determination, so much like her mother’s.
“I’m not suggesting anything, just—”
“And I’m not giving it up for adoption, bringing a baby into the world and then abandoning it.”
“That’s a pretty strong word, don’t you think?”
“But that’s what it is. Walking away, avoiding your responsibilities. I’m not that kind of person.”
“Of course you aren’t.” She’s always been an A student, a star soccer player. Almost too perfect. “But maybe the most responsible thing isn’t to try to take care of a baby all by yourself.”
“I’m not dumb enough to get married just because I … I screwed up.”
“Tell me about Peter.”
“He’s irrelevant, really, at this point.”
“The father is irrelevant?”
“Well, I just mean that we’re not going to be together, that’s all. He’ll have to help with money.”
“He has money?”
“His parents do.”
“But his parents aren’t responsible for his child.”
“I guess not, but once he’s finished college, he’ll be making money.”
“And what about you? What about college?”
“I can take night courses at the College of Charleston when the baby’s a little older,” she says. “Gina was showing me the catalogue. She seems to think I can do it.”
“You know Gina had a baby right after high school?”
“Yeah, she told me. She’s a really cool woman, so easy to talk to.”
“She’s smart as hell, but somehow she hasn’t managed to go back to school.”
“Maybe I’m more determined than Gina.”
“Nobody’s more determined than Gina.”
“Are you really trying to convince me to give my baby to strangers, walk away and never see her again?”
“It’s a girl?”
“I don’t know yet, but I hope so.”
“There’s such a thing as an open adoption, Mandy.”
“A what?”
“The birth mother stays in contact with the child.”
“I never heard of that.”
“Which is my point. I understand you want to be responsible; of course you do. Just make sure you know all your options before you make a decision. Anything else would be irresponsible, don’t you think?” She doesn’t answer. “Okay, I want you to promise me three things before you go. One is, you’ll keep up with your prenatal care. You’ve got an appointment with the obstetrician, right?”
“Yes.”
“Second, you’ll do some research on your options and prepare a summary.”
“But I’ve already made up my mind.…”
“Pretend you’re trying to help a friend who hasn’t made up her mind yet.”
“This sounds really dumb. But okay, I’ll do it.”
“And the last thing is, you’ll come back in a month to talk again.”
“I don’t see why.…”
“I think you owe me one. If I hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night to drive your mother to the hospital, she’d have gone by herself, and you might have been born in the backseat of a car. So, is it a deal?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I’m penciling you into my calendar right now. What day’s best for you?”
