Lawyer for the Cat, page 20
“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.
But she didn’t forget my Maybe, and somehow it morphed into this gathering, the first party I’ve had since I moved to the condo. The guest list started small—Delores, Shenille, Ellen and Hank, Gina, Tony, Gail Sims, and Simon Witowski—but then took on a life of its own.
Delores is here with her friend from the choir, a tall, balding baritone with a nice smile. Shenille brings her sister, makes up some excuse about why her husband can’t come. My old law school friends, Wendy and Valerie, are here, too, with their husbands, because Ellen said, If it gets back to them that you had a party, they’ll be really pissed.
But it isn’t really a party, I’d said, just a few people, because my mother won’t let it go.
As long as you’re doing it, she’d continued, you might as well do it right. What’s the difference if you have to wash a few more plates and glasses? And why don’t you get someone to cater it so you can enjoy yourself? What about that guy at Harris Teeter, your old client? He’d love to do it.
Gina and Mandy arrive together. I hadn’t included Mandy on the original list because I wanted Ellen to have a night off from worrying about her, but Gina had said, She’s just moved in. I’d feel bad about leaving her alone right now. So here’s my secretary getting a drink for Mandy, declining Donnie’s offer of champagne: “She’s pregnant. Do you have some ginger ale?”
When I’d called Gail, she asked if she could bring Simon. He sent me the nicest letter, telling me how happy Lila would have been that Beatrice is in good hands, she said. He’s not too happy about moving into that retirement place. I was thinking maybe he could spend a weekend out here every now and then. I come into Charleston sometimes, you know, and I could pick him up. I’d like the company, and Beatrice … Beatrice adores him. And maybe he could keep some of his books here. He doesn’t have room for them where he’s going. If it’s okay with you.
Sure, I’d said. That would be nice. And Gail, you don’t need my permission to have guests. You’re in charge now.
I’ll bring Beatrice, too—to the party, I mean. I don’t like to leave her by herself for too long.
Mrs. Furley is here, without Curley, the poodle. “Oh, I didn’t know this was a pet-friendly party,” she says when she sees the beagle and the cat. Right behind her is Minh Basilier, minus his stethoscope. I make the mistake of introducing him as Dr. Basilier, and immediately Mrs. Furley is consulting him about her arthritis.
There are absences. Joe Baynard sent his regrets, though I hadn’t intended to invite him. Mom saw him at church and blurted out that we were having a party, so I had no choice. It was nice of you to include us, he e-mailed, but Susan and I are taking the boys skiing over Christmas. He’s disappointed that I haven’t agreed to help him with his campaign for the circuit judgeship.
Tony calls in the middle of the party, says he’s sorry, he’s had a tough day at the clinic, he’s exhausted. “I understand,” I say. I’ll call him tomorrow, suggest we meet for dinner. I’ve known for a while now what I need to say, though I’m not quite sure how. I only know it’s not the kind of thing you should say over the telephone.
For a while I’m worried that Ed Shand won’t show—I’ve promised Mom he’s coming—but here he is, with a bottle of wine and a present for her, beautifully wrapped. It was Delores who made me reconsider. You think real hard before you break her heart—you hear me? Her mind’s a mess, but she’s still got her heart.
* * *
Ann Wilson, the new probate judge, signed the Final Order in the Mackay case this afternoon. I have a certified copy for Gail, and I’ll send another one to Randall Mackay, with a letter:
Dear Mr. Mackay:
I’ve completed my duties as enforcer of your mother’s trust. I’m enclosing a certified copy of Judge Wilson’s Order. You will see that I’ve chosen Gail Sims as caregiver for Beatrice. As you know, under the terms of the trust, the cat’s caregiver will reside at Oak Bluff so long as Beatrice is alive.
As I’m sure you will understand, my role as trust enforcer has been to fulfill your mother’s wishes as set forth in the trust, not to substitute my judgment for hers.
I want to remind you that upon Beatrice’s death, you will have possession of Oak Bluff, provided, of course, that you do nothing to harm the cat. Your friend Simon Witowski, who knows you far better than I do, assures me this warning is unnecessary, but I can’t conclude my work on this case without reiterating it.
I am enclosing a little book your mother kept, which I think may interest you. This “diary” was included in the box of things she left relating to the trust. At first I had difficulty understanding it, because it is told from Beatrice’s point of view. I can only guess why your mother did that. Perhaps she was merely trying to imagine what it’s like to see the world through another creature’s eyes. Perhaps she had difficulty expressing her feelings, and it was easier to write from behind a mask. If you look at the page I’ve marked, you’ll see some evidence for this latter theory.
Sincerely,
Sarah Bright Baynard
This is the paragraph I’ve marked, written in Lila’s shaky hand:
I’m sitting beside her on the dock, at sundown, watching the tide go out. “When I was a girl,” she says, “I thought life was like the tides, the water going out but always coming back in, the losses always replenished. I was mistaken.”
I’m a lucky cat. She loves me with all her heart, but when she takes me in her arms, as she does this evening, I feel, in a strange way, that I’ve profited from her mistakes, that I’m the beneficiary of her regrets.
But enough of that—it’s almost dark, and time for dinner! She’ll tell me I’m too fat, then fill my bowl to the brim.
Also by Lee Robinson
Lawyer for the Dog
Gateway
