Lawyer for the Cat, page 4
I’d like to write:
Dear Judge Carter,
Your wife and I have reviewed your proposal for settlement of the financial issues arising out of your marriage. Either you have a serious misunderstanding of South Carolina law on the division of marital property and alimony, or your misogyny has affected your judgment. My own experience with you, both in and out of your courtroom, has confirmed your reputation as a womanizer of the worst kind, one who preys on the opposite sex with an attitude of entitlement. Your wife has endured this behavior for years, until, with my assistance, she obtained proof of your adultery.… Your proposal is so absurd that it doesn’t merit a response. You have a choice: Send a reasonable settlement proposal within two weeks of the date of this letter, or we will proceed with discovery and request a trial date. I would also suggest you retain an attorney, since it is clear to me that you need the advice of someone with experience in Family Court.
But of course that’s not the letter I draft. The one I’ll send to Natalie Carter for her approval is thoroughly professional, its tone dry, straightforward, drained of my loathing for her husband. It outlines her contributions as a homemaker, mother, and secretary for his law practice, and includes citations to some relevant cases. The demand of 50 percent of the marital property is standard for a long marriage like this, and the request for alimony is just as reasonable. There’s little chance he’ll accept the offer, or anything close, but I’ll send it so that later I can tell the trial judge, Yes, Your Honor, we made a serious attempt to settle this case early on. Judge Carter rejected it, and we had no choice but to litigate. I believe we’re entitled to an award of attorney’s fees.
Gina brings me a cup of coffee—a rare gesture, and not something I’ve ever asked her to do—along with a stack of phone messages and a file. “Don’t forget the child neglect case this afternoon. That poor baby—”
“I thought the father got a continuance.”
“He did. That was two weeks ago.”
“It’s not on my calendar.”
“You’re looking at November. This is December. If you’d keep your calendar on your iPhone, it would be a lot easier. But don’t worry, I’ve got the file ready to go.”
“You’re wonderful, Gina.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“I’m not being sarcastic.”
“I know you’re still pissed off about the cat,” she says.
“Just don’t take on any more animal cases without asking me, okay?” I open my desk drawer. “But enough about that. Here’s something for you.”
She opens the envelope. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting this much of a bonus.”
“I couldn’t do this job without you, and we had a good year.”
“Thanks. But what’s this?”
“The College of Charleston course catalogue. Check out the night courses.”
“It would take me forever.”
“Six years, maybe.”
“I’d be fifty-six. What’s the point?”
“You have to have a college degree before you can go to law school.”
She laughs. “That’s another three years! Who wants to hire a sixty-year-old lawyer?”
“Maybe another sixty-year-old lawyer.”
“I’ll think about it. By the way, I made the appointment for you, with Gail Sims.”
“Who?”
“The woman who takes care of the Mackay plantation. You’re meeting her tomorrow at noon, at the house. I’ve got directions in the file.… It’s really out in the boonies. Oh, and I almost forgot. Mr. Hart called, said he wondered if you’d like to watch Sherman for a while on Saturday, something about putting their house up for sale. I told him I was sorry, I’d love to do it, but I have the first session with my personal trainer. And you’ll have your hands full with your mom and the cat.… Hey, you’re disappointed, aren’t you!”
“Don’t be silly, he’s just a dog!” But the moment I say this I want to take it back. Sherman looks back at me—black eyes behind heavy brows—from the framed photo on my desk.
“Liar. You keep that picture there like he’s an old boyfriend or something. Maybe the vet should be jealous. Just think,” she says, “if the Harts hadn’t reconciled, maybe you could have kept him.”
“He’s better off with them. I’m not very good at long-term relationships.”
The truth is, I’ve been successful at only one long-term relationship: my twenty-five years with the law. My office is my real home. There’s nothing grand about it, nothing like those oak-paneled lawyers’ quarters with Persian rugs and expensive antique furnishings that announce to all who enter: “The firm of Venerable, August, and Esteemed has prospered here for three generations.” I’ve rented it for ten years now, and because I’m an easy tenant (I know how to deal with a blocked toilet) the landlord has been reasonable about rent increases. I have a reception area that houses Gina’s desk, a printer-copier, some file cabinets, and four chairs; a bathroom that also accommodates the coffeemaker and a shelf for supplies; a conference room that doubles as a library; and, at the end of the hall, my own office, big enough for my desk, a sofa, and two comfortable chairs.
It’s not a perfect situation—third floor, an elevator that rattles and shimmies, no parking for clients. On the hottest summer days, the air-conditioning’s inadequate. If I moved to the suburbs, West Ashley or Mt. Pleasant, I could have a lot more space for less money, maybe even buy a building of my own, but I like being two blocks from the courthouse and having the old city all around me. It gives me a sense of perspective. I have a framed photo on my office wall of Charleston after the Civil War—“The War Between the States,” my mother calls it—with a view of Meeting Street looking south toward Broad. The devastation is horrible: buildings blown apart, rubble everywhere. When I’ve had an especially tough day I look at those ruins and remind myself that it could be a lot worse.
* * *
This afternoon, like every afternoon, the ruins are in the Family Court. This court is always about crumbling families—except for adoptions, when everyone is happy—but today the collapse seems total. This is DSS day, when two of the six courtrooms are set aside for the Department of Social Services to prosecute abuse and neglect cases. The waiting rooms are crammed with parents. The best of them are only adolescents themselves, who have no clue how to take care of a child. For a few of these, the system—a warning from the judge, parenting classes, monthly visits from the social worker—may work the way it’s supposed to, but then there are the repeat offenders: the mother who leaves her toddler locked in the closet while she runs out for cigarettes, the father who smacks his kid hard enough to leave bruises. For these there are no easy fixes. Remove the child from the mom, and he’s bounced from foster home to foster home. Give the dad a second chance, and tomorrow’s headline may be a judge’s nightmare.
Like every lawyer who practices in Family Court, I do my share of these pro bono cases. I’m searching the room for my client when the clerk calls the case: “Department of Social Services vs. Tina White and Alfred Driggers.” It’s a neglect case. Someone called DSS to report that the baby had been left alone. By the time the police arrived the mother had returned, but when DSS sent a social worker in to investigate, he found that the baby was seriously underweight.
I met with Tina White a week ago. She was an hour late for the appointment. “Missed my ride,” she said. I studied her as she answered my questions: thin, pale hands trembling, her face much older than her eighteen years. I’d seen faces like this before. No, she said, she didn’t use drugs, didn’t drink “except a few beers now and then.” The father “don’t come around much ’cause I bug him about the child support.” She admitted leaving the baby alone “for just half an hour while I walked to the grocery store. I didn’t want to wake him up ’cause he had a bad night, bawling his head off.” No, she had no idea why the baby, three months old, wasn’t gaining weight. “He throws up a lot, though. My mother says I was the same way.” While she sat in my office I called the clinic, made an appointment for her to take the child in the next day, got her to sign a medical release, explained what would happen at the hearing. “They can’t take him away from me,” she said before she left, tears trailing down her cheeks. “They got no right.”
And now she doesn’t show up for court. I do the best I can. “Your Honor, she lives in McClellanville. She doesn’t have a car or a telephone. I’m sure she’s on her way; if Your Honor could take the next case on the docket until…” But I don’t sound convincing, even to myself. The father hasn’t shown up either—undoubtedly he’s afraid of going to jail for nonpayment of child support. The guardian ad litem for the baby, a young lawyer who’s pro bono like me, has no choice but to agree with the department’s request for temporary custody, and the judge orders DSS to pick up the child immediately and place him in foster care.
None of this is your fault, I tell myself as I ride the elevator down to the first floor, where I can at least escape the overheated courthouse. It’s almost dark, time to get home to relieve Delores. I’m thinking about what we’ll have for dinner when I hear a familiar voice. “So, you’re not speaking to me?” It’s Joe, my ex.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“Bad day?”
“A DSS hearing. The usual. Depressing.”
“You okay otherwise?”
“No complaints,” I say. Since the dog case we’ve abided by the terms of an unspoken agreement: We won’t talk about anything personal—his marriage, my relationship with Tony.
“Heard you got a cat,” he says, his smile a little wicked. I hate the smile because, despite my best efforts, I still love it. “I promise I had nothing to do with that, but think about it—wouldn’t you rather deal with a cat than your usual client?” Again the smile. “Take care, Sally. And if I don’t see you again before Christmas, have a good one. My best to your mother.”
As I walk back to my office it starts to drizzle, a fine mist fracturing the lights of rush-hour traffic. A car slams on brakes, just missing a man who’s jaywalking. He stops mid-street, curses, loses hold of his umbrella, his briefcase. I retrieve the umbrella, hand it to him. I recognize him—he practices in one of the big firms—but can’t remember his name.
“Thanks,” he says. He brushes the rain off his coat. “You see that? She was going too damn fast!” We part ways. No need to remind him that he was jaywalking, that it wasn’t all her fault.
When I left Joe, he said some things that cut to the quick, like You’re never going to find anyone who loves you like I do. You’re not an easy woman to live with, you know! But looking back, I’m amazed that he remained relatively calm. In fact, the more I think about it—and I do, often—the more I realize that I needed him to be angrier. Instead, he seemed helpless, accepting my decision as passively as he did the life that his family had designed for him. His choice of me as his wife was the one exception to this pattern of acquiescence. It made no sense.
This is one of those afternoons, though, when it’s best not to try to make sense of things: A cat with three million dollars, a baby on his way to foster care. Love, and the mess we make of it.
The Beatrice Box
With her usual efficiency, Gina has sorted the paper contents of Lila Mackay’s box into separate notebooks: “Vet bills,” “Notes,” “Letters,” “Miscellaneous.”
The oldest vet bill is from seven years ago, “Core vaccines, kitten series $45.00,” the most recent three months ago, “Office visit, hip dysplasia. Recommend weight loss. $50.00.” Except for the occasional bout of roundworms and ear mites, Beatrice has been a healthy cat. There’s a letter dated shortly before Mrs. Mackay’s death: “This office will be closing on December 31 due to my retirement. Unless you notify us that you wish your pet’s records sent elsewhere, we will transfer them to Dr. Harriett McCoy in Rantowles. We have enclosed her card for your convenience.”
The notes are more interesting, page after page on white stationery, written in black (I imagine the fountain pen, the jar of ink), a cursive that in the first thirty or so pages is almost too perfect, the lines evenly spaced and very straight. Later the handwriting is shaky, the letters larger; the lines drift upward. In the final pages there are frequent corrections, words and phrases scratched out or put in parentheses with notes above them: “Not right word,” “Need better metaphor,” “Silly?”
Most of the notes are in first person and seem to be a sort of diary, though one only sporadically kept:
I spent most of the day by the fireplace. Too cold for our usual walk. She didn’t go out, either; catching up on her correspondence. Billy stopped to pick up Gail’s check. (She does the work, why does he get the check?)
Another entry:
Delightful afternoon on the piazza. Not too hot. There’s something hypnotic about the Spanish moss swaying back and forth in the breeze. She’s nearby, reading. We are such different creatures, but alike in our inability to trust anyone completely.
Who, I wonder, is this other woman? Is she still alive? Why wouldn’t Mrs. Mackay have chosen her as the cat’s caregiver? But the next note explains it:
Caught a mouse this morning. Was having fun until she took it away. “Not on your diet!” she says.
Mrs. Mackay is writing as if she’s Beatrice, the cat. Maybe she was crazy after all.
I skip to the letters. There are carbon copies of letters written on an old typewriter whose lower-case b and t are off-center. One to the Highway Commission opposing a proposal to widen the highway onto the island, which will require removing some oak trees: “We who live on Edisto consider these trees our cherished friends. Some are three hundred years old. Would it not be wiser and kinder for us to slow down, rather than to cut them down?” A letter to the editor of the Columbia paper, from 1999: “The time has come for us to acknowledge that continuing to fly the Confederate flag at the State House is not done ‘to honor our history’ but to preserve a symbol which is offensive to many. At best, this is an appalling display of bad manners; at worst, it is deliberately cruel.”
Another, from 1990: “My husband loved The Citadel. He served on its Board of Governors and gave generously to support scholarship students. Since his death I have tried to match his generosity, but I can no longer give to an institution which refuses to admit women. When you see fit to change your policy in this regard, I will resume my annual gifts.” Gina has stuck a note on this one: What does this have to do with the cat?
After the carbon copies there’s another stack of letters, undated, all in the same handwriting. The earliest is dated almost thirty years ago:
Dear Lila,
I have given our recent conversation much thought. Of course it was distressing to hear that you are so unhappy. I should not have added to that unhappiness by saying what I did, but surely you know that my feelings about your current predicament are complicated by our history. Whatever you decide to do, please know that I shall always be your devoted friend. Stop by the store when you’re next in Charleston—I’ve made some improvements.
Fondly, Simon
P.S. Under the circumstances, you should probably resist your usual urge to file this away in your “archives.”
I scan the next four letters from Simon. Nothing more about her unhappiness.
Dear Lila,
I will have to decline your invitation to lunch next week, as I am temporarily confined to the apartment. The surgeon (a woman, very smart but, like you, a little dictator) has decreed that I rest, lest I ruin my ankle completely.
So pleased to hear about your new friend. I assume Beatrice likes Dante? (Don’t be so snooty about her lack of pedigree. I thought you were more egalitarian than that.) May she be as loyal a companion to you as McCavity has been to me.
By the way, I’m sure you’ll hear, if you haven’t already, that the bookstore is closing. Soon King Street will be nothing but expensive shops, the same national chains you can find in any sizable town. Shall I venture to say this is one more sign that the world is going to hell, or do I just sound like a bitter old man?
Fondly,
S.
Precious
“Most cats don’t travel well,” Tony had said, and Beatrice seems determined to prove him right, her high-pitched cries starting the minute I put her in the car, becoming louder at each intersection—she doesn’t like moving, but she doesn’t like stopping, either—as I drive south on Highway 17 toward Edisto.
“Settle down, honey,” I say, and she glares at me through the holes in the carrier as if to say, Don’t call me ‘honey.’ But as we leave the heavy traffic behind and cross the Wallace River she’s calmer, her complaints less dramatic, and by the time we turn onto Toogoodoo Road, she’s quiet.
Does she know we’re headed toward Edisto Island? I remember reading about a lost cat who walked two hundred miles to find home. My sense of direction can’t compare: I frequently get lost when I leave the Charleston peninsula, despite instructions from the GPS lady (I finally had to disable the thing; she was driving me crazy). “The reason you get lost,” my ex, Joe, once said, “is that you always want to be somewhere else.” He was right: I was always imagining what it would be like to live somewhere else. Out West, I’d fantasize, or Alaska. “Or maybe you don’t really want to live someplace else,” he said, “you want to be someone else.” And he was right again. “Remember, even if you manage to get a change of venue, you’re still going to be the same old self!”
Edisto is the kind of place, only an hour from Charleston, where I can imagine being someone else. The state highway winds through the country: woodland and marsh, farms, a few houses. Sometimes the road seems about to disappear into the marsh and I’m sure I’m really lost this time, but then I recognize the intersection. Beatrice, on the seat beside me, is lying down but alert, her head erect. When I make the left onto Highway 174 she lets out a long satisfied “meow,” as if to say: Yes, I really am going home!
