by Nic Saint
And so it was with a modicum of indulgence that I witnessed the events that morning: a long line had formed outside the bathroom and there was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth going on. Odelia was there, of course, still in her pajamas, and also Chase Kingsley, Odelia’s husband, also in his pajamas. In fact when I looked more closely I noticed that all of the humans standing in line outside the bathroom were dressed in their pajamas: apart from Odelia this small gathering consisted of Odelia’s dad Tex Poole, and also her mom Marge.
Tex was pounding on the door of the bathroom with his fist and saying things like ‘Hurry up!’ and ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ and ‘It’s been over an hour!’
“What’s going on?” asked Dooley as he came tripping up. He’d enjoyed a leisurely time at the foot of Odelia’s bed, as I had, and was wondering what all the fuss was about.
“Gran is in there and she’s taking too much time,” I explained. “Or at least the others all seem to think she’s taking too much time.” Personally I’m not sure how much time a human needs to get ready in the morning. I’m not a human, you see. I’m a cat, and cats don’t use bathrooms to get ready. In fact you might even say that cats were born ready: we don’t need showers, or to wash our hair or even use a blow-dryer to dry that same hair—silly things, by the way, blow-dryers: first you make your hair wet and then you make it dry again. In other words an exercise in futility as far as I can tell. But what do I know?
“What is Gran doing?” asked Dooley.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But whatever she’s doing, they all agree it’s taking too long.”
“How much time does a human need to get ready in the morning, Max?” my friend asked, posing the question that had been on my mind ever since this story had begun. You see, Marge and Tex and Gran used to live in their own house, and their bathroom issues weren’t my issues, as I live with Odelia and Chase, next door from Odelia’s parents. Only Gran had hired a contractor who promised to build her a new kitchen, but instead of building a kitchen this contractor had managed to tear down the whole house, and as a consequence a new house had to be built, and in the meantime the Pooles had moved in with their daughter and their daughter’s new husband Chase.
“I think it all depends,” I said. “Chase usually takes about ten minutes. Odelia needs at least half an hour, but Gran has been in there an hour… and counting.”
“So…” Dooley made a few quick calculations in his mind, “before all of our humans are ready in the morning, it’s going to take… at least half a day?”
“Not half a day,” I said with a laugh. “That would be ridiculous.”
“No, but there are now five adult humans living in this house, and there’s only one bathroom, so if my calculations are correct it’s going to take them an hour and a half to get ready. So if they want to be at work on time, they’ll have to get up at…” More mental acrobatic feats were involved here, and plenty of frowning, but finally the answer rolled from my friend’s lips: “Six!”
“Earlier,” I said. “They also need to have breakfast, and you need to take into account travel time and time to get dressed. So better make that five.”
“They’ll never make it in time,” he said with a look at the queue.
Also, Tex was now dancing on one leg, obviously in urgent need of the bathroom for other purposes than simply making sure that his corpus was cleansed of whatever dirt that had accrued there during the night—which is another mystery I won’t touch upon here for lack of space: how do humans get dirty simply by spending time sleeping?
“We need a second bathroom,” now Marge announced. “This can’t go on like this.”
“We could always use the porta-potty the workers next door use,” Odelia suggested.
“I don’t think it’s fair to use their porta-potty,” said Odelia’s mother.
“We don’t need to use any porta-potty,” said Tex, his face having turned a vivid scarlet at this point. “All we need is for ONE person in this household to be LESS SELFISH!”
As he said this—or shouted, to be exact—he gave the bathroom door another healthy pounding with his fist.
“Hold your horses,” said Gran, suddenly opening the door and appearing onto the scene. Her white hair was in curlers, and her cheeks glowing a healthy pink. “Can’t a lady have a moment of privacy around here?” she grumbled as she trounced past the line of wannabe bathroom-goers.
“A moment!” Tex cried. “You were in there at least one hour!”
“Has it been that long?” said Gran airily. “How quickly time passes when you’re having fun.”
“What were you doing in there?” asked Marge suspiciously.
“Look, I perfectly understand that you young people get ready lickety-split, but us older folks need a little more time to give mother nature some assistance. We can’t all roll out of bed in the morning looking fresh as a daisy. For some of us it takes work.” She then cast a doubtful eye at Tex. “Though you better take your time, Tex. One hour isn’t going to cut it.”
And having delivered this barb, she was off in the direction of the guest bedroom that was her momentary home. A home she now shared with Marge and Tex.
Not an ideal situation, I think you’ll agree.
Tex was rolling his eyes. “And here I thought things couldn’t get any worse,” he said. “As if living under the same roof with that woman wasn’t enough, now I have to live under the same roof with her in the same room!”
“It’s just for a couple of weeks, honey,” said his wife of twenty-five years. “Soon the new house will be ready and we’ll have all the space we need.”
“Let’s hope so,” Tex grumbled, and since the others were so courteous to let him go in first, he made haste to close the door behind him and moments later the line had been reduced from four to three waiting adults.
“If it’s really urgent you can use my litter box,” Dooley said helpfully to Marge, who, like her husband before her, was now dancing on one leg.
“Thanks, Dooley,” said Marge with a tight smile. “That’s very kind of you. But if it’s all the same to you I prefer to do my business on a regular toilet.”
We followed Gran into her room, and saw that she’d gotten dressed in her usual tracksuit, this one a purple specimen with red stripe. “Where are you going, Gran?” asked Dooley curiously.
Humans are such a strange species, they never fail to amuse and entertain. And it is always with great interest that we watch their daily shenanigans.
“Today I’m going golfing,” said Gran proudly.
“What’s golfing?” asked Dooley.
“Golfing is where you hit a little white ball with a stick and try to make it land in a hole,” I explained.
He stared at me. “And what’s the point?”
“That, I do not know,” I had to admit.
“It’s a sport,” said Gran, who apparently had read up on this strange pastime. “In fact it’s the perfect sport: you don’t overexert yourself, as in some of these weird and exotic sports like jogging, and your eye-hand coordination gets a real kick out of it, which is never a bad thing, especially when you’re my age and things start to go a little haywire.”
“Can we come?” asked Dooley, whose interest had been piqued by this enthusiastic endorsement.
“I don’t think so, Dooley,” said Gran. “No cats allowed on the golf course, I’m afraid.”
“But why?”
“They don’t need us there,” I said. “They prefer to dig their own holes.”
“That’s right,” said Gran. “Besides, a golf course can be a dangerous place for cats. Those balls fly around at dizzying speeds, and if one should hit you in the face, it’s bye-bye, birdie.”
I shivered. The prospect of getting hit in the face by a ball didn’t exactly hold a lot of appeal to me, and I was glad Gran was so considerate. “Have a good time,” I said therefore.
“Break a leg,” said Dooley.
“I hope not,” said
Gran. “But first things first. Let’s have breakfast.”
I gave her two thumbs up. Or at least I would have, if I’d had thumbs.
Chapter Two
Things were a little hectic in the kitchen. In a corner of the room the television was blaring away, a newscaster announcing the happy return of one of Hampton Cove’s favorite sons: the world-famous golf pro Carl Strauss, who was playing a tournament in town a week or so from now, and was staying at his beachside mansion, one of the many homes the successful sports star owned. Unfortunately for Mr. Strauss the reporter seemed more interested in the golfer’s private life than in his sporting achievements, as rumor had it that he was on the verge of yet another divorce, already his fourth.
“I had a great idea,” Gran suddenly announced as she nibbled from a piece of buttered toast.
“God help us,” Dad muttered, taking a sip from his cup of piping hot black coffee. The entire family was seated at the kitchen counter, and frankly Odelia was happy to have her parents and her grandmother staying with them, even though it wasn’t exactly the most practical solution. Still, it reminded her of the time when she was still living at home, only this time her parents had moved in with her and not the other way round.
“Wait till you hear my idea before you start with the comments,” Gran snapped.
“And what is this brilliant idea of yours, pray tell?” asked Dad.
“Well, we’re building a new house, right?”
“No thanks to you,” Dad couldn’t help but add.
“Let’s not go there again, Tex,” said Mom, always the peacekeeper in the family.
“So I was thinking, if we’re building a new house anyway, why not make a few modifications?”
“What modifications,” asked Dad suspiciously.
“Why don’t we build an extra floor? Or maybe a couple extra floors? After all, once you’ve got your contractor nailed down, and your architect, it’s not going to cost you a lot more money to add a few more walls and windows.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Mom, as she took a tentative spoonful of oatmeal pudding and nodded appreciatively, giving her daughter a nod of approval.
“Well, if we build another three or four extra floors, we can rent them out and make some extra money is what I was thinking.” When Dad started protesting, she held up her hand and yelled over him, “It’s sound business sense, Tex!”
“It’s impossible,” said Chase, shaking his head.
“Another naysayer,” said Gran acidly. “See what I gotta deal with?” she asked her granddaughter. “One person in this family who’s got all the brilliant ideas, and a bunch of negative nellies who can’t wait to tear ‘em down. So please tell me why it’s impossible?”
“Because local zoning ordinances won’t allow you to build those extra stories.”
“And why is that?”
“Because. You can’t build an apartment block in this neighborhood—you just can’t.”
“Says who?”
“Says the zoning laws!”
“I’m afraid Chase is right, Ma,” said Mom. “You can’t build apartments here. It’s not allowed.”
“I don’t get it. It’s our land. Why can’t we build whatever we want to build on it?”
“Because you just can’t, all right!” Dad exploded.
“It’s to do with urban planning,” Odelia explained for her grandmother’s sake. “If everybody just built whatever they wanted, things would quickly look a mess. This is a neighborhood of family homes, and an apartment block will stick out like a sore thumb.”
“And our neighbors would complain it blocks their view,” Mom added. “Or that the sewage system or electric grid or the water supply wasn’t built for all those extra units. And so it needs to stay the way it was originally planned by the zoning commission.”
Gran’s face had taken on a mulish look, and she said, “We’ll see about that.”
“No, we won’t,” said Dad. “I don’t want to live in an apartment. I want to live in my own house, and not have to deal with a bunch of tenants.”
“What you’re really saying is that you don’t like money, Tex,” Gran pointed out.
“I don’t want to be a landlord!”
“See? You don’t like money. But I do, and I think I can make this happen.”
Dad made a scoffing sound and returned to reading his newspaper.
“No, I think I can. It’s all about making the impossible possible, and that’s what I’m all about.” She took another bite from her toast then dropped it on her plate. “I’m going golfing, and while I’m at it I’m going to be networking the hell out of all of those movers and shakers. I’m bound to hit on someone on that zoning thing who’ll be only too happy to give me the permit I need.” She wagged her finger in her son-in-law’s face. “I’m gonna be winning friends and influencing the hell out of those people. Just you wait and see.”
The moment she was gone, the four remaining members of the Poole family all shared startled looks.
“You don’t really think she’ll do it, do you?” asked Dad.
“I’m afraid she just might,” said Mom.
“But I don’t want to own a bunch of apartments,” said Dad. “I just want to have my own home back, just the way it was before it got destroyed.”
“And you will,” said Mom. “No way is she going to get permission to build an extra couple of floors. And besides, even if she did, we’re the owners, honey. My mother can’t apply for a permit without our permission.” She cast an uncertain look at her daughter. “Can she?”
“I’m not sure,” said Odelia. “She’s not a co-owner, is she?”
“No, she’s not,” said Dad decidedly. “She may live with us, but we never signed anything over to her. We’re the owners, so she doesn’t have a say in this—none.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” said Chase, always the voice of reason in any family crisis. “First off, she’ll never get permission, not without the say-so of the owners of the house, and not without the council breaking its own zoning laws, and secondly, if by some small miracle she does manage to get a permit somehow, you’ll simply put a stop to it as soon as she does.” He shrugged. “Who’s paying the bills for this renovation? You or she?”
“Why, we are, of course,” said Dad, looking a little less glum already.
“See? Problem solved. It’s the person who controls the purse strings who decides.”
“Though it would be nice to make some extra money,” said Mom suddenly, causing her husband to give her a startled look.
“Not you too!” he cried.
Mom smiled and patted her husband on the arm. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m kidding!”
Dad put his hand to his heart and said, “I think I just had a heart palpitation.”
“Do you want me to get you a doctor, Dad?” Chase quipped.
But Dad wasn’t smiling. In fact he looked like he always did when Gran came up with another one of her cockamamie ideas. And somehow Odelia had a feeling the fever hadn’t yet passed. And it wouldn’t pass until the house that Mom and Dad were building had actually been built—which hopefully would be very soon!
Chapter Three
We were in Odelia’s office, far removed from the hubbub that tends to engulf the Poole family. Usually Harriet and Brutus were also in there with us, but unfortunately the white Persian and her black mate had left us for calmer climes in the form of the home of Marge and Tex’s next-door neighbors the Trappers, and now resided with them—or at least I think they did, as I hadn’t seen much of our two friends since they’d moved on.
Odelia was slaving away at her computer as usual, working on some article for the Hampton Cove Gazette, and Dooley and I were resting peacefully in a corner of the office, where Odelia had organized a fun cozy little nook for us to do what we do best: nap!
Suddenly the door to the office opened and a woman entered whom I’d never seen before. She was stylishly dressed, stylishly coiffed, and was als
o very tall, with long legs clad in nylon stockings under a short black skirt. All in all she reminded me of a model.
Odelia looked up from her computer and gave her new visitor a smile. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure,” said the woman, and laughed an uncertain laugh, then took a seat at the desk. “A friend of mine says you’re the person to see when you find yourself in some kind of big trouble—and I’m definitely in big trouble.”
“What trouble would that be, Mrs…”
“Barn. Erica Barn, though for the last three years I’ve gone through life as Erica Strauss.”
Odelia blinked. “Strauss as in…”
The woman nodded. “I’m Carl Strauss’s wife.”
“He’s a golfer,” I whispered for Dooley’s sake.
“A golfer? You mean like Gran?”
“Exactly like Gran. Though I don’t think Gran is in Carl Strauss’s league. Mr. Strauss is a professional golfer, which means he plays golf for a living.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s the best. At least when he’s not running around cheating on the woman he happens to be married to at the moment.”
We both turned to Mrs. Erica Barn, who appeared to be the latest Mrs. Strauss—or rather the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Strauss if I interpreted her words correctly.
“I want to divorce Carl,” said Erica Barn, “only he doesn’t want to.”
“Your husband doesn’t want a divorce?” asked Odelia, obviously surprised.
“He says he still loves me and wants to give our marriage another chance. Only I don’t want to give it another chance. As far as I’m concerned I’ve given it too many chances already, and every time Carl has let me down. So I’ve decided that enough is enough.”
“I think if you really want to divorce Carl there’s nothing he can do to stop you.”
