by Clea Simon
“Pussums! Here.” That one was directed toward me, as Rose scooped up a delicate white cat with one hand and pushed her into my arms. The plume of a tail brushed my face. “Let’s go sit down.” A rumbling silver tabby twining around her ankles, she directed me to one of two cat-friendly overstuffed sofas that faced a wall of cages, where those animals in isolation could still keep some company.
“How are we doing here?” I settled into the soft, floral chintz, so slick it’s almost a claw-resistant fabric, the white cat already starting to knead my lap. Rose made the rounds. Two females slept in the cages, one very pregnant, and Rose reached in to stroke her fine arrow-shaped head. “Sixty days, just a week more to go,” she told me, reaching around the supine puss to check her litter box and water dish. For Rose, the felines came first, but I was a little surprised when she settled onto the other, somewhat tattered sofa and asked, “Now, where were we?”
“Well, we were hiding out because somebody was watching your house and had threatened you.”
“Oh, my. Yes.” She looked down and the silver tabby jumped into her lap. I could hear him purring as he started to knead; she was silent. I let her be. This had got to be difficult to talk about. Rose was only about twenty years or so older than me, but she had the makings of a timid old lady in her already. And a phone call like that was scary. Threatening on the most basic level. I watched her breathe and pet the cat until his eyes closed in bliss. Stroking the milky beauty on my own lap, I waited for my friend to gather her reserves.
“You know, dear, I think I overreacted.”
I must have jerked upright in my shock, because the white Angora hopped to the floor.
“Wait a minute, Rose.” The change in her behavior didn’t make sense. “Could we back up a bit, here?”
“Well, you know, Halloween is in less than two weeks. I have cats, and, well, I’m thinking that it wasn’t anything. Some of the neighborhood kids doing a prank call.” She was looking down at the cat she was petting. I wanted to see her eyes.
“Rose? Are you serious? That call sounded pretty scary to me.” I had no way of knowing if it was real or not. And, well, single ladies with cats were subject to a higher degree of neighborhood pranks than other homeowners were. But still.
“If you really think it was a prank, why all the secrecy about me coming over? Why were you hiding in the bushes?”
“Oh, I’ll admit it got to me.” She looked up now, her dark eyes wrinkling into a smile. “How silly of me.” She waved the fear away. “But waiting for you out there behind the holly, I began thinking. This is so much fuss. Why would they come after me of all people? I don’t have a lot of money. I’m what you’d call pretty small potatoes in the show biz. Though I do love my pussums, yes I do!” She held the supine silver tabby up to her face and kissed its sleek forehead. The cat, clearly used to such treatment and unfazed by her wig, hung bonelessly until she put him down, at which point he readjusted his position in her ample lap and started washing his face. “And I decided, it’s got to be a prank. It’s just too silly, and I’m sorry I ever brought it up. So you’re not to worry about it anymore, because you’ll just embarrass me. Now tell me, dear, about this article of yours. What do you want me to say?”
“But, Rose, even making a call like that is a bad thing, maybe even a crime. I’d be happy to look into it.” I wasn’t sure how, but it seemed wrong to let it drop.
“Nonsense, dear.” The hand stroking the silver tabby looked as calm as the cat, and her smile seemed real. “Now let’s talk about your article.”
“You’re sure?”
She gave her most definitive judge’s nod. “I am.”
“Well, if you’re positive….” I let the sentence hang between us. But she just smiled and nodded once again.
“Yes, dear. Now tell me about this story.”
There wasn’t any way to get her back to talking about the threat after that, and who was I to say she was wrong in dismissing it? So I took out my pad and we spent the next hour discussing her new role in the ring, as she taught me what judges are trained to look for and how they score the contestants. Rose was a good teacher. Giving frequent illustrations using the animals at hand, she began to show me the science in what I’d considered a minor sport. The length of a tail, the ratio of a leg to a torso, all became more obvious as she had me lift first one feline and then another. All were lighter than Musetta, but despite their relative lack of substance, I found myself beginning to appreciate their slim elegance and silky coats. More important, I began to recognize the distinctions in fur and body configuration for which these graceful and ancient cats had been bred.
“I’d love to see you in action.” I placed one docile subject back on the floor so I could write up what Rose had just shown me. I wasn’t lying: while explaining the fine points of feline conformation, the petite older woman seemed to grow. Calmer, more in charge, my round little friend lost that tension that had her balled up tight earlier, making her seem smaller and older. Even her hair seemed more natural, more relaxed as she stepped into the role of Madame Judge.
“Come by this weekend. I’ll be judging the premiers around three.” She handed me two passes to the Fine ’n’ Fancy cat show, which I gathered was happening in a downtown hotel ballroom. Wondering what the regular hotel guests would make of that, I tucked the tickets into my pockets.
“Thanks, I’ll try to work some of it into my piece. So, tell me, do you ever get bit?” Despite all I was learning about form and fur that, I figured, would be my editor’s first question.
“It happens, but temperament plays a role in the judging, too.” Rose was all business again, the lecturer to a willing audience. “Most show cats are handled literally from the day they are born.” She reached for another cat to make her point, hefting the young female into the air by her middle. “It makes them docile and used to being picked up. A badly socialized cat is not going to have a successful career in the ring. Nor, may I add, will it make a happy pet. No, when I do get bit, I take a long, hard look at the owner. There’s something not right when that happens, and it sure isn’t the kitty’s fault. Is it, my sweet little Pussums? Not right at all.” She held the young cat to her face and I realized, scribbling furiously, that she was no longer talking to me.
Chapter Five
Despite my pad full of notes, I wasn’t satisfied when I left Rose’s. The way she had dismissed the threat made sense: a prank call certainly seemed more likely than extortion, a demand for “protection money.” Her business was small, the profits so marginal I couldn’t understand why anyone would target her. What bothered me, however, was her fear and sudden reversal. She’d sounded honestly shaken up at first, and then her conversion back to her regular self had happened so quickly. Something was off, and I couldn’t figure out how to get at it.
Even after the interview part of my visit, when we’d reverted once again to friendly chit chat, a strange distance—almost a formality—kept me from asking once more about the strange call and her reaction. Maybe it was simply that I was writing about her; being the subject of a story does tend to make people put on their company manners. Maybe she was embarrassed by her earlier panic. I didn’t know how to bring the subject up again, and the differences between us, her age and what seemed sometimes like frailty, as well as the brevity of our friendship made me hesitant to push. She was a tiny woman, alone, and it could be that she needed her dignity more than my support.
Still, I was uneasy and as I pulled into a space right by my building, I made a promise. I’d call Rose in a day or two, and see her at the cat show. If my friend seemed “off” in any way, if she had any second thoughts then—or if she’d gotten any other calls like that first one—I’d call Bill. He worked homicide, but he’d know someone who would be gentle with my skittish friend.
Making a mental note to follow up, I put the thought aside and opened my apartment door to find a blinking “4” on the answering machine. Since losing my cell phone, I’d realized how
unneccesary that constant companion had been. And how expensive. So I’d decided not to replace it, and canceled voice mail as well, resurrecting this old machine with great results. When you’re single, there’s nothing like seeing proof of life in the form of a blinking message light. Now if only all the messages weren’t from telemarketers, I’d be in luck.
“Hey, Theda. I’ve got some good news. Call me!” The distinctive lilt of my old friend Bunny promised that the news would be good, and I smiled. I’d gotten out of the habit of calling Bunny since she and Cal had moved in together. But despite their cocooning, or maybe because of it, they were great pals for a single gal. Weekends in particular were cozy in the small Allston apartment they’d made into their love nest. Bunny tended to cook huge stews and casseroles, and Cal always let us girls choose the movies to rent.
“Theda, this is Rick.” The next call, from my ex-boyfriend, made me drop my keys and pull up a chair. I hit Repeat to make sure I’d heard who it was correctly. I had. His voice sounded just as I remembered. Easy, clear, a warm burr roughing up his words. And not at all like he was calling long distance, even though we’d more or less broken up when he’d decided to accept a job in Arizona. He hadn’t asked me to come along, and I’d not pushed the matter. And if neither of us had actually called it quits, we’d not made any plans to visit either. With him out of state, the issue had been out of mind as well. “I’m back in town, at least for a while, and I’d love to see you again. I’ve been thinking and, well…Call me? I’m staying with Phil.” He concluded with a number as I lunged for a pen to write it down.
“Hey, sweetie. I’m home!” My heart leapt at the next voice, but then subsided into guilt. Bill. I’d not called him to leave a “welcome back” message like I’d planned. “How’s the big city treating you? The wedding was a blast—there’s a story about my aunt I’ve got to tell you—but it wasn’t as much fun as it could’ve been. Anyway, let me know what you’re up to.”
I sighed. What was wrong with me? Why was I fighting the pull? If I could convince myself that this was just some thirtysomething commitment issue, I’d throw myself into the relationship, work through my fears no matter what the cost. But what if my impulse to call him back was just habit? What if all the easy times we had together were just my way of sinking into a slump? I’d wasted two years with Rick, unable to end it even when it had become clear that he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—meet me halfway. I was thirty-three already, and didn’t want to spin my wheels for another couple of years in a situation that wasn’t right. Why couldn’t I have what Bunny and Cal did, an apparently effortless intimacy? And now that Rick was back in town….
The last message, at least, was simple. “Hey Theda, did I leave the Pet Set receipts in your car?” Violet, sounding distracted as usual. “I can’t find them. I called the store a couple of times and left messages, but nobody there seems to know anything.”
I should call Bill, I knew. I wanted to see him, too. But the call from Rick—and more importantly, my own reaction to his voice—made me hesitate. I had to be clear in my own mind before I continued down that path, if only out of fairness to him. I could call Bunny. Should call her. I hadn’t spoken to her in over a week, which was rare for us but not entirely my fault.
A researcher extraordinaire, with the power to pull any compendium of facts out of cyberspace, Bunny worked in the Mail ’s library. Back when I’d been a staffer on the paper’s copy desk, I used to drop by her cubicle almost daily to touch base, always taking a moment to admire the latest photos of her three cats. Even when I’d quit that steady job to freelance, before my run-in with Tim, I was in the newsroom often enough to swing by. It was an easy way to be social, and the proximity had helped our intimacy grow from the casual club friendliness we’d started with over beers and bands.
First there had been the pleasure of discovery, of recognizing a sister denizen of the night world in the daytime at a straight job. Then we’d found we could talk. Really talk. We’d solved the problems of the world over iced coffee on the newspaper’s roof deck, and I’d served as a sounding board as my plump friend worked through the knots of her relationship with Cal. We’d moved from the deck to an out-of-office friendship, long cozy nights, when we’d rent a movie, make popcorn, and kill a bottle or two of wine in her old studio on the Fenway.
She’d been a little darker humored then, her Catholic background making her cynical about any kind of establishment. I’d often wondered if that early schooling, back home in Pittsburgh, had also secretly made her crave some structure: the Wiccan circle she’d since joined was certainly more women-centered, and I liked the earth-friendly teachings, but with its meetings, dues, and pot lucks, it was just another synagogue sisterhood to me. Still, since moving in with Cal, my friend had mellowed. She’d let her short-cropped brush cut grow out, more out of laziness than style, she’d said. And her bouncy roundness had gotten more zaftig, making her look more like the housewife her mother had been.
Maybe that’s what was holding me back. As comfortable as Bunny was, I also knew that these days she leaned toward domesticity. She was genuinely fond of Bill. More to the point, she liked being part of a couple now that she’d found someone worth the effort, and she’d gotten into making their tiny flat into a home. If I talked to her about my confusion, she’d most likely advise working things through with my earnest beau. She’d certainly roll her eyes if I mentioned that Rick might be back in the picture. I could hear her voice now, as I’d heard it during countless of those wine-buzzed late nights: “He can’t help it, Theda. He is what he is. But what he is won’t ever be what you want.”
I remembered stretching out on her futon sofa, my head spinning, and letting my eyes close, knowing that the city dawn would wake me in time to go home and shower before work. As if unbidden, I heard one of her other great bits of wisdom: “You get the advice you ask for, Theda.” She was right. And I didn’t want to be told to write Rick off. Not yet. So I couldn’t call Bunny. Didn’t want to call Bill, either, not just yet. I knew I was copping out, but especially when thoughts grow confused there’s something satisfying about direct action. Leaving the messages on the machine where I could listen again to them later, I went back out to where my Toyota was parked and began to search for Violet’s receipts.
Twenty minutes later, I was sneezing like crazy and my Renew Orleans T-shirt was gray with dust. But I’d filled an old bookstore plastic bag from behind the passenger seat with a good portion of the other junk that had made its way into my car: band fliers, shredded fanzines, and a couple of clippings so yellowed I couldn’t see the sense in saving them. No receipts had surfaced from the dust and debris, at least not the one Violet was looking for, though I did find two parking lot stubs that I could deduct on my taxes, provided I didn’t lose them again.
Moving on to the trunk, I thought about taking my beach chair into the apartment, finally, and decided to leave it for the winter. What the hell, I had room for it here. Then a balled-up piece of paper caught my eye. Too large for a receipt, but I flattened it out anyway and saw that it was the ad for Ragdoll kittens that Violet had torn down outside the pet store. “Bargain Prices!” indeed. I thought about what Violet had said about kitten mills, about cats kept in cages that were never cleaned, so different from Rose’s spotless, comfortable breeding dens. I wondered what kind of kittens spent their first weeks in conditions like that.
Should I report this seller? The number was still legible underneath an adorable photo of a round, well-furred cat. Or was this just some pet owner who was trying to start a business? Besides, what were the odds these really were Ragdolls? The breed was one of the newer ones to be recognized, and the real cats—known for their heavy bodies, thick fur, and unflappable manner—were nowhere near as common as, say, Siamese or Persians. More likely the kittens for sale were just fat, floppy mixed breeds that someone was trying to place. After all, most of the cats advertised as “Maine coons” were just big longhair tabbies, the public having latched o
nto the breed’s name, and its famous easy temperament, as a useful descriptive label. Still, I shoved the flyer into my pocket. I could ask Rose about it next time we talked. She’d know if I should report the sellers. Besides, I attracted paper like a stray did fleas. One more piece wouldn’t make much of a difference.
“Violet? I couldn’t find the receipt. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ll call them again.” She’d picked up the phone when I called, but was clearly distracted. Between her job and her classwork, she often was these days, and I found myself missing the old care-free Violet, the strong-willed musician who always made time for a chat.
She’d spent a large amount of money, however, so I tried to sympathize. The Helmhold House was privately funded, and Violet had gotten the shelter nonprofit status. But there were limits to her budget—and lots of cats to help. Didn’t the store have copies of all their transactions? Especially an order that ran into the hundreds, I suggested, they should be able to track down. The problem, Violet replied, wasn’t in finding the actual records. She never seemed able to reach anybody in charge.
“I’ve been leaving messages asking for the manager since we unloaded everything yesterday and I saw that the receipt wasn’t there.” I could hear her pacing. “Another reason why chain stores should be nuked.”
I sighed, bit my lip, and then offered. “If you want to drive back up there, Violet, I’d be happy to make the run.” I had lunch planned with Cool on Thursday, and two other interviews to set up. But Violet had been there for me before.
