Cattery Row

by Clea Simon

  “Ah, the faithful spouse. I need one of those.”

  Risa, the bartender, caught my nod and brought me a Blue Moon.

  “Cheers.” Ralph sloshed a half-full tumbler toward my bottle. I involuntarily stepped back.

  “Whoa, Ralph. What are we celebrating here?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The rise of youth!” I sipped my beer and waited, not sure things were going to get any clearer. “Jessica. The great young hope of the Morning Mail . She’s taking over the arts section. For now, anyway, acting deputy or associate or something.”

  So that’s why I hadn’t heard anything about her column—my column, that is. Not that I’d been looking. “Is that bad?” I asked myself as much as Ralph.

  “She’s twenty-five! She wasn’t even born when the Clash played the Harvard Square Theatre.” I did the math; he was right.

  “Well, she’ll have a fresh take.”

  “She’ll have my hide.” Ralph sat almost upright in indignation. “Youth culture for the young, that’s her motto. She’s bringing in all new writers to cover rock and pop.”

  “But you’re on staff.” I figured if he could get away with drinking as he did, Ralph had to be untouchable.

  “I’m toast, that’s what I am. They have me on human interest. Gossip.” He hiccuped with a peculiar wet sound and I stepped to the side, out of the line of fire. “Know any celebrities, Theda? I’m on bloody Star Search.”

  Bill’s appearance through the club’s glass front door saved me from commiserating further. I patted my sodden colleague on the shoulder and hailed my date. Even without the comparison, he looked great. Bill must have stopped at home, to trade his customary work-day suit for the smoky-gray fisherman’s sweater I loved. It brought out the blue in his eyes and felt marvelously scratchy against my check as I hugged him, my body relaxing. He lifted my chin for a kiss.

  “Hey, you.”

  “Hey,” I replied. So far, so good.

  “Young love! So young!” called out Ralph behind me.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” I suggested, my earlier thoughts about testing Bill flying out the door. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to fit in too well here.

  “But I was looking forward to that spicy eggplant dish, and one of Risa’s drafts.” He was smiling, and I suspected he had guessed at my motives for having him come to the club.

  “All right, then. Risa, any tables?” While pulling a pint, the dark-haired bartender motioned to a corner with her chin. Lee, the waitress, was just wiping a table down.

  “Lee! Deuce!” The waitress motioned us over and Bill led me through the bar crowd. Another advantage of a tall man.

  I sipped at my beer while he ordered for both of us, careful, I noticed, to check every order by me. Truth was, he knew my tastes well enough. That’s the plus side of being a creature of habit. We kept the talk light, but warm, as we ate, the day’s tension leaving me tired but pleasantly so. Not until Lee was clearing our plates did Bill get serious.

  “Theda, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been wanting to talk.”

  Oh, this was going to be painful. I mustered my energy. “Me too, Bill. I’m just trying to be clear.”

  “I know I dumped a lot on you, Theda. I’m sorry. I do worry about you, but its not that I don’t trust you to take care of yourself. It’s everything I see every day. Maybe the job is getting to me.”

  It wasn’t that, I wanted to say. It wasn’t his concern—I pushed a flicker of anxiety away—or his suspicions about Rose, or not just those anyway. It wasn’t even knowing that I couldn’t tell him what I planned on doing, that I would be keeping secrets while I looked deeper into what she’d confided in me, into what might have caused her death. My own confusion was what was holding me back. “You’re wrong about her. You know that,” was what I said instead. Was I such a coward?

  “I hope so, Theda.”

  We left his car and walked back to my place, his arm warm around me in the frosty night. Musetta started twining around his ankles as soon as we entered. When she bounced off down the hallway, she looked back at him.

  “She wants you to chase her,” I translated. “She wants to play.”

  He shot me a look that made me wish I’d kept quiet.

  “She does, Bill. The cat. I’m, well, I’ve got other things on my mind. I just need some time to figure out what I want.”

  “I know, Theda,” he said, turning his back on the cat to hold me instead. “I’ve figured out that much. Look, it’s been a long day at the end of a long week. Can I just be with you?”

  I’m a sucker for a warm man and just nodded into his sweater. We parted only to floss and brush in relative silence, and after a moment’s thought I donned my old flannel nightgown. Bill got the message and climbed into bed behind me. “It’s good to just hold you,” he said.

  “It’s good to be held,” I mumbled in reply. Within minutes, he was snoring, but despite my earlier fatigue my mind had begun to race. Why hadn’t I said what was bothering me back in the restaurant? Why did I let him apologize rather than bring up the real issues I needed to discuss? Was I just letting myself drift again? Suddenly, the flannel—and Bill—were way too warm.

  Quietly as I could, I slid out of bed and went into the living room. Out my front window, I could see the waxing moon, two-thirds full, lighting the street with its cold, stark glow. The city looked empty, devoid of life. I sat down on the edge of the sofa, and rested my head on the cool glass pane. Maybe I even dozed, but a rustle from the bedroom roused me.

  “Hey, Theda.” Bill came into the living room. He was dressed and carrying his shoes. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, you know?”

  I looked up at him, at his sweet rough face, and none of the things I’d wanted to say came out.

  “Maybe we need some time. Both of us.” He tied his shoes, then kissed me lightly on the lips. “We’re both tired right now.” He looked at me, waiting, but I had nothing to say. “Get some sleep, okay?”

  I just watched as he let himself out.

  Chapter Eleven

  If she hadn’t been waving wildly, I’d have missed her. Violet stood just off the sidewalk, her olive sweatshirt and camouflage plants blending into the dark green hedge—even if her purple ’do didn’t—over by the edge of the shelter’s yard as I drove up.

  “Theda! Over here.” She leaned out from behind one of the tall yews.

  “What’s wrong?” I slammed the car into park and jumped out almost before it stopped rolling. “What happened?”

  “What? Oh, I just wanted to stop you.” She was holding a cigarette smoked almost down to the filter. “Before you got to the house.” She took another drag.

  “Caro’s going to catch you. You know that, and it’s a good thing, too.” Overtired and cranky, I was in no mood to humor my friend’s habit.

  “I know, I know.” With a sigh she dropped the butt and ground it out with her sneaker heel. “I’m going to quit as soon as this semester is over. It’s just the transition.”

  “Yeah right.” I flopped back down into my Toyota and waited for Violet to join me. The way she’d startled me—and being back here—made my head start throbbing again. Could the attack have been personal? Intended?

  “Musetta wake you with a hairball this morning?”

  “Something like that.”

  She glanced at my face and decided not to ask more.

  “Hey, look what I did this morning.” She reached into the camouflage pants’ big thigh pockets and pulled out a piece of paper. Looking over as I drove I could see heavy gothic-style lettering, dense with decorative flourishes.

  “I’m driving, Violet.”

  “Oh, sorry. Here, let me read.” She flattened the paper out on the dashboard and read: “Black cats got you spooked? Haunted by bats? Come to our Halloween Open House and learn the truth about your animal friends.”

  “I’ve had signs up for over a week now,” she continued. “But I just found this cool typeface and made up a bunch mor
e. Bunny might even have a web site up for us by then, too.”

  “By when?”

  “Next weekend, silly. Halloween is next Sunday. Theda, are you awake enough to be driving?”

  I growled in response and we crossed the river. This early on a Saturday traffic was light, and even though I knew we should be taking the T, I was too wiped out to be environmentally conscious. My sins went unpunished as a black SUV pulled out of a metered parking space right by the convention center.

  “Why are SUVs always black?” Violet had grown bored by my silence. “Are we supposed to think they’re gangsta or something?”

  “Maybe it’s so they don’t get confused with school buses.” My mood was lifting. The big, legal parking space helped. “C’mon.” We got out and I beeped the doors locked. “Let’s go see some cats!”

  Rose’s passes got us past the uniformed rent-a-cop and into the convention center’s cavernous central hall, where a barrage of colors, lights, and noise finished the job of waking me up.

  “Number 800 through 813 to ring three, please! Eight hundred to 813 to ring three!” A booming PA accentuated the enormity of the space, echoing into the entrance foyer. Bright yellow banners emblazoned with ring numbers hung from wires criss-crossing the high ceiling, while huge signs announcing the groupings of different breeds—Abyssinian to Turkish vans—towered above us. Even this early, a crowd of at least a hundred bustled about, half carrying cat carriers, the rest leafing through glossy color catalogues. “Number 800 to 813, please.” The volume was set on low roar.

  “Wow.” Violet looked around at the commotion. “This is not what I’d expected.”

  “Welcome to the show world.” Weaving between tables loaded with fliers, toys, and cat-food samples—and a dozen shoppers intent on examining each item—I led us through the first level of the so-called Mew Mart until I found one colorful booth with the purple and gold logo of Cats Fine ’n’ Fancy.

  “May I help you?” In a maroon jacket festooned with gold braid, the young woman staffing the desk was hard to miss.

  “Yeah, thanks. We’re friends of Rose Keller, and I was wondering what competitions she was scheduled to judge.”

  “Rose? One minute please.” She shuffled through some papers. “Rose Keller? Oh, I’m so sorry. I have horrible news.”

  “No! No, we know already.” No need to make the poor thing suffer. “We just wanted to know what rings she would have been judging.”

  “Ring eight. Champion and premier longhairs.” Cheeks flushed, she looked down at her papers like she’d find something there. “And, and…I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” She handed us a map of the show floor, and we headed in the direction of the show rings, past a display of nylon cat carriers and another of ornate, carpeted cat trees.

  “This puts Pet Set to shame,” said Violet, pausing by a table that held at least eight enzymatic cleaning products. “Except for the prices. Wow.”

  “This is premium real estate, on the way to the cats. But if you want to check out Pet Set’s prices, they’re here, too.” Over on the right, by the corner where the Mew Mart ended and the rows of cat cages began, I could see their bright red and yellow logo.

  “They come here to sell?”

  “Why not? Or they may be sponsoring a shelter adoption. We can check it out later. I want to see what’s going on first.” I knew Rose wouldn’t be in her ring, but I felt an increasing desire to see her space, to see where she should have been holding court.

  “Great. Maybe I can finally find someone who can help me get a copy of that receipt, too.”

  “Ring two, domestic shorthairs. Domestic shorthairs to ring two!” The loudspeaker rang out as we made our way down the long rows of feline competitors. “Ring service to ring 13 with a mop. Ring service to ring 13, with mop, please!” Lined up in cushioned cages and in plush nylon carriers, dozens of show cats reclined like pashas, sleeping and grooming without any consideration for the dozens of bystanders who filed past.

  “Can I pet her?” a little girl asked, watching one breeder take a puffball of a Persian from her box.

  “No, honey, she’s about to be judged.” The child hung her head. “I’ve just brushed her, you see?” The breeder crouched down and ran her hand ever so gently up the cat’s back, fluffing the fine, white fur even more. The little girl nodded slowly and the breeder relented. “Right after, dear. You have your mommy bring you back here.”

  Suddenly Mommy appeared. “The cat won’t bite, will it?”

  “Queen Tiki Feathersoft is a grand champion three times over.” If the breeder had fur, it would’ve been standing up along her back. “She has been handled since birth and is a consummate professional!” With a toss of her own perfect coif, the breeder swept the pouffed puss onto her shoulder and stalked off, leaving both mother and daughter in her wake.

  “Whoa,” said Violet softly. “The cats don’t bite but the breeders do.” We walked on, slower now, stopping every now and then to look into the fleece-line carriers.

  “Ew, god!” Violet had found the bald Sphinxes, and one wrinkled face was staring up into hers. I pulled her away as she collapsed with laughter. “What was that?”

  “Violet!” I hissed. “Come on! Some people love those cats.” Hairlessness wasn’t a trait I admired in a feline, but I’d heard the diminutive breed referred to with affection by others. “Soft and warm as suede waterbottle,” was the usual description, and I had to admit the big eyes and bat-like ears had a kind of charm.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Violet wiped away some tears as she caught her breath. “But that’s not a cat, that’s…that’s…I don’t know what it is!” As I led her away, two more breeders quickly passed us, the cats in their arms unfazed by the noise and commotion around them.

  “What’s with these cats anyway. Are they drugged?” As Violet turned to look, one of the passing cats—a sleek chocolate shorthair, maybe an Abyssinian—turned his head to hiss at another. “Well, at least that one’s awake. But Sibley could kick the crap out of these pussies.”

  “Sibley?” Violet’s acknowledged favorite among the shelter cats was a noted bird watcher, but not much of a fighter.

  “Okay, not Sibley. Not since he’s been neutered anyway. But Cassandra could.” It was true, even after neutering the tiny gray female who had come to the shelter two months prior still had the habit of slashing anyone who came too close. It was going to be a long haul to wean her from her feral ways, if it was even possible.

  “You think Cassandra will ever be able to be adopted out?” Violet’s shelter had a no-kill policy, but that was feasible only because Violet worked hard to place as many of her cats as possible in good homes, making room for the strays and ferals the neighborhood kids kept bringing by.

  “I suspect she’s going to be a lifer.” We’d reached ring eight and grabbed two of the remaining folding chairs. “But what a mouser!”

  Sitting in the second row, we had a great view of the judging area. In front of us twelve wire cages made up three sides of a rectangle. Each cage had a slot to hold that cat’s entry number and—for the winners—any ribbons that might be awarded. In the middle of the rectangle, a table with a raised white platform, a squirt bottle, and a notebook waited for the judge, its edges adorned with the blue, red, and green show ribbons he or she would soon be handing out. When a short, round man in shirtsleeves hurried up, I expected him to make an announcement about who Rose’s replacement would be, but with a few whispered words to the young attendent who had followed him he began opening cages. Lifting one heavy cat onto the white platform, he carefully extended its tail for a look, and then began to brush its thick mottled-brown fur backward with his hand.

  “What’s he looking for? Fleas?” Violet’s stage whisper was audible yards away. I shushed her.

  “Coloring, fur density. What the undercoat is like. Things like that.” I tried to remember what Rose had taught me, and waited for the fussy little man to make his pronouncements. Patting
down the cat’s fur, he moved on to the cat’s head, holding it to look up into his own round face, running his thumbs along its jaw line, and staring into its eyes. But then, without a word, he placed the docile beast back into its cage. After cleaning the platform with the spray bottle and a paper towel, he removed another cat, weighing it in his hands before placing it on the white platform.

  “Isn’t he going to say anything?”

  “I don’t know. I thought so.” I was out of my depth. I’d come to ask questions, but I had no idea where to begin. The judge was stroking this second cat’s fur backward again. Just then I felt movement behind me.

  “Rose would have.” The soft voice coming from behind us made us both jump. There, seated in the next row, was one of the women I’d seen at the funeral. Tall, slim, with white blonde hair held back in a black-velvet clip, she could have been the mirror opposite of Rose.

  “Sally. Sally Frommer.” She held out a manicured hand. “I’m also a judge. I helped Rose get her credentials, actually. You were at her funeral, weren’t you?”

  “We were friends,” I replied, making our own introductions. Violet, I said in a hushed voice, ran a local shelter. We knew Rose because I’d written about her, but that was all, I added, to explain our relative confusion. I wasn’t about to say that I’d come by hoping to unmask a crime ring, or a murderer. “We’re not really into the show circuit. Rose had given me passes, though, and, well, here we are.”

  By now, the little man had hefted and stretched most of the remaining cats. After making a few notes, he hung ribbons on several of the cages and scurried off.

  “I can see where you’d be confused.” Sally seemed to take my explanation at face value. “He’s a good judge,” she continued. “He knows what to look for. But that’s not how Rose would’ve done it. She believed in educating the public, that it was for the good of the cats for people to know what was desireable and what wasn’t. She used to talk constantly, while she judged, explaining how to tell the difference between positive traits and those that aren’t healthy, what she was judging on and how she was awarding points. Come on, I know who you should see.”