by Mark McNease
Maggie reached out and stroked him, which only made the purring more insistent.
He stared at her a moment, then licked her hand.
“You’re as manipulative as he was,” she said, petting him with the hand he’d just scraped with his tongue. “Fine, then. I’ll ask questions and open doors if I can find them. But you’re going to owe me, cat, you hear that?”
He seemed satisfied by Maggie’s promise; he curled into a ball on the pillow and rested his head on a paw, letting his eyes close.
I should be so lucky, Maggie thought. Sleep would not be coming for her again that night. She glanced at the bedside clock, relieved to see it was almost 4:00 a.m. Early, but not so early she couldn’t get up in another half hour and have coffee. Starting the day had always been better than lying in the dark thinking about it.
DAY 3
“Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties.”
– Walter Lionel George
CHAPTER Twelve
THERE WERE TWO VETS IN Lambertville. One of them was far enough to require driving. Maggie made an educated guess that Alice would not have taken her cats to the furthest one. She had a car that sat in a detached garage behind the house; Maggie had seen her drive it only once and had wondered if anyone would come to take it away now that Alice was dead.
She made her first call to Bridge Street Animal Hospital, the vet’s office she could walk to, and her guess proved correct. She told the woman who answered the phone that she had an unusual situation—she needed to bring in someone else’s cat but wasn’t sure if this was the right place.
“What would the patient’s name be?” the woman said with professional cheer.
“The patient?” asked Maggie.
“The cat.”
Oh, Maggie thought, of course they call them “patients.”
“Check,” she said.
“Like the cereal?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
“What is his last name? Or hers?”
“It’s a he, and his last name is Drapier.”
There was prolonged silence on the other end of the line and Maggie wondered for a moment if she’d been put on hold. Finally the woman said, “That’s Alice Drapier’s cat. The late Alice Drapier. Who is this?”
Maggie felt a strange guilt, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. “I’m Alice’s next door neighbor.”
A gasp. “The one who found her dead?”
The call was not going as Maggie had hoped. She wondered if word could spread any faster than it already had. “Yes, that’s me. I don’t know what happened to Alice’s other cats, but one of them is now in my possession and Alice had told me he needs medicine.”
As if it had all suddenly fallen into place, the woman said, “Oh! That Checks! Of course, I know him well. Everyone in the office knows Checks.”
Well, thought Maggie, she’d met an animal whose reputation preceded him. “I’d like to bring him in. He needs a pill or something, I don’t know. Alice said he had high blood pressure.”
“Oh my gosh,” the woman said. “Yes, yes, bring him in as soon as possible. That’s a life threatening condition. I should know, I have high blood pressure myself. What did you say your name was?”
“I assumed you knew,” Maggie said dryly. Given how much the recent events had been gossiped about throughout town she wouldn’t be surprised if everyone knew her name by now.
“Why would I know your name?”
“Never mind. My name is Maggie Dahl. Can I bring him in at ten?” That gave her an hour to rally Gerri, get Checks off the bed and take the first trip of her life to a veterinarian’s office.
“Lucky you, we just had a cancellation at ten.”
“Lucky me,” Maggie said. “We’ll see you then.”
Maggie and Gerri stared at Checks while he ate some crushed-up granola from the same bowl he’d eaten from the night before.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Gerri asked. She’d been up for two hours but had stayed in the seclusion of her room until Maggie shouted for her to get a move on. “I’ve never heard of cats eating granola before. He seems to like it.”
“I’m sure he would tell us if he didn’t,” Maggie said. She had already concluded this was no ordinary cat. “The bigger question is how we get him to the vet’s. I don’t have a cat box.”
“Speaking of which ...”
“I know, cat litter, I can’t worry about it now. We’ll get this taken care of and bribe them to keep him. They can worry about cat litter. I’m talking about what we carry him in from here to there.”
Checks stopped eating, turned and looked up at them, as if he knew they were talking about him.
“How about a towel?”
Maggie thought about it. She didn’t want to put him in a cardboard box; he could just jump out of it and she certainly wouldn’t close the lid. A towel might be her only option. She stared at Gerri, not saying anything for a moment.
“Don’t look at me! I’ll drive if you’d like, but I’m not carrying a cat. Besides, Maggie, he likes you.”
“Please don’t say that.” Turning slightly so Checks wouldn’t hear her, she whispered, “He’s not coming back. I don’t want him to like me. Now let’s go, it’s nine forty-five.”
Although the vet was within walking distance, Maggie was not about to carry a cat for six blocks. Instead she had let Gerri drive while she held Checks in her arms—he had eschewed the towel and insisted on riding in her lap. She suspected this was a deliberate move on his part.
They parked a half block from the vet’s office and Maggie carried Checks to the door, feeling foolish and hoping they wouldn’t be seen by anyone. She knew people loved to fawn over babies and animals. If anyone stopped her to say how adorable it was carrying a cat in her arms, she worried she would throw him at them.
Gerri held the door open while Maggie entered the vet’s office. A chorus of dog yelps greeted them, along with several nervous cat owners sliding their cat carriers between their protective feet.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Maggie. She feared Checks would bolt, but he just stayed in her arms and stared down a terrier and a Great Dane. They might tear Maggie to pieces but they were no match for Checks.
She hurried to the front desk. There was movement in the hallway beyond, where doctors examined furry patients. Two women were behind the desk, one facing a side credenza and the other facing clients. When she looked up, Maggie saw the woman’s left eye was glass and slightly misaligned. It startled her for an instant; she quickly regained her composure and noticed herself shaking Checks slightly in her arms, the way you shake a baby gently up and down. She stopped.
“You must be Maggie,” the woman said. “I’m Susan, and that is Checks.”
“You’ve met.”
“Many times.” Then, to the cat, “Haven’t we, sweetheart?”
Does anyone know what they’re getting into with this cat? Maggie thought.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have a cat box, or carrier, whatever you call them.”
“Oh, he doesn’t need one. Do you, big boy?”
“How long is this going to take?”
“Just have a seat, please. Dr. Ramsey will be with you in a few minutes.”
Maggie turned around to see where Gerri was and saw her already sitting along a row of chairs. A woman with a cat carrier was two seats to her left, and someone holding a poodle in his lap was to her right. Gerri patted the empty seat between herself and the woman. Maggie shuffled over, sitting down with Checks held firmly in her arms. Susan the Desk Clerk may not think he needed the protection of a carrier but the Great Dane didn’t look so sure.
Dr. Emily Ramsey had better bedside manners than most human doctors Maggie had met. Diminutive even by the standards of short people, she was pleasantly pudgy and wore her waist-length gray hair tied back with yellow yarn.
Maggie had left Gerri in the waiting area while she
brought Checks back to examination room #3. She’d never been in a room like this before and wasn’t sure what to do other than set Checks down on the stainless steel counter and hope he didn’t make a run for it. That’s a stupid thought, she’d told herself while she waited for the doctor to come in. This cat doesn’t run from anything. Seconds later the doctor arrived and greeted Checks with a smile and a “Hey, Sweety!” before introducing herself to Maggie.
“It was terrible, what happened to Alice,” the vet said. She slowly petted Checks with one hand while she looked into his ears. “I understand you’re the one who found her.”
Oh, for chrissake, Maggie thought. Is there anyone in Lambertville who doesn’t know this by now?
“Yes, I am,” she replied. Quickly changing the subject, she added, “Unfortunately this cat—”
“Checks.”
“Right, of course you know his name.”
“Checks is famous.”
“I’m discovering that. I’m also told he takes medication for high blood pressure. And now he’s an orphan.”
Dr. Ramsey smiled at her. “Not for long.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll get a new prescription for you.” She gave Checks a last affectionate pet along his spine. “He needs one pill every morning. You can put it in a flavored pill pocket. If you don’t have any we’ve got some samples.”
“But I ... he’s not ...”
“You can pay up front,” Ramsey said. Then she turned around and left through the room’s back door, heading into whatever constituted the innards of a veterinarian’s office.
“Just like that?” Maggie said, staring at the closed door.
As if knowing he had to seal the deal immediately, Checks walked the few steps on the steel counter and starting rubbing against Maggie. The sound of his purring filled the room.
“Oh, hell no,” Maggie said. “No, no, no.”
Susan slipped the pill bottle into a small pharmacy bag and placed it on the counter along with a sample of chicken flavored pill pockets.
“Do you know how to use these?” she said.
“I can guess,” said Maggie, once again holding Checks in her arms. Gerri was standing behind her. Maggie could swear she felt Gerri’s I-told-you-so smile boring into her back. “I don’t suppose you have any spare cat carriers and litter boxes?”
“Sorry, no,” said Susan. “But Pets Galore has anything you need. They’re three doors down.”
“Great. That’s our next stop.”
Maggie had considered asking if they could just leave Checks there, or if the vet’s office could find someone to adopt him, but something had stirred in her while she’d been in the examination room. She didn’t know if it was David’s ghost, or Alice’s, or if the two of them were in cahoots from some afterlife surveillance state, but she had decided to take Checks home—to nurse him back to health, although his condition would be lifelong, or to foster him ... isn’t that the word they used for animals, too? ... until she could find a good home for him. What she could not accept herself doing was abandoning him at a vet’s office. She had no idea where Alice’s other cats went and preferred not knowing.
“How much do I owe you?” Maggie said.
“Well,” said Susan. She hesitated, then looked around to make sure her office companion was not sitting beside her and none of the pet owners could hear her.
“I wanted to ask you about that.”
Maggie leaned forward, aware that Susan meant this as a private conversation in a public setting. “Ask me about what?”
“Alice’s outstanding bill. She had seven cats.”
She also had a half million dollars hidden in her house, thought Maggie. “So how much is this bill?”
“Eight hundred and thirty-seven dollars.”
Maggie stared at her. “Seriously?”
Lowering her voice even more, Susan said, “Poor Alice. She had problems ...”
“She also owned a house, and, I’m assuming, a bank account.”
Susan looked around again to make sure no one was listening. “No, I mean problems. A gambling problem. She was very in debt. She wasn’t working, and the bank wouldn’t give her a second mortgage. We were friends, Mrs. Dahl. But I couldn’t help her. I’m part time here and that’s my only income.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, not sure if that was the proper response. “How did Alice get into debt?”
Susan sighed. “She liked her bus trips to Atlantic City.”
Maggie was stunned. She would never have imagined Alice Drapier going off to be a high roller at the penny slots. She’d seen Alice heading off plenty of times, but had always assumed she was walking into town or across the bridge, not to a bus stop for a trip to Atlantic City.
“I went with her a few times on the charter bus. Old people mostly, not what you imagine serious gamblers to look like. It was fun at first, but her ... addiction ... I don’t know what else to call it, it was too hard to watch. At the craps table.”
“The craps table!” Maggie blurted.
Now people were paying attention.
Hurrying, Susan said, “She owed someone money, that’s all I know. A lot of money.”
“You need to tell the police.”
Susan began quickly shuffling papers on her desk. Her confession had come to an end. “I can’t get involved. I don’t know who she got her gambling money from. But it wasn’t a bank.”
The other office assistant came out from the hallway leading behind the examination rooms. “Sorry to take so long,” she said to Susan. “My tummy’s not in good shape today.”
“No problem,” said Susan.
Another vet came out, an elderly man Maggie had not seen in the thirty minutes they’d been there. It was clear Susan had divulged whatever she could and would not say more.
“Here,” Maggie said, fishing out a credit card with her free hand. “Put it all on this.”
“Thank you,” Susan said. “Thank you very much.”
“Can we go now?” Gerri asked.
She’d been standing directly behind Maggie and the sound of her voice came as a shock. Maggie turned her head enough to see her sister.
“I heard it all,” Gerri said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
Maggie signed the credit card receipt, smiled at Susan a last time, and followed Gerri back out onto the street.
“The car’s this way,” Gerri said when Maggie turned left on the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction.
“I know that. There’s a pet store we need to go to first. And don’t say a word, not one word.”
She headed up the street with Checks in her arms, looking for the sign to Pets Galore. Gerri hurried behind her, barely containing her amusement.
CHAPTER Thirteen
MAGGIE WAS GLAD TO BE home with Checks, whom she would now make an effort to call by his name rather than referring to him as “the cat.” He was hers now, and she was his. She felt it with reluctant pleasure. She had to admit to herself that with David gone and their son Wynn well into adulthood and happily living his own life, she missed belonging to someone. Her sister didn’t count.
“Are you going to rename him?” Gerri asked.
They’d just arrived home with Checks, a large bag of dry cat foot, a dozen cans of wet food, a bag of litter and a large litter box. Maggie was holding the litter box in her hands, standing in the kitchen trying to figure out where to put it.
“Why would I change his name?”
“He’s your cat now. You can name him anything you want.”
“He’s nobody’s cat. And he’s old. Ten, according to his chart at the vet’s.”
“They have charts? Like people?”
Maggie stared at her. “No, Gerri, they keep the medical records on index cards. Of course they have charts. Now where should we put this?” She held up the litter box.
“Outside, definitely.”
Maggie made a face. “Winter’s coming. No, I’ll put it in the bathr
oom. I think that’s the usual place.”
“But we go to the bathroom in there!”
“Listen to yourself,” Maggie said. She headed toward the bathroom, with Gerri following behind.
As they were walking down the hallway the doorbell rang. Maggie stopped and turned toward the sound. “Oh, shoot, I forgot.”
“Your boyfriend’s here?” said Gerri. “Should I hurry upstairs and hide?”
Maggie glared at her. It was much too soon to joke with her about boyfriends, dates, or sex.
“Sorry,” Gerri said.
“Don’t worry about it. And don’t bring it up again, please. This is Chip McGill. He’s working on the house for us … for me. We’re renovating. I’m renovating.”
“It’s okay,” Gerri said, “with the words—past tense, present tense, ‘I’ and ‘us.’ It’s going to take time.”
“Here,” said Maggie, handing the litter box to Gerri. “Put it on the side of the toilet and fill it with litter, I’ll let Chip in.”
Gerri took the box and kept going toward the bathroom while Maggie walked to the front door.
Chip McGill was a local handyman and carpenter with a reputation both good and bad—good because when he worked, he did an excellent job; bad because he’d been an active alcoholic for years and was known to experience work stoppages due to binges and severe hangovers.
At forty-eight, he looked a good ten years older. He was thin from a diet consisting of cheap whiskey and an occasional meal. His hair was prematurely and completely gray, and appeared to be seldom washed. There was a dark leathery cast to his skin year round, and his eyes were rheumy. He was, by all accounts, a good man, just a damaged one, and the locals were known to give him work as much from a sense of charity as from needing a good contractor.
“Hey, Mrs. Dahl,” he said when Maggie opened the door. He was wearing his usual white overalls spattered with paint and putty.
“Morning, Chip. I almost forgot you were coming.”
