Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues

by Blaize Clement

  In unison, they said, “Good girl!”

  Then they beamed at me like mothers hearing a five-year-old’s report of the first day of kindergarten.

  Michael was so pleased he lost the worry wrinkles on his forehead. “I’ve got spareribs for supper. Sweet potatoes. Corn bread. I’m talking real soul food.”

  Two seconds ago, I’d intended to crawl in bed without dinner, but now I licked my lips like a feral cat offered a warm mouse.

  As a kid, I thought soul food was something God dispensed, like a Mardi Gras king tossing trinkets down to clamoring humans. I imagined it as fluffy and insubstantial, maybe pink as carnival cotton candy. It was Michael who told me it meant basic down-to-earth things like collard greens and ham hocks and corn bread. Now, inhaling exquisite smells coming from a sizzling rack of ribs hot off Michael’s prize smoker, I was glad soul food was real instead of ethereal.

  He said, “So tell me more about your lawyer.”

  “He’s not my lawyer, and I just went out to dinner with him. There’s nothing exclusive about it.”

  Michael raised his face with such a look of shock that I laughed. For the last two years, Michael and Paco had been after me to start seeing men and I had refused with the chaste prudishness of a cloistered nun. Now all of a sudden I sounded like a woman ready to play the field.

  Paco twirled an imaginary mustache. “Ah so, my little chickadee.”

  I got a stack of napkins and tossed them around on the butcher-block island, but my mind was playing a tape of Granddad patting Gran on the rump and saying, “My little chickadee,” while she made pretend push-away motions and cut her eyes warningly at Michael and me.

  He would grin and say, “Kids, why don’t you go outside and see if you can count the stars. The one who gets the number right gets a hot fudge sundae at Dairy Queen.”

  Michael and I would edge out of the room, trying not to giggle, and wait until Granddad came out to see if we’d counted the stars correctly. We knew it didn’t matter what number we came up with, he’d say we were right. Then we’d all pile in his Chevrolet Impala with the pelican hood ornament and the personalized license plates that said SIESTA-1 and drive to Dairy Queen and give ourselves tummy aches on too much ice cream. When we got home, our grandmother would be in her shiny satin robe that she reserved for special occasions, and she’d have a soft smile on her face. I was grown before I learned that the word chickadee belonged to a bird and not to my grandmother.

  Paco said, “When are you going to see that Stork guy again?”

  “His name is Crane, not Stork, and I’m having dinner at his place Saturday night.”

  “Awriiiiight!!”

  While we ate, they made an obvious effort to get my mind off being a suspect in a bizarre murder case, so obvious that I wanted to squeeze them and plant grateful kisses on them. But I couldn’t, because then we’d be acknowledging the spot I was in and they’d know their efforts to keep me from thinking about it had failed. I left them early, didn’t even stay to help with the dishes.

  I knew that was okay because they knew my head still hurt from the concussion and they didn’t expect me to help, which was something else we couldn’t discuss because it would throw us into the really big thing none of us wanted to talk about.

  Loving people is complicated.

  As I crossed the deck to my stairs, I looked up at a violet-blue sky sparked by an infinity of icy lights zillions of miles away. Some of them might have men and women on them, people going about their daily lives without a clue that I existed. I found that an oddly comforting thought.

  Guidry still hadn’t returned my call, and I was glad. I needed a break from talking about it. Also, I wasn’t sure how much of what I’d learned I was going to tell him, and that made me skittery. There shouldn’t have been any question about what I’d tell him. I was a responsible citizen, and I should give him every scrap of information I had, no matter how queasy it made me.

  I took a long shower, and when I was drying off I found a big blister on my right heel. Wars were breaking out in remote spots on the globe, loggers in the Amazon were destroying a large part of the earth’s supply of oxygen, emaciated babies in African villages were dying of AIDS, and I had a blister on my heel. The blister was the only thing I could do anything about. I could not feel sad enough for the world’s condition to change it, but I could put a Band-Aid on my heel.

  I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the square tiles on the floor. Funny how I’d never noticed how they were connected but still solitary in their surrounding lines of grout. I thought about how I’d felt dancing with Ethan. Was the blister worth the fun I’d had?

  Damn right it was. I’d have tolerated blisters on both heels to do that again.

  I thought of how I felt every time I was in the same room with Guidry, all warm and soft and ready to follow him home like a stray puppy. I put my face in my hands and whimpered. How could I have gone from expecting and planning to be alone for the rest of my life to being in love with two men?

  I wondered if I had blisters on my brain to match my feet.

  TWENTY

  Jessica was waiting for me outside the beagle’s house the next morning. The sun wasn’t fully up yet, and she startled me when she stepped away from an oak tree beside the driveway. This time she hadn’t bothered with the ploy of walking a dog.

  She said, “Did you give Ken the message?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “He told me what happened on the island, about the tsunami flooding everything. They told him you had been killed along with the others. He’s pretty bitter about the company not providing a way for people to get out.”

  “I thought it might be something like that. Bitterness about our friends dying, I mean.”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “I hope you told him that’s impossible.”

  “I told him his phone is tapped and the mysterious they are watching him.”

  “Thank you, Dixie.”

  “He’s very sick, you know. I think he’s in pain most of the time. A lot of pain. And he’s blue.”

  As if she were consoling me, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I just thought you might not know that.”

  “I had heard. What do you mean, he’s blue?”

  “I mean he’s blue. His skin is gray-blue.”

  She frowned. “But he couldn’t have got that much … that doesn’t make any sense.”

  I shrugged. “He said it had got worse in the last few months. His skin jumps and twitches too, and he said that started after he left the island.”

  She took a deep breath, the way people do when they need strength. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

  “He looks awful. Freakish, even.”

  Her hand covered her mouth for a moment, as if she feared the words that might come out, and she started to turn away. I thought she couldn’t stand to hear any more, and I regretted telling her how bad Kurtz was. I certainly didn’t intend to tell her any more, but my fool mouth opened without my planning it.

  “The iguana has an indwelling catheter in his chest wall. Ken Kurtz has one in his arm. You have any idea why?”

  She pulled herself sharply erect. “Dixie, don’t be stupid. Don’t ask questions like that. Not of me or of anybody else.”

  I said, “I know who you are. Your name is Jessica Ballantyne. And in spite of my better judgment, I sort of like you. But there are a lot of things that make me think you’re not a nice person. Your parents think you’re dead, for one thing, same way Ken Kurtz did. They’ve even buried your ashes, which is a pretty crappy thing to do to your parents, if you ask me. Are you wanted for some crime?”

  She gave a short laugh. “It’s the other way around, actually.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Sounding a little desperate, she said, “I’m trying to … you can’t imagine what it’s like to have … you don’t understand how biomedical corporations work, you
don’t know their cutthroat rivalry.”

  “Come on. You’re not going to tell me this is all about corporate rivalry?”

  “You asked what Ken’s connection was to BiZogen. Okay, try to understand this: Ken and I worked for BiZogen in the lab that was destroyed by the tsunami. Ken took his research with him when he left the island, and he contacted a rival company—the Zoological Interspecies-Genetic Institute—and offered to sell them his research. That research will be worth billions to the company that patents it, so ZIGI agreed. But then the FBI began investigating ZIGI over another patent they had fraudulently obtained, and ZIGI thought it prudent to report Ken’s offer. That’s when I was recruited.”

  I squinted at her as if that would help bring what she’d said into focus, but my mind had snagged on the word Ziggy.

  Stupidly, I said, “Ziggy?”

  She gave me a half-pitying smile. “Z-I-G-I is the acronym of Zoological Interspecies-Genetic Institute.”

  Feeling like a total idiot, I said, “I guess that’s why Kurtz didn’t know what I was talking about when I said I was there to take care of Ziggy. That’s not his name, is it?”

  She laughed lightly. “Scientists are careful not to become attached to the pets they use for research. They’re more apt to assign them numbers rather than names. It makes it less uncomfortable for them if the animal is killed or hurt.”

  I clamped my back teeth together to keep from mentioning that nobody seemed to worry about making it uncomfortable for the animal, and forced my mind back to the BiZogen-ZIGI competition.

  “Let me get this straight. Ken Kurtz double-crossed BiZogen by going to Zoological-Whatever and offering his research to them. They agreed, and now they’re double-crossing him.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “And you’ve been hired to catch him or trap him, and you’re double-crossing whoever hired you.”

  She frowned. “No, that’s not the way it is. Not at all.” She began walking backward, then turned and jogged away. Over her shoulder, she called, “I’m only trying to help Ken get a fair shake.” Then she disappeared into the shadows under the trees.

  For the rest of the morning, I wondered who had recruitedher after Ken contacted the Zoological-Whatever company. BiZogen? The FBI? Some other biomedical research company? Whoever it was, she clearly was divided in her loyalties, and anytime somebody’s loyalties are going in two directions, the end result is always bad.

  The entire situation was too complicated to even begin to figure out. It was a lot easier to think about the calico kitten and the awful possibility that Paloma might have her claws removed. That was a situation I could easily figure out. I could even do something about it.

  Paloma had seemed a gentle soul, so she probably thought declawing a cat was like giving it a manicure. If she knew the facts, I was sure she wouldn’t want to harm a helpless kitten. I was also sure that a woman grieving her murdered husband wouldn’t want to talk about her kitten’s claws and that my compulsion to go see her was a black mark on my road toward complete sanity.

  But Paloma might have already made an appointment with a veterinarian to do the surgery. Even if she weren’t up to it herself, one of Paloma’s friends might take the kitten to be declawed. If that happened, I’d never forgive myself for not trying to stop it.

  After I finished grooming the last cat, I crossed the bridge into Sarasota and swung by Nate Tillman’s house. Nate’s a retiree who lives in one of the few communities that haven’t formed a homeowners’ association to make rules about what people can do with their own property, so his neighborhood still has personality. Nate himself has hung old CDs from the boughs of a spreading oak in his front yard as year-round sparkly tree ornaments. If you don’t look too hard, they look good.

  I parked in the driveway, where I could hear the whine of a band saw from Nate’s workshop in a backyard shed. Moving through flurries of yellow butterflies intent on wildly growing oregano edging the path, I walked toward the shed where Nate turns out everything from hokey yard whirligigs to beautiful Adirondack porch chairs.

  Nate saw me through the open door and turned off the saw.

  “Well now, Dixie, what brings you over here to the poor side of town?”

  “I’m hoping you have a scratching post I can buy. I’m on a campaign to save a kitten from being declawed.”

  He winced. “Damn fool thing, pulling out a cat’s claws. What size you want?”

  “It’s for a kitten, but she’ll grow. But I don’t think she’ll be a big cat.”

  He went over to a shelf and took down a post about two feet tall. Securely attached to a sturdy square base, it was simply an upright log about six inches in diameter, but its heavy bark made it perfect for a cat to scratch or stick its claws in and stretch its muscles.

  He said, “You can bring it back and I’ll trade it for a taller one when the cat grows up.”

  “That’s perfect. What do I owe you?”

  “Aw, five bucks oughta do it. It’s just a piece of wood. You doin’ okay, Dixie?”

  He had such kind brown eyes that I was tempted to tell him all about the iguana and the murder and how I was a suspect and all the other sordid details of my life at the moment. But I didn’t.

  I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said, “I’m fine, Nate. Tell your better half I said Hi. I’d stop in and tell her myself, but I’m in a rush.”

  “She’s not home anyway. Gone off shopping with a neighbor. That’s her favorite hobby now, spending money.”

  He was trying for grouch, but his smile spoiled it. Nate and his wife are stuck so hard together it would take one of his saws to separate them. It was good to be reminded there are people who love one another blindly even after umpteen years together. I felt better about the world as I drove away.

  There were cars in Paloma’s driveway, and more cars parked at the curb. I parked a couple of houses away and went to the back of the Bronco for my supplies. Along with the scratching post, I got out my nail-grooming kit and a dime bag of catnip.

  The front door was open when I went up Paloma’s steps, and I could hear several people inside talking. Paloma suddenly appeared in the doorway as if she had rushed to meet me. She looked frazzled and tired.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Paloma. I know this is a terrible time to come, and I know you don’t want to see me anyway, but I’m so concerned about the kitten that I—”

  “The kitten?”

  “I’ll trim the kitten’s claws so she won’t scratch people. I brought her a scratching post too, so she can exercise. Cats need to stretch their leg muscles, and the only way they can do that is to stick their claws in something and pull. But if I could just have five minutes with her, her claws won’t be a problem anymore.”

  Paloma stared at me with round astonished eyes. Behind her, somebody called her name, but she ignored them. Her brother came to stand beside her, and when he saw it was me, he frowned.

  “It’s all right,” Paloma said. “She has come to cut the kitten’s claws.”

  Incredibly, Paloma seemed to find my uninvited presence as a kitty manicurist not only acceptable but welcome. I got the feeling she welcomed me as a diversion from all the talk inside more than as a kitten rescuer, but it didn’t matter. After several shouts toward the back of the house that other people took up and repeated, the little girl came to the door with the kitten in her hands. She smiled shyly at me and stepped out on the porch. Paloma hesitated a second, as if she wanted to come outside too, and then went back to join the people in the house. After a moment, her brother left the doorway, leaving me alone with the child and her kitten.

  As if it were our accustomed spot, the child and I went to the corner where I’d found her the day before. We sat down and I put the scratching post on the floor in front of us.

  I said, “Kittens need to scratch things, but we have to teach them what is good to scratch and what isn’t.”

  I took the kitten and gently pulled her paws down the post a few time
s to give her the idea. She was a smart kitten. In no time, she was digging her sharp little daggers into the bark so deeply that she got stuck and I had to disengage her paws.

  I said, “I’ve brought my nail clippers with me, and I’m going to trim the kitty’s claws so she’ll be able to scratch the wood but they won’t stick in your skin.”

  She nodded solemnly, but her eyes were apprehensive.

  I said, “I promise I won’t hurt her.”

  When the kitten seemed to have had her fill of scratching and stretching on the post and was nicely relaxed, I lifted her into my lap and stroked her, rhythmically running my fingers down her throat, the place where cats most love to be stroked, then on down her chest to her front legs and the ends of her paws. When she was strongly purring and half asleep, I got my clippers ready and pressed gently on one paw until she extended its claws. Quickly, careful not to clip into the quick, I clipped off the hooked end of her claws, then stroked her some more before I repeated the process on the other paw.

  The whole process went so fast that it was over before she realized anything was happening. But to make her associate pleasure with having her nails trimmed, I opened the bag of catnip, pinched a bit between my fingers, and sprinkled it on the floor in front of my crossed knees. This was the iffy part of my plan because not all cats respond to catnip. Even those who do have to be about three months old before they like it. But for cats who are sensitive to catnip, it’s the most exciting thing they’ve ever had, and they will bless you in their kitty prayers for giving it to them.

  This kitten turned out to be both sensitive and old enough. When I put her on the floor next to the herb sprinkle, she had the typical catnip response, leaping and rolling and swaying in an ecstatic dance.

  The little girl giggled so hard watching her that Paloma came to the door again. The kitten was going nuts with euphoric joy and the little girl was laughing with the cheek-jiggling glee that children can have even when their house is full of people mourning a father’s death. Paloma stood a moment, watching them, and then gave me a long speculative look before she went back inside.