Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  I picked up a magazine with shaking hands. “You and Your New Kitten,” I read aloud. I felt faint.

  A half an hour later, having acquired a cat carrier, litter pan, ten pounds of litter, dry and wet kitten food, vitamins, a scratching post, a myriad of instructions and receipts, and a bright green collar with a bell, I staggered out the door with my new friend and a much lighter wallet.

  I noticed the rain had stopped completely, and the morning air had turned much colder. I blasted the heater in the car and headed toward the house on Chaucer Street, some fifteen minutes away. Turning onto University Avenue, the thought of food crossed my mind for the first time in a long while.

  I looked down at the carrier on the passenger’s side of the car and into the face of the kitten sticking his nose and one paw out of the wire mesh door.

  “We have to make a stop, little guy,” I said as I stroked his protruding paw. “You’ve already been fed enough to fell a horse, but I haven’t had a thing since yesterday’s lunch.”

  Turning onto Emerson Street, I pulled into a parking space in front of The Creamery, a popular establishment for locals and Stanford students alike. The Creamery has been around since the late thirties and with good reason. The comfort food is fabulous.

  Douglas, the manager, and I were in college together, so I often stopped in for a hamburger, beer, and some laughs at this Palo Alto mainstay, especially after my eight-year marriage fell apart.

  I informed Douglas of what waited for me in the car and promised to bring in pictures of the little guy as soon as possible, in exchange for bacon, eggs, and hash browns to go.

  The Creamery didn’t usually do take-out, but Douglas is good at making exceptions. Back in the car ten minutes later, I salivated at the smells emanating from the Styrofoam container at my side.

  Trying not to think about Portor Wyler, I pulled into my driveway within five minutes and past the house I grew up in and loved, despite it being much too grand for my taste. Backlit by the morning sun, it was a rather outsized, two-story job, dominated in the front by two massive, carved columns standing on either side of the entrance stairs.

  My father had these columns sent from Mexico for his and my mother’s fifteenth wedding anniversary, at great expense and red tape, I might add.

  Once your eyes get past the white columns, the rest of the house is mostly white brick with large paned windows, topped off with a Spanish tiled roof. In short, the house is homage to the Mexican-American success story, Palo Alto style, complete with glossy green shrubs, seasonally blooming foliage, hot tub, and swimming pool.

  When my marriage ended, my parents offered me the garage apartment, an added inducement to my coming home. I said yes, so they completely rebuilt the upstairs, two-bedroom apartment.

  It had been originally constructed for a chauffeur in the heyday of the nineteen-thirties but used only for storage since I can remember. They offered to decorate the place for me, but after living with those two columns most of my life, I opted to give it my own style, whatever that is.

  I followed the drive around to the back of the house to the garage and chauffeur’s apartment, now my humble abode. The garage door opened electronically, and I drove inside.

  There are two sets of stairs going up to the apartment, one outside, one inside. The outside stairs on the right side of the building lead to the living room entrance. They are wide with a black wrought iron banister of a Mayan design, very cool.

  The stairs inside the garage take you to the back of the kitchen. This inside stairway, painted dove-gray, is narrow and awkward when carrying bundles. However, it was still damp and cold, and I chose to struggle rather than to freeze. Getting out of the car, I switched on the inside lights of the garage and sighed.

  At one time, it had been filled with a colorful array of family cars. Richard’s red MG Midget, Mom’s beige Jaguar, my own turquoise bit of heaven, and Dad’s green Jeep Cherokee.

  Now with the exception of Dad’s tarp covered Jeep, empty stalls stared back at me, reminding me of how much things had changed. Secretly, I wished Mom would sell the jeep, so I didn’t have to see it all the time but knew she couldn’t bear to part with it.

  Between these thoughts and Wyler’s death, I had a hard time shaking off the depression that made it hard for me to breathe, but I gave it my best shot. The Malaysian Ministry of Culture would have been proud.

  I maneuvered the carrier with the kitten and one of the bags up the inside stairway. This was the first of what I knew would be many trips. Track lighting illuminated the narrow stairs at night, but in the daytime, natural light poured in through an octagon shaped window on the landing.

  A hanging basket of dark green cascading leaves from some type of plant completed the look. Fortunately, the plant was on a timed-watering line or the hanging basket would have contained dark brown cascading leaves; you know how it is.

  I never have to lock the door at the top of the stairs because there is no way of getting into the garage without the automatic garage door opener.

  I crossed through my blue and yellow tiled kitchen and into the bedroom decorated in vivid, Mexican mosaics found on one of my trips to San Miguel de Allende. The kitten began yowling at the top of his lungs.

  He seemed to know he was in his new home and was anxious to get acquainted with it. I “kitten proofed” the bedroom and connecting bath, according to Ellen’s instructions, by checking closets, cabinets, windows, and under the bed for any hazards. Then I put his litter box, water, and food bowls temporarily in the bathroom.

  When I felt the two rooms were secure, I opened the carrier door for my noisy captive. He suddenly became quiet and hesitantly put one foot outside and then, after a long pause, the other.

  I closed the bedroom door behind me and went back down for the breakfast cooling on the seat of the car. I decided this would be the last trip. I was tired, famished, and needed a bath, so the remaining packages would have to wait until later.

  Trudging up the stairs again, I realized just how exhausted I was. It had been one of the worst nights of my life, and I was trying not to think about a man’s life being over, just like that. I like to think of myself as pretty tough, but this rattled me to my core.

  I went back into the bedroom and looked for the little guy. He crouched in the far corner sniffing the leg of a chair. Remembering Ellen’s words, I picked him up with my free hand and placed him in his litter pan.

  “Now, I’m going to put you in here four or five more times tonight just to make sure you can remember where it is. This was Ellen’s idea so don’t get mad at me if you don’t like it.”

  He looked up at me and then studied the litter box intently. I returned to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. I wasn’t looking forward to pulling off my boots, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling I had of standing in play dough one moment longer.

  I sat up, took a deep breath and after some struggle, I removed the damaged boots. Then I took off everything else and put on my favorite old terrycloth robe, thin with age.

  Disgusted, I threw my ruined things into a corner of the room, where they landed with a thump, causing the kitten to jump nearly a foot and a half in the air. I laughed and when he heard my voice, he ran to me mouthing his silent meow. It was right then and there, my heart was lost to him forever. The household had a new boss, and it sure wasn’t me.

  I picked him up and, after rubbing his sleek body against my face, put him on the bed beside me and opened my breakfast container. He smelled the bacon and looked wildly around for the meat, the little savage.

  I broke off pieces and cupped them in the palm of my hand for him to eat. The fur around his mouth, soft and clean from the recent bath, tickled my palm, and I laughed. When the telephone rang, I threw the bacon bits back into the Styrofoam container and reached across the bed for the phone.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone still laughing at the kitten that stood in the middle of the container voraciously eating bacon.

  “
You’re there! Where have you been? Do you know what time it is? Don’t you listen to your answering machine anymore?”

  “Lila? Mom?” I responded, jerked back into the real world. I knew she was upset. Nearly every other word was emphasized. “What time is it?” I glanced at my wristwatch. “Dios Mio! It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

  “I couldn’t imagine where you were. I’ve been calling and calling for an update assuming you would go straight home.”

  I felt guilt growl inside me. “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. I took a nap in the car for a few hours and then?”

  “I wish you hadn’t turned your cell phone off, Liana,” she chastised me. “It does worry me when I can’t reach you.”

  “I didn’t turn it off,” I retorted. “I told you. It keeps turning itself off. I think I need a new battery. I’ll get it taken care of this afternoon.”

  The other end of the line grew quiet. I could tell she was hurt that I hadn’t called and spared her needless worrying. I felt terrible.

  “I should have called you, Mom,” I admitted, “when I first woke up, and I’m sorry. I just got sidetracked. Hey! Cut that out! Listen, you…” I said in mock severity to the kitten who had made a leap for the remainder of a piece of bacon in my free hand. “You’ve got your own food. You can’t have all of mine.”

  “I didn’t know you had company, Liana. Possibly I’m interrupting something,” Lila said coolly.

  “Oh, that’s all right.” I laughed. “You’re not interrupting a thing. It’s not company. It’s the new kitten.”

  “The kitten?”

  “Yes. I found a kitten in the phone booth I called you from, and well, I couldn’t leave him there so, I’ve got him.” I sobered. “Mom, I am sorry about earlier, really. I should have called.” I waited for a response but realized I was taking to dead air. I heard my uncle come on the line.

  “What is this I hear about a kitten?” he asked. “From where comes a gatito, mi sobrina?”

  I laughed. I knew my uncle’s love for animals. “I found him in a phone booth, Tío, and he’s adorable,” I added, watching the kitten that gave up on trying to extract my share of the bacon and now did battle with a hairbrush on the vanity table.

  “Why don’t you come over and see him?” I asked on impulse. After a short discussion in which I affirmed repeatedly I was fine and would like to see him, he said he would be right over.

  Now anxious to know my telephone messages, I went to the second bedroom that functioned as the office/dance studio.

  This is a large room, about twenty-feet square with high ceilings and a polished, light oak floor. It contains no furniture other than a computer station and desk, complete with the latest equipment, tucked away in one corner. The rest of the room was given over to the mirrored wall and workout barre. It’s a rare day I don’t start with my ballet barre and floor exercises.

  In my soul, I am a disciplined dancer. Unfortunately, I’m not a very good one, but that doesn’t stop my love or need for it. I also attend karate classes and practice three nights a week on University Place. Mom once asked why I don’t practice my karate here, but I would never mix the two disciplines in my home. Karate is my work; I dance for love.

  The telephone machine light flickered indicating five calls, and I hoped I’d have time to listen to them all before my uncle arrived. I grabbed a pencil and pressed the play button. The first two were solicitations.

  I must remember to register my phone with NoCall.com, I thought.

  The third was from a man I’d met the week before at a Mondavi Wine concert. I had wondered if and when Grant would call. The fourth and fifth calls were from my mother, a little more emotional than normal.

  The front doorbell rang. I ran back to the bedroom, swooped the squirming kitten up in my arms, and flung open the door expecting to greet Tío.

  Instead, Mom’s fifty-six year old ice blue eyes sparkled at me, despite her lack of sleep. I wasn’t surprised to find her accompanying my uncle Tío, even thought I could tell she was still annoyed with me.

  I noted that between her shoulder length, ash blond hair, year-round golden tan, white knit silk slack set, and pearl button earrings, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine, while I, on the other hand, looked like I had just undergone interrogation at Guantanamo Bay. There is no justice. Tío stepped from behind Mom and took the kitten from my arms.

  “Listen, everybody. Why don’t we go back to my bedroom?” I asked. “Ellen told me not to confuse the little guy by giving him too much space his first couple of weeks.”

  Dutifully, they followed me into the bedroom. Tío headed for the leather wingback chair in front of the unlit fireplace. There he sat, a silver-haired, elegant man, cooing to a kitten in Spanish. The cat batted at nimble fingers, which my uncle playfully dangled.

  Mom, grinning, stood at the foot of the nearby bed with her arms folded for a moment, then sobered and looked at me. She moved to a corner of the room and gestured with a tilt of her head for me to follow. I did.

  “Liana, you should have found the time to call me,” she said in a hushed voice. “You’re an inventive person. This wasn’t like you. I was up most of the night worried sick and a fifteen second phone call from you would have changed that.”

  “Oh, God, Mom, I’m so sorry. It just got away from me.” I looked down at the floor, chagrined. “Maybe I was still a little put out about having to shadow Wyler. To be honest, I did consider it beneath me.”

  She took a breath to speak, but I held out my hand to stop her.

  “I’m over that now, and I apologize for my unprofessional behavior… and other things.”

  Her face held surprise.

  “Liana, there’s never been a moment I thought you were behaving unprofessionally. But if by ‘other things,’ you mean Portor Wyler’s death, sometimes things happen beyond our control, dear. Given the look on your face, we need to talk about this Portor Wyler tragedy.”

  She glanced over at Tío. “Later. Not now.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Later is good. I’m pretty wiped right now.”

  She smiled at me, nodded, and then changed the subject. “I wish I had known you wanted a cat,” she said. “I would have prevailed upon Anne Carter to sell me one of her Persian kittens. You know she had a litter of seven about three months ago.”

  “I didn’t know myself, Mom. It sort of just happened. I never did want a pet. I’m usually a stuffed animal person. You know, no maintenance.”

  “Well, are you going to keep him?” she asked, a little concerned.

  “Oh, absolutely. He’s mine, and I’ve got the vet bills to prove it. This little guy needs me. Or maybe I need him,” I muttered, half ashamed of my admission.

  “Well, whichever way it is, if he makes you happy, then I’m glad you have him,” she said. She reached out and gave me a big hug.

  I hugged her back with all my heart. All was forgiven; we knew it, and we both breathed a sigh of relief. The mother/daughter pipeline was humming, as usual.

  I went over to my uncle, who was having his shoelaces deftly untied by small paws. I sat on the floor by Tio’s chair. He reached over and put an arm around me. Then he threw back his head and laughed heartily, the first time he had done so in months.

  “What is it, Mateo?” Lila joined in the laughter, although not sure why.

  “This is no gatito! This is a conejito,” he said. “Look at his ears. Mira! When I first saw him I thought, my niece, she does not know a rabbit from a cat!” His teasing eyes twinkled, and all three of us began to laugh.

  “I guess they are a little big. Maybe he’ll grow into them!” I agreed. We studied the kitten fairly dancing at the attention he got.

  “Liana,” he continued sobering, “how can you leave this gatito alone all day while you go to work? You work such long hours.” His soft voice caressed the kitten as tenderly as his fingers did.

  “You should see all the paraphernalia I bought!” I answered with pride. “I have a self feeding
dish for dry food and….”

  But before I could tick off the recent acquisitions on my fingers, Lila quickly crossed the room, gave me a subtle nudge on the shoulder, interrupting me.

  “Your uncle’s brought up a good point, Liana,” Mom said. “You need someone to help take care of the kitten during the long hours you’re at work.”

  “I do?” I asked her, mystified, my left hand frozen with one finger pointing to the ceiling.

  “Yes, you do,” she said with a stern face. I looked over to Tio’s yearning one and got it.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, a little chagrined that I hadn’t caught on earlier. Of course! This might be the very thing to help him get over his overwhelming sense of loss. Anyway, it was worth a try.

  Recently retired, as well as widowed, my Tío was filled with nothing but sorrow these days. He sat around the house watching CNN by the hour and did little else. Tio’s amazing life flashed through my mind.

  At twenty, he migrated from Vera Cruz to California bringing his five-year old brother, my father, with him. Both parents were dead, economic times were horrendous, but somehow he managed to get the papers and money together for the journey to “El Norte,” his lifelong dream.

  That was in 1954, and the trip, mostly by foot, took nearly a month. An even harder journey was the one from the picking fields of Salinas to head chef at a prestigious restaurant in San Jose. No mean feat. But to him, his greatest success was when dad won a track scholarship to Stanford University, with a 3.9 grade average.

  As a child, I loved to hear Tio’s stories of their struggles and would beg him to tell them to me again and again in Spanish. That’s how I learned the language. Since I can remember, Mateo Alvarez has kept the Mexican side of me burning and proud.

  “You know, Tio, you’re right. Even though he’s got enough of the essentials, I’m worried he’ll need some companionship when I’m not here. Would you mind dropping by during the day to see how he’s getting along? Maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, you could stay with him for a couple of hours here and there? Just for the first month or two until he gets a little older and used to the place.”