Bono

Chapter Three

FOSTERING A KITTEN—NOT

A cat never likes to be cornered.

The only thing better than the idea of spending open-ended time in New York was the thought of having Lydia all to myself there for ten days. Voluntarily at that. If I didn’t invade her space or say too many tactless things, there was a chance we’d come to forgive each other’s differences and like each other again. With her by my side, the city wouldn’t be so overwhelming. Settling into a new life of freedom would be much easier with her there ready to catch me if my knee gave out.

To my delight, she offered to scour the net for an Airbnb apartment.

Michaela told us to avoid Morningside Heights, the Columbia University district and anything above 96th Street. She suggested we find a safe, convenient apartment near hers in Chelsea. We were disappointed when Lydia’s search of that area proved fruitless. Noho and Soho were also no goes, along with the Highline and the Flatiron districts. However, she managed to unearth two possibilities in the West Village. I sent the addresses off to Michaela and waited for her advice.

Next morning, I leapt out of bed and raced Jonah to the computer.

Jonah tap-danced across the keyboard while I tried to decipher the email.

Hi Helen, I don’t think you’ve met our marketing director, Vida Engstrand, but she’s also a great cat lover. Just the other day we were talking about the tragic number of animals that were left homeless after Hurricane Sandy— and we’ve come up with what we hope you’ll think is a brilliant idea . . .

Jonah’s tail swished across the screen to block my view. I grabbed him and plonked him on my lap.

How would you feel about fostering a shelter kitten while you’re in New York?

My throat tightened. Had Michaela and Vida been out drinking?

While you’re having fun and frolics with your American bundle of fur, you’d also be helping our community. What do you think?

A kitten?! They couldn’t know one of the reasons I was going to New York was to take a break from sleeping under a feline. Even if they did, I had no idea why they imagined I’d want to mop up puddles when I could be swanning around the Met.

Jonah emitted a regal yowl and blinked up at me as if to say, “They’ve got you now!”

Reading the email for the third time, I watched a glorious new phase of freedom in the world’s greatest city shrink to an endless round of shoveling kitty litter.

“What’s the matter?” Philip called from the kitchen.

My wail of despair must’ve echoed down the hall. He appeared, tea in hand, at my study door.

“Is that a new thing?” he asked when I told him. “Going to some other country and fostering an animal while you’re there?”

Jonah bounced off my lap onto my shoulders and adopted the boa constrictor hold around my neck.

“No, it’s not and I’m not about to start a new craze,” I said, unraveling Jonah. “They’re insane.”

My husband, who has long since given up passing judgment on other people’s mental conditions, slid into his suit jacket, kissed my forehead, and went to work.

There was only one person to turn to. I first met Olivia at a fundraiser for terminally ill children. With the heart of a saint and the mind of a diplomat, she has truckloads of style. When she isn’t helping struggling artists, she’s entertaining European royalty. Olivia’s social skills are legendary. She could smooth out the Himalayas if she had to.

“Fostering a kitten in New York?!” she echoed. “Impossible! Anyway, what do you want to go there for? The only people ruder than Parisians are New Yorkers. You’ll get mugged.”

“But they’re my publishers,” I told her. “They’ll think I’m a fraud if I turn them down.”

I could hear Olivia’s brain whirring at the other end of the line. Jonah flicked his tail across my nostrils while I repressed a sneeze.

“No need to panic,” she said. “It’s hard enough to find anywhere to stay in New York. You’ll never find a place that’s willing to take a kitten.”

Olivia was always three steps ahead.

“Play along with them,” she continued. “Give the impression you’re looking for a pet-friendly accommodation. I promise you walls will grow whiskers before that happens.”

“So, I’ll be able to admit defeat with a clear conscience?”

“Absolutely.”

“They won’t hate me?”

“How could they?” she said. “It’s a win–win.”

Not for the first time, I was amazed by Olivia’s brilliance. Her talents were wasted unraveling the complexities of my life when she could be running the UN. I put the phone down and googled “NYC Pet Friendly Apartments.” As I scanned the results, a smile settled on my lips. There were more motels on Mars than cat-friendly apartments in New York.

After emailing Michaela to say I’d be delighted to foster a kitten, I went out and treated myself to a double strength latte with biscotti dipped in white chocolate icing. It felt good to be in charge of my own life again.

Next morning, the computer screen lit up with another message from Michaela.

Dear Helen, Are you ready for “your” American kitten? I got an enthusiastic response from Bideawee, which is one of our local shelters with an excellent reputation.

Her enthusiasm was terrifying. I showed the email to Lydia, who’d dropped by to borrow a tent from the attic. She and Ramon were off camping for the weekend.

“I’m not doing it,” I said.

Lydia seemed intrigued.

“But kittens are so cuddly,” she said, gathering Jonah off my lap and sinking her nose in his neck.

“I know, but remember what a nightmare this one was when he was little.” Baby Jonah had landed in our household with the subtlety of a hydrogen bomb that week after my mastectomy. But he’d also contributed much-needed laughter and warmth at a gloomy time.

“I’ll help look after it.”

My daughter’s maternal instincts were in overdrive.

“Thanks, but I’ve done some research and it’s a hopeless cause. There aren’t any pet friendly apartments in New York.”

Lydia ran her hand over Jonah’s long, silky spine.

“Would you mind if I take a look on the net?” she asked.

It was a harmless enough request.

After a while, I started to enjoy pretending to be a cat foster mother applicant. No doubt con men revel in similar highs of wickedness mingled with a dread of being caught.

Vida reported that Bideawee had a temporary shortage of kittens. They were hoping the few they had would be adopted out by Easter time. When she asked if I’d be willing to take an adult cat, I felt a pang of disappointment as a vision of a round-eyed cuddle bundle faded to a streetwise tabby. Which was ridiculous, considering I had no intention of fostering anything larger than a dust mite. Lying through my fingertips, I told her an adult cat would be even better than a kitten, though (remembering Jonah’s spraying habit and assuming an adult shelter cat would have issues around rejection) I would prefer a female.

A few days later, Vida sent an email saying the shelter would like to do a background check. I was flattered they thought I had a past that could be remotely complicated. And of course, it was good that they wouldn’t lend a feline to just anyone. I was enormously impressed by the thought and care Bideawee and my publishers were putting into this doomed fostering project. After that, there was a reassuring silence.

It was broken several days later by a message from Vida.

Hi Helen,

I hope you’re well. Bideawee says they have a few cats in mind, but they’re hoping they’ll be adopted out before April.

They want to know if you’d be open to fostering an adult cat with special needs? They have a few FIV+ cats that are in a special ward. They’re very sociable and sweet, but would need a foster home without any cats.

You’d need to meet the adoption center manager a few days before you pick up the cat to go over what the care would entail and sign foster forms.

What are your thoughts? Are you okay with taking on a special needs cat?

Many thanks,

Vida

Panic stricken, I called Olivia.

“A cat with AIDS?” she said. “How New York 1980s can they get?”

“It’s not transferrable to humans,” I said.

Olivia thought I should put my foot down, but I said yes. If they’d asked me to adopt a three-legged Bengali tiger with syphilis I’d have said bring it on.

Because it was never going to happen.

There was one thing I had not counted on, however. Lydia is a Taurus born in the year of the ox in the hour of the ox. Once she’s decided to do something, she digs her hooves in and refuses to give up. The best way to get her to make something happen is to tell her it’s impossible.

After spending a weekend online, she appeared glowing at our front door. “Look at this!” she said, opening her laptop on the kitchen table.

I sat down and sifted through images of a small but livable-looking studio apartment. Hardly the Sofitel, but it wasn’t a tent, either. The most attractive photo featured a black, almost certainly vinyl sofa sitting on pine floorboards under a poster of the Flatiron Building.

“It’s a great location in Midtown,” she said. “Halfway between the UN Building and Grand Central.”

It sounded like a theme song, but then everything does in New York.

The price was reasonable and it was miraculously available for the month of April.

“And here’s the best part,” Lydia said, pointing out a line of fine print under the photo. I lifted the laptop off the table and peered at the tiny writing. A rock formed in my chest as two words came into focus: “Pet Friendly.”

“Really?” I said. “That can’t be right. I can’t see any scratching posts in this photo.”

Lydia fixed me with her psychologist look.

“You’re just going to have to man up about this fostering thing,” she said.