Bono

Chapter Seven

A CITY WITH HEART

There’s no such thing as just a cat.

A set of purple curtains came into focus above my head as I woke from a hollow of sleep. Lydia was snoring gently under her fake fur blanket a few feet away. Poor kid. The so-called sofa bed was just a vinyl-covered plank, but she’d insisted it was comfortable. The room was chilly. Thank god we had bought the blanket for her. I pulled the covers up to my chin and tried to focus on the freshly laundered sheets rather than the bed’s lingering aroma.

With most traces of the previous tenants gone, our new home revealed itself in all its glory. The only source of natural light was from the windows behind my bed. The front door and kitchenette at the other end of the room faded into shades of gloom.

The cleaning person had left a note saying she’d changed the code to the door lock. She’d scrawled the new numbers in bold pencil. Reassuring as it was, I was grateful for the additional row of bolts across the inside of the door.

It was a good thing Lydia was accustomed to sleeping in confined spaces. If she’d rolled over during the night, she would have landed on the glass coffee table. The vacant eye of a small television stared out at her from a few feet across the room.

A table just big enough for a chair and a laptop sat in the corner near my bed. Though I was aware a crippled Wi-Fi connection was a first world problem, I was relying on Skype to keep our long-distance marriage alive.

Cleared of rubbish and the worst of the smell, our studio took on a raffish charm. The fireplace next to the television hadn’t been used for years from the look of it. Some enterprising soul had freshened it up with white paint and transformed it into what real estate agents call a period feature. Next to it, the daffodils we’d bought ourselves as a housewarming present the previous night glowed from a tall vase.

Even the smallest apartments have eccentricities. Next to the bathroom we discovered a large, airless room. The space was too cavernous to be called a closet, but it had a few wire coat hangers dangling from a pipe down the left-hand side. After we’d wheeled our suitcases in there we christened it the Bunker.

Rolling out of bed, I tugged the curtains and let out a cry of delight.

“What is it?” Lydia asked, bleary with sleep.

“There’s a fire escape straight out of West Side Story!” I said. “Can’t you just see Tony climbing up those steps and singing ‘Tonight’?”

My daughter groaned and turned her face to the wall. The act of forcibly not singing was making my sinuses throb.

Across the concreted building shaft, I made out the silhouettes of workers bent over their desks to start the day.

Though they were in another building, we were at the same level and they were just a few yards away. If one of them had looked up, they would have seen a wild woman in her nightie watching them.

I could see a tall man and a slightly built woman standing close to the window. They were engrossed in conversation and the tension between them was intimate enough to make me wonder if they were having an affair. But at second glance, his concentration was focused on her clipboard, not her cleavage.

Back in Melbourne, Philip would be climbing into his pajamas after a long day’s work. Jonah would be waiting to pounce on our bed. I wondered how our feline was adjusting to having just one set of legs to snuggle into. I tried Skype again. After a series of watery bleeps, the line went dead. I told myself I wasn’t missing them at all, just wondering how they were doing.

As I smoothed the bed covers and plumped the pillows, I hummed “America” (under my breath to avoid getting into trouble with my traveling companion). Our apartment was tiny and scruffy, but it was ours. I was already in love with it.

The only sobering thought was that in a few hours’ time, unless I could think of a watertight excuse, we’d be sharing it with Mavis.

I stumped past Lydia to the bathroom. It had hardly enough room for a human toilet, let alone a litter box. As I rinsed the residue of yesterday’s paint off my arms, I empathized with babies in the later months of pregnancy. My buttocks collided with the wall when I bent to pick up the soap. Our new shower curtain sucked at my thighs while water puddled on the floor. To be a New Yorker is to economize on movement.

After I’d dressed, thrown on some blush to hide residual paint blobs, and wandered into the kitchenette, Lydia asked if the animal shelter might be open yet.

“Hardly,” I said, spooning ancient grains into a bowl.

“It’s after nine.”

“Yes, but we can’t just go and collect a cat like that,” I said, trying not to shatter a tooth.

“Why not?”

She listened like Judge Judy while I explained we’d need to acquire a litter box at least before we could think about letting a cat move in.

“No problem,” she said, pulling on her long pants. “There’s a pet supply shop across the street.”

I urged her to slow down. She needed to shower and have breakfast. Then maybe we could squeeze in a visit to MoMA, and possibly even the Frick.

After she’d gulped down her antiquated grains, I followed her downstairs into a brilliantly crisp day. The handbag sellers were setting up their stall near the corner. Rows of vividly colored wares jostled in the breeze, competing for our attention.

“Wow! Aren’t they adorable? Haven’t you always wanted a bright yellow tote?”

Lydia stood back, tactfully ignoring my question.

“Or one with red polka dots!”

“Would it match any of your clothes?”

True, my wardrobe back home was full of frumpy tunics and sturdy shoes with minimal heels. And every handbag I’d ever owned was black. Anyone would think I belonged to a sect. All that was about to change.

“How about this gorgeous blue one?” I said, reaching to remove it from its hook so I could inspect the lining.

The salesman shot me an icy look. I lowered my hand, grabbed Lydia’s arm and swept her around the corner.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“He thought I was going to steal it!”

A homeless man sat hunched on a bench under a stainless steel sculpture. He held out his palm to a pair of executive types in long, dark coats. Locked in conversation, they strode past him down the hill toward the UN. This was the harsh, uncaring city Greg and Olivia had warned me about. Maybe I’d been foolish to imagine I could spend a month among people as cold as the concrete buildings they lived and worked in.

I knotted my scarf and grabbed Lydia’s hand as we crossed the street. If we’d been tourists we’d have walked straight past the small, homey shop sandwiched between a Laundromat and a hardware store. An old ginger cat sat in the window and blinked at us. A bell tinkled as we pushed the door open to step into an Aladdin’s cave of pet food and toys. While some of the brands were unfamiliar to us, the smell of meat mingled with sawdust was not. As we wandered down the aisle, the ginger cat padded after us with casual interest.

In a city made of sharp edges, the relief of seeing something so soft and linked to nature was beyond words. I wanted to gather him up in my arms and hug him.

“He must have been a tiger in a previous life,” Lydia said.

“Well, hello mister,” I said, turning and crouching on the floor. “You’re a handsome fellow. What’s your name?”

The cat twitched his whiskers and assessed whether I was worthy of his time.

“Bluebell,” a gravelly voice said. “Her name’s Bluebell. And she’s a girl.”

A woman gazed down at me through enormous round, purple spectacles. Her auburn hair was piled up in extravagant swirls. The accent had a Queens twang.

“Isn’t it rare for a ginger cat to be female?” I asked, as Bluebell stepped forward to nudge my finger with her damp nose.

“Not rare,” she said. “Unusual. Can I help you?”

Her tone was sharp, but the eyes behind the giant spectacles had a watery sadness. I began to wonder if she was one of those people whose life experiences have led them to prefer cats to humans.

“Well, yes I think you can,” I said. “We’re visiting from Australia.”

“I thought so,” she said.

“And we’re going to foster a cat while we’re here.”

Her face melted in a smile, exposing two large front teeth with an endearing gap between them.

“That’s a wonderful thing to do! What sort of cat are you getting?”

I found it heartwarming that two women from opposite sides of the globe could bond over a cat neither had met.

“We don’t know yet, but probably a quiet old thing like your Bluebell.”

“Bluebell’s not old,” the woman’s tone was defensive. “She’s only 14.”

The shopkeeper needed Bluebell to hang around for a long time to come.

“You’re right,” I said, after a respectful silence. “Bluebell’s practically a teenager. We had a cat who lived to 24.”

“My Daffodil lived to 33,” she said.

It’s never a good idea to get into competitions about how long your cat survived.

“Did she?” I said. “That’s amazing!”

“Daffodil was a he, not a she.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought . . .”

“Tulip, that’s Daffodil’s sister, was female. And so was Rose, their mother. But Daffodil and Magnolia were boys.”

“Were they all ginger?” I asked taking a gray plastic litter box from the top of a pile.

“Mostly tabby,” she said, following me to the cat food section. “They all lived a very long time.”

The inherent sadness of owning a cat or dog is the knowledge they will leave too soon. When they do, the long-lived human is stricken with genuine grief. We can try to protect ourselves by not loving too much, but in the end it’s impossible. For many, the grief after losing an animal equates the pain of mourning for a human friend or family member. Perhaps, it makes sense to adopt a tortoise or a parrot who might stand a chance of outliving us.

The range of cat foot was overwhelming. Besides, I had no idea what our foster animal’s preferences would be.

“We’ll take this for now,” I said lifting the plastic tray onto the counter.

“And please,” the woman said, placing a bag of kitty litter on top of it. “I want you to have this as a gift.”

“Really?”

The woman who had been so brittle a few moments ago had become softer than fur.

“It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing for New York,” she said. “This is just a little thank-you. Come see me when you have your cat. If I’m not here, just ask for Doris. I won’t be far away.”

Numb with surprise, I thanked Doris and gave Bluebell one last pat before we left.

The hardware shop was a bewildering collection of kitchen implements and knickknacks. We made our way to the back of the store, where stacks of plates and mixing bowls towered over us.

“Are you looking for something?”

A young woman approached. The paleness of her skin was enhanced by a frame of lime green hair.

“Do you have any feeding bowls?” Lydia asked.

“For a person or a dog?”

New York humor can be deliciously blunt.

“A cat, actually.”

The girl’s face softened.

“I like cats,” she said. “You’re from England, aren’t you?”

“We live in Australia, but we were both born in New Zealand,” Lydia said.

“That’s near Holland, isn’t it?” the girl asked.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s where the Lord of the Rings comes from.”

“So, let me get this straight,” she said. “You guys are hobbits?”

We laughed and said we were, right to the toenails of our hairy feet.

“So how long have you been living in New York?”

It was natural for her to assume we had settled in. Why else would we have a cat? When Lydia explained we were on a fostering mission, the girl broke into a smile.

“Sophie!” she yelled. “Come over here! You gotta hear this.”

A tall girl in an orange bandana appeared.

“These ladies come from the Lord of the Rings and they’re fostering a New York cat,” the green-haired girl explained. “They need a feeding bowl.”

“That’s amazing!” her friend said.

I could hardly believe how much a foster cat-to-be was changing people’s attitudes toward us.

“We don’t have a specific pet feeding bowl,” the taller one said. “But wait. I’ve got an idea.”

She dived behind a pile of cardboard boxes to retrieve a small red dish with silver fish etched into its surface.

“It’s beautiful!” I said. “And perfect for a cat. How much is it?”

The young women exchanged looks.

“We want you to have it,” the taller one said.

They were sweet girls, but I thought they needed to work on their communication skills.

“Yes, I know you’d like us to take it. But how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” the younger one said. “Just have a great time with your cat.”

Laden with our gifts, Lydia and I made our way back to the apartment in a daze.

“New Yorkers must have a real thing for their pets,” Lydia said.

“Maybe it is because more than half the population lives alone,” I said. “For a lot of people animals could be taking the place of significant others.”

Either way, nothing could have prepared us for the generosity we had just experienced. I wished Greg and Olivia could have seen it.

If we’d been visiting New York as mere tourists, we’d never have met these kindhearted women and seen how quickly their crusty surfaces could dissolve.

Our rescue cat Mavis was working her magic.