Bono

Chapter Twenty-seven

HOLDING AND BREATHING

A cat has many lives to choose from.

I sometimes wonder how I would have handled the aftermath of the Boston bombings without Bono’s warm and trusting companionship. When things are in turmoil, sometimes all you have to do is stay still, hold someone you love . . . and breathe.

Basking in the sun on his pillow, my feline friend reminded me to savor the moment. As I watched him skip about the apartment, he taught me the most powerful way to experience life is from a place of gratitude. He’d released the wounds of the past and was simply happy to be away from the stresses of living in a shelter.

As for his future, I was doing enough worrying for the both of us.

Returning Bono to Bideawee to spend the rest of his life in a cage would feel like the ultimate failure. In a way, we were both prisoners on the run. I’d come to New York to escape a cage of my own making. With just ten days before the lease expired on our pet-friendly apartment, time was running out for both of us.

I pictured myself bringing his carrier back along the river to Bideawee, and burst into tears. But this is America, I thought, dabbing my eyes with a towel. Bono’s story had to have a happy ending.

When I called Michaela, the warmth in her voice made me want to cry again.

“The blog’s not working,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Vida tells me more than 22 million people are reading your posts.”

The number was mind-boggling.

“That can’t be right,” I said. “Surely she counted the zeros wrong?”

“According to Vida, the number’s on the conservative side,” Michaela said.

I tried to imagine the entire population of Australia squeezed into our tiny studio. One thing was certain. There wouldn’t be enough cups to go round. If the figure was right, and Michaela assured me there was no reason to doubt it, everything I’d ever felt about the Internet was confirmed. Millions of voyeuristic eyeballs could roll but hearts remained untouched.

“It’s done nothing for Bono other than make him famous,” I said. “He’s no closer to finding a home than he ever was.”

There was silence at the other end of the line. My friend was probably editing a worthy manuscript that was about to change the world.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

I had to admire Michaela. Compared to her, Pollyanna was a pessimist.

“I have a friend who’s interested in meeting him,” she added. “I forwarded Bono’s photo to her. She can’t stop oohing and ahhing.”

Her words had the impact of a feather landing on an elephant’s hide. The whole world was infatuated with Bono. He needed love with its sleeves rolled up.

* * *

The days lurched into fast-forward as the city settled back into its old rhythms. I became like a mouse in a wheel scurrying from museum to theater to landmark while I tried to make up my mind. Once the lease had run out on the apartment, I’d have to return Bono to the shelter and fly back to Australia.

Unless, I went for option three and rented somewhere to stay until I found another pet-friendly apartment. Maybe Michaela would agree to have Bono for a week or two, or he could move back temporarily to Bideawee until I found us a home.

Large museums overwhelm me, and libraries can be intimidating, but the Morgan Library & Museum on Madison Avenue at 36th Street is the perfect size. A pleasant stroll from our apartment, it had become one of my favorite haunts.

As I wandered through its exquisite rooms graced with original manuscripts by Mark Twain, Tolkien, and Beethoven, I would lose all sense of time. The Morgan is the cultural universe in miniature.

Like so much else of value in New York, the library stems back to a wealthy individual. Pierpont Morgan was a financier fixated on collecting early manuscripts and old master drawings. After his death in 1913, his glorious collection, along with its purpose-built palazzo, was donated to the public. The museum has continued to collect and expand without losing its intimacy—and the excellent café was never crowded.

After a dose of Morgan bliss one day, I ended up in a wonderful shoe shop where the smiling assistant didn’t blink when I confessed to size eleven feet. He spread an array of summer mules in dazzling colors at my feet. All were my size. I felt like Dorothy in the Emerald City. I bought a silver pair that was so comfortable, I had to go back for a second pair in cobalt blue.

“What do you think?” I asked, swiveling the laptop so Philip could see my new blue shoes.

“They look stunning,” he said, but I could tell he was being polite. Men never understand the thrill of new shoes.

“How are Annie and Stella liking their Frozen cards?” I asked.

“I haven’t heard,” he said. “But Lydia can’t stop talking about Bono and the wonderful time she had over there.”

We lapsed into silence. Overcome with a compulsion to fill it, I blurted out option three.

“I can’t leave Bono.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’m not leaving here until I find him a home.”

The words sounded more powerful than they had when they’d been inside my head. But I wasn’t about to take them back. Philip straightened his shoulders.

“I see,” he said after another long pause. “And what’s going to happen if you can’t find him one?”

I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and blew my nose. There was no way to wrap option three in pretty paper with a ribbon on it.

“I’ll just have to stay here,” I said.

“How’s your neighbor?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Who?”

“The Irish writer.”

“What?! He’s not a writer. He’s just a—”

“Oh, I’m sorry. There’s another call on the line,” Philip said. “We’re making an important acquisition.”

I knew better than to compete with that priority. We blew air kisses and said good-bye. There was no chance for me to tell him I hadn’t seen my neighbor lately. The copy of my book had disappeared from Patrick’s doorstep, so he’d obviously read the thing and hated it. I hadn’t had a whiff of him since the demise of Maggie Thatcher. Surely Philip realized option three had nothing to do with Patrick.