Bono

Chapter Forty-two

I REMEMBER YOU WELL

Rescue cat becomes rock star.

Just when I’d accepted Bono and I weren’t meant to see each other again, Michaela called with a breath-stopping invitation.

She said Bono would be delighted to host drinks at Monique and Berry’s apartment, followed by dinner for us all at hers. Not since my audience with the Dalai Lama had I felt so happy and nervous at the same time.

There’s so much to love about the Chelsea district where Michaela and Monique live. A happy soup of immigrants, gays, and creative types give the place a tolerant bohemianism. Like every corner of New York, the neighborhood has more than its share of fame. Look no farther than the redbricked Chelsea Hotel on 222 West 23rd. Dylan Thomas was staying there when he suffered a terminal case of pneumonia in 1953. Years later, the body of Sid Vicious’s girlfriend, Nancy Spun-gen, was found in a room. Mark Twain, Tennessee Williams, and Charles Bukowski all sweated ink inside its walls.

The doorman inside Michaela’s building greeted me with a smile.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he said, pointing me at a comfortable chair in the lobby while he called her up to announce my arrival. This building was worlds away from the scruffy studio Bono and I had hung out in. No wonder Michaela had seemed a bit shocked when she visited us. When she appeared and escorted me to the elevator, I was almost overwhelmed with nervousness.

“Is he still scared of strangers?” I asked as the elevator sighed shut.

There’s only so much a person can ask of a cat. I was well aware the whole human-cat relationship is based on whether or not a cat is inclined to engage with you. Not the other way around.

For me, Bono had transformed New York into a home with a heart on the door. If there’s such a thing as “meant to be together,” we’d been it for that magical month. I loved him as much as I did back then, but no way could I hope for any form of acknowledgment now. As a form of protection, I repeated the mantra “he’s not going to recognize you” over and over inside my head.

“He usually greets me at the front door,” Michaela said.

That didn’t sound like the same animal who used to scurry under a bed at the rattle of a door handle. I held my breath as we stepped out of the elevator. Across the corridor, a door creaked open a crack. I waited for Monique to appear. Instead, down at ground level, the head of a noble black feline emerged. With the confidence of a lord, he pushed the door open. Tail aloft in greeting, he padded toward us.

“This can’t be Bono!” I whispered, crouching on the floor and offering my hand.

To my delight, he stepped forward and honoured me with a gracious nudge. If indeed it was Bono, he no longer sported a lion haircut. His coat was a gleaming curtain. Exquisitely groomed and glowing with health, this animal was worthy of a blue ribbon in anyone’s pet show.

I hesitated. This had to be some kind of joke the two women had cooked up. Most likely Monique kept more than one cat, and the real Bono was cowering in a corner somewhere inside the apartment.

Just when I was about to call Michaela’s bluff, the cat raised his head and fixed me with a pair of amber traffic-light eyes. They were bright and clear. The unhealthy-looking oily film I used to worry about had disappeared. The magnificent creature emitted a musical mew. He then turned and stretched his back leg in an unmistakable arabesque.

* * *

Bono may not have recognized me, but Monique and Berry did. We exchanged hugs and laughter as their feline master strolled through their apartment. This home betrayed the obsessions of its owners. Aside from the seven-tier cat tower I’d heard about, the place was scattered with catnip toys and fishing lines. Monique and Berry’s apartment had the trappings of an entire pet shop—all for one cat.

None of us could take our eyes off Bono as he settled himself into a cardboard box.

“He loves boxes,” Monique said.

I felt a jab of regret. Bono and I hadn’t been together long enough for me to discover he had a thing for boxes. Heaven knows, if anyone had told me, I’d have found him twenty. On the other hand, maybe he’d needed the security of Monique’s love in order to let go and relish the joy of cardboard. My mixed emotions dissolved when I saw the transformation in him. The scrappy little rescue cat had morphed into a rock star.

“He’s such a friendly little guy,” Monique said. “And his health is great.”

The proudest of mothers, Monique smiled down at Bono.

“When Monique and Berry go away Bono sometimes stays with my three cats upstairs,” Michaela added.

“That’s if my parents will let him,” Berry said. “They never taught us about therapy cats in med school. But Bono’s definitely become one for my parents. They’re always asking if he can stay with them. They adore him. It’s really opened my eyes to the power of therapy cats.”

I was delighted Berry’s devotion was so evident considering he’d been half tricked into adopting Bono. Maybe like most men, he’d taken a little longer to get the hang of parenthood.

After a glass of wine, we left Bono to ride the elevator up for dinner at Michaela’s. Not for the first time, I was impressed by how comfortably New Yorkers have adapted to living vertically. Gene greeted us and poured more wine, as I stood momentarily speechless in front of the view from the living room window.

The Empire State Building felt almost close enough to touch. To one side of it, the tip of the Chrysler Building peeked out like a cheeky cousin. Apricot-tinged clouds gathered high above rooftop gardens. I smiled at the quirky wooden water towers nestling on top of almost every building. Shaped like medieval haystacks, they give the skyline a whimsical air but, as every New Yorker knows, their function is twenty-first century. Every building taller than six stories must have a tower and pumping system to provide water pressure.

Mesmerized by a stream of red taillights crawling up Eighth Avenue, I asked Michaela what her favorite time of day was to soak up this spectacle. She put her head to one side as though she’d never thought about it before.

“After dark’s amazing with all the lights,” she said, “But then I love dawn when the city’s quiet and people haven’t started going to work.”

I tried to imagine the view without the taillights.

“Winter’s magical, too,” she added. “The buildings are shrouded in mist.”

I began to appreciate there’s never a bad time to live with a panorama worthy of a jigsaw puzzle. On top of that, I quietly noticed her apartment passed my “walk around naked” rule.

Once I’d managed to disconnect my eyeballs from the view, Michaela introduced me to her fur family, all three of them rescue cats who could hardly believe their luck.

“Meet Belle Amie,” Michaela said, holding up a white female with gray and yellow blotches and a pretty pink nose. “I adopted her as a kitten in 2003. She’s my Snuggle Queen, aren’t you girl? She sleeps between my knees every night.”

I followed Michaela to a bedroom where Alcatraz, a handsome white male with black markings and a fluffy tail was sprawled over a blanket at the foot of the bed.

“There’s Alcatraz,” she said. “He moved in when he was six weeks old back in 2008. That’s his personal blanket. He sleeps there by my feet every night. He’s highly strung. I call him my ear scratch addict.”

There was no doubt who was ruling this roost.

“And look out. Here comes Ranger!”

A small yellow and white tiger bounded toward us.

“She’s the boss of the household, aren’t you Ranger?” Michaela said, gathering the cat into her arms. “This one’s duty-bound to shred every paper towel and toilet paper roll in her path, aren’t you girl?”

Ever since Ranger moved in back in 2014, she’d been sleeping near Michaela’s left shoulder, close enough to take the occasional chomp of her hair.

It made me wonder how I could have grumbled about sleeping under one cat. Michaela spent her nights buried in them.

The sky darkened and the city became a glittering spectacle while we scraped our plates clean. It was such a beautiful evening, brimming with affection and happiness, part of me wanted to capture it and put it in a bottle like one of Mum’s peaches. But I was finally learning that an essential art of life is allowing wonderful moments (as well as the not so good) to pass with grace. As I thanked everyone and prepared to leave, Monique asked me if I’d like a few moments alone with Bono. I quickly agreed and took the elevator back downstairs with her.

“There you go,” she said, unlocking her front door. “I’ll just wait out here.”

When I stepped inside, Bono was dozing in the cardboard box.

“Hello, old fella,” I said, bending and moving slowly toward him.

He shook his sleepy head. I asked him if he remembered Lydia and our shabby old studio.

“You’re living like a king, these days, aren’t you?” I said, offering my hand. He raised a regal chin to accept a scratch.

“What about the time you bolted up the fireplace?” I said, tears suddenly streaming down my cheeks. “What were you thinking?”

Bono dipped his head and hummed a tinkling purr. I ran my hand over the lush carpet of his spine and was heartened to discover the sharp edges of rib cage had been well padded out.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t recognize me,” I gulped, swiping tears off my chin. “I’m so happy for you.”

I kissed the top of his head and stood up. As I walked toward the door to join Monique, something made me turn around to take one last look.

Some say cats show affection for humans with a leisurely blink otherwise known as an eye kiss. When Bono gazed up at me and blinked those owlish eyes, an electric exchange took place between us. As he beamed me golden halos of affection, I knew he was telling me he hadn’t forgotten our time together, and that he was grateful for his new life. It was then I heard words I hadn’t expected or hoped for, but they came across clearly, and in the kindest voice: “You can go home now.”