Cat Sitter On A Hot Tin Roof

6

Back in the Bronco, I considered my options. I could go straight home, or I could go shopping for something to wear to Guidry’s Saturday-night shindig. One good thing about living in a resort town is that a lot of posh shops are open late, even on Sunday. If I got the dreaded dress-buying over with, I could forget it. Or at least not have to think about it anymore. I decided there was no time like the present and headed downtown. For most of my shopping, I think the Gap or Sears, but for the Humane Society party I went to a little boutique on Pineapple Street where the price of a dress would feed a family of five for several weeks.

An hour later, I was on my way home, with a big shiny white bag in the passenger’s seat and a dress bag hanging from the do-hickey over the back door. The bag held new underwear, new shoes, and a dumb little purse the saleswoman had described as “just big enough to hold a woman’s essentials—door key, lipstick, passport, and a condom.” She obviously was accustomed to women who had more interesting lives than mine.

The dress bag held a short black strapless job I had to have the minute I saw it. But when I’d tried it on, it had given me a peculiar feeling—the same feeling I remembered having when I was thirteen and in a store dressing room trying on bathing suits. I had looked at myself in the mirror and realized I had become a woman. It had been exciting and scary. Totally appropriate for a thirteen-year-old, but totally idiotic for a thirty-three-year-old.

At home, the light was on in Michael and Paco’s kitchen, so I made a quick stop to say good night and show off my purchases. They were sitting at the island eating key lime pie, and Ella was on her stool adoring them. It was the last night of Michael’s vacation. He would leave the next morning for a twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse, then he would be home forty-eight hours—a rhythm that has been a constant refrain all our lives, beginning with our firefighter father. Paco’s schedule wasn’t so regular. Undercover cops don’t keep normal hours, and Michael and I have adjusted to that.

Michael said, “Where’ve you been? Want some pie?”

I flourished my shiny bag. “I had to go shopping. Got a new dress. I have a date Saturday night.”

Both men gave me looks of astonished pleasure. For the past year, they’d been upping the pressure on me to find a man, have sex, get a life. They had loved Todd like a brother, but they both thought I had dragged widowhood way past its expiration date.

Michael said, “With who?”

“Whom.”

Ella Fitzgerald put a paw on the island top, and Paco gave her a stern look. “You know the rules.”

She made a meek thripp sound, withdrew her paw, and gave a demure twitch to her tail. Paco and Ella have an agreement—if she sits politely and keeps her paws off the table, she’s allowed to adore her men from a bar stool. I know some human females who operate under the same rule.

For a moment, I thought Ella might have made Michael forget his question, but he was still waiting. I said, “Guidry asked me to a big party next weekend.”

Paco said, “Hot damn.”

Michael’s mouth drew up like he’d just bit into a green mango. “Guidry.”

Paco said, “Michael,” in a warning kind of way, like Shut the heck up, your sister has a date, for God’s sake, so don’t quibble about who the guy is.

Michael nodded, shrugged, and stuck a fork in his pie with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. Paco and I exchanged rolled eyes. Paco is protective too, but he’s not as extreme as Michael. I guess that’s because he hasn’t been protecting me since he was four and I was two, the way Michael has.

I pulled the dress out of the bag and held it in front of me. Ella sat up straighter and squinted her eyes, while Michael and Paco made the noises men make when a woman says, “What do you think?”

Fathers probably teach those noises to their sons when they’re young—“Stand up when you’re introduced to a lady, use your napkin instead of your sleeve, and make admiring noises when a woman shows you anything, no matter what it is, and asks you what you think about it. Never, never, never say you have no opinion.”

Paco said, “High damn time you bought something sexy.”

“I got shoes and underwear too. The works.”

Paco grinned. “I do believe you’re about to take old Guidry to bed. You remember how the girl thing goes?”

Unlike Michael, Paco thought Guidry was a fine candidate for ending my self-imposed celibacy.

“I’m just going to a party with him.” My face got hot when I said it, because to tell the truth I wasn’t at all sure I remembered how the girl thing went.

Michael got to his feet and noisily rinsed his plate. “There’s leftovers if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks, I had dinner with a new friend.”

His eyebrows raised hopefully. “A guy?”

“No, a woman.” Next thing I knew, I was telling them all about it, like a little kid reporting her cool new friend.

“She lives next door to the little boy I told you about last week, the one who’s having surgery for seizures. He’s three years old. Surgery is tomorrow morning. The woman is Laura Halston. She has a Havana Brown cat named Leo. Longest tail you ever saw, and he’s always leaving it across doorways so it gets stepped on.”

Michael said, “What’d you say the cat is?”

“Havana Brown. They’re sort of rare. Brown all over, even their whiskers. I think they’re called Havana Brown because they’re the color of the cigars. She said the boyfriend who gave him to her had called him Cohiba, but she changed his name to Leo.”

“She should have named him Castro.”

I rolled my eyes, partly to disparage Michael’s humor, and partly because he’d missed the point. The point wasn’t Laura’s cat, it was that I had a new woman friend.

I said, “She’s here hiding from her husband until their divorce is final. He was abusive, and she’s left him because she’s pregnant. She said she didn’t want him inflicting his cruelty on their child. He’s a well-known surgeon in Dallas.”

Paco’s eyes narrowed. “Hiding how?”

“Oh, just that she’s living in a house her parents own so nothing is in her name.”

“No car?”

“Yeah, a car, but she bought it with cash she got from selling her old car. She cleaned out their bank account and drove to Arkansas and sold her car, then took a bus to Sarasota and bought a new one.”

“What kind of car did she buy?”

It struck me that Paco was being awfully nosy. He also had a look in his eyes that I recognized. It was his I-don’t-believe-a-word-of-this look.

I said, “She drives a Jaguar convertible. Red.”

“Uh-huh, perfect car for somebody trying to hide.”

“Oh, come on, Paco, if her husband finds her, it won’t be because she drives a Jaguar convertible.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think a Dallas surgeon’s wife would come to Sarasota to get a divorce, she’d get it in Texas. That’s all I’m saying.”

I could feel my face flushing with defensive anger. Being an undercover cop made Paco suspicious of every little thing that wasn’t consistent. Usually he was right, but this time he was wrong. I had misjudged Laura at first too, but now I knew she was an honest, good person going through a bad stretch.

Ella chose that moment to hike her hind leg and gnaw on it, as if to let us know that she found it rude of us to discuss anything other than her majestic self. We all laughed, and my irritation evaporated.

I said, “I’m taking my loot and going home to bed.”

I kissed two cheeks and one furry head and left them. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I looked up at a coconut palm silhouetted in the curve of a waning moon rind. The palm’s fronds had fallen away and left a rim of boots around its bulbous head. Caught in the moon’s thin arc, the trunk had a priapic look. Or maybe it was just me. When you haven’t had sex in almost four years, you tend to see phalluses in unlikely places.

As I fell asleep that night, my thoughts went to All Children’s Hospital in St. Petersburg and to a little boy whose skull would be opened the next morning in hopes of giving him a better life. I knew the anguished fear his parents must be feeling. No matter how skilled the surgeons were, nothing is certain. The operation could fail, or something could go wrong. And because my own child had died, I couldn’t keep from thinking the unthinkable—Jeffrey could die. I also knew that if anything went wrong, Hal and Gillis would never forgive themselves for choosing the surgical option. They would question their decision for the rest of their lives, just as I would always wonder if Christy would have died if I had not been working that day.

I muttered, “No!” and punched my pillow. Thoughts like those could only lead to useless pain, and I refused to linger in that hurtful place.

Deliberately, I imagined Jeffrey and his parents coming home. I imagined him running to greet Mazie, with Hal and Gillis standing behind him beaming with joy that he was now free of seizures. With images of Jeffrey playing with Mazie rolling inside my head, I drifted to sleep and dreamed that Christy and I were walking on the beach. She was just a toddler, and her little pink shoes made three-inch footprints on the white sand. I shuffled along behind her, close enough to put out a steadying hand when she needed it, but far enough away to let her feel the thrill of toddler independence.

She looked over her shoulder at me and laughed with sheer joy. The laughter turned into the sound of rain against the window, and I opened my eyes and fought the momentary confusion that dreams bring. It was the first time I’d dreamed of Christy in several weeks. For a long time after she died, she had filled my dreams every night. Now, when weeks sometimes passed without her nocturnal visits, a dream always brought a disquieting sense of having abandoned her.

I went back to sleep until the alarm sounded, and I got up with a foreboding sense of dread.