Lawyer for the Cat (11 page)

And Beatrice endures an even louder rant, this one about my meeting with Derwood Carter, Natalie's husband—
Who does he think he is, talking to me like that
?

I'd been prepared for his usual arrogance, his condescension, but I was naive to believe he might be coming to talk about compromise. Sure, he'd begun the conversation cordially enough, thanking me for this last-minute appointment, then taking my counterproposal from his coat pocket, unfolding it, and adjusting his reading glasses as if he meant to take it seriously. Then he'd said, his voice deliberately flat, devoid of emotion: “I just wanted to read this again before I throw it in that wastebasket.” He “read” my letter in three seconds, then wadded it into a ball and lobbed it over my head into the metal can in the corner behind my desk. I didn't turn to look, but I knew he'd dunked it straight in.

“I used to play center on the high school team,” he said. “Some skills you don't lose.”

“Do you want to play basketball, or settle this case?” I asked, trying to keep my cool. “Because I'm not interested in basketball unless it's pro.”

“Another skill I haven't lost,” he said, “is knowing my women.”

“Your ‘women'? I guess that includes your court reporter.” The one who travels with him when he holds court away from Beaufort, whose hotel room almost always has a door that opens into his.

“I was referring to Natalie, of course. And you. I know how Natalie operates, and it's clear she isn't going to tell you about her tryst with my old law partner. And I know how
you
think, so I'm assuming you believe her heavily edited story about our marriage. I thought I'd help you out with the facts before we begin any serious discussion about the terms of the settlement.”

He then proceeded to read me the confession of his former law partner, an alcoholic completing the 12-step program. “You know they're supposed to apologize to everyone they've hurt, right?” This well-meaning fellow's letter to Derwood, dated two months ago, was tastefully brief but to the point:
Fifteen years ago, when I told you our affair was over, that was true. But recently I succumbed to temptation again. I take full responsibility for this. As I trust Natalie has already told you, she is as ashamed as I am. It will not happen again. I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

Before Derwood left he said, “When your client has given you an accurate rendition of the facts, I'll be happy to entertain a more realistic settlement offer.”

Now as I cross the Wappoo Cut and turn onto Maybank Highway, the heavy traffic is behind me, but I can't get his smile out of my head. “I hate him!” I shout. Beatrice jumps. “Sorry,” I say, and she settles again. The throb at the base of my skull builds into a full-blown headache. The cat, however, seems perfectly content. Maybe she likes nestling in the old towel the vet recommended.

By the time we turn onto the dirt road leading to Tony's house, it's already dark. I brake for a buck who appears out of nowhere, jumps a fence, and disappears into the night. Farther on, where the road winds through the marsh, I slow for a porcupine lumbering along, its quills lit by the headlights, until it, too, disappears.

Tony's left the porch light on. “We're almost there,” I tell Beatrice. Though I can't see it, I can feel the open space around us, the acres of lowlands, marsh, and creek, and the pressure in my head eases a little. We're less than twenty miles from the city but already Charleston seems like another world: my mother, my ex-husband, my office, the courthouse, the cases. Even Derwood Carter's satisfied smile recedes into the darkness.

Tony opens the door for us, relieves me of the carrier and puts it on the kitchen counter. All the dogs crowd around, their three noses pointed up. “Relax, sweetie,” Tony says.

“I have a headache,” I respond.

“I was talking to the cat,” he says. “But to you, too…” He gives me a kiss, pours me a glass of wine. “Hungry? I made some vegetarian chili.” He's not much of a cook, but he's mastered the Crock-Pot.

“That sounds great.” He's set the table: mismatched utensils, frayed place mats curled at the edges from years of washing, candles in wooden candlesticks that are coated with layers of old candle wax. He serves the chili, lights the candles, turns off the overhead light. “There,” he says. “That should help.” The cat settles in her carrier on the counter, and the dogs vie for the space under the table. I can feel a warm head settle across my feet. “Now, tell me about your day. Unless it will make the headache worse.”

I tell him about Gina's announcement, the conference with Judge Clarkson, the deposition, the late afternoon meeting with my client's husband, doing my best to preserve confidentiality, but I slip up on “damn Derwood Carter.” Fortunately the name means nothing to him. He listens, nods, waits until I'm finished to speak: “That's a lot for one day, but I'm sure you've dealt with worse.”

“I'm getting too old for this.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I mean it.” I won't tell him about my conversation with Joe.

“Well, let's take it one problem at a time,” he says. “The Gina thing—she's a big girl, she can handle her own love life, don't you think?”

“She hasn't done a very good job so far.”

“Did she ask you for advice?”

“Not really, but she's more than just my secretary. She's a friend.”

“So if it works out, you'll be happy for her. If it doesn't, you'll be there for her. In the meantime she's only going to resent you if you try to change her mind.”

“I'm not even sure she
should
change her mind.”

“Now, about the woman who's screwing her husband's law partner—”

“
Ex
-law partner, but that's irrelevant.”

“She's not the first client who's ever lied to you, is she?”

“Of course not. But I felt like a fool, having to find it out from her husband. You don't know this guy. It was humiliating. I'm going to lose the case.”

“Remember what you told me once?” he says, smiling. “Something about chicken poop?”

“You can't make chicken salad out of chicken poop.”

“That's it. This lady—your client—
she
screwed things up, not you. Then she lied to you. So if you can't make chicken salad out of her chicken poop, it's not your fault. But knowing you, you've got some pretty good recipes for chicken poop.”

He knows how to make me laugh. “Maybe I'll have another glass of wine.”

“Want some leftover apple pie?” he asks.

“No thanks. The chili was great.”

“Relax while I clean up.”

“I can clean up.”

“Not when you have a headache,” he says. He peers into the cat carrier. “She seems pretty laid back.”

“I need to feed her.”

“I'll do it. Come on, sweetie.” He lifts Beatrice out. “The dogs won't hurt you. They're just curious. Suzie and Sheba … Carmen … go visit with Sally.” He points, and after a parting sniff around Beatrice, the dogs join me in the living room, the beagle next to me on the sofa, the retrievers near my feet.

“So,” he says, “that old probate judge won't let you off the hook, will he?”

“He made me feel guilty. But I'm in a bind. I don't want to leave Beatrice at the condo—Delores has enough on her hands, just dealing with Mom. And it's a hassle to haul her back and forth to the office every day.”

“I guess I could help you out for a while.”

“You'd take her?” The cat looks up from her bowl of food.

“She'd be okay here for a week or two until you finish the case.”

“It shouldn't take that long. Technically, I shouldn't, but—”

“‘Technically,' that old judge should be stuck with the cat—at least until he chooses a caregiver, right?”

“True, but he's assigned that duty to me, and I guess I've accepted. I can't just give her away, even temporarily.”

“Nobody expects you to be with the cat twenty-four hours a day. She'll be living with you, but during the days you're at work, she'll be here. I usually come home for lunch; I can check on her.”

“How can she live with me if she's here?”

“Because,” he says, “you'll be living here, too.”

“Oh, I see.” The beagle hears the strain in my voice, lifts her head off my lap, relaxes again when I stroke the back of her head. “But I can't do that.”

“Of course you can. You said the sitters are working out okay.”

“They are, but it isn't twenty-four/seven care. Delores comes on weekdays, and Shenille only fills in at night if I need her.”

“Maybe she'd be willing to work more. Or you could hire another one. Didn't you have a third person?”

“Mom didn't like her. I don't want to upset her.” I feel the headache coming back. “And this feels like you're bribing me—”

“‘Bribing' you?”

“You'll take the cat, but only if I agree to move in with you.”

“Look,” he says, standing up, looking down at me, “I'm trying to help you solve your problem. You don't want to leave Beatrice at your condo while you're at work—”

“It's not fair to Delores.”

“And you don't want to haul her back and forth to your office every day.”

“Not really.”

“So, I'm offering to keep her here. And you don't have to feel guilty about abandoning her, because you'll be here at night.”

“But I'll be abandoning my mother.”

“Okay, so you don't spend
every
night here. Stay in town a couple of nights a week, whatever.”

“I'll consider it.”

“That sounds like a lawyer talking.”

“You're pressuring me,” I say.

He starts toward the bedroom, then turns back toward me: “You're right. Forget it.” I've never heard his voice like this. “I shouldn't have to negotiate my way into your heart.” He stomps into the bedroom, comes back with a pillow and a comforter. “You might as well sleep out here. Wouldn't want you to feel any pressure.”

The dogs follow him. He closes the door—not exactly a slam, but a statement nevertheless—and I'm left with Beatrice, whose pressure, as she curls against my chest, is both a reassurance and a worry.

 

Just a Little Trip

The wind rattles the window behind the sofa and the full moon glares in at me like a disapproving father. When I pull the comforter over my head I dislodge Beatrice, who jumps to the floor. She stares at me coolly—
So
, you're
going to abandon me, too?—
and not until her eyes close can I fall back to sleep.

Sometime before dawn I feel her tongue like sandpaper raking my cheek and I push her away, too hard. “Sorry,” I whisper, and she's right back, insistent, meowing. I sit up. The clothes I've slept in feel clammy. “Okay, calm down.” She swipes the front door with her paw, and when this doesn't elicit the desired response from me, she swipes it again. “No, Beatrice, you've got your litter box in the kitchen, remember?” It's only then that I hear the hum of the motor, see the dim shape of the car through the window—no headlights—disappearing down the dirt road.

I coax Beatrice into my arms and then into her carrier. I'm about to leave when I feel a hand on my shoulder. There's a split second of terror before I realize it's Tony. “Did you hear that?” he asks.

“Someone must have made a wrong turn,” I say.

“Long way to come down this road for a wrong turn.” He turns on the overhead light. “I'm sorry about last night. I should have given you the bed.” He takes the cat carrier from me. “Stay for some coffee, at least, so we can talk about it.”

“I'm not going to change my mind.”

“I shouldn't have made my offer to keep the cat conditional on your moving in.”

“No, you shouldn't have. But I don't blame you for being frustrated.”

“I just thought, since you spend some nights here anyway, a few more wouldn't be that big a deal for you. I don't know what's going on in your head, why what seems to me like the easiest, most natural thing is so problematic for you.”

“It's not easy, with my mother.”

“Let's pretend—and I know this sounds insensitive, but I don't mean it to be—that your mother's no longer in the picture. If she died tomorrow, would you want to be with me—all the time?” We're face-to-face, his hands on my shoulders.

“I—I guess so.”

“You ‘guess' so?”

“That's not really a fair question.”

His hands drop to his side. “I think it
is
.” He clears his throat, lowers his voice, but I can hear the anger. “Because if you're just using your mother as an excuse to postpone a decision about
us
, that's not okay with me. I've told you I'm willing for her to live with us. I've told you I'm willing to move closer to town, or to have her out here. I'm being as flexible as I know how to be, but it's never enough.”

“You've been wonderful, Tony.”

“So think about it. That question.”

“Okay.”

“Now what about the coffee?”

“I should get going.” I reach for the carrier, but he holds on to it.

“I'll help you out with Beatrice for the time being. “He shrugs and smiles. “I guess as long as she's here, I can pretend you're here, too.” He kisses me, a kiss that—is it my imagination?—seems guarded, abbreviated.

“You sure?”

“If there's anything I can handle, it's an animal. Women are another story.”

As I drive away, my relief is shadowed by a feeling I can't name, not quite guilt or shame but an uneasiness at my core. Is it about leaving the cat, or the vet?