Lawyer for the Cat (12 page)

Where the road crosses the creek the rising sun shines in my face, highlighting the dirty windshield, and it's only when I turn on the washer that I notice the piece of paper, the wiper having carried it across the glass. I stop to retrieve it. It's wet, the ink running, but I can make out the words:
Dear Miss Trust Enforcer, your investigation brings you to the most interesting places. Don't kill yourself looking for the solution that's right under your nose.

It's not signed.

*   *   *

I stop at the Harris Teeter for groceries. It's still early, so there aren't many other shoppers. I'm usually efficient, disciplined, but today I linger at the deli counter sampling the cheeses, then choose a Camembert and my mother's favorite Swiss. Nearby a guy in a chef's hat stirs a skillet of chicken and snow peas, offers me a sample in a little paper cup with a doll-sized plastic spoon. “No thanks, not today,” I say, then give in. I haven't eaten chicken in years, but I'm hungry.

“Nice, huh?” he says. “The secret's a half-cup of white wine near the end, when you put the snow peas in. They shouldn't cook longer than a minute or so.… Ms. Baynard?”

“Donnie?”

He grins. “Been a while, hasn't it? I hear you left the public defender.”

I can't remember his last name, vaguely connect this face to a younger one, a skinny kid who stood next to me in the courtroom, trembling before the judge handed down the sentence. “I have my own practice, on Broad Street. And you—how long have you been doing this?”

“Just got the gig. Want some more?”

“No, thanks, but it's delicious.”

“Yeah, I'm learning how to cook. Thinking maybe I can get into that cooking school at Tech, once I save up some money.”

He hands me the recipe, printed on a card. “Thanks,” I say. “I'll try it.”

“You saved my life, you know that?” He pushes the chef's hat up a little, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, readjusts the hat, and now I remember that gesture. Back then it was a baseball cap.
Leave the cap at home when you come to court
, I'd advised.
Can you borrow a suit?
He said he'd try. And when he showed up for his guilty plea—receiving stolen goods—the sleeves of his suit jacket hung almost to his fingertips.

“It was a miracle you got me probation,” he says now. “Even my own mom said I didn't deserve it. Anyway, I don't want to keep you.”

“Nice seeing you again, Donnie. You take care.”

“You have a blessed day, Ms. Baynard.”

Maybe I didn't save Donnie, as he believes I did, but I remember now how hard I worked to keep him out of jail. He claimed he didn't know that the two brand-new TV sets, still in their boxes, were stolen goods. “Don't you believe me?” he asked. It didn't matter. No jury, I explained, would believe his story. After wrangling a recommendation of probation out of the assistant solicitor, I convinced Donnie to plead. There was no guarantee the judge would accept the recommendation, of course—and if he didn't, Donnie was exposing himself to a possible five years in prison—but it was likely. On the morning of the plea I assembled an impressive cast of characters to vouch for him: his mother, his grandmother, an elderly aunt, his junior high football coach, his minister, a neighborhood shopkeeper who promised him a job. The judge gave him probation, but what I remember most about that day was the look on Donnie's face as each of these people spoke in turn. When it was over he wept—this tough kid from the projects—and said to me, “I never knew all those good things about myself.”

The Sally Baynard who got probation for Donnie all those years ago wasn't any miracle worker, but she was determined, dedicated, energized by even the most hopeless case. That Sally wouldn't be unnerved by a note on the windshield.

That
Sally would fight for the cat.

*   *   *

“Your mama's still asleep,” says Shenille when I get home.

“How was she last night?”

“Didn't want to go to bed at her usual time, so I just let her sit up watching TV with me until she started to nod off. We get along just fine, your mama and me. She's so sweet.” My mother is many things, but she isn't sweet. These days she can be a holy terror. But Shenille's new at the job. She's trying to reassure me, and probably herself.

“You want me to help you put those groceries away?” she says. “I got nowhere I have to be right now. Kennie's doing double shift at the shipyard.”

“No, thanks, you go on.”

But she hangs around another half hour, telling me about a “friend” whose husband has been abusing her. “He never hits her in the face, just bruises her in places you can't see.” I explain how to go about getting a restraining order, how much abuse is necessary for a divorce on the ground of physical cruelty. She shakes her head. “No, she doesn't believe in divorce. I think maybe things might go better between them if she quit her job. He doesn't like it that his wife works.”

“Does she know about My Sister's House—the women's shelter?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You give her my phone number, if she wants to talk about it.”

“She can't afford a downtown lawyer.”

“Tell her not to worry. We can work it out.”

“That's mighty nice of you.”

I've had conversations like this many times. There's no “friend.” There's only Shenille, afraid, hoping that somehow her problem will go away.

*   *   *

Mom doesn't wake up until almost eleven. I make her favorite breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon and a slice of toast with orange marmalade—but she eats only two bites of egg and one of the bacon strips. She won't touch the toast. “It's the wrong color!” she yells.

“It's the same as always,” I say.

“I want it red!”

“You don't like strawberry, Mom.”

“I want it red!”

“I don't think we have any, Mom.”

“I have my red dress for the trip.”

“We aren't going anywhere today. Here, why don't you try…” But I can't convince her to eat more, can't distract her. “Okay, I tell you what. It's a nice day. Why don't you and I take a little trip?” Now her face relaxes. “But you have to get dressed first.”

It takes almost an hour for me to help her shower, get dressed. She wants to wear the red dress, the one she's laid out on the bed. “I've got my suitcase ready to go!” she says. The suitcase lies open on the easy chair, ready for the journey to who-knows-where. Only when I agree that we can take it with us can I cajole her into slacks and a sweater.

“Oh,” says Mrs. Furley in the elevator as we ride down. “You're going on vacation?”

“Just a little trip,” I explain.

“Yes,” my mother adds, “We're going to a party.”

“How nice,” says Mrs. Furley.

“And I'm getting married,” says Mom, smiling. “I married the wrong man the first time.”

Mrs. Furley gives me an
Oh, I see
look. “Well, I'm sure you'll be very happy,” she says.

*   *   *

If I take the direct route to the Battery, down East Bay Street, our “trip” would be only about a mile, so I cheat, drive west on Calhoun and over the causeway toward Folly Beach, then turn around and head back to town, crossing the Ashley River again. I take Broad Street over to Meeting and down to the tip of the peninsula, driving slow enough for her to savor this other world of historic mansions and formal gardens behind ornate wrought iron gates. She's calmer now, as if she's where she wants to be.

All her life she's imagined herself the kind of woman who would live in one of these houses, told me stories about “our lost plantation,” our “lost fortune.” She'd say, “We're from a very old family,” as if everyone alive wasn't. I was in my thirties before I discovered, from a cousin, that the family “plantation” was only a few hardscrabble acres in Alabama, sold long ago because my ancestor had run out of “old money.” And there was never a mansion, nothing like the huge white-columned house we park in front of, a block from the Battery.

“What a lovely town!” she exclaims.

“Let's take a walk, and then we'll get a nice lunch somewhere.” I hold on to her, which she resists, but I can't risk her falling. Getting her across the street into the park is an ordeal—she stops halfway and says she's forgotten her purse. “It's back at the condo, Mom.” Thank God she doesn't remember the suitcase in the trunk. By the time we've walked around White Point Gardens she's worn out. I'm searching for an empty bench when the little dog runs up to me. “Look, Mom, it's Sherman!”

He dances around us, barking that sharp staccato bark that means he's discovered something special. When I bend down to pick him up, his delight propels him right into my arms. I've missed the smell of him, his wet nose nuzzling my neck. Following close behind is Rusty Hart, breathless: “I just let him off the leash for a minute!” Mr. Hart hasn't lost any weight but looks much better than when I last saw him, after his heart attack. “Calm down, buddy,” he says to Sherman.

“Mr. Hart, I don't think you've met my mother, Margaret. Mom, this is Rusty Hart.”

Mom stands a little straighter, pushes her hair up and away from her face as if she's a model posing for a photographer. “We're going to a party,” she says.

“Well, don't let me keep you,” says Mr. Hart. “Sherman and I were just occupying ourselves while Maryann deals with the real estate lady. She finally came to her senses about that money pit!” He points toward his house on East Bay Street.

“You're selling it?”

“Listing it soon. But the agent says we need to ‘stage' it first—whatever that means—for the open house.”

“Open house!” says my mother. “We'd be delighted!”

“Not now, Mom.”

Her face falls. Mr. Hart and I exchange looks. “Why don't you come by the house for a minute,” he says, “and say hello to Maryann?”

*   *   *

“Thank you,” says my mother as Rusty Hart opens the front door for her, and to me she whispers, “Such a gentleman!” Inside she stands in the entrance hall and stares up at the chandelier, its crystals catching the light. “My grandmother had one just like it!” she says. This is the kind of home she always wanted: grand, historic, perfectly renovated. How many times did she tell me that our brick bungalow in Columbia was “just temporary, until we can find something nicer”?

“We can't stay,” I say to Maryann. “I know you're busy.”

“The agent just left,” Maryann says. “Do sit down.… I'll make some coffee.” Mrs. Hart is exquisitely dressed, as usual: teal-green cashmere sweater, matching slacks, silver bracelet and earrings.

“No, really, we—” I protest, but my mother has already made herself at home.

“It's ‘Margaret,' isn't it?” says Mrs. Hart to my mother. “You must be very proud to have such an accomplished daughter.”

“She's a slut!”

“Mom, please—” I start, but Mrs. Hart, a woman accustomed to smiling her way through the most difficult social situations, hardly hesitates: “Well, I hope you won't mind our mess—we're rearranging things for the sale.” Sherman hops up on the sofa next to her, nestles his head in her lap. “Did Rusty keep you on your leash, darling?”

Mr. Hart shoots me a look. “Wouldn't want to have
too
much fun, would we?”

“So,” I say, “you'll be living at the beach full-time now?”

“Yes,” Maryann says. “Rusty says we can't afford to keep both houses. Of course, I would prefer to stay here, but he—”

“Why don't you just divorce me,” says Mr. Hart, “marry the Prince of Wales, and keep this one?”

“I talked to your secretary the other day,” continues Maryann. “She said you were busy with a new cat.”

“I'm just keeping her temporarily.”

“Oh, that's a shame. A pet would be such a comfort for you, since you have no children.”

“We're taking a little trip,” says my mother.

“Oh, how nice!” says Mrs. Hart brightly. “If Rusty weren't such a homebody, we'd get away more often. First, it was ‘I'm working too hard,' and now that he's retired, it's…”

They're still carping when we leave. I'd thought Mom hadn't noticed, but in the car she says, “That's the way your father and I were. Miserable.”

“I don't remember it being all that bad.”

“You weren't married to him.”

“What about something special for lunch, Mom? Magnolias, maybe?”

“That poor little dog, listening to that all the time.”

“I think he's what keeps them together.”

“We should get a dog.”

“Maybe we will, Mom, but first I need to find a good home for the cat. And remember, Delores doesn't like dogs.”

“Delores liked Sherman. She just wouldn't admit it.” Sometimes my mother is unusually perceptive. “Do you think he remembered me?” she asks, her voice again childlike. “Sherman?”

“Sherman? Sure he did.”

“Ed Shand used to say I was unforgettable.” She flips the visor down, checks her lipstick in the mirror. “I should have married him.”

 

The Powers of Darkness

Katherine Harleston, the librarian, arrives at my office half an hour early. “I hope you don't mind that I asked my husband to come along,” she says. They're fortyish, she in a prim brown suit with a skirt that covers her knees, he in the standard Charleston good-old-boy costume—navy blazer, khaki slacks, tasseled loafers buffed to a high shine. She's square-jawed, thin-lipped, pale.

“That's fine,” I say, but before I've even finished explaining my role in the case, he interrupts.