Lawyer for the Cat (14 page)

Dear Lila,

Thanks for your last note. No, I don't believe in ghosts—at least, not the otherworldly kind. But I am certain we can be haunted by our own pasts, our mistakes and our regrets. Perhaps the “presence” you sometimes feel so strongly is something like that? He's friendly, but ceaseless in his roaming through that old house of yours, looking for his lost love.

I may ramble a bit here, but do you remember Christopher Smart's poem
Jubilate Agno?
As you know, I'm not a religious man, but think there's something divine about cats, and this poem captures (poor metaphor, perhaps) that divinity. Smart had the bad fortune to be thrown into prison for “lunacy”—this was in the mid-1700s, if I recall correctly—but the good fortune to have his cat as his companion. It's a long poem. When you next come to town I'll lend you my anthology, but here are just a few (divine) lines:

 

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffrey.

For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.…

For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin

and glaring eyes.…

 

My dear, we both know about the “powers of darkness,” don't we? The devil manifests himself in many forms. Not just evil, but that wily demon, depression. I hope that Beatrice will help you against that old adversary.

But remember that cats are by nature solitary creatures. Don't expect expressions of gratitude or constant displays of affection. Just respect her, and she will be faithful to you.

Yours,

S.

I imagine Simon: her age or older, thin, his back a little bowed, walking with a cane. He's quietly elegant, his manners effortless. He subscribes to
The New York Times, The Post and Courier,
and when there was an afternoon paper he read that, too. There's a stack of books on his bedside table: some poetry, some history, a novel he's read before and wants to savor again.

Who is this man? What place did he hold in Lila Mackay's heart? Why did she include his letters in the box marked “Beatrice”? Or maybe he's dead. Yes, that would explain why she didn't include him in her list of potential caregivers.

 

Can't Get No Satisfaction

“He just has a couple of quick questions,” says Gina when I ask her why Rick Silber has made this last-minute appointment. “before we set a wedding date.”

Some clients won't go away, even after I hand them a certified copy of the divorce decree and send my usual follow-up letter. Sometimes it's not their fault—the furious ex-spouse refuses to comply with the order, has to be hauled into court to show cause why he or she shouldn't be held in contempt. But some clients have become so addicted to battle, they almost need the wounds. That kind of client will do something petty to revive the conflict, like failing to pack pajamas in the child's suitcase when the ex picks the kid up for weekend visitation, or sending the alimony check on time, but fifty dollars short.

In Rick Silber's case, there was no divorce. His wife was diagnosed with aggressive cancer midway through the litigation, and both parties signed a consent order of dismissal. Then his wife died. “It's a difficult psychological predicament,” he says when he comes in. “I feel relieved not to be married to her anymore, but this … I can't really rejoice, and I have no right to mourn.”

Please,
I'm thinking
, it's late afternoon. I'm tired, and I don't want to sit around listening to you feel sorry for yourself.
This is, after all, the same man who left his wife to carry on an affair with his former graduate student, a woman almost twenty years his junior. But of course I don't say that. Instead, I muster all my empathy. “Rick, it's okay to mourn the loss of the marriage, the loss of the woman you were once happy with. Maybe you could use some therapy.” He reminds me that he's been in psychoanalysis since college; that's what got him interested in psychology. “So, Gina said you had some questions?”

“You haven't congratulated me,” he says.

“Gina's very happy.”

“So am I, of course, but I have a few … some things I want to clear up before this goes any further.”

“You're home free on the divorce case,” I explain. “You got the certified copy of the Order of Dismissal, right?”

“Yes, but that's not it. This is a little awkward.… I didn't want to mention it to Gina until I'd talked to you.” He fingers the spot where his goatee used to be, the goatee Gina convinced him to shave off. I see now why he wanted it: His receding chin melts into his turtleneck. “I think I need a prenup.”

I'm about to launch into my speech about prenuptial agreements—what they can do, what they can't do—when I realize I have a way out. “Rick, I'm not comfortable advising you on this. I have a conflict of interest.”

“But it's not like Gina's your client.”

“She's my secretary, and she's my friend.”

“Maybe you could just answer a few questions, and then I could draft the thing myself, save some money.”

“If you want to talk about a prenup, you'll have to see another lawyer. I can give you some names.”

“Jeez,” he says, pouting, “I didn't realize I'd be losing my lawyer. It's not like Gina and I are fighting about anything.”

“But I can't do anything that might potentially hurt her,” I say.

“She's big girl,” he says. “I doubt if she'd have any problem with a prenup.”

“You haven't discussed it with her?”

“Like I said, I wanted to talk to you first.”

I scribble three names on a piece of paper. “These are all good lawyers, but if I were you I wouldn't wait too long to talk to Gina.”

“But it wouldn't be fair for her to end up with any of the money I inherited, right?”

“Rick, you're not listening. I can't advise you on this.”

“At least promise me you won't say anything to Gina before I—”

“I won't, because you're going to tell her very soon. I won't let her sign anything without having someone review it.”

“I guess that someone would be you,” he says.

“Probably not.”

“Because I just want this to be simple. I'm not trying to deny her something that's rightfully hers.”

“No, I'm sure you wouldn't.” I say this firmly. I give him a look that says,
If you do anything to hurt Gina, I'll hire a posse of lawyers to come after you.

“What was that all about?” asks Gina when he's gone.

“He had some questions about the Order of Dismissal.”

“He's just nervous,” she says. “I keep telling him, what's to worry about? As long as we love each other, we'll be fine. What … you think I'm being naive, don't you?”

“I think you're in love.”

“Mind if I leave now?” she asks. “It's almost five.”

“Sure. I just need to make one call and then I'm done.”

“He's so sweet I can hardly believe it,” she says. “I know it sounds dumb, but I've never had a man give me things the way Rick does. Little presents all the time. Wait a minute, I'll show you something.” When she comes back she's wearing a new suede jacket and carrying a huge red purse, the kind that shouts “Expensive!” She smiles. “I could get used to this.”

*   *   *

Tony's still busy at the clinic. Maureen, his receptionist, insists on interrupting him despite my protests.

“It's not an emergency,” I explain.

“But he said if you call, he wants to talk to you.”

I hold, listening to fuzzy Muzak. When he picks up the phone he sounds tense, hurried. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to check on Beatrice.”

“She's fine.”

“Getting along okay with the dogs?”

“She's fine with the dogs, but I'm keeping her in the bedroom when I'm not there. She likes that big chair by the bed.”

“If you were on the list, I'd let you keep her.”

“What list?”

“Lila Mackay's list, remember?”

“Right.”

“I know I told you I'd come back out there tonight,” I say, “but I forgot about the condo Christmas party. I promised my mother I'd take her.”

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that doesn't sound okay.

“Maybe tomorrow night, if Shenille can stay with Mom.”

“Whenever you can work me in,” he says.

“Tony, I'm doing the best I can.” There's a too-long silence. “You sure everything's okay?”

“I had a break-in yesterday.”

“At the clinic?”

“No, the house.”

“How could you have a break-in? You never lock the doors.”

“Somebody left a note inside, on the kitchen counter. Wait a minute, I've got it in my pocket.… Here it is.” He reads it to me.

What's a sensible man like you doing with a woman who won't listen to reason? Maybe you should talk some sense into your girlfriend before she does something she'll regret.

“Anything stolen?”

“That's the weird thing—nothing.”

“Remember the other night, when I saw the car drive away?” Then I tell him about the note on the windshield.

“You should have said something.”

“I think it's Randall Mackay. I'm surprised the dogs didn't tear him apart.”

“My girls make a lot of noise, but they're all bark and no bite. This guy sounds like a lunatic. I'm going to call the sheriff.”

“He's just trying to intimidate me.”

“So I'm supposed to ignore somebody coming into my house?”

“The sheriff isn't going to do anything except take an incident report. Nothing's missing.”

“Isn't an incident report good to have?” he asks. “In case something else—”

“You can call, but it's probably a waste of time. If it's Randall, he's just trying to get to me through you. It's a mind game.”

“I don't like this kind of mind game. And what if he's
really
after you. I mean, what if he—”

“I think he's just trying to intimidate me into settling.”

“Maybe he's after the cat. I could bring her here to the clinic during the day, but she won't be very happy in the back there with a bunch of other animals.”

“If he wanted to hurt the cat, he's already had his chance. That's why I think he's just trying to intimidate me.… Best thing to do is lock the doors, leave the TV on when you're at work, the porch light on, a couple of lights inside. And maybe you could borrow an extra car? It would be good if you could leave one outside, so it looks like somebody's home.… Okay, I've got to get home, but I'll try to make it out there tomorrow night.”

“Whenever you can work me in.”

“I wish you'd stop that.”

“
I
wish a lot of things, but let's not get into it.”

“You're being petulant, but I love you anyway.”

“I'm glad you can stay so calm about all this, because it makes
me
really nervous.… Anyway, see you tomorrow, if you can make it,” he says.

What he doesn't know is that I'm struggling not to panic, trying to tell myself that this really is a mind game and nothing more. But I haven't forgotten what my ex-husband said:
His first wife divorced him on physical cruelty. The second one disappeared.

*   *   *

Mom's sitting on the sofa in the living room, her back erect, shoulders raised as if she's trying to lift her sagging bosom. The little sequined purse she holds in her lap matches the short black dress, which is several sizes too small.

“We're going to be late!” she says.

“You just hold your horses,” says Delores. “That party ain't going nowhere without you.”

My mother looks me over. “It's the cocktail hour, you know. If you don't want to stand out like a sore thumb, you should change into something nicer.”

“She looks plenty nice,” says Delores. “Just a little tired around the eyes.” But I know better than to argue with my mother. I change into a black dress—nothing revealing or sparkly like Mom's—add a string of pearls, brush my hair. The woman in the mirror looks back at me, trying her best to appear upbeat, but the shadows under her eyes betray her. I find some concealer in a bag of seldom-used makeup, lean in close to the mirror, dab it on. “Maybe some mascara, too, and some blusher,” I say out loud.

“Why don't you come, too?” I ask Delores when I'm ready.

“Thanks anyway,” she says. “I can't compete with you ladies. Besides”—she winks—“white people's parties are boring. Nothing but a lot of standing around talking.”

The minute Mom and I step into the party room, it's clear that Delores was wrong. The place is packed, the music—the Rolling Stones—vibrating the dance floor, the disco lights swirling on the ceiling. Mom shouts in my ear, “I don't think this is our kind of party.” There's a big Christmas tree in the corner, its white lights flashing in time to the music.

“We'll have one drink and go,” I shout back to Mom. “You sit here while I get you something.”

While I stand in line at the bar I check on her a couple of times. She's put on her social smile, that lips-closed smile that means she's politely enduring a miserable situation. “Two white wines, please,” I say to the bartender. Why not let Mom have a little fun?

But when I turn around with the drinks in my hands, she's gone. “I'm
so
glad to see you,” says Mrs. Furley. I recognize some other faces in this crowd—we ride the elevator up and down together, wave to each other in the parking lot—but hers is the only name I can muster.