Lawyer for the Cat (9 page)

“Mrs. Mackay had Beatrice to keep her company.” Delores eyes the carrier, the creature inside. “That cat don't look too happy.”

“She hates the car, but she'll calm down. Did Mom have supper?”

“A cup of split pea soup and some corn bread. I had to push it on her—she was all riled up, bound and determined to pack that suitcase.… You want me to stay a little longer so you can have a few minutes to yourself? There's plenty of soup; I left it on the stove. And the corn bread's still warm.”

“No, you go ahead, unless you want to stay and have some supper yourself.” I've noticed that since Charlie's death, Delores doesn't seem in her usual hurry to get home.

“That would be nice. I'll make us a salad, too.”

Mom is back in her bedroom, the suitcase open on the bed, her arms full of clothes. “Mom, where are you going?”

She turns around, her eyes darting, her mouth and jaw set in that expression I've seen before. She's forgotten where she is, yet she's determined to go somewhere else. She doesn't answer, but folds the clothes, arranges them in the suitcase, except for one dress. She lifts it up, shakes it out so that the long skirt falls to the floor. “Maybe this one should go on a hanger,” she says.

I put my hand on her shoulder, speak as gently as I can, “Mom, where are you going?”

“To the party. The party in the country.”

“It must be a really fancy party.” The dress is gorgeous, emerald-green taffeta. I can't remember the last time she wore it, or where.

“We're staying for the weekend,” she says.

“Who are you going with?”

“Frank doesn't want to go, so Ed Shand's taking me.” My father, Frank, never liked parties.

“That should be fun,” I say. Delores has taught me to play along, let her have her fantasies as long as they're not dangerous. “But you can finish the packing later. Delores and I are going to have some soup. She's made you a cup of tea and some of those oatmeal cookies you like, okay?”

She may not know who she is, or where she is, but she's in an agreeable mood tonight. She leaves the dress on the bed, closes the suitcase, and follows me into the kitchen. The cat, who's finished her visit to the litter box, follows her.

“What kind of dressing you want on your salad?” Delores asks me.

“Vinaigrette's fine, thanks. This soup smells wonderful.”

“Would have been better with a ham bone, but I did it like you said.”

“It's healthier this way.”

“You got nothing to worry about, skinny as you are.” She turns to my mother. “Watch out now, Miz Margaret. That tea's hot. And
you,
” she says to the cat, who's rubbing her back against Delores's thigh, “you go on over there, finish your dinner.” She points to the bowl by the refrigerator. “At least this varmint's cleaner than that dog. Whatever happened with those people, anyway? They still together?”

“So far.”

“Good,” says Delores. “Once you been married long as they were, you might as well stick it out. She ever go to court for that burglary business? The Hart lady, I mean.”

“The case was dismissed.”

“Figures. Rich old lady like that, she can pay her way out of trouble. Couldn't make that stuff up! Two old people getting a divorce, fighting over their little dog! Crazy judge gives the dog a lawyer, like he's a human or something. Old woman says the old man's running around on her, but then it turns out
she's
the one out in the middle of the night, only not for what you think—no, she's out breaking into people's houses stealing their dogs!”

“She wasn't ‘stealing,' she was rescuing the dogs from abusive owners.”

“But she gets herself
arrested,
” Delores says, chuckling.

“It wasn't very funny at the time,” I say.

“But then they get back together and the case is over, and when the news people show up at the old lady's door, she tells them all about how lawyer Sally Baynard is a miracle worker!”

“She might have been a little drunk.”

“So you think they'll stay together now?” asks Delores.

“I'm no an expert on long-term relationships. You're the one who managed to stay in love for twenty years.”

“But we weren't married until the very end.”

“Maybe that's the reason,” I say.

“It's not that simple,” says Delores. “Use your napkin, Miz Margaret.” Tea dribbles down my mother's chin.

“You always said you were better off not married.”

“But it's not like there's one rule for everybody,” she says. “You ain't me. I ain't you. Charlie and me, we worked it out to suit the two of us and we was mostly happy, but we could still have some wicked fights.… I don't mean hitting or anything … just words. We had one right before he died, 'cause he kept talking about how I needed to find somebody else when he was gone, and it made me mad.”

“Well, he was right,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I can't get used to another man, 'specially not one who won't measure up to Charlie.” Tears glisten in the corners of her eyes.

“There are a lot of good men out there, Delores.”

“You should take your own advice sometimes.”

After she leaves I help my mother with her shower, then into her nightgown. She doesn't object when I hang the green dress back in the closet. Just as she's falling to sleep she says, “I should have married Ed Shand.”

*   *   *

I turn in early, glad for the comfort of my own bed, my quiet room, where for a few hours no one will need anything from me. Even Beatrice seems fine without much attention.

“It's weird,” I tell Tony when he calls, “She's here in bed with me, but she's … I don't know exactly how to describe it … aloof. Maybe she's still getting used to me.”

“Cats aren't like dogs,” he says. “They're more reserved about showing affection.”

“So it's not
me,
then.”

“She's paying you a high compliment by just being near you at this point.”

“She's purring.”

“She's content,” he says.

“We had a stressful afternoon.” I tell him about the visit to the plantation, the conversation with Gail Sims. “I can't understand why Mrs. Mackay didn't just choose Gail. She and Beatrice are great together. She doesn't want to live in that big old house, but she and her fiancé have a place not far away, and they have cats of their own.”

“That could be a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cats are territorial.”

“She seemed to think it wouldn't be a problem.”

“But didn't the old lady's will—”

“It's a trust.”

“—didn't it say that the cat should live on the plantation?”

“Her son—Randall—wants the house. He'll get it anyway when the cat dies, but he wants it now. I can see his point. A cat doesn't need a plantation. And Randall won't object to Gail being paid to take care of Beatrice. It seems like such an obvious, practical solution.”

“Except for the other cats.”

“But Randall's threatening to challenge his mother's competency if I don't let Gail have the cat.”

“Can he do that?”

“It's an uphill battle, and if he loses he could forfeit his remainder.”

“His what?”

“What he gets after the cat dies. She put a special provision in the trust that says if he challenges it, and he loses, he forfeits that.”

“Sounds like a pretty big chance for him to take.”

“Which is why I think he's probably just threatening. But the last thing I want is to get tied up in litigation in the Probate Court.”

“I thought you lawyers
like
litigation.”

“But I'd be stuck with the cat while…” The moment I say this, Beatrice stops purring, as if she's insulted. “My life is complicated enough.”

“What's so complicated?”

It aggravates me that he'd even ask this question, and maybe I'm a little sarcastic when I answer: “Well, let's see. There's my mother. My law practice. You.”

“I'm a
complication
?
”

“I just meant, I'm trying to take care of my mother, my clients, spend some time with you, and now I've got this cat to worry about.”

“Sorry to add to your burdens.”

“You know that's not what I'm saying. I'm looking forward to spending tomorrow night—”

“I thought you were going to stay the weekend.”

“I'm taking my mother to church on Sunday morning—she likes to go, and she hasn't been in a while—so I should probably stay in town Saturday night. “

“I guess I'll take what I can get,” he says.

“Okay if I bring the cat? She hates the car, but I don't want to leave her here with the sitter if I can help it.”

“Sure. Bring the cat. Bring your mom. Bring your case files if you want to. What the hell.”

“Unless you'd rather I not come at all.”

He ignores this. “I'll have dinner ready. You got an old blanket?”

“I should bring my own bedding?”

It's a relief to hear him laugh. “For the cat. Cut up an old blanket, line the bottom of her carrier. She'll be more comfortable on the road. And bring a toy for her.”

“I don't have any toys.”

“Empty a pill container, put a few dried beans inside, screw the cap back on. She'll have a good time batting that around.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too,” but I know how easy it is to say these words, and how difficult it is to live them.

 

Ladykiller

I often beat Gina to the office in the morning. Her
A.M
. routine is considerably more elaborate than mine. She needs an hour for her hair and makeup, she tells me, as if this daily ritual is a vital function. Though she's almost never more than a few minutes late, it irritates me when the elevator opens onto a dark office, especially this morning when I'm running late myself and I'm lugging the cat in her carrier, as well as the litter box, wrapped in a garbage bag. I'd like nothing more than to smell coffee already brewing.

Before I left home I gave Delores her Christmas bonus early, in hopes this might make her more amenable to cat-sitting, but she reminded me that she'd be taking my mother to the podiatrist, and I was nervous about her leaving Beatrice alone in the condo. “You act like that animal's your baby,” Delores said. “Believe me, it don't care about you like you care about
it
! It'll be fine if you just put it in the bathroom, like the vet said, with some food and water.”

“She's my responsibility until I can find her a home,” I said. “I have a fiduciary duty to her.”

“A what?”

“It means I have a legal and ethical responsibility to act in her best interests.”

“People leave their cats alone all the time,” she insisted.

“But I have a special relationship to Beatrice, just like I had a special relationship with Sherman.”

“You can say that again! You and that little dog, you sure was a pair there for a while!”

“That's not what I mean. It has nothing to do with affection,” I explained. “Because I have a special duty toward her, I have to take extra care that nothing bad happens to her.”

“Don't mean you have to spend every waking minute with it. Good thing you never had children, they'd be spoiled rotten.” She said this without thinking, while she wiped Mom's face after breakfast, but the words followed me out the door and all the way to the office. Whenever I lull myself into believing I'm okay with my childless life, someone will innocently utter a statement like this and send my mind wandering into a maze of what-might-have-beens, in search of the child who is always, when I imagine him, so much like my ex-husband Joe. Maybe that's why I've developed a reputation as an advocate for kids in Family Court—the abused and neglected, the ones at the center of vicious custody battles. Many of these mostly pro bono appointments have come from Joe; he knows I have a hard time saying no.

*   *   *

I turn on the lights in the hall, let Beatrice out, get the coffee going. She rubs her back against my ankles as if to say, “Thanks. I hate being hauled around in that thing.”

“Oh, hi, you!” says Gina when she comes in, but not to me. The cat pauses long enough to acknowledge her entrance, then runs back to my office.

“Doughnuts?” I ask. “I thought you were on a diet.”

“To celebrate!” she says, opening the box of Krispy Kremes, a dozen: glazed, chocolate covered and raspberry-filled. “Look!” She extends her left hand dramatically, her fingers caressing the air, so that I can't miss it: the diamond ring. “Isn't it gorgeous? I was totally surprised!”

“It's lovely.”

“You don't sound very enthusiastic.”

“It's from Rick?”

“Who else? I think it's a full carat.”

I don't know anything about carats. “It really is beautiful,” I say through the hole of a glazed doughnut.

“I know you think it's too soon.”

“Gina, I'm not your mother.” But then I can't help myself. “Rick's wife just died. He's hardly had time to—”

“But he was going to divorce her anyway. And he's a psychologist. He must know what he's doing.”

“I hope you're right.” I know Rick as well as any divorce lawyer knows her client, enough to know Gina's almost certainly wrong. Rick Silber may be an expert on personality disorders, but when it comes to understanding himself, he has about as much insight as a doughnut. “I'm really happy for you.”

“Sometimes you just have to take a chance,” she says, taking a bite of her doughnut, talking through the raspberry jelly. “I know we're way different, but it's not like there's a Mr. Perfect out there, you know.”