The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (10 page)

When I walked in with René, there was a collective “oooo” from the people in the waiting
room, like it was the Fourth of July. I set the cage down, and Gia, Dr. Layton’s assistant,
slid open the little window in front of her station.

“Hi, Dixie, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a bird rescue and I was hoping Dr. Layton could take a look at him,
but it looks like you’re super busy today.”

She winked. “Well, I’ll let Dr. Layton know you’re here and we’ll see.”

René hopped from one perch to the other and said,
“Cool!”

I couldn’t agree more. One of the perks of being a professional pet sitter is you
get to feel like a celebrity sometimes. I buy so many treats at the local pet supply
shop they all know me by name, and if there’s a line I just lay my money on the counter
and leave. No one even raises an eyebrow. I admit that may not sound as exciting as
riding around in a limousine all day and eating bonbons, or whatever it is celebrities
do, but it’s good enough for me. I’ve referred so many clients to Dr. Layton, she
could easily have an examining room named after me.

I took a seat next to an elderly woman with a tiny ball of fluff in her lap that turned
out to be a miniature poodle. He sat up and eyed René curiously, along with everyone
else in the room.

The woman leaned over and said, “That is quite the bird you’ve got there.”

I smiled proudly, as if I’d created him myself. “Oh, thanks. He’s a resplendent quetzal.”

She smiled back. “He certainly is. What kind of bird is he?”

“No,” I said, raising my voice a bit. “That’s what they’re called: resplendent quetzals.”

“Well, what a pretty bird. He looks like a pigeon in drag.”

I laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She scratched the top of her poodle’s fluffy white head, and he looked up at her lovingly.

“Monty here got his toenails painted green on St. Patty’s day last year, and I knitted
him a little green sweater, but he wouldn’t wear it, would you boy?”

I said, “Sometimes they have to try it on a few times before they’ll accept it.”

“Well, it’s too late now. I gave it to my next-door neighbor’s new baby.”

I wanted to ask if the neighbor knew her baby was wearing a miniature poodle’s hand-me-downs,
but Gia slid her glass panel open and said, “Dixie, you can come on back now.”

Dr. Layton is a comfortably plump African American woman with a head of glossy black
curls. She was already in the examining room when I got there, peering over her half-rimmed
glasses and making notes in a big blue binder. She was wearing black patent-leather
heels, a fitted coffee-colored linen skirt that fell just past her knees, and a white
brocade blouse with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. I almost didn’t recognize her. I
was used to seeing her in the standard getup: white slacks, teal lab coat, and sensible
loafers.

I lifted the cage up and set it down on the examination table with a flourish.

She glanced up briefly and said, “Oh, a resplendent quetzal,” and then went back to
writing in her notebook.

This was not at all the reaction I was hoping for. I had always admired Dr. Layton
for being a no-nonsense kind of woman. A veterinary office can have a lot of drama,
and she always keeps her cool, no matter how crazy it gets. But surely she didn’t
see a bird like this every day.

“Oh. I thought you’d fall to the floor when you saw this.”

She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I might have, but Gia warned me. Dixie, what
the hell kind of animal is that and where in the world did you find it?”

I laughed. “Now that’s more like it!”

“Sorry, I’m in a mood. Dr. Prawer is filling in for me today, and I’ve been going
over some of the patients’ files with him, and I’m making last-minute notes for a
speech I’m giving tonight at the Vet Council and I’m scared to death! But when Gia
said you were here…”

She trailed off as she studied René more closely. As he hopped around from perch to
perch, a varied mix of emotions played across her face: wonder, sadness, delight,
resignation. I told her all about how Joyce had found him, and how we were certain
he was a goner, how Joyce had wrapped him in a bandanna, and then how he’d risen from
the dead a couple hours later.

She said, “Well, I think I can safely say he’s in good spirits. Normally I might guess
he’d been blown off course in a hurricane and wound up here, but I guess you noticed
his primary flight feathers are clipped—so I think it’s safe to say that more than
likely someone’s lost their pet. His coordination looks good, his eyes are bright,
and I don’t see any signs of a respiratory problem, which is common with exotics like
this. They’re taken out of their native habitat and their immune systems get quite
a shock. It’s possible he might have ingested something toxic. How’s his appetite?”

“It’s good. We’ve just been feeding him fruit and birdseed. I wasn’t sure what else
to give him.”

“I can help you with that, but I think it might be a good idea to keep him here for
the night. The first thing that comes to mind is trauma. Birds routinely fly into
buildings or windows. You’d be surprised how many birds knock themselves out for a
bit, and then wake up later completely unharmed. Still, just to be safe I’d like to
do some X-rays. We can also run some blood tests and check for a cardiac event, like
a stroke. It could be he was simply exhausted and dehydrated, but I’d feel better
if we covered all our bases. Any idea who he belongs to?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll ask Gia to call around and see if anyone reported a missing bird. In the meantime,
are you busy this afternoon and would you like to give a speech for me?”

I assured her that I was a disaster in front of a crowd, although the topic of her
speech, the overpopulation of animal shelters and how pet stores should be regulated,
if not done away with entirely, was a topic I am keenly interested in. But I was not
meant for a life on the stage. When I was in fifth grade, my class put on a production
of “Puss ’n Boots.” I barely remember what part I played because the moment the curtain
went up on opening night, I vomited all over the stage. That was my last appearance
in front of an audience, and I plan on keeping it that way.

Dr. Layton took René out of Joyce’s cage and transferred him into a state-of-the-art
number with an automatic water feeder and all kinds of rings and mirrors for him to
play with. I said good-bye and promised him I’d be back bright and early tomorrow
morning to pick him up, and thanked Dr. Layton for seeing me.

As I was putting the empty cage in the back of the Bronco, I noticed the weather had
changed dramatically. There was a mountainous black cloud lurking out at sea, and
the air had grown still and damp—perfect conditions for a lovebug orgy. They were
out in full force now, frolicking unabashedly in the air, so I drove down Midnight
Pass toward home at a snail’s pace. I still had my afternoon rounds, but I needed
a shower and a nap first.

On the way I couldn’t stop thinking about Becca and what she must have been going
through. I wondered if she’d worked up the courage yet to call her parents. I wondered
how they’d react when they learned that Kenny had been working on more than their
pool.

I was going to have to talk to Kenny, even though there were lots of reasons not to.
First, it was none of my business who he slept with; his employment with the Harwicks
had nothing to do with me. Second, he was a grown man, and Becca was childish but
not a child. Still, I felt an obligation, if not as his employer then as his friend,
to try to set him straight. I knew he was a good man, and whatever reasons he had
to be afraid of becoming a father, I couldn’t imagine he wanted to hurt Becca. Maybe
he just needed a little push in the right direction.

When I pulled into my spot under the carport, I could see Ella Fitzgerald waiting
for me in the window of my apartment, which meant both Michael and Paco were probably
at work. She flicked her tail excitedly as I climbed up the stairs. When I unlocked
the door and opened it, she hopped down and ran up to greet me. I gave her a little
scratch on the top of her head and she scrunched up her shoulders with a high-pitched
thhrrrip!
and then padded into the bathroom behind me. I was out of my clothes and under a
strong stream of hot water in seconds. There is nothing in the world as wonderful
as a shower. I don’t care how bad things get, if a person can still take a long, hot
shower, life is good.

I fell naked into bed, and Ella Fitzgerald circled herself into the crook of my arm
and purred softly. I soon found myself in a dream. I was standing in front of a huge
crowd of people. They were all raising their hands, waiting for me to call on them.
I pointed at a young man, and someone handed him a microphone. He said,
Hi, Dixie, my question is about string theory: If you rotate one dimension so that
its trajectory is opposite to its original path, do the strings then fold in on themselves?

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but I knew I had to come up with
some sort of answer. All I could think to say was
no.
The man looked surprised at first, but then softened. He said,
I’m sorry for what’s about to happen. I should have been honest with you from the
start, but I was scared, and now it’s too late. I hope you’ll understand that I didn’t
have a choice.

I woke with a start. Kenny was leaving a message on my answering machine. I frantically
reached for the phone and pressed the
TALK
button, but he’d already hung up. I pressed the
NEW MESSAGES
button, and Kenny’s familiar voice came out of the speaker.

“Dixie, it’s Kenny. Listen, I should have told you, but I couldn’t. Something’s about
to go down and … it’s big. I can’t tell you what it is, and probably by the time you
hear this I’ll be gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for not being honest with you
from the start. I was scared, and now it’s too late. I hope you’ll understand that
I didn’t have a choice.”

There was a slight pause, and then he sighed softly before the machine beeped off.
I laid my head back down on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. My first thought
was that he was running away. Becca had worked up the courage to tell him she was
pregnant, they had fought, and now he was abandoning her, throwing everything away
to join the deadbeat dad club. But it wasn’t like Kenny to be so dramatic. He was
a pretty straightforward, shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy, and for a brief moment my
nap-happy brain toyed with the notion that it was just Kenny trying to be funny.

I reached for the phone and dialed his number. By the tenth ring I knew he wasn’t
going to pick up. When his voice mail didn’t kick in, I knew he wasn’t joking. I wondered
if he hadn’t already had his phone shut off and had called from a pay phone. I looked
down at Ella Fitzgerald, curled up and purring in the crook of my arm. I had the distinct
feeling I’d been in this exact place and time before: Warm and cozy, curled up in
bed without a care in the world, while dark clouds were looming all around me.

9

When I arrived at the Harwick house the next morning, I fully expected to find Becca
in hysterics on the floor of the bathroom again. Kenny had probably called her the
night before to say he was leaving town and she’d never see him again, or for all
I knew he might have sent her a text message. That seems to be the primary mode of
delivering important information for young people these days. Either way, I had a
feeling Becca was going to need a lot more shoulder-crying time, and I already had
a full day as it was. I certainly didn’t want her to go through this alone, but the
bottom line was I barely knew her, and it wasn’t my job to shepherd her through the
hazardous terrain of love and heartbreak. I decided that if she hadn’t talked to her
parents by now, I’d try my best to convince her it was the right thing to do.

The house was completely quiet. This time when I opened the door, the alarm panel
didn’t beep, and Charlotte wasn’t waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. I called
out to announce my presence, expecting Charlotte to come slinking around the corner
to give me the stink-eye, but no one answered. I went into the living room, where
there was a half-empty liquor bottle and a couple of glasses on the coffee table,
but no Charlotte. For the first time, I had a funny feeling that something wasn’t
quite right.

Every house has a particular scent to it, a very subtle mixture of the people and
animals that live in it, as unique as a fingerprint. The Harwick house had a clean,
earthy scent: a combination of cooking aromas from the kitchen, chlorine from the
pool, the salty air off the ocean, and a note of lavender, perhaps Mrs. Harwick’s
perfume. But now, something was different. I told myself that the Harwicks had been
gone for almost two days, and it was only natural that the scent of the house would
change in their absence.

But I couldn’t find Charlotte anywhere. She wasn’t in the kitchen or the dining area.
I even looked under the couch in the living room and behind the dryer in the laundry
room off the kitchen, both popular feline hiding spots, but she was nowhere to be
seen. I went up the marble staircase and tiptoed down the main hall toward the master
suite. The doors to Becca’s and August’s bedrooms were both closed, and I didn’t think
it would be right to go snooping around in there. At least not yet, especially since
I wasn’t completely sure they weren’t home and I didn’t want to barge in on them if
they were. Hell hath no fury like a teenager awakened at dawn.

The pillows on the big bed in the master bedroom had the same indentations where Charlotte
had slept the night before, and the bedspread was a little mussed. Maybe she had slipped
under the bed when she heard me open the front door. I felt around the pillows for
signs of warmth, but there was nothing. I looked under the bed anyway, hoping I’d
see her emerald eyes sparkling mischievously at me, but there were only a couple of
dust bunnies and the foil wrapper from a piece of chewing gum.