Lawyer for the Cat by Lee Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

Tony.
    â€œHeard you got a cat,” he says, his smile a little wicked. I hate the smile because, despite my best efforts, I still love it. “I promise I had nothing to do with that, but think about it—wouldn’t you rather deal with a cat than your usual client?” Again the smile. “Take care, Sally. And if I don’t see you again before Christmas, have a good one. My best to your mother.”
    As I walk back to my office it starts to drizzle, a fine mist fracturing the lights of rush-hour traffic. A car slams on brakes, just missing a man who’s jaywalking. He stops mid-street, curses, loses hold of his umbrella, his briefcase. I retrieve the umbrella, hand it to him. I recognize him—he practices in one of the big firms—but can’t remember his name.
    â€œThanks,” he says. He brushes the rain off his coat. “You see that? She was going too damn fast!” We part ways. No need to remind him that he was jaywalking, that it wasn’t all her fault.
    When I left Joe, he said some things that cut to the quick, like You’re never going to find anyone who loves you like I do. You’re not an easy woman to live with, you know! But looking back, I’m amazed that he remained relatively calm. In fact, the more I think about it—and I do, often—the more I realize that I needed him to be angrier. Instead, he seemed helpless, accepting my decision as passively as he did the life that his family had designed for him. His choice of me as his wife was the one exception to this pattern of acquiescence. It made no sense.
    This is one of those afternoons, though, when it’s best not to try to make sense of things: A cat with three million dollars, a baby on his way to foster care. Love, and the mess we make of it.

 
    The Beatrice Box
    With her usual efficiency, Gina has sorted the paper contents of Lila Mackay’s box into separate notebooks: “Vet bills,” “Notes,” “Letters,” “Miscellaneous.”
    The oldest vet bill is from seven years ago, “Core vaccines, kitten series $45.00,” the most recent three months ago, “Office visit, hip dysplasia. Recommend weight loss. $50.00.” Except for the occasional bout of roundworms and ear mites, Beatrice has been a healthy cat. There’s a letter dated shortly before Mrs. Mackay’s death: “This office will be closing on December 31 due to my retirement. Unless you notify us that you wish your pet’s records sent elsewhere, we will transfer them to Dr. Harriett McCoy in Rantowles. We have enclosed her card for your convenience.”
    The notes are more interesting, page after page on white stationery, written in black (I imagine the fountain pen, the jar of ink), a cursive that in the first thirty or so pages is almost too perfect, the lines evenly spaced and very straight. Later the handwriting is shaky, the letters larger; the lines drift upward. In the final pages there are frequent corrections, words and phrases scratched out or put in parentheses with notes above them: “Not right word,” “Need better metaphor,” “Silly?”
    Most of the notes are in first person and seem to be a sort of diary, though one only sporadically kept:
    I spent most of the day by the fireplace. Too cold for our usual walk. She didn’t go out, either; catching up on her correspondence. Billy stopped to pick up Gail’s check. (She does the work, why does he get the check?)
    Another entry:
    Delightful afternoon on the piazza. Not too hot. There’s something hypnotic about the Spanish moss swaying back and forth in the breeze. She’s nearby, reading. We are such different creatures, but alike in our inability to trust anyone completely.
    Who, I wonder, is this other woman? Is she still alive? Why wouldn’t Mrs. Mackay have chosen her as the cat’s caregiver? But the next note explains it:
    Caught a mouse this morning. Was