The next few days pass much the same as Monday, except I return to Quest on Tuesday. I’m finding work even more mindless than usual. I miss the interaction I get at the Village, which surprises me since I’m an introvert at heart and one of the things I’ve always liked about my job at Quest is how much solo work I get to do. There have been so many unexpected changes in my life in such a short time.
On Wednesday night, I end up at home alone. Celia is out with people from work again, and Hugh has an early meeting in the morning, so we said goodnight at the Village. I’ve just settled on the couch to watch TV when I hear the same clattering sound from Monday night after Hugh left. Since I didn’t see anything the other night, I dismiss it as the wind rattling something loose on the balcony. I make a mental note to go out there tomorrow morning and see if something has fallen over or got caught in my chairs.
Ignoring the clattering is one thing, but when a crash sounds from outside, I leap from my seat. Heart racing, I search the living room for something sharp or heavy to use as a weapon. Years of reading and watching mysteries has taught me just because I live on the third floor doesn’t mean there’s not someone out there trying to get in. Finally, I grab a heavy book off the shelf and creep toward the sliding glass doors.
I inch the curtains back and flick on the outside light. The bulb is weak and doesn’t give much illumination, but I don’t see anything—or anyone—out there. Like the rest of my apartment, I haven’t spent much time fixing up the balcony, so there’s only a pair of chairs and a small table. With my face almost pressed to the glass, I peer one way and then the other, still not seeing anything. Clutching the book in my hand, I unlock the door and slowly slide it open.
The door is barely open when a furry black something launches itself inside my apartment. I scream bloody murder, pressing myself against the glass and wielding the book like a weapon. Breath heaving and heart pounding, I do a frantic visual sweep of the living room, spotting the culprit lurking under the coffee table. Orb-like amber eyes peer back at me.
“A cat?” Semi-hysterical laughter rolls out of me as I lower my weapon. Still rooted to my spot near the door, I say, “Okay, kitty, thanks for dropping by. You can’t stay, though. I have no idea how you ended up on my balcony, but you must be a good climber, so…” I open the balcony door further, praying no other creatures see it as an invitation to join the party.
The cat doesn’t move. Having never had a cat—or any other pet for that matter—I’m nervous about approaching it. What if it’s feral? What if it claws my face to ribbons or bites me? Do cats get rabies? I set the book aside and inch toward the coffee table. The cat watches me curiously with those huge, glowing eyes. As I get closer, I notice three things: 1) His black fur appears patchy and knotted. 2) He seems on the too-thin side. And 3) He’s wearing a collar. Bingo.
I crouch down and hold out my hand. I’ve seen people on TV do this for dogs, so hopefully it works for cats too. Other than a small twitch of his nose, there’s no reaction.
I continue creeping forward, hand outstretched, praying I’m some sort of heretofore-unknown animal whisperer, and I’m not about to be mauled. “I’m just going to check your collar, okay? See who you belong to and get you back home.” He doesn’t move as I approach, and only shies away a bit before letting me grasp his collar. No name or address. Damn.
On closer inspection, this cat looks seriously neglected. The temperatures are starting to drop at night, so I’d be a class A jerk if I put him back outside to fend for himself. It’s almost eleven, so it’s too late to go knocking on doors to see if anyone is missing a cat.
“Oh kitty, Celia is not going to like this.” I head for the kitchen, where I fill a shallow bowl with water and set it on the floor. The cat rushes over to inspect the bowl, eyeing it distrustfully before taking a drink.
I grab my cell phone and hit Bridget’s number. When she picks up, I skip the pleasantries and ask, “Can cats eat tuna?”
“Is this a trick question? Or some kind of code? Are you being kidnapped and I forgot we agreed on this as our code?”
I laugh. “No, sorry.” I explain about the cat and then ask again if cats can eat tuna.
“I think so? But then I always thought cats love milk and I heard recently it can actually make them really sick.” She pauses for a moment. “When in doubt, Google is your friend.”
We say goodnight after a few more minutes of talking, and I pull up Google. As far as I can tell, it’s safe to give cats tuna, so I open a can, smoosh some into a bowl, and set it on the floor next to the water. Apparently it’s the right thing to do, because the cat starts devouring it like a starved creature. Deciding to give him some space, I go back to the couch and start my show again.
I peek over my shoulder every minute or so to check on the cat’s progress. He eats almost everything in the bowl, then starts grooming himself. I figure he knows what he’s doing, so I allow myself to get engrossed in my TV show. I’ve almost forgotten he’s even here when he appears in front of the couch, watching me with imploring eyes.
“Did you enjoy your dinner?” I ask. “Why am I talking to you, it’s not like you can understand me.” He blinks in response. “Okay, well, are you cuddly or not?” I pat my knee and after a moment’s hesitation, he hops up on the couch and climbs into my lap, walking back and forth across my legs a few times before facing me. We stare into each other’s eyes. He must see something that lets him know he can trust me, because he snuggles up close, resting his paws on my chest.
My throat tightens. I can’t believe I’m getting emotional over a cat. For whatever reason, that level of immediate trust really gets to me. I start petting him, and he moves up a little higher on my chest, closing his eyes. “You have tuna breath,” I inform him. He ignores me and starts purring.
This is how Celia finds us half an hour later. The cat’s ears perk up when the door opens. I cringe, waiting for the explosion I know is about to happen.
“What the hell is that?” Celia asks before she’s even closed the door.
“It’s called a cat.” Said cat sits up on my lap and narrows his eyes at Celia.
“You got a cat without even checking with me?” After removing her coat and boots, she starts inching along the wall toward the kitchen.
“Okay first of all, it’s a cat, not a bomb, so chill.” I watch as she reaches the kitchen and sets a grocery bag on the counter. “Secondly, I didn’t ‘get a cat’. He somehow got onto our balcony and I accidentally let him in. He’s not wearing a tag or anything, so I don’t know who he belongs to, and I couldn’t just put him back outside to freeze.” I stop myself from adding a third thing: this is my apartment and if I wanted to get a cat, I could damn well get a cat. Best not to rock the boat further.
“I’m allergic to cats, Ivy,” Celia says in her patented snotty ‘duh’ tone.
I roll my eyes. “You are not.”
She throws her hands up. “Fine, I’m not, but I don’t like cats and they don’t like me. Plus black cats are unlucky.”
I roll my eyes even harder. I can’t help it. Next she’ll say ‘It’s him or me’ and I’ll be tempted to choose him. “That’s a ridiculous superstition. He’s a sweetheart.” I rest my hand on his back and he relaxes his guarded stance. Celia doesn’t relax hers, though, so I add, “I’ll ask around tomorrow and see if I can find his owner. For tonight, I’ll keep him in my room.”
Her face softens the tiniest bit. She gives a jerky nod and hurries to her room, closing the door behind her.
“She didn’t scream or have a meltdown, so I’m considering that a win,” I tell the cat. He just closes his eyes and resumes his motor-like purring.
*****
Some weird sort of pet-mom instincts kicked in overnight, and I kept waking up to check on the cat and make sure he was okay. He seemed perfectly comfortable sleeping in my room, and ended up curled tightly beside me in bed. He even used the newspaper I laid down in the corner—thanks, Google.
First thing in the morning, I pay a visit to JJ, the superintendent of my building. When I ask if he knows anyone here with a black cat, he strokes his stubbled chin, thinking. “Mrs. Gunderson in 402 got a cat not long ago,” he says. “Haven’t seen it yet, though, so don’t know if it’s black.”
I explain what happened last night, and he says he’ll ask around for me while I’m at work. I’d go to Mrs. Gunderson’s myself, but it’s not even eight o’clock. She’s kind of terrifying at the best of times, so I’m not exactly eager to show up at her door unannounced, especially if I happen to rouse her from bed.
Celia is up when I return to the apartment. She eyes me warily as I inform her in my best no-nonsense voice I’ll be letting the cat out so my room doesn’t end up reeking of cat pee. Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue. I’d made up my mind if she disagreed I was going to send her to deal with Mrs. Gunderson.
I leave work in the early afternoon—another instance of benefiting from having your best friend as your boss—and check in with JJ when I arrive at my building. He tells me he knocked on Mrs. Gunderson’s door a few times throughout the day, but there was no answer.
“Just between you and me,” he says, glancing around the hallway and lowering his voice, “I think she was home and ignoring me. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
I let out a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. “Will you come with me? Please?”
He’s chuckling and shaking his head before I even get the words out. “No can do, Ivy. Just before you got here, I was called to the fun task of checking out a clogged toilet on the fifth floor.”
“I’ll trade you,” I mutter. He laughs again and motions me toward the elevator. We ride together, and he wishes me luck when I get off on the fourth floor. I stand outside 402, gathering my courage before knocking. Through the door, I can just make out the sound of dramatic music, followed by heated arguing. Soap opera time?
The minute I knock on the door, silence falls inside. After waiting a reasonable amount of time for Mrs. Gunderson to reach the door, I knock again. I resist the urge to call out that I know she’s in there. I’m about to knock a third time when the door swings open, startling me so badly I gasp and jump back.
“Are you the one who’s been banging on my door all day?” Mrs. Gunderson asks in her pack-a-day voice. The scent of stale cigarette smoke wafts into the hall, nearly choking me. Her bent form is clothed in a flower-print housecoat and matching slippers. Her steel-gray hair is pulled into a messy updo with wiry escapees framing her wrinkled face.
“No, that was JJ, the super.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice—how embarrassing. Mrs. Gunderson may look like a harmless old lady, but her eyes are shrewd, and I’ve heard her threaten to hit people with her cane.
Her eyes narrow to slits. “What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you have a missing cat or know someone who might,” I say. “All black, maybe a year old.” That last part is a guess on my part based on the cat’s size. He’s definitely underfed, but even then I’m thinking he’s too small to be a full-grown cat.
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible for her eyes to narrow further and still stay open, and yet they do. She purses her thin, wrinkled lips. Silence stretches between us during which I wonder if I should repeat the question. Finally, she says, “Sounds like my cat. Disappeared last night, figured she must have got out the window.”
She. Oops. I didn’t even think to check, I just assumed. “Okay, well, I’ll go get her.” Mrs. Gunderson doesn’t say anything, so I head for the stairs. When I open my apartment door, the cat runs down the hall to greet me, winding around my feet and rubbing her face against my leg. “Hey there, you.” I set down my purse and bend to scoop her up. “That’s a nice greeting. Don’t tell Celia, but I think you’re a better roommate.” I bury my face in her fur, suddenly sad I have to return her. Part of me wishes I hadn’t gone looking for her owner; she didn’t have an ID tag, after all.
I fight an inner war with myself all the way back to Mrs. Gunderson’s apartment. I’m not a cat person. I have enough going on right now with two jobs, Celia, and a sort-of boyfriend. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of an animal.
The cat is purring, her eyes closed in contentment by the time I knock on Mrs. Gunderson’s door again. The moment the old woman appears, the cat’s eyes fly open and she begins struggling in my arms. I tighten my grip on her and move closer to the door, nearly gagging on the stench of cigarette smoke. The cat’s wide eyes meet mine, and I swear if cats could feel betrayal, this one is trying to telepathically tell me I just stabbed her in the back.
After a struggle, during which the cat starts to emit a low growling sound, Mrs. Gunderson snatches her from my arms. She snarls a quick “Thanks” and then slams the door in my face.