French Braid(30)

A cold wave struck in January and Mercy bought an electric blanket. First she considered a quilt, but a quilt would have been too bulky under the corduroy slipcover. (She was scrupulous about concealing the fact that the couch was also a bed.) She hid the controls behind one of the cushions so that nobody would suspect.

The linoleum floor was so icy that she could feel it through the soles of her shoes, so she bought heavy suede clogs and fitted them with fake-fleece insoles from the drugstore. The studio’s only heat came from an ancient electric radiator affixed to one wall, and she moved the table closer to it so she wouldn’t freeze while she was working.

She didn’t have much contact with the elderly couple she rented the studio from—just a brief exchange of greetings if they happened to be outside as she was passing through their yard—and now that it was winter they were all but invisible. One evening, though, she heard somebody trudging up her staircase, and she opened her door to find Mr. Mott puffing heavily on the landing. “Evening, Mrs. Garrett,” he said.

“Why, hello,” she said. “What brings you here?”

“Got a little favor to ask you.”

“Oh?”

She stood back to let him step inside, and he removed his knit wool cap while she shut the door behind him. He was a large, beefy man with a bushy white mustache, and he didn’t seem in very good condition. “It’s about our daughter, Elise,” he said. “She’s having exploratory surgery.”

He pronounced the last two words with extra care, as if they were foreign.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry to hear it,” Mercy said.

Apparently taking this for permission, he crossed the room and settled on the daybed. He fell on it, almost. She crossed too and sat next to him.

“She’s down in Richmond,” he said, “her and her boy, and they don’t have anyone else. Her husband died a couple of years ago. So me and Mrs. Mott are going to go stay with Dickie while Elise is in the hospital.”

“Well, of course,” Mercy said.

“We’re wondering if you could take care of our cat.”

“You have a cat?” she asked, playing for time. She’d never had any dealings with cats.

“Desmond,” he said, in an urgent tone of voice.

The name would have amused her if she hadn’t been so intent on figuring out what was being asked of her. “So…” she said. “So you want me to just…bring him his food every day?”

“We were thinking maybe keep him here,” he said, and he glanced around the room.

“Here!”

“I notice you’re here a good bit nowadays. And we’d feel kind of bad leaving Desmond on his own too long. I mean, for a weekend or so, sure, but—”

“How long did you have in mind?” Mercy asked.

“We don’t know yet, is the thing. It might be no time at all! We just don’t know. And Desmond is real undemanding, but still…In the house all by himself, day and night; and he’s not allowed out ever because we don’t want him killing the birds…”

“Well, but this place is kind of small, really,” Mercy said.

“Not that small. You could fit his litter box in the bathroom, easy.”

“Litter box!”

“And I’d bring you all his supplies.”

Couldn’t they board him someplace? Weren’t there such things as cat hotels? But Mercy decided against asking that. Mr. Mott was fixing her with a steady, imploring gaze. His eyes were a faded brown, the lower lids sagging and reddened.

“I’d be happy to keep him,” Mercy said.

Because if you’re going to do someone a favor, her father used to tell her, you might as well do it graciously.



* * *



—

Desmond was a gray plaid sort of cat with a squarish face and short, chunky legs. He arrived in a small suitcase with a mesh window at either end, but he jumped out as soon as Mr. Mott set the case on the floor and unlatched the lid. He stalked off toward the kitchen area, his tail straight up in the air and twitching slightly. Mercy got the impression that a twitching tail on a cat did not mean at all the same thing as a wagging tail on a dog.

While Mr. Mott went back to the house for Desmond’s supplies, Mercy sat on the daybed and watched the cat sniff his way around the baseboards. Then he leapt nimbly onto the kitchen chair and surveyed the paints and brushes on the table. His back was turned toward Mercy, but something quivery and alert in his posture made her think he was very much aware of her. Eventually he dropped to the floor again with a thud that seemed to shake the whole garage. And here she’d always thought cats were so delicate!

Mr. Mott returned, puffing harder than ever, burdened with a plastic dishpan-looking thing filled with various sacks and bowls. “He should only have this one brand of cat chow,” he said, “on account of his kidneys. You can find it easy in most grocery stores. He’s not allowed to eat canned food. He’ll tell you he is, but he’s not.”

Mercy wondered how he would tell her. Also, it sounded to her as if Mr. Mott was thinking they might be away long enough so she would need to buy more cat chow. This was a little bit worrisome. But she said, “We’ll get along fine, Mr. Mott. Don’t give him another thought. I hope things go well with your daughter.”