That was her take on the matter. If he didn't pass the test, he'd be out of here, a cause for wild celebration. If he didn't pass muster, he'd be free, a simple but happy reject.
Bonnie Dorriss had helped with the testing, and that had been all right, but the two women who came down from San Francisco were another matter, two strangers poking and pushing him and talking in loud voices, deliberately goading him. He'd responded, he felt, with admirable restraint, smiling up at them as dull and simple as a stuffed teddy bear.
He'd passed with flying colors.
So I'm capable of equanimity. So big deal. So now here I am lying across this kid's shoulder wishing I was anywhere else because in a minute she's going to plop me down in some old lady's pee-scented lap. The approaching group of duffers that now converged around them thrilled him about as much as would a gathering of vivisectionists.
An old man in a brown bathrobe toddled right for him, pushing his chrome walker along with all the determination of a speed runner. Watching him, Joe crouched lower on Dillon's shoulder. But then the old boy moved right on past, heading for the black-and-white cat, his sunken, toothless grin filled with delight. "Kittie! Oh, Queen kitty. I thought you'd never get here."
Joe watched Bonnie Dorriss take the old man gently by the arm and settle him into a soft chair, setting his walker aside. When the cat's owner handed down the black-and-white cat, the old man laughed out loud. The cat, a remarkably equable female, smiled up at him with pleased blue eyes, and curled comfortably across his legs, reverberating so heavily with purrs that her fat stomach trembled.
This was all so cozy it made him retch. He changed position on Dillon's shoulder, turning his back on the gathering. This was not his gig.
He wasn't into this do-good stuff, had no interest in the therapeutic value of cat petting. Absolutely no desire to cheer the lonely elderly. He'd come only because of Dulcie, because of the bargain they'd made.
You mind your manners at Casa Capri, not embarrass me, really try to help the old folks, and you can give Max Harper the make on the cat burglar's blue Honda. Okay?
He had agreed-with reservations. Now he watched Dulcie, listened to her happy purring as Wilma lifted her down to the lap of a tiny, wheelchair-bound lady. This had to be Mae Rose, and she really did seem no bigger than an oversize doll. Her short frizzy white hair was like a doll's hair, her bright pink rouge rendering her even more doll-like. She sat stroking Dulcie, smiling as hugely as if someone had plugged in the Christmas lights.
He watched Dulcie reach a gentle paw to pat the little woman's pink cheek. Then, curling down in Mae Rose's lap on the pink afghan, Dulcie rolled over, her paws in the air waving limply above her. The little woman's thin, blue-veined hands shook slightly as she stroked Dulcie. What a fragile little human, so thin that Joe thought a hard leap into her lap would break her leg.
He stiffened as Dillon lifted him down from her shoulder. She held him absently, like a bag of groceries, as she stood looking around the room, preoccupied with some private agenda. Irritated, he mewed to get her attention.
She stared down at him, as surprised as if she'd forgotten he was there. Shifting his position, she fixed her sights with purpose on a big lady coming toward them.
She was going to dump him on that woman, he could feel it; all the kid wanted was to get rid of him.
The solid woman approached, leaning on the arm of Bonnie Dorriss, a big square creature clumping along, making straight for the empty overstuffed chair beside Mae Rose's wheelchair. The old woman's face was molded into a scowl. She walked like a rheumy ex-football player, rocking along. Why didn't Dillon move away from her, get him away from her? The kid couldn't dream of dropping him in the lap of that creature. That lady was not in any way a promising candidate for feline friendship therapy.
As the old lady descended on them he couldn't help the growl that escaped him, it rumbled out of his chest as uncontrolled as an after-the-hunt belch. A growl that made the old woman's eyes open wide and made Bonnie's blue eyes fix on him with surprise.
"Oh," Dillon said, "I squeezed him too hard…" She petted him furiously as the old woman settled weightily into the easy chair. "It's all right, Joe Cat, I didn't mean to hurt you." Dillon's face was so close to his that their noses touched. She snuggled her cheek against him, and gently scratched under his chin, whispering almost inaudibly.
"Just play along, Joe Cat. Please just play along?" And she petted him harder. "Just make nice," Dillon breathed. "I wish you could understand."
He was trying.
As Dillon approached the woman's chair, the old lady scowled deeper and pulled her maroon woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I don't want a cat. I don't like cats, take it away." The old girl looked like a hitter. Like someone who would happily pinch a little cat and pull its tail, particularly a stub tail.
But Dillon lifted him down to the old woman's lap and stroked him to make him be still, keeping a tight grip on his shoulder.
The woman glowered and moved her hands away from him as if he carried some unspeakable disease. She smelled of mildew. Her face was thick and lumpy. Her voice was as harsh as tires on gravel. "I want a dog, not a cat. I want one of those fluffy little dogs, but you gave them to everyone else."
Her angry stare fixed hard on Bonnie, as if all the ugliness in her life might be Bonnie's fault. "That fluffy little French dog, Eloise got it. She always gets the best. Gets the biggest piece of cake and the best cut of roast beef, too. Gets to choose the TV programs because no one will dare argue with her. No one asked me if I wanted a little dog." She flapped her hands at Joe as if she were shooing pigeons. "I want that French dog. Take the cat away." Joe crouched lower, determined not to move.
Bonnie told her, "The last time, Eula, when you held that little fluffy Bichon Frise, you pulled his tail and he snapped at you." She smoothed Eula's iron gray hair.
"Is that why you gave me a cat without a tail? So I won't pull its tail?" Eula laughed coarsely. "Is this supposed to be one of them fancy breeds, them Manx cats? Looks like an alley cat to me."
She stared past Bonnie, at Dillon. "Why would you bring a mean old alley cat?" She studied Dillon's faded jeans and T-shirt. "And why can't you wear a skirt to visit? That's all you girls wear, jeans and silly shirts. I see them all in the village when Teddy takes us shopping. Why would you bring this bony cat here? No one would want to pet this mean creature." She peered up harder at Dillon. "Do I know you, girl? You look familiar, like I know you."
Two spots of red flamed on Dillon's thin cheeks, but she knelt beside Eula, stroking Joe.
"The creature is going to scratch me. It's just laying to scratch me."
Joe raised innocent eyes to her, giving her his sweetest face, fighting the powerful urge to nail her with a pawful of sharp ones. He was at a crossroads here. He could show this old woman some teeth and claws and get booted out on his ear-in which case he'd be free to go home. Or he could make nice, stay curled up in her lap, and endure, thus effectively keeping his bargain with Dulcie.
The bargain weighed heavily.
With Dulcie's eyes on him, warily he settled down again. He hadn't called Harper yet to give the police captain the make on the blue Honda. So he could still back out, cut out of here.
"If I had a dog instead of this alley cat," Eula said, "I wouldn't let anyone else pet it, certainly not Frederick. Frederick can get his own dog. Where is Frederick? It's criminal for that Prior woman to move me right out of my own apartment and make me stay over here in a hospital room like a prisoner and give Frederick all the fun in that apartment alone just because I had a little blood pressure."