Bonnie said, "Frederick will be over pretty soon. Pet the cat gently, Eula. Maybe he'll purr for you; he has a lovely purr."
Joe sat up clamping his teeth against any hint of a purr. But Dulcie's look said, You promised. If you didn't mean to be nice, why did you promise? And, reluctantly, he curled down again, into a rigid, unwilling ball.
Dulcie was so sure that this gig was important, that a dose of feline therapy really would help these old folks- help them be happy, help them deal with thoughts of death.
Personally, he didn't agree. You get old, you get feeble. Pretty soon you check out. That's the program. That's how nature works, so why fight it. Let nature take its course, don't screw things up with some kind of newfangled therapy.
Thinking about getting old, he tried hard not to dwell on Barney's plight. After all, Barney was just a simple, lovable dog, he had no need for-and no way to acquire-some fancy philosophy, some comforting idea of an afterlife the way Dulcie believed.
Dulcie was convinced there was an afterlife for all creatures. So, fine. So who said the next life would be all sardines and cream? That realm could be anything, any number of terrors could await the unwary voyager.
He had, after the Jeannot murder, after weeks of thinking seriously about such matters-and growing incredibly nervous and irritable-decided that this starry-eyed dream of eternity was not for him. That he was not constitutionally equipped to maintain on a long-term, conscious level, Dulcie's idyllic and nebulous dreams.
He'd rather believe in nothing. Rather subscribe to plain uncomplicated termination, than keep wondering about a chancy unknown.
Soon Bonnie Dorriss left them, moving quickly across the room to attend to a pair of ladies who both wanted the yellow cat and were arguing loudly. The cat, smiling up from the lap of one of the participants, looked unaffected by their furor, lying limp and relaxed, enjoying every moment.
Dillon paid no attention to the battle; she stood scanning the room, intently scrutinizing each newcomer who appeared belatedly from down the hall. The kid was wired, so intense she made his whiskers itch.
"Stuck here all day alone," Eula said, "and Frederick over there in the apartment doing who knows what. Likely over there with some woman. Or reading some storybook. Always getting out of bed before it was decent to read a storybook. Sun not even up, but he's out there making coffee and reading, I could always smell the coffee. Hiding in the kitchen wasting his time." Her stomach shook violently against Joe.
Dillon glanced down at Eula, hardly listening. And Mae Rose and Dulcie seemed oblivious, engaged in some silent communication of their own. Mae Rose kept smiling and petting, and Dulcie had that beatific look on her face. Mae Rose's overburdened wheelchair was fascinating. The vehicle was hung all over with bags: cloth bags, flowered bags, red bags, blue ones hung from the arms of the chair and from the back, all of them full to bulging. He could see magazines sticking out, a copy of the Molena Point Gazette, the sleeve of a blue sweater, a box of tissues. A clear plastic bag contained little bits of bright cloth, and he could see the end of a Hershey bar, a single white glove, and the smooth porcelain face of a doll.
Dillon sat down on the arm of Eula's chair. She wiggled some, getting settled. She did not seem so much relaxed as determined.
"I bet," she said to Eula, "you have a lot of friends in here."
Eula looked at her, surprised.
"Did you live in Molena Point a long time before you moved to Casa Capri?"
Eula didn't answer. She stared hard at Dillon. "I know I've seen you somewhere."
"I guess," Dillon said, "if you go into the village much."
"No, not in the village. I remember a face, girl. Forget a name but remember a face.
"But then," Eula said, "there's always some child visiting out in the parlor.
"Though my nieces don't come. Never bring their children. Only came here twice, both times to find out what's in my will." She glowered at Dillon. "Well I never told them. None of their business."
"I bet you and Mrs. Mae Rose are good friends, too," Dillon persisted. Joe had to smile. The kid wasn't subtle. Someone ought to have a talk with her; she wasn't going to get anywhere in life without a little guile.
She leaned closer to Eula. "I bet you and Mrs. Rose watch TV together." Joe had no idea what she was after, no notion where she was headed with this interrogation, but she meant to hang in there.
"No TV," Eula grumbled. "All Mae does is play with her dolls." She scowled deeply at Dillon. "You have as many questions as my old mother. Dead now. Dead a hundred years." She cackled wickedly.
"I didn't mean to be nosy," Dillon said, "but I bet you know everyone, though. Everyone here at Casa Capri. I bet you know if they lived in the village, and all about them."
Eula shut her mouth, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. Dillon sank into a quiet little funk, realizing she had pushed too hard. But then soon she rose, leaning to stroke Joe. "Would you hold him a little while longer? Don't let him get away? While I go to the rest room?"
The old woman snorted, but she took such a good grip on the nape of Joe's neck that he had a sudden flash of her reaching with both hands and squeezing; her fingers were as strong as a man's. "I won't be long," Dillon said, and she was gone down the hall toward the entry. Joe stared after her wondering what she was up to. Maybe the kid was going to skip-beat it out the front door.
"That's not…" Eula called after her, but Dillon was gone.
Joe could see the rest room in the opposite direction, a door clearly marked, just outside the dining room. He listened for the front door to open, but he heard nothing. Where was the kid headed, acting so secretive?
12
"That cat killed an entire litter of newborn pigs," Eula Weems said. "Biggest cat on the farm. So mean even the sow couldn't run it off.
"And after it killed those pigs it kind of went crazy. From that day, it just wanted to bite your bare toes. You couldn't go barefoot all summer, had to wear shoes. Terrible uncomfortable and hot." Eula stared accusingly down at Joe, where he crouched rigid in her lap, glowering at him as if the dead pigs were his fault.
Mae Rose said, "If they won't let us see Jane or Darlene or Mary Nell, then I say they aren't here. Not in Nursing, not anywhere in Casa Capri."
"Maybe in the county home," Eula said helpfully. "Maybe they couldn't pay. County home is free. When that cat got run over by the milk wagon everyone celebrated. It sure did feel good to go barefoot again. Took a month, though, for my feet to harden up on them tar roads. Burn your feet right off you."
Mae Rose pawed through the contents of one of the hanging pockets attached to her wheelchair until she found a handkerchief. She blew her nose delicately. Joe watched the arch where Dillon had disappeared, listening for the front door to open and close, convinced the kid was going to leave. He'd like to beat it, too. Mae Rose blew her nose again and wiped her eyes, then wadded up the handkerchief. "Maybe they're dead."
Eula Weems snorted. "How can they be dead? You know Darlene Brown was in the hospital with cataracts, and you saw her yourself when her cousin came. Right there in that corner room with the dark glasses. You're not making sense, Mae. And you know James Luther's trust officer was over there all one afternoon with him talking and signing papers."
"That's what they told us." Mae Rose glanced across the room toward the open double doors, where a nurse had appeared.
The white-uniformed woman propelled Dillon along before her, clutching the child's arm. Dillon balked and twisted, trying to pull away, her thin face splotched with anger.