Barely discernible in neat, hand-printed letters was the name Kinch and Kokar, and below the name was a date. Each box seemed to hold a year’s worth of paper. Crabbing along, I scrolled through the years until I came to a rusted box that should have contained paper from that fateful day.
Pulling it off the stack, I lugged it out of the walk-in and headed for the dank halo of light created by a lone bulb hanging over the furnace. Halfway across the floor the bottom of the box gave way, and forty pounds of paper fell on my feet.
I sat on the floor next to the mess and held my toes while contemplating the infinite number of things I’d rather be doing. When the pain subsided to a tolerable level, I got on my knees and started pawing through the stuff.
Another year and it would have been too late. The bulk of the papers were black with mold and had a damp, clammy feel. Several thick bundles were stuck together, and when I attempted to peel them apart, they turned to mush in my hands. Kneeling on the wet cement floor I went through what papers I could salvage. It was like working an archaeological dig — ever so carefully leasing apart moldy, moist paper and peering at faded scribbles.
I got lucky.
I threw what remained of the box and the rotting piles of paper back into the walk-in, slammed the door, and made my way back to the big room upstairs.
Surrounded by snoring elders, Mildred was sitting alone on the couch reading last Tuesday’s Boston Globe. I sat beside her, and she looked at me, smiled, pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her dress pocket, and wiped my face. “So, Harry, was your trip to the dungeon successful?”
“Would you happen to know an Elinor Obermeyer?”
Her face turned stern, and her voice was suddenly rimmed with flint “Harry Neal, Elinor Obermeyer is a kind woman who is as innocent now as she was the day she was born. She and Mill are one of the nicest couples I know.”
“All I asked was, do you know her.”
“And I know you, Harry. You’re up to something. You’re on the scent. The only thing Elinor and Milt have ever done is be nice, so leave them alone.”
I stared at her a moment. “And just what is it that qualifies Elinor and Mill for sainthood?”
“Don’t be flip with me, Harry. I didn’t say they were saints, I simply stated that they were nice people. They’ve had their share of troubles over the years and don’t need an old ferret like you to come sniffing around their burrow.”
“What kind of troubles?”
“Well, quite a few years ago Elinor’s brother was killed in a car accident in Connecticut just a week after he moved there. I had attended a going-away party she and Milt held for him. He was a professor at the college and had gotten a nice offer from a Connecticut university. Elinor was devastated.
“And they’re in poor health. Sometimes I used to see them around town or having lunch at Gretchen’s, and I sometimes see her at church, but not lately, she finds it so hard to move around. They’re both quite... overweight and frail.”
“You, in church? I thought you were a backsliding Baptist.”
“I am. And I’m here to tell you the services can be more than a trifle irritating. It’s hard to understand how adults can believe that stuff. It’s what’s after the services that I sometimes enjoy. The coffee and doughnuts in the church basement. I get to talk and mingle with people, and I’ve made some new friends by my hypocrisy.”
“I don’t think you could be labeled a hypocrite, Mildred, just a bit devious.” I stood, touched her shoulder, and said, “Thanks for your help. Without it I’d still be wandering around looking for the basement door.”
“Buy me a drink sometime and tell me what you’re up to. Your forays into other people’s lives are more interesting than coffee and doughnuts in a church basement. And do leave the Obermeyers alone.”
I pounded on CeeCee Dorfman’s door, heard her yell, and walked in. She was reclining on a battered futon with Cat stretched out on her stomach, watching television. Cat looked up, opened her mouth, licked her gums, and limped toward me. I took the sling off the picnic table, put it on, and picked her up. She opened her mouth and licked her gums several times, then pawed at my chest and slithered into the sling.
CeeCee Dorfman was watching a tape of a superbly muscled black woman dressed in a white bikini lecturing on nutritional supplements. I watched a moment, then said, “Do you happen to remember Elinor and Milt Obermeyer?”
Without looking up she said, “Sure, nice old couple, both about forty pounds overweight and haven’t got a muscle between them. When K and K was open, they bought a bunch of stuff. Spent a ton of money. Actually I think it was Rabart’s money.”
“They also bought that chest you put in the station wagon the day of Bob Kokar’s stroke,” I said. Cat kept opening her mouth and licking her chops. I watched her a moment. “Who’s Rabart? And what did you do to Cat’s mouth?”
“Rabart is — was Elinor’s brother. He was killed in a car accident in Connecticut. It’s his house that Milt and Elinor live in. It’s now their house, of course. They bought a lot of furniture for it.”
She stopped talking and focused on the woman, who was flexing her arms and chattering on about proteins. “Cat?” I prompted.
She aimed a remote at the television, which went black.
“I brushed her teeth. It should be done at least three times a week.” She flowed off the futon, picked a bag off the picnic table, and waved it at me. “This is her food from now on. Feed her this and only this. No table scraps, no human tuna, no crap.”
“You brushed her teeth?”
She plucked a toothbrush out of the kitchen sink. “Three times a week. And don’t use any fancy toothpaste, just basic stuff. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll do it when you bring her here. Any morning. But make it before two, that’s when I open up.”
At the sight of the toothbrush Cat slid out of the sling, hit the floor, and, moving faster than I’d ever seen her move, hobbled over to the stove and crawled under it. I stared at the stove, gave CeeCee my tough look, which made her grin, and said, “You brushed her teeth?”
I leaned the bike against the back wall and sat in the last booth. Cat pulled herself out of the sling, perched by the napkin holder, and stared at Gretchen. The place was as quiet as a foggy night, with just the gentle whisper of gray voices mingled with an occasional clink of spoon on bowl.
Gretchen put a chilled mug and a carafe of red wine on the table and slid into the opposite seat. As I poured the wine, she pulled a long pink cigarette out of her pocket and lit it with a hissing lighter. She blew smoke past my right shoulder and pulled a piece of beef out of her other pocket.
CeeCee Dorfman’s stinging lecture on why cats should have their teeth brushed and why they should never eat table scraps still hummed in my brain, but I couldn’t break up what had become a cherished ritual and told myself that just these times with Gretchen would be okay.
Cat pounced on the beef, shook it, dropped it, and attacked it again before dragging it to the napkin holder, where she put her good front paw on it and looked around the room with narrowed eyes. As she always did, Gretchen smiled and gently pulled Cat’s good ear. I drank, set my mug down, and asked, “How well do you know the Obermeyers?”
“Milt and Elinor? Pretty good. They used ta come in here all the time when they were stronger.”
“I know a woman who thinks they’re candidates for sainthood.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Nice is the word for them. Always polite, always inquiring after your health and such, and anyone will tell you what nice damn people they are. But the tiling I noticed was, someone else always seemed to pay their way, usually her brother Gordon. When he died down in Connecticut, they got his money and the house, so I guess he’s still paying.”