To Skin a Cat

Thomas McGuane To Skin a Cat

For Fred Woodworth

THE MILLIONAIRE

It was merely a house beside a lake which had been rented. It was winterized to extend the period of time it could be let, though it was hard to see who would want its view after summer was over. The view was of places just like it, divided by water. It was furnished with the kinds of things owners wish renters to have within the limits of their anxiety about damage, impersonal things. Strangely, the owners stored their golfing trophies here. They were old trophies, and the miniature golfers on them, their bronze coats flaking, belonged to another age. One foot tipped too far; their swings were still British and lacked the freedom of motion American trophy makers later learned to suggest. Something of the reflected stillness of the lake was felt in the living room and the wraparound porch, where the outdoor furniture seemed out of place and the indoor furniture had inadvertently weathered.

Betty was a handsome blonde in her middle forties wearing a green linen Chanel suit. She walked into the house, stooping with two suitcases and managing to clutch the house keys with their large paper tag. Iris, her fifteen-year-old daughter, in the late stages of pregnancy, awkwardly looked for something to do. Betty set the luggage down and stared about with a Mona Lisa smile. She shot a glance at Iris, who was heading for the radio. Iris stopped.

“I guess the landlord saw us coming,” said Betty. Iris made an assenting murmur in her throat; it was clear she was yet to develop any real attitude toward this place. “Though blaming him for scenting misfortune seems a bit academic at this stage of the proceedings.”

“Mom, where’s the thermostat at? I’m getting goose bumps.”

“Find it, Iris. It will be on the wall.” Iris turned and looked off the porch toward the lake. Betty kept talking. “When we went to stay on the water in my youth — when we went to Horseneck Beach, for example — the water made a nice smell for us. It seemed to welcome us… the smell of the ocean. But this lake! Well, it has no odor.”

“It’s smooth out there. Nice for waterskiing.”

“In your condition?” Betty walked to the phone and picked it up. “A dial tone. Good.… So, anyway, let’s batten down the hatches. You pick yourself a little delivery room. I’m in shock. I have traipsed a hundred miles from my home for a summer surrounded by strangers and their weekend haciendas. If only I’d been clever enough to bring something familiar, my Sanibel shells, anything.”

“I’m familiar,” said Iris with a pout.

“Not entirely, you’re not.”

Iris sat down to rest, knowing she shouldn’t place her hands on her stomach complacently. She had come to view its swelling as something strange, and the acceptability of that view comforted her.

The porch and the room had fallen into shadow and the end-table lamps made a yellow glow. Betty stared past her drink while Iris, in her bathrobe, combed out her wet hair. When Jack, who was Betty’s husband and Iris’s father, came in the house, still dressed for business and somehow out of place in this summer cottage, he first peeked through the partially opened front door with either dread or uncertainty. But when he did come in, he did so as the house’s proprietor.

“Hello, Mother.”

Betty didn’t yield too quickly, so Jack tried Iris.

“How is our royal project?” he asked.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Jack clasped his hands before him and turned to Betty. “D’ja stock up? You got Scotch?”

“We have that,” said Betty. “We also have some terrifying concoctions belonging to the owner. Mai tai mix. Spaada wine.”

“Sid’ll be down. Save it for Sid.”

Betty asked, “Did you stop off?”

“Nope,” said Jack. “This is my first. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Betty. “No, Iris, no record.”

“Sid wanted to meet me for one quick one but I said, Do you realize what kind of miles I got in front of me?”

“I think I’ll watch sunset from the porch,” said Iris without being noticed. She went through the sliding door to the porch, where she felt day fade before the electric lights of the house. If she tried, she could make out what her parents were saying to each other, but she didn’t try.

Jack said, “Can she hear us?”

“Who’s supposed to bring my stuff up from home?”

“I’m seeing to it. I didn’t want to look like we were moving out. The Oakfields were staring from their lawn.”

“How come Sid’s coming up? Does he have to know?”

“Sid knows all. He’s bringing up a low-mileage Caddy Eldo he wants us to try. Burgundy. Vinyl top. The point is, life doesn’t have to come to an end. Oh, no.”

Betty drifted off. “Could be gorgeous,” she said.

“And I predict Judge Anse and his wife will come by. They want to make sure Iris doesn’t back out.”

“Remind me to thank them for finding us this priceless bide-a-wee. I could smell the wienie roasts from down the beach. This place is like a ball park.”

“You can always go home, babe, and return when it’s all over.”

“Let me get back to you on that.”

“I thought Iris was your claim to fame?”

“That’s way too simple.”

Strangely enough, they toasted this too, touching glasses. Jack winked. Betty said, “You.”

That night when they played gin rummy, Betty was the only one who seemed to have any vitality. Jack leaned a tired, stewed face on one hand and stared at the deck with uncaring eyes. Iris played and kept score. Betty played like a demon; she was in a league of her own. She could shuffle like a professional, making an accordion of the cards between her hands.

“My final pregnancy was ectopic,” said Betty with an air of peroration. “Otherwise, Iris, you would have had a little baby brother or sister. The ovum — egg to you — the ovum developed in the cervical canal, not in the uterus where the darn thing was supposed to be, Gin!”

“Great,” said Jack, “it’s over.”

“I see the doctor tomorrow,” said Iris. “Right?”

Betty gathered all the cards together in a pile. “Iris, I would hope that it’s clear why you cannot — repeat, cannot — fritter around in the discard pile and expect to get anywhere.”

Betty and Iris worked closely together inserting leaves into the dining room table. As the table expanded, the living room-dining room combination became less of a no-man’s-land. Iris and Betty quit shoving and moved around the table, looking at all the comforting empty space on its top. Steaming pots in the kitchenette abetted the festivity.

“Your assignment is to set the table,” said Betty. “Are we ten-four on that?”

“Ten-four.”

“I will sit at this end, your father at that end. Dr. Dahlstrom goes right there and Miss Whozis, his girlfriend, goes there. If she has a poodle, the poodle remains in the car.”

“You don’t even know her, Mother.”

“I said if there is a poodle. Iris, I love dogs!”

“What about Brucie?”

“Brucie! Brucie was a mongrel, I don’t miss him at all. He might have been a dear dog if you weren’t designated to pick up after him. No, Brucie would have never been put to sleep if he had learned to potty outside.”

“My favorite part of this is the smell of the upstairs cedar closet.”

“My favorite part of the whole darn thing was when your father learned of your condition and burst into tears. Boo-hoo-hoo. Like Red Skelton.”

“I meant the house.”

Jack seemed to try to come in from work differently every time. That night he ran in the door carrying his briefcase like a hot cannonball. And his voice was elevated.