Part 15 (1/2)

”Yes, I can see that,” Cordelia answered. ”And you're the faker, always misleading people, so they never expect a punch when you throw it.” She stopped in front of my building. I wondered if she meant my karate, or me in general. ”For example, right now, you're in a lot more pain than you're admitting. The only clue is that your reaction time is slower. And, if I hadn't just treated you in the emergency room, I'd find it hard to believe you aren't the mercenary bimbo that Karen makes you out to be. I still have no idea who you are.”

”And that bothers you?”

”A bit.”

”It's what you get for hanging around with the Karens of the world. Real people are always complicated,” I answered and started to get out.

”Wrong,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder to stop me.

”Real people are usually very simple, I've found.”

”You've found your kind of real people and I've found mine. I'm sure you've had more psych courses than I've had, so I'm not going to bother arguing with you.” I shrugged her hand off and got out of the car.

She got out and followed me.

”I'm coming up with you to make sure you have nothing to sue me for,” she explained.

”A doctor making house calls. Aren't you n.o.ble?” I opened the downstairs door. She entered behind me.

”It's true what they say about you, isn't it?” she retorted.

”I don't know what they say about me,” I replied, with my back toward her as I started up the stairs.

”That Micky Knight has never slept with the same person for more than a week and has never in her life held a serious conversation.”

I kept walking, faster than my pained body wanted to. It was just true enough for people to have said it, and true enough to sting.

”For a straight woman, you're sure up on the queer gossip,” I shot * 106 *

back down the stairs. ”Does your boyfriend know how well informed you are about us d.y.k.es?”

”My personal life is my own,” she replied.

I noticed that the light on the third-floor landing had been fixed.

Miss Clavish had probably given the landlord an earful. At least this time, if anything was going to hit me, I would see it. Cordelia was still coming up the stairs behind me. My door wasn't locked. I swung it open and turned on the light. Chaos met me. Papers were all over, furniture overturned, broken gla.s.s from the windows all over the floor.

”s.h.i.+t,” I said. Cordelia came up behind me. I heard her sharp intake of breath. Everything in the place was on the floor and trampled over. Almost everything. Something was missing. No cat.

I started looking frantically for her. I threw open the closet to look on the top shelf, where she usually hid. The closet was in disarray, with all my clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. The top shelves were bare. I pawed through the clothes on the floor, hoping she was hiding under them. But she wasn't. I went into the kitchen to look in the one other place that I knew her to hide. What little food I had had been spilled and ground into the floor. I looked for the stool to stand on, but couldn't find it. It had been used to break the kitchen window and was lying in the alley three floors below. I jumped up, jackknifing my upper body over the top of the refrigerator, so that I could see down behind it.

I felt a sharp pain in my ribs. There was no cat behind the refrigerator.

”Micky, Micky,” Cordelia called from the doorway. ”What are you looking for? It can wait until tomorrow.”

”No!” I yelled, sliding off the refrigerator. ”Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Those f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! They killed my cat. They f.u.c.king killed my cat!”

This was it. The point where everything becomes too much. Too much anger, too much pain, and all I wanted to do was. .h.i.t something or get very drunk. Or both. I slammed my fist into the wall.

”Stop it. You'll hurt yourself.”

”So?” I demanded. I took off her sweats.h.i.+rt and threw it at her. It landed on the floor with everything else. ”Get out of here. Take your G.o.dd.a.m.n do-goodism and leave me the f.u.c.k alone.”

”No,” she replied.

I shrugged and started looking for my Scotch bottle. Maybe they hadn't gotten to my back cupboard. I found the Johnny Walker against * 107 *

the back wall, twisted it open, and took a long swallow. f.u.c.k her, she would leave soon enough if I ignored her. I took another gulp, feeling the liquor burn its way down my throat.

Cordelia grabbed the bottle out of my hand.

”No,” she said. ”You're not mixing alcohol with those pain killers.”

I didn't want her here. I didn't want anyone to watch me. I couldn't cry at my father's funeral, and I wasn't ever going to let anyone see me cry again.

”Just get out,” I said, trying to make my voice calm and controlled.

”Please.” I had acted calm and reasonable many times before, I could do it now. If I hid how upset I was for a little longer, she would leave.

Aunt Greta and her children didn't know what to do with me when I cried or was angry. She had told me to stop and they had laughed at me, telling me I should be glad that my dad died and I got out of that backward bayou. I hated them and I learned to never let them see what I felt. It was my way of tricking them and getting even, even if they didn't know. Never let anyone watch you when you're weak.

”I'm all right,” I said in my calm rational voice. ”Please go.”

”Come on, Micky. People have tried to kill you two days running.

Your apartment has been thoroughly ransacked, your cat's dead, and you're all right? Bulls.h.i.+t. Even if you were Karen, I wouldn't leave you alone in this mess.”

Then Cordelia did something I didn't expect. Most people at least pause and genuflect at my defenses, but she ignored everything I was saying and doing and walked over to me and gently put her arms around my shoulders. When I didn't jerk or move away, she pulled me closer and with one hand on the back of my head, pressed my face into her shoulder.

”I'm sorry,” she said and that was all.

No ”you'll get over it,” ”there are plenty of cats at the pound,”

”no one told you to be a detective, you could've worked for the bank.”

None of the things I had expected her to say. Tentatively, I put my arms around her waist. I realized that it was cold when I felt how warm her arms were about my shoulders. I s.h.i.+vered a little from the chill on my bare back.

I couldn't cry, not in front of her. I knew that Cordelia wouldn't * 108 *

hold it against me if I did. But it takes a long time to break old patterns.

I still felt tense, I couldn't relax into her embrace. There was nothing s.e.xual between us. I couldn't sense that she wanted anything from me.

She warmed me because it was the decent thing to do, like I was a kitten that was wet and needed to be dried and kept warm. Maybe that was why I was stiff; if she didn't want anything from me, then I had nothing to offer her. If nothing else, kittens are cute. Soggy detectives aren't.

Cordelia, I was beginning to realize, was one of those rare people whose instinct is to be kind. Most of us have to think about it. I started to pull away from her because genuine kindness is the hardest thing to repay. I didn't know if I could.

”I'm very sorry,” she simply repeated. She didn't let me pull away from her, but held me a moment longer. Then she released me. ”It's chilly in here, you need to put a s.h.i.+rt on. You're s.h.i.+vering,” she said.

”Look, I'm sorry for the way I acted...”