Part 15 (2/2)

”Pretty bad acting.”

”I'm trying to apologize.”

”I know. But put a sweater on first. I'm getting cold looking at you.”

I turned to go over to my closet when I noticed a silhouette walking on the ledge outside my window. It meowed. I always kept the bottom window shut, because, cat or no, three stories is a long way to fall.

Hepplewhite was not allowed to play balance beam on the five-inch ledge around the building. With the windows broken she had found her way out.

I grabbed her off the ledge and carefully pulled her through the broken gla.s.s.

”You are an idiot cat,” I said. ”Next time you scare me like that you're going to be out catching rats on the river.” Hepplewhite purred as usual, ignoring my threats.

”Don't you believe her, kitty cat,” Cordelia said. ”Just minutes ago, she was tearing up this place looking for you.” Heppy had found an ally. Cordelia took her from me, saying, ”Cats and bare skin don't mix.”

She was right. I had enough scars for the moment. I rummaged through the clothes pile on the bottom of the closet until I found something to wear.

* 109 *

”Get a change of clothes. You're not staying here tonight,”

Cordelia said.

I would have to clean this mess up soon. But before I went to bed tonight was too soon. Cordelia helped me look until we found two shoes, two socks, some jeans, and a top. She did come across my panties that had ”A lesbian was here” stenciled in the crotch, but we both ended up laughing.

Cordelia also found the little pile that Miss Clavish had left. She had collected my belongings from the stairway and put them inside my doorway. She also left a note, which said: Dear Ms. Knight, I hope you're all right and that the police catch those men soon. I would have aimed the shotgun at them instead of over their heads, but I was afraid of hitting you, too.

Don't worry about your cat. She can get into my office through the old steampipe hole in our shared wall. I love her company and she and Hecuba (my cat) get along quite well.

I've left out enough food for them both and there's a litter pan, so she won't be making any messes on top of the mess you've already got.

Sara Clavish To prove her point, Hepplewhite yawned, stretched, sneezed disapproval at the mess, and then disappeared into my closet and through a hole in the wall behind the clothes pile.

”Well, she'll be fine,” Cordelia commented.

”I know. She's probably been eating food at two places for years.”

”Let's get out of here. We're both dead tired.”

I picked up my canvas bag, found the keys that Ms. (it had to be Ms., not Miss, after that shotgun trick) Clavish had removed from my door. I locked up and we left.

Cordelia lived in the French Quarter in a second-story apartment on Ursaline Street. She pointed it out as we drove past on our way to the garage where she parked her car.

”My one unearned luxury,” she explained as she handed the car * 110 *

keys to the attendant. ”Granddad hates the idea of my parking on the street, so I let him pay for the garage.”

”Can I ask a rude question?” I said, as we started walking back to her apartment.

”Sure, this is the time of night for rude questions,” she answered amicably.

”Something in your tone of voice says that you're not totally enamored of your grandfather, but...”

”But I spend a lot of time and effort on him, considering my ambivalent feelings, particularly since I've renounced any money he might leave me, you mean?” she finished the question for me.

”Yeah, so why?”

”I feel sorry for him. He's like a mean bulldog that has had all his teeth taken out. The people that used to be afraid of him, now laugh at him. His heart's very bad and getting worse since he won't give up bourbon or cigars. He's not going to live very much longer. He can be a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he has always been kind to me, even when he didn't have to be. So I feel I owe him something. He'll probably be dead within the year. I suppose if I thought he'd be around for longer, there are a lot of things I would argue about, but it's not worth it now.”

”Why did you turn down his money?”

”Because I'm a wonderful, altruistic, n.o.ble person.” She smiled at me, then continued, ”Well, not quite. Karen, Harry, and I all have trust funds, which we got at twenty-one. It was all set up by our great-grandfather. Tax purposes, I suppose. I find it more than adequate.”

”Karen and Harry don't?”

”Particularly Karen. Harry's only twenty-two and has too much money and too little guidance.”

”So you have, as Jane Austen might say, independent means?”

”Right. And I know I'm very lucky. Do I sound like a disgusting rich kid?”

”No, of course not. Disgusting rich children never take home derelicts from the hospital.”

”M. Knight, Derelict Detective, it's got a certain ring. Why do you do it?”

”P.I. work?”

”Yes. It can't be the hours, or the money, or the benefits,” Cordelia * 111 *

said as she led me up the stairs to her apartment. ”I'm a doctor because I get to save lives, I'm well paid and get a lot of respect. Why do you do what you do?”

”Why not?” It wasn't really a flip answer, but it would probably take more energy and concentration than I had at the moment to explain it to Cordelia.

In the cla.s.s which convinced me to study philosophy, I had a white-haired professor by the name of Marsh. She was tall and very straight-backed and made us work very hard. The question she always ended cla.s.s with was, ”Why?” She never answered it, just left it hanging in the air for us to think on if we wanted. For our final exam, that was the test, that one question, ”Why?” I remember watching my fellow cla.s.smates madly writing answers, sure if they could get enough information on the paper they might include the answer that she wanted. Part of me, the part that Aunt Greta had gotten hold of, wanted to join them and to scribble every pithy line from Aristotle to Arendt. But I didn't. I decided that Professor Marsh didn't want us to recite, but to think. Even if what I thought wasn't terribly brilliant or original, it would still be better than regurgitating what I'd memorized. So I took a deep breath, exchanged my pencil for a pen and wrote, as an answer to ”Why?” ”Why not?” and handed it in. The rest of the cla.s.s must have thought I was crazy to hand in my test fifteen minutes after the exam had started.

A week later, Professor Marsh called me into her office to tell me that I had gotten a B. All the mad scribblers got C's, if they were coherent, D's and F's if not. One woman had gotten an A. Her answer was ”Because.”

I started to ask Professor Marsh why a ”why not” was a B, but a ”because” was an A. I said, ”Why...?” Then I knew what she would say. And I laughed out loud. Professor Marsh joined in because she knew I had gotten it.

Her answer would have been, ”Because...” ”Because” implied reason, a positive. ”Why not” didn't give reasons, a negative. And every ”why” we posed for Professor Marsh, she would answer with a ”because,” not a ”why not.”

And I agreed with her.

Some day I would have to explain it to Cordelia. She opened the door to her apartment and let us in.

* 112 *

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