Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

I live on the more deserted tail end of the Key in a two-story frame house that faces the Gulf. My grandfather ordered it out of the Sears, Roebuck catalog when he was a young man and land here was cheap. It’s a weathered two-bedroom house at the end of a meandering drive of crushed shell, surrounded by palms, sea grape, pines, and mossy oaks on which night-blooming cereus twine to the top like secret floodlights. Flocks of parakeets nest in the treetops, and wild rabbits forage through the grasses. The drive ends at the Gulf’s edge, so I’ve gone to sleep almost every night of my life with the whispering sound of the surf kissing the shore. That pulse of the sea is like a lover’s heartbeat to me.

When I rounded the last curve in the drive and pulled into my slot in the four-car carport, a huge orange sun was already sliding down the sky toward the horizon. My brother, Michael, and his partner, Paco, were on the deck with their tanned legs stretched out in sturdy Adirondack chairs my grandfather built decades ago. Ella Fitzgerald was with them, sitting in Paco’s lap. Ella is a true calico-Persian mix originally given to me as a kitten, but it didn’t take her long to realize that the good stuff was in Michael’s and Paco’s kitchen, not mine. She likes me well enough and stays with me when the guys are working, but her heart belongs to them.

When I joined them on the deck, Michael took one look at me and said, “You need a beer.” He got up and went into the kitchen, and I dropped into the chair next to Paco. He raised his beer in greeting and gave me a lazy grin.

He said, “Long day?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Paco is the kind of man that women fantasize about turning straight. He’s of Greek American descent, but with his dark good looks and facility with languages he could pass for any nationality in the world. In his line of work with the Special Investigative Bureau, that comes in handy. His family name is Pakodopoulos, but nobody in the world can pronounce that, so he’s called Paco.

Michael returned with a beer for me and a plate of cheese twists still hot from the oven. Michael is blond and blue eyed and just as handsome as Paco. He’s a fireman like our father was and also the firehouse cook. To Michael, food is almost holy, and to feed people is second only in importance to saving their lives. Our mother didn’t have a domestic bone in her body, but he’s made up for it in spades. He’s been feeding me and taking care of me since I was about two years old and he was four. When I was nine, not long after our father died in the line of duty putting out a fire, our mother ran off, so we moved in with our grandparents in the house that Michael and Paco live in now. I live in the garage apartment above the carport. Michael has created our own kind of domestic bliss here. Funny how life curves in on itself like that sometimes.

I decided not to tell them about Corina and the baby, at least not for now. Michael and Paco are both crazily protective of me, and since Paco is part of the Special Investigative Bureau, illegal immigration falls directly under his jurisdiction, and I might be telling him something that he might not be able to ignore. Michael has always felt responsible for me, mainly because he’s my big brother. There’s no changing that, and I know it. There was a time when it really bothered me, and it still does sometimes, but I know it’s in his DNA, just like being a fireman is in his DNA. In his eyes, I will always be the little sister that he has to look out for. So keeping a few things to myself every once in a while makes it easier.

I also decided not to mention my prospective date with Ethan. Not because I thought Michael would object to it, but because, being the little sister, I get a delicious thrill keeping secrets from him every once in a while.

Paco gave Ella Fitzgerald a nibble of cheese twist, and we all watched the sun continue its slide down the sky. Sunsets on Siesta Key are spectacular, even the ones with cloud cover. Every day brings different colors, different shapes of streamers in the sky, different shadows on the water. Even the birds seem to grow silent as the sun hovers for a moment above the sea, toying with it before giving in completely. It always seems to disappear into the water too soon, and we continue to watch for it to show an edge of itself. But it only sends up ribbons of undulating light, cerise, magenta, aquamarine, like favors from an invisible party to which we’re not invited. Every day we’re awed and inspired and vaguely disappointed because we want more.

When the lights had drifted away, Michael waved away some lovebugs and said, “I have chowder inside.”

I said, “Can I take a shower first?”

“Dixie, if you don’t take a shower, we’ll hose you down on the deck.”

Nobody wants to share a meal with a person covered in cat hair. It’s an occupational hazard for pet sitters. I handed him my half-full beer bottle and tried to think of a smart comeback, but I was too tired. I felt like I’d had one of the longest days in the history of my life, so instead I punched him in the arm before I climbed the stairs to my apartment.

Behind me, Paco strolled to my car with a big dripping sponge to wipe away the lovebugs.

Dinner was Florida red chowder made with fresh fish Michael had caught the day before on a fishing trip. With it we had hot buttered French bread, a green salad dressed with a Florida grapefruit vinaigrette, and a fruity white wine. Ella Fitzgerald sat on her appointed stool and watched us with the lazy look of disinterest that only a well-fed cat can manage. The rule for Ella is that she can sit on her stool at the dinner table as long as she’s polite and doesn’t call attention to herself.

We were just finishing the last crumb of bread when my cell phone rang with the tone reserved for business calls. It was Kenny Newman.

I said, “I better take this. It’s my overnight dog sitter, and he’s on a job tonight.”

Michael’s left eyebrow quirked in disapproval as I rose quickly to take the call out on the deck. In our family, it’s a hard and fast rule that phones are not allowed at the table and dinner shouldn’t be interrupted with business. But Kenny was spending the night at the Daltons’ house with their two German shepherds, George and McGee, and I knew he wouldn’t call unless it was something important.

Kenny said, “Hey man, sorry to bother you, but I need a little help here. This girl just came to the door asking if she could take George and McGee out for a walk. She said she’s a neighbor and she walks the dogs all the time, but like, nobody told me anything about a neighbor kid, so I said no. She looked totally pissed off, so I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“You were completely right. If anyone has permission to walk them, we’d need it in writing from the Daltons. They’ll be back in the morning, so I’ll be in touch with them. If there’s any problem, I’ll take care of it.”

He thanked me, and we rang off before I thought to mention that I was pet sitting at the Harwicks’ house, where he cleaned the pool. I slipped back into my spot at the table and took a sip of wine.

Paco said, “Was that your beach drifter guy?”

“That was Kenny. He had a minor problem that we straightened out. And he is not a drifter.”

“He lives on an old dilapidated boat.”

I sputtered, “Paco, there’s nothing wrong with living on a boat.”

“Yeah, especially if you don’t want to leave behind a trail of those pesky things called mailing addresses.”

Michael said, “Wait a minute, what does he do if it gets cold at night?”

“It never gets that cold here, plus he has a little wood-burning stove.”

Paco rolled his eyes. “Or he sleeps in his car.”