Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

I slid to a stop, and Billy Elliot looked back at me.

“Huh?”

He squinted at the screen. “Yep. Guatemala. Your friend just had it mixed up. They call him René in Guatemala.”

* * *

As Billy Elliot raced around the circular driveway pulling me behind him, my thoughts raced around what Tom had just told me. Instead of feeling I knew more about Corina now, I actually felt like I knew less. I had one pretty good reason why she might lie about where she was from, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. At least not yet. So I racked my brain trying to come up with an explanation.

Why would she lie? Spain sounds glamorous, but then so does Guatemala. Hell, I’ve never been outside Florida, so Peoria, Illinois, sounds pretty glamorous to me. Was it possible that perhaps she’d just misunderstood what we were talking about? Maybe she was just struggling with the language?

No. I knew I was only fooling myself, and the sooner I owned up to it the better.

The question to ask was: What next? I wasn’t completely sure, but I knew I needed to get over to Joyce’s and talk to her as soon as possible.

As usual, Billy Elliot and I rode up in the elevator panting like two rabid hyenas. I gave him a pat on the rump and told him he was a good boy, then hung his leash up in the hallway and called out to Tom.

“Thanks for the research, Tom! See you later.”

He said, “Hey, hold on a minute. You never told me about your hot date last night.”

As I closed the door I called out, “I know!”

* * *

I raced over to Joyce’s house, trying to figure out what my game plan was. I figured she’d be upset when I told her what I thought. She and Henry the VIII had a nice life they’d set up for themselves, but I knew having Corina and the baby in the house had given their little family a much-needed jolt of excitement. Plus, I think she enjoyed having the feeling that there were people at home who needed her.

I slowed down again as I approached the place in the park where we first saw Corina. Just as I passed, a homeless man in a filthy yellow tank top and dirty white shorts stepped out of the bushes. His skin was tanned dark brown, but his face and neck had the shiny red flush of an alcoholic. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to hold his scraggly, sun-bleached hair back, and he was carrying several overstuffed garbage bags and a milk carton. He waved as I went by, and I sheepishly waved back.

As I pulled into the driveway, Joyce was unloading groceries out of the backseat of her station wagon.

She waved as I got out of the Bronco and walked over. “Whew! Perfect timing! You can help me carry all this stuff in.”

Her backseat was filled with packs of bottled water and groceries, and there was a big fat watermelon strapped into the baby chair.

I said, “Joyce. Before we go in, there’s something we need to talk about. Is Corina here?”

“Sure. She’s taking a nap with Dixie Joyce. What’s the matter?”

“Good. I need to tell you something about her, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

She frowned and set the bag of groceries she was holding down on the hood of the car. “Hmm, that doesn’t sound good.”

“Well, I could be wrong—but it’s something we have to consider.”

She leaned against the car and folded her arms. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Is it about the bird?”

“Yeah.”

“You think Corina was going to sell it.”

I nodded. “Joyce, I think she lied when she said she was from Spain, and she may be poor, but I don’t think she’s homeless. You said that bird was from Guatemala, right?”

She nodded sadly.

“Well, my friend Tom looked it up—Kermit the Frog isn’t called René in Spain, he’s called Gustavo.”

Joyce looked down and shook her head. “Oh Lord.”

“I know. And guess what he’s called in Guatemala.”

She nodded. “I think I knew all along and I just didn’t want to think about it. She was on pins and needles the whole time that bird was at the vet’s, and if you’d seen how quickly he took to her … it was like he’d known her all his life.”

“I think maybe he has known her all his life. Poachers steal eggs from nests in the wild and then sell them for a profit to people like Corina, who hatch the eggs and raise them by hand. The more exotic and rare the bird, the more it’s worth. So Corina smuggles some birds out of Guatemala, sells them to a dealer here in Florida, and that dealer turns around and sells them to collectors and exotic pet stores for a handsome profit. Pound for pound, a bird like René is probably worth more than cocaine, gold, or even diamonds. On the black market, he could easily go for thirty or forty thousand dollars, possibly more.”

“So that explains the cash in her purse.”

“Yeah. She had probably already sold one bird, and I think she was on her way to deliver René to another dealer that morning we found her, but then there was a little snag in her plans. Remember the doctor said she was at least a month premature?”

Joyce shook her head again. “She probably thought she’d be back home in Guatemala by the time she had the baby.”

“Yeah, and with enough money stashed away to raise her right.”

She smiled wanly. “I think maybe we just figured out why they call it a nest egg.”

21

Joyce and I were perched shoulder to shoulder on the hood of her car, trying to figure out what we should do about Corina and the resplendent quetzal. I have to admit, I was at a complete and utter loss. I kept waiting for Joyce’s inner marine to take over and start handing out orders, but I think she must have been having as much difficulty as I was figuring out what in the world our next step should be.

In spite of everything, I didn’t want to make things harder for Corina than they already were, and I knew Joyce was feeling the same way. I kept thinking about what Corina’s life must have been like in Guatemala, how terrible the conditions must have been—terrible enough to compel her to take on such a dangerous, high-risk job. And what if she was caught? Smuggling an endangered species from one country to another is an international crime. I shuddered to think what would happen if Corina was arrested. She’d end up in prison, and then where would her baby be? How in the world could she have been so reckless? But I knew the answer. I would have done the same thing for my daughter if it meant the difference between feeding her or letting her go hungry.

Still, I couldn’t ignore the fact that what Corina was doing was not only illegal, it was unethical. It went against everything I believe in. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing while an innocent, endangered animal was passed from person to person for money with little or no regard for its well-being.

Finally we decided the best thing would be to try to convince Corina that what she was doing was wrong, and that if she agreed to stop, we would do everything in our power to help her and her baby, even if that meant letting her stay at Joyce’s rent free until she was able to get herself back on her feet.

As for whether or not it was wrong that we weren’t immediately reporting Corina to the police, we decided to leave unanswered for now.

Joyce stood up. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road. My ice cream is melting.”

We unloaded the rest of the groceries and brought them up the walk to the front porch. Joyce pushed the door open with her foot, and Henry the VIII came prancing in from the living room. He raced around our legs barking a mile a minute while we carried everything into the kitchen. I think he must have been trying to tell us what we’d missed while Joyce had been shopping.