Theresa Weir: The Girl with the Cat Tattoo

Two weeks had passed since the accident, and Melody had been unable to ignore the fact that Joe was still moving pretty slowly when she’d spotted him heading toward the waiting area for their gate. She hadn’t spoken to him since the hospital. Just thought it would be better that way. All communication about the trip had taken place through email.

The two weeks since the shooting had been enough time for her fear and worry over Joe to turn into full-blown irritation. She felt tricked by him. He was just another wrong guy in a long line of wrong guys. Max was the only guy for her. And to prove it, she’d had his likeness tattooed on her shoulder at the fifties party Lola had thrown. In the image, he wore his pink-and-black striped hat and a charmingly silly expression. All the guy she needed.

Cop, cop, cop.

Liar, liar, liar.

“Did you say something?” Joe asked.

He was wearing dark jeans and black leather shoes, a plaid cotton shirt with pearl snaps and sleeves rolled below the elbow. She could smell the fabric of his shirt and his shampoo or deodorant or cologne or something. Some smell she associated with him. A smell that used to make her feel all warm and fuzzy.

Melody shifted closer to the window. They were queued to take off, with just one plane in front of them. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, you did. You just said ‘liar’.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know I said that out loud.”

“I never lied to you.”

“A lie of omission. And when I think about how I opened up to you, how I put myself out there-” It was humiliating to think she’d been so honest with him, when everything about him had been a lie. “The first time we met, I told you I would never date a cop. Ever.” She crossed her arms over her turquoise sweater with its black cat brooch. She tugged at her black skirt and wondered if her matching turquoise tights were too much. As she did these things, she turned her back to him, pretending interest in the lines on the runway. He’d made a mockery of her. A fool of her. She was a silly girl in silly clothes; a girl who baked cute cupcakes and loved her cat. A crazy cat lady in her cat pajamas and fuzzy slippers, and now her cat tattoo that Joe would never, ever, ever see. “It doesn’t matter,” she said to the window. They were so wrong for each other anyway. She’d felt that from the beginning; she just hadn’t understood why. He worked undercover, trying to better the world. At least that was something. But his life was dark and shady and full of lies and secrets.

The doubts she’d had about herself the night Joe was shot had been a brief reaction to an ugly and horrible situation. She truly wanted sunshine and silly clothes and watching TV in bed. She didn’t want guns and blood spatter on her white tights. She didn’t want his blood on her face.

She didn’t want to cry for him. She didn’t want to miss him when he died.

She turned back to him. “You think I’m just a silly girl.”

“That’s not true.”

“There’s the problem. I will never know what is true and what isn’t.” She knew it wasn’t just the deception. She knew it was also tied to seeing him shot just the way she’d seen David shot, but why she couldn’t be with him really didn’t matter. She just couldn’t. She’d worked hard to increase the joy and whimsy in her life. She couldn’t deal with the darkness he brought.

The flight was awkward. The attendant assumed they were a couple. The ordering of drinks. The reaching across. The bumping of hands, the bumping of elbows. The not looking. The looking. Getting up to use the restroom. Returning to her seat, her heart diving when she noticed the pallor of his face and the lines of pain around his mouth. The asking if he was okay. His lie, another lie: “I’m fine.”

They landed at LAX. They departed together. He offered to carry Max. She shook her head. He walked stiffly up the walkway, and at one point he had to stop. Just stop, while it looked as if he might pass out.

“This was too soon,” she said. She’d guilted him into coming. What choice had he had? So much money for such a worthy cause.

“I’m fine,” he said again, but she heard the thread of pain in his voice, the airless quality, his words delivered on an exhale.

“Are you taking anything? Can I get you some water?”

“I’ll wait till we get to the room.”

He didn’t want to risk being out of it. And she was surprised to find that she could read him so well. Did that mean she really did know him, regardless of his deception?

She checked on Max. He looked about as miserable as Joe, and he let out a sad meow that seemed meant to reassure her.

At the luggage carousel, a chauffeur stood with a sign. Melody, Joe, and Max.

They followed the man in black to a limousine, and twenty minutes later they were pulling up in front of a hotel that was intimidating and amazing and ridiculous in its opulence.

They were given a suite with a shared door that could be locked or unlocked. It would definitely not be unlocked, Melody decided. Joe vanished into his room and Melody tended to Max, filling his litter box and putting out food and water.

On a mahogany table was a bouquet of gorgeous red roses, along with ice and champagne, strawberries, and tiny sandwiches made with dark bread and cucumbers. Included in the spread were cans of gourmet cat food for Max. While he made a perusal of the room, going from corner to corner, Melody prepared a plate for herself, then wondered about Joe. She could feel him over there, beyond the door. But he was awfully quiet.

With plate in hand, she put her ear to the suite door and gave it a light tap. “Joe?”

She heard the bed shift, then a muffled, “What?”

“Do you have food over there?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, look.”

A moment of silence, followed by a curt “ Yeah .”

“Okay, I just wanted to know.”

“The door’s unlocked. On this side anyway.”

She unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door to a room that was the mirror opposite of hers. Max zipped through the opening, and ran to jump on the bed with Joe. It was almost as if Max understood all of the fuss, and understood that he was being credited with saving Joe’s life.

“Do you need anything?” Melody asked.

Joe was lying in his back, one arm draped over his face, one knee bent, one straight.

He didn’t answer.

She thought about how he’d looked on the plane. Not good. “Want me to get you a plate of food?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Did you take anything? For the pain?”

“Yes.”

“Is it better?”

“No.”

“Why did you come if you were still feeling bad? What are you trying to prove?”

He dropped his arm, turned his head, and looked directly at her. She could see the lines of pain around his eyes, the brackets around his mouth. “What am I trying to prove? That I’m not an asshole.”

Next to the bed was a glass of water and a prescription bottle. She put down her plate and picked up the brown bottle. A strong narcotic. She returned it to the little table. “You should probably eat something.”

He sighed. “I don’t know if I can.”

She hated to say it: “And maybe get out of those pants. They can’t be helping.”

He agreed.

He unbuckled his black leather belt, unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, and she helped pull them down his legs and over his feet and socks. By the time he was under the covers, he had a sheen of perspiration on his face. Fifteen minutes later, he was able to eat a few pieces of fruit and one of the sandwiches. When he put the plate aside, Max curled up beside him and both of them fell asleep. The bed was massive, and Melody sat on the other side, eating and flipping through channels. Occasionally she would glance to her left, at Joe and Max, and her heart would melt in a way she didn’t want it to melt.