Cat by Any Other Name (9781101597729) Read Free Page A

if catching up with me were the most important thing in his life, as if I had something of his that he had to retrieve at all costs.
    He stopped five feet away from me, trying to catch his breath. The box was still in his hand.
    Still breathing sharply, he asked: “Why are you leaving?”
    â€œI need to rest for a while, Tim.”
    â€œDid you at least see the ceremony?”
    I didn’t know what he meant. Hadn’t I just overheard a complaint about the distinct lack of ceremony? Then I realized he must be referring to the scattering of the ashes.
    â€œYes, I was there, Tim. Didn’t you see me? I was standing next to Renee.”
    He regarded me strangely, as if he were puzzling out the meaning of the very simple words I’d just spoken.
    Tim said something I couldn’t hear. I moved closer. “What did you say, Tim?”
    â€œI said, ‘I don’t . . . know . . . what . . . to do.’” He had spoken very slowly and carefully, and never in my life had I heard any sadder words.
    â€œTim,” I began, then left it. “Poor Tim.”
    I kissed him gently on the cheek, backed up a few steps, turned, and started across the avenue.
    â€œJust a minute!” he cried out. “Alice, I have something to give you!”
    â€œWhat do you have to give me?”
    â€œI have something to give you,” he repeated, not answering my question.
    I paused a minute before saying, “I have to go now, Tim. Call me—okay?”
    The traffic light was with me at that moment. I took the opportunity to cross. When I reached the other side, I looked back. He was still standing there, holding that box.

Chapter 3
    Tim didn’t call me. Instead he simply appeared on my doorstep one afternoon. He was carrying
two
boxes this time.
    His appearance put the seal on what had already been a difficult morning. I had spent the day up to that point trying to sell packets of dried catnip to gourmet shops and the fancier grocery markets in my neighborhood. We were all still reeling from Barbara’s death, but we’d decided to carry on the work of the herb garden anyway, because Barbara would have wanted it that way. We maintained the division of labor that had been decided upon: We all harvested, but Sylvia and Ava dried the plants, and Renee packaged them, and me, I sold them. It was a task for which I would never have volunteered. But my sister gardeners had somehow come to the I suppose rather logical conclusion that an actress should make an ideal saleswoman.
    By ten thirty that morning I had already been in and out of four stores, without a sale.
    My fifth stop was a brand-new, upscale health food store on Second Avenue. It was called Nature & Nurture. I walked in boldly, remembering Ava Fabrikant’s pep talk, designed to assure me I’d be a successful salesperson. “But, Alice, you’re an actress—remember? An
actress
. You know how to make an entrance, right? You know how to persuade, inspire trust, charm. You’ll just sweep in grandly and turn it on. You’ll blow the competition out of the water.”
    â€œWhat competition is that?” I asked.
    â€œYou’ll be irresistible,” she assured me.
    But my grand entrance into Nature & Nurture was wasted. The place was entirely devoid of people. It did look like a well-stocked operation, however: jars and jars of organic, pesticide-free jams and spreads . . . cans of scrupulously prepared vegetarian soup . . . bottles of gargantuan mega-vitamin tablets . . . racks of books on the subjects of health and exercise and holistic healing . . . even a small refrigerator stocked with bottles of goat’s milk and containers of mysterious murky liquids whose labels were printed in colorful Japanese lettering.
    I walked over to the deserted counter. How quaint—there was a little bell. I gently tapped on it, but the tinkle