cat?”
“Just been bagging cats is all.”
“Bagging? What the fuck, Billy, why?”
“Elm Park.”
I ignore the fact that Billy didn’t answer my question—not my best investigative moment—and ask instead, “Billy, is that someone’s pet?”
“He’s got a tag says ‘Ginger Boots.’ ”
There is almost certainly a frantic woman somewhere calling this name into the tree line, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so fucking sad. “What’d you bag him for?”
“You know how much rent is at the store as of next month?” Billy says. “Four hundred dollars more than it was last month.” I don’t like to see his boyish face all fevered like this. It spoils the charm. “And you know what people are paying for fish next month?”
“How much?”
“The same they’re paying for it this month.”
“Shit,” I say. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Billy says, and swooshes his black forelock under the band of his cap. “And you know why?”
“Elm Park?” I say.
“Elm Park and your new big-house neighbors.”
I get what this is about. The town vote went badly this week. The school budget wasn’t passed and there’s been talk property taxes will be higher next year. For the issue we just closed I’d suggested GENERAL GRUMBLING IN RESPONSE TO EPIC BUDGET FAIL as a possible headline, but Leah wouldn’t have it. We ran with BUDGET VOTE SHOWS NEW DEMOGRAPHIC AT PLAY IN LOCAL POLITICS .
I say, “What does the big house have to do with cats, Billy?”
He shrugs. “They get lost easy after new people move in. Just trying to let people know this is a hostile environment. Besides, there’s a demand.”
I knew I should have taken this kid out drinking. Boys need booze in their veins to keep them too lazy to get into trouble. Forget the YMCA.
“A demand for cats?”
“For taxidermy.”
I feel nauseous. “Billy, do you sell cats to Carter Marks?” Billy scans the waterfront for eavesdroppers, like I don’t write for the town paper anyway. “Billy, you can’t kill that cat. You’re not that kind of guy.”
“I don’t kill ’em. I just bag ’em.”
“Give it,” I say. I won’t let my nonfather fuck up Billy Deep, who was an upstanding and only sometimes libidinous seafood salesman last I knew. I wrest the sack away from him and drop it.
The cat slinks out of the bag, raises its hackles, and hisses. I see rows of sharp milk teeth, the pink of its tongue. It’s a calico cat covered with black and marmalade patches, including a broad one on its head like a helmet. Each foot is orange from paw up. Ginger Boots. It crouches low to the ground before darting away, a domestic bell tinkling around its neck.
“You owe me thirty bucks,” Billy says.
That Carter would do something like this is sick, pathological. And the worst part of it is that lately I’ve been wondering about the vacancy in my family portrait. I’d started to wonder what he’d look like standing there. I’d let myself imagine showing up at his door and him crying and saying how happy he was to see me and that Crazy Marta forbade him to ever talk to me and that he didn’t just use her for a shitty folk song after all and that he was so glad to have me back. But after this? Taxidermied cats? Fuck that delusion. I’m back to the original plan.
“Tell me you’ll stop doing this, Billy,” I say.
“Tell them to stop building that big house,” he says. “Tell them not to raise my father’s rent.” He claps me on the back, the way an older man might. “Hell,” he says. “You’re a newspaper lady. Lead the call to arms.”
L EAH IS SITTING at the Star ’s computer, aggressively typing and retyping. I’m cross-legged on the desk next to her shooting pencils at the wastebasket, mostly missing. We’ve been arguing over this piece for half an hour and Charley’s on us to finish so we can go to print and go home, but Leah and I are still at it, having too much fun fighting to compromise. The headline in question:
“Just been bagging cats is all.”
“Bagging? What the fuck, Billy, why?”
“Elm Park.”
I ignore the fact that Billy didn’t answer my question—not my best investigative moment—and ask instead, “Billy, is that someone’s pet?”
“He’s got a tag says ‘Ginger Boots.’ ”
There is almost certainly a frantic woman somewhere calling this name into the tree line, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so fucking sad. “What’d you bag him for?”
“You know how much rent is at the store as of next month?” Billy says. “Four hundred dollars more than it was last month.” I don’t like to see his boyish face all fevered like this. It spoils the charm. “And you know what people are paying for fish next month?”
“How much?”
“The same they’re paying for it this month.”
“Shit,” I say. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Billy says, and swooshes his black forelock under the band of his cap. “And you know why?”
“Elm Park?” I say.
“Elm Park and your new big-house neighbors.”
I get what this is about. The town vote went badly this week. The school budget wasn’t passed and there’s been talk property taxes will be higher next year. For the issue we just closed I’d suggested GENERAL GRUMBLING IN RESPONSE TO EPIC BUDGET FAIL as a possible headline, but Leah wouldn’t have it. We ran with BUDGET VOTE SHOWS NEW DEMOGRAPHIC AT PLAY IN LOCAL POLITICS .
I say, “What does the big house have to do with cats, Billy?”
He shrugs. “They get lost easy after new people move in. Just trying to let people know this is a hostile environment. Besides, there’s a demand.”
I knew I should have taken this kid out drinking. Boys need booze in their veins to keep them too lazy to get into trouble. Forget the YMCA.
“A demand for cats?”
“For taxidermy.”
I feel nauseous. “Billy, do you sell cats to Carter Marks?” Billy scans the waterfront for eavesdroppers, like I don’t write for the town paper anyway. “Billy, you can’t kill that cat. You’re not that kind of guy.”
“I don’t kill ’em. I just bag ’em.”
“Give it,” I say. I won’t let my nonfather fuck up Billy Deep, who was an upstanding and only sometimes libidinous seafood salesman last I knew. I wrest the sack away from him and drop it.
The cat slinks out of the bag, raises its hackles, and hisses. I see rows of sharp milk teeth, the pink of its tongue. It’s a calico cat covered with black and marmalade patches, including a broad one on its head like a helmet. Each foot is orange from paw up. Ginger Boots. It crouches low to the ground before darting away, a domestic bell tinkling around its neck.
“You owe me thirty bucks,” Billy says.
That Carter would do something like this is sick, pathological. And the worst part of it is that lately I’ve been wondering about the vacancy in my family portrait. I’d started to wonder what he’d look like standing there. I’d let myself imagine showing up at his door and him crying and saying how happy he was to see me and that Crazy Marta forbade him to ever talk to me and that he didn’t just use her for a shitty folk song after all and that he was so glad to have me back. But after this? Taxidermied cats? Fuck that delusion. I’m back to the original plan.
“Tell me you’ll stop doing this, Billy,” I say.
“Tell them to stop building that big house,” he says. “Tell them not to raise my father’s rent.” He claps me on the back, the way an older man might. “Hell,” he says. “You’re a newspaper lady. Lead the call to arms.”
L EAH IS SITTING at the Star ’s computer, aggressively typing and retyping. I’m cross-legged on the desk next to her shooting pencils at the wastebasket, mostly missing. We’ve been arguing over this piece for half an hour and Charley’s on us to finish so we can go to print and go home, but Leah and I are still at it, having too much fun fighting to compromise. The headline in question:
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