Swan Dive

Vickie doing?”
    She sighed. ”The same. She wakes up and she cries. A little less each time, maybe.”
    ”Time will heal it.”
    ”Yes. Time.” She stirred her coffee unnecessarily. ”Can I ask a question?”
    ”Sure.”
    ”Chris said he would help me without any money.”
    ”That doesn’t sound like a question.”
    ”I called two lawyers in Swampscott before I... left. They both say they would not talk to me without money.”
    ”A retainer?”
    ”Yes. A retainer which I don’t get back if I don’t have them as my lawyer.”
    ”And?”
    ”I don’t want to be...” She stopped stirring, fixing me with an unhappy look. ”John, do you think Chris is a good lawyer for me? And Vickie.”
    Uh-oh. ”Why?”
    ”Yesterday. In the office with Roy and his lawyer. I got... I think maybe Chris was not so willing to fight for me. Us.”
    ”Hanna, I’m pretty ignorant about divorce. It does seem to me you ought to get a lot from Roy , but how much is right, or enough, I don’t know.”
    ”Yes.” She went back to the coffee. ”I’m sorry.”
    ”There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
    ”Chris tries to help me for no money, and I worry he’s no good. You try to help me for no money, and I try to make you tell me about Chris.” She got up and ran tap water into her mug. ”I’m sorry.”
    I floated out a change of subject. ”Hanna, I think I know a faster way than time to cheer Vickie up.” She turned around, canting her head to the side.

    ”Oh, Mommie, she’s so cute!”
    Vickie was sitting on an aluminum folding chair, next to a honeycomb of cages, each one containing three or four kittens. The one on her lap had rolled over onto its back, writhing and purring in ecstasy as Vickie stroked its belly. Long hair of half a dozen colors, gene pool courtesy of Cuisinart. It was about as unlike Cottontail as it could be and still be called a cat.
    Hanna kneeled down to scratch between its ears. Remembering Nancy ’s comment about an animal shelter in Salem , I had called the vet who’d helped us yesterday, and she’d given me the name and address.
    The shelter volunteer we’d met at the door came over to us and said, ”You’re welcome to take any of the other kitties out of their cages, too.”
    Vickie lowered her torso protectively over the tiny animal. ”No, no! This is the one.”
    The volunteer smiled. I said, ”Looks like we’ve got a sale.”
    ”The IRS says we have to call it a ‘donation.’ Why don’t you stay here while I finish with someone else at the desk? I’ll just be a minute.”
    As she walked away, my eye was caught by a dog in one of the larger cages. He was some kind of terrier cross, maybe with a pointer. His legs were too long, his body too short, and he had a coarse, off-white coat with uneven orange blotches and scraggly whiskers. It was the look on his face that got me, though. A look that implied he knew he was an orphan, but not cute and cuddly, and therefore doomed to remain one. I turned away and hoped the volunteer would hurry.
    I drove Hanna, Vickie, and replacement cat ”Rocky” (don’t even ask) home. Hanna insisted I stay for dinner, and through the kitchen window I watched Vickie play with her new pet in the small backyard. Nerida, Chris’s former client who owned the building, came out and cooed and dangled a length of yam that Rocky batted incessantly. Vickie was delighted.
    ”Thank you,” said Hanna, cutting some vegetables into a steaming pot behind me.
    ”She’s going to be all right.”
    ”Soon.”
    Half an hour later, Hanna called Vickie for dinner, and the three of us sat down to family-recipe soup and bread. About midway through Hanna said, ”You were in the army, John?”
    ”Yes.”
    ”Overseas?”
    ”For a while.”
    ” Germany ?”
    ”No, Vietnam .”
    ”Oh.” She didn’t say that it was too bad that Roy hadn’t gone there and I to Germany , but she was thinking it.
    After supper, I tried to reach Murphy but got no answer at his home number. I slept for about five hours on Hanna’s couch. She tried to convince me to stay in the house this time, but I insisted on the car, calling the Peabody police to let them know I’d still be there.
    By 11:30, I was back behind the wheel of the Fiat. Hanna had fixed me a thermos of tea with lemon, which I stood upright on the passenger’s bucket. On the floor near the pedals was an old tin saucepan that she wordlessly had handed me on my way out the door.
    Purple dress rolled in with a