True-Life Adventure

myself.
    About half a mile later I started facing facts— I had to go back and get her. She’d been terrific to me and I’d been an asshole to her and she’d probably never speak to me again, but at least I had to offer to take her home. If she spit in my face, as she damn well ought to, I could just go home as usual and brood about yet another failure with yet another woman.
    Only I couldn’t. I didn’t have any home.
    That’s what I was thinking when I drove up in front of my house-shell, and I was feeling mighty low.
    But I experienced what the shrinks call a sudden mood swing when I saw what was on the step— Sardis with a big fat smile on her face and a large cardboard box beside her. The box had holes in it. It said Porta-Pet on its side.
    Summoning forgotten reserves of mathematical genius, I put two and two together. I jumped out of the car; Sardis jumped into my arms and I picked her up and swung her around, just like guys do in the movies.
    I don’t think I’d ever been that happy. There’s something about hitting rock bottom that makes two inches higher seem like Mount Diablo. I’d still lost my house and my typewriter and my blue-green sofa, but by God I had my cat. And Sardis not only didn’t hate me but actually seemed a little bit fond of me. I felt like a goddam zillionaire.
    It was scary, though, because I still hadn’t sold a book. Would it feel this good? Was I ever going to feel this good again? I started worrying almost immediately and that got me a little less happy, which was a more natural feeling. I relaxed a little.
    I went over and spoke to Spot, and he answered me in Cat-speak. Then I spoke to Sardis: “I suppose I ought to go and thank Mrs. Civkulis.”
    She shrugged. “You could call her later— I think she understands that you aren’t exactly feeling sociable this morning. Anyway, she didn’t have to enter any burning buildings to save Spot. He came to her door and asked to be let in.”
    I spoke to the box. “Good thinking, Spot-o.”
    Sardis spoke to both of us: “Do you guys have a place to stay?”
    We didn’t, and that was the truth. There might have been this old buddy or that old pal or maybe Debbie Hofer wouldn’t mind, but there wasn’t what you’d call an obvious choice. I was mulling that over when Sardis spoke again: “You can sleep on my couch if you like.”
    “No, thanks. I can—”
    “Stop being a jerk.” She was angry, and that got me angry.
    “Why would you want to open your house to a perfect stranger?” I spoke a little more loudly and belligerently than was completely necessary.
    She smiled, going from anger to amusement. “I like you. You remind me of me, sort of. You have the same bad qualities.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Remember when you got mean?”
    “I’m sorry I scared you.”
    “You didn’t scare me. I had to move away to keep from hitting you. Any asshole that turns mean on me can find his own goddam cat.”
    “You were great.”
    “I was rather good, wasn’t I? Usually I’m not. When people piss me off, I generally hit them or run away. Or both. But there was something about the way you got nasty because you were scared that made me think— I don’t know, I felt like I could see into your soul or something. It’s because I’m like that, too, I think. Or is that too dumb to make any sense?”
    “I don’t know.” That was the truth. I wasn’t sure if it was or wasn’t, but I was damn sure it was spooky and weird. I also knew exactly what she meant.
    Sardis looked embarrassed. “Anyway, that’s why I asked you to stay with me.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay what?”
    “Okay, thanks.” Mr. Gracious.
    “You mean yes?”
    She looked sort of happy, so I smiled. “You’re nice,” I said. “I hope you won’t be sorry.”
    I sure did. I hoped she wouldn’t get to know me a little better and decide I was a jerk and get sorry she ever met me. At that moment I hoped that a lot.
    On the way back to her place, we stopped for a litter box for Spot and some clothes for me— some regular jeans, some white jeans, and some shirts. Then I made a phone call I didn’t want to make— to the fire department. And I learned what I was afraid of learning— somebody’d set my house on fire. Probably with a Molotov cocktail.

CHAPTER 10
    The conclusion was inescapable: whoever killed Jack Birnbaum pretty much had his heart set on killing me next. You’d be surprised how that sort of thing can cause a real sag of the spirits.
    The