W Is for Wasted

attached. If you think about it, I saved its life, a selfless act on my part.”
    “Good for you,” I said. “I must say I’m surprised Rosie agreed to go along with the plan. Where are you going to keep it?”
    William and Rosie occupied a two-bedroom apartment above the tavern. I’d never actually seen the place, but Henry assures me the rooms are small and dark and crowded with oversize furniture.
    William said, “Oh, it’s not for me. I thought Henry would enjoy the companionship.”
    “Does Henry know about this?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Oh, boy.”
    “You think that’s a problem?”
    “Far be it from me to say.”
    We drove for a while in silence except for the cat, which was now growling and making relentless work of canvas scratching in between thumps and flinging itself from side to side. I was trying to visualize Henry’s reaction, which I knew would be genuine and heartfelt and probably high pitched. I’ve never lived with a cat myself, but I’d always assumed there was paraphernalia involved. I looked over at William, saying, “What about a litter box? Isn’t that where cats do their business?”
    He blinked. “That’s not necessary, do you think? Nell let it out in the backyard.”
    “But we live on a busy street. The cat will get hit by a car. Henry’s going to have enough adjustments to make without the cat doing caca on his couch.”
    “You may have a point. We better stop at the market. You can go in while I mind the cat.”
    I think it was occurring to William that his plan was ill advised because his back problem seemed to take a sudden turn for the worse. He emitted a short yelp and sucked air through his teeth.
    “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you at the house and come back?” The minute I suggested it I knew William would be too smart to introduce the cat without someone else close at hand. Henry would tone down his response if I was present.
    “The pain comes and goes. Sometimes it’s no more than a mild tingling or dull ache. Sometimes a burning sensation. The urgent-care doctor said it could be due to a slipped disc or spinal stenosis. I’ll have to have
tests
.”
    “You poor thing,” I said. To William, a “test” was the prelude to a terminal diagnosis.
    I left the 101 at Capillo and took surface streets in a zigzag detour to the nearest market. I left the howling cat in the car while William limped to and fro in the parking lot, flicking pitiful looks in my direction.
    I went into the store and wandered up and down the aisle devoted to pets, throwing items in my cart. The litter box was an easy choice, but there were five or six kinds of litter, and I had no idea what cats preferred in the way of toilet soil. I finally picked the one with the four cute kittens on the package. I threw in a bag of dry food with only the briefest of debates about chicken versus tuna flavors. Then I bought ten small cans of wet food, choosing items I thought I’d like if I were in the cat’s place, only not as hostile. I nearly stopped at the pay phone to call Henry, but he’d probably assume I was playing a practical joke.
    Thus it was that I searched out a parking space for the second time that afternoon, this one three doors down from my studio. I put myself in charge of William’s rolling bag and I even went so far as to remove the cat carrier from the backseat, lugging it in one hand as I maneuvered the rolling suitcase with the other. William held open the gate and then trailed along behind me most reluctantly, I thought. I carried the duffel as far as Henry’s back door and set it down.
    “You can do the honors,” I said. When I looked back at William, he was bent double, staring at the walk as though searching for a lost dime.
    “Back’s out,” he said.
    Henry opened the kitchen door. “Good heavens,” he said as he moved to William’s side. Between us, we helped him up the few shallow steps and into the kitchen. Moaning, William sank into Henry’s rocking chair. I went back for the suitcase and that’s when I saw the cat’s paw appear through a gap where it had worked the zipper down.
    I’ve never been present in a delivery room in the tender moment when a child is born, but I picture it much like this. The slit was no more than an inch long when the cat began to push through the opening. After the first paw, its head emerged and shortly after that, one shoulder, followed by a second white paw with a very long front leg attached. Cats are