you?â he said. His voice was kind. He wore earmuffs and a ski jacket. He looked like a bear. I just stared at him. âCan I do something for you?â
I pulled myself together and said, âI used to eat out at your place in Westville.â
âYeah, I thought you looked familiar.â He stuck his hands in his pockets and puffed out his cheeks and rocked back and forth on his heels, the way people do when theyâre cold.
âIt was really great pizza,â I said.
âItâs going to be even better down here,â he said. âYou wait and see.â
âI donât get downtown that much, really.â
âYou will.â He smiled at me. âYouâll come down for Jimmy Luigiâs.â He looked like he wanted to leave, but he added, with dogged politeness, âWas there something I could do for you?â
I felt I owed it to him to say something else, heâd been so nice about coming outside to talk. âWell, my cat died,â I said. I meant that to be the beginning of a concise litany of my woes, culminating in my personal reaction to the loss of Jimmy Luigiâs, but after I said it I couldnât go on, I couldnât lay my troubles on such a nice man, and so I said, âBut it doesnât matter, I donât want to bother you, I just wanted to say Iâll miss having your place right down the street from me. I really like your white clam pizza. I like the oregano especially.â
But he wasnât listening. He was frowning off into space, grimacing slightly, running his hand over his jaw and around to the back of his neckâportrait of a person thinking. He said, âLet me think, let me just think.â
âReally,â I said. âI donât mean to keep you out here.â I gestured vaguely up Chapel Street. It was winter-bleak, the whole city was, all of southern New England was grey and ugly, most of the snow melting as soon as it fell, the endless traffic churning up what was left, the air smelling of chemicals and exhaust and damp, and people on the street, chased by the wind, looking red-nosed and desperate and drugged-out on cold medications. I said, âI was just on my way up toââ
âWait,â he said. âIâm thinking. How would you like a pair of them?â I looked at him. He had greenish-brown eyes that were very, very slightly crossed, and his front teeth were very, very slightly crooked. I didnât know what he meant. Pizzas? He said, âHow about a couple of nice red tabbies?â
It turned out he ran a cat-placement service on the side. He didnât keep the cats himself; his friend Hugh had a barnful out in Southbury, and James was always on the lookout for potential adoptions. He placed an average often cats a month, he said, but the cats kept multiplying, he couldnât keep up. The two tabbies, though, had belonged to James and his ex-wife, Nona. She had remarried and had a baby and the baby was allergic to the cats, and so the cats had come to James and were now with Hugh. James couldnât keep cats in his tiny, triangular place, and besides he was never home, which wasnât fair to a pet. Their names were Rosie and Ruby, short for Roseola and Rubella. âWe thought that was clever because my wife is a pediatrician,â James said. âNow I just think itâs stupid. She still thinks itâs clever. She and her new hubby got a gerbil for the baby and named it Dr. Spock, ha ha. But Rosie and Ruby are great catsâidentical twins, six years old, neutered, affectionate, gorgeous, clean, fluffy, outgoing, intelligent, temperate in their habits â¦â
I agreed to take the cats. James smiled and shook my hand, and we went up to Claireâs for herb tea and huge slabs of Hungarian coffee cake. We talked about our awful exes. James ordered a second piece of cake. I loved watching him eat, he ate with such unself-conscious enjoyment. I thought I
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