familiarity. To proceed farther, he’d have to leap a gap between number 20 and 22, so he’d settled down to await the inevitable recapture, eyes serenely shut, his thick tail tucked tidily along a silky flank. JC gathered him up without a word and was about to make his way back in the direction of his own place when he heard a shout from the street below.
“Hey, asshole! Get fucking down here, right now.”
He’d found the hostile tone to be perfectly understandable in the circumstances and had no intention other than to oblige. He would have reacted the same way had he seen a stealthy figure on the rooftops any night, let alone the eve of the brand-new first day of the last year in a millennium.
It might have turned out differently if he’d gone straight to the street, carrying the cat in the crook of his arm to confirm what any normal person would have probably considered an unlikelyexplanation. But after descending from the roof, he tossed the cat through the sliding patio door through which he’d fled originally, and quickly closed it.
There were three men waiting in the street, and they had obviously been celebrating. They were young and full of righteous certainty, and they had no interest in listening to his explanation.
To be precise is difficult. There was, on JC’s part, some genuine confusion about whether he had insulted one of the aggressors with a crude homophobic slur. That was what the young men told the police afterwards. He clearly recalled being shoved from behind, but nothing after that. The fact that all three claimed to have a clear recollection of the epithet left him at a disadvantage. Charges were unlikely. And in any case, while the young men told their version of events, JC was on his way to the hospital, unconscious in an ambulance.
When he heard what he’d been accused of, he vehemently denied their story. “It’s a word I never used in my life,” he told the investigating officer. “I’m not saying they made it up. But I know I’d never have said something like that. It isn’t in me.”
“They’re also saying you’re a pervert,” the policeman said. “Up on the roof, looking down the skylights.”
“That’s pure bullshit too.”
He was watching Effie closely for her reaction. “Pathetic, eh?” he said.
“It was a misunderstanding,” she said.
“Yup,” he said. “Life’s just full of misunderstandings.”
There were a hundred things she could have said to comfort him. But she realized that he wasn’t in the mood for comforting.
Then Sextus spoke. “Well, look at this,” he said. “The mighty oak has fallen.”
She turned and he was in the doorway. “I could come back,” he said, then walked in and threw his overcoat on the foot of the hospital bed.
JC moved stiffly to raise himself. “Christ, they’ll let anybody in.” Sextus leaned to clasp his hand.
“If you don’t mind,” Effie said, “I’m going to Walden now to check on the cat.”
JC waved. She knew that Sextus was waiting for a greeting from her, some signal, but she ignored him.
“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” JC warned her.
She nodded, blew a kiss and left.
Effie was almost at Yonge Street when she heard the clank of the streetcar lumbering behind her. She had to run to catch it at the stop and cursed the dirty wetness now inside the low-cut boots she’d carelessly selected for the visit to the hospital. Once settled, she watched the city turn seedy as the tram proceeded eastward. It was snowing, and the swirling flakes were gathering velocity.
Sorley, a blue point Himalayan with eyes like icebergs, was really hers, a birthday gift from JC. But the long hair seemed to activate some dormant allergies, so she’d had to give him back. During Christmas dinner, Sextus had noted with his customary sensitivity that in all likelihood her problem wasn’t really about cat hair, but about tomcats in general. Nobody laughed, least of all JC, who later made the sympathetic
“Hey, asshole! Get fucking down here, right now.”
He’d found the hostile tone to be perfectly understandable in the circumstances and had no intention other than to oblige. He would have reacted the same way had he seen a stealthy figure on the rooftops any night, let alone the eve of the brand-new first day of the last year in a millennium.
It might have turned out differently if he’d gone straight to the street, carrying the cat in the crook of his arm to confirm what any normal person would have probably considered an unlikelyexplanation. But after descending from the roof, he tossed the cat through the sliding patio door through which he’d fled originally, and quickly closed it.
There were three men waiting in the street, and they had obviously been celebrating. They were young and full of righteous certainty, and they had no interest in listening to his explanation.
To be precise is difficult. There was, on JC’s part, some genuine confusion about whether he had insulted one of the aggressors with a crude homophobic slur. That was what the young men told the police afterwards. He clearly recalled being shoved from behind, but nothing after that. The fact that all three claimed to have a clear recollection of the epithet left him at a disadvantage. Charges were unlikely. And in any case, while the young men told their version of events, JC was on his way to the hospital, unconscious in an ambulance.
When he heard what he’d been accused of, he vehemently denied their story. “It’s a word I never used in my life,” he told the investigating officer. “I’m not saying they made it up. But I know I’d never have said something like that. It isn’t in me.”
“They’re also saying you’re a pervert,” the policeman said. “Up on the roof, looking down the skylights.”
“That’s pure bullshit too.”
He was watching Effie closely for her reaction. “Pathetic, eh?” he said.
“It was a misunderstanding,” she said.
“Yup,” he said. “Life’s just full of misunderstandings.”
There were a hundred things she could have said to comfort him. But she realized that he wasn’t in the mood for comforting.
Then Sextus spoke. “Well, look at this,” he said. “The mighty oak has fallen.”
She turned and he was in the doorway. “I could come back,” he said, then walked in and threw his overcoat on the foot of the hospital bed.
JC moved stiffly to raise himself. “Christ, they’ll let anybody in.” Sextus leaned to clasp his hand.
“If you don’t mind,” Effie said, “I’m going to Walden now to check on the cat.”
JC waved. She knew that Sextus was waiting for a greeting from her, some signal, but she ignored him.
“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” JC warned her.
She nodded, blew a kiss and left.
Effie was almost at Yonge Street when she heard the clank of the streetcar lumbering behind her. She had to run to catch it at the stop and cursed the dirty wetness now inside the low-cut boots she’d carelessly selected for the visit to the hospital. Once settled, she watched the city turn seedy as the tram proceeded eastward. It was snowing, and the swirling flakes were gathering velocity.
Sorley, a blue point Himalayan with eyes like icebergs, was really hers, a birthday gift from JC. But the long hair seemed to activate some dormant allergies, so she’d had to give him back. During Christmas dinner, Sextus had noted with his customary sensitivity that in all likelihood her problem wasn’t really about cat hair, but about tomcats in general. Nobody laughed, least of all JC, who later made the sympathetic
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