she shouted, then jumped back in the car, slammed the door, and: "Go," she toldthe driver. "Go. Go."
Anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let youknow address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it everexisted, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wanted to writeher: that Id sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing fordivorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, Iwanted to tell her about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It tookweeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there weremany false alarms -- flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon inspection, were not him.
Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it aint much"), and she shuddered, she had to grip myarm to stand up: "Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine."
But this: "Stop here," she ordered the driver, and we pulled to the curb of a street inSpanish Harlem. A savage, a garish, a moody neighborhood garlanded with posterportraitsof movie stars and Madonnas. Sidewalk litterings of fruit-rind and rottednewspaper were hurled about by the wind, for the wind still boomed, though the rainhad hushed and there were bursts of blue in the sky.
I was stunned. "Well, you are. You are a bitch."
TOMATOS TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLANDVICTIM. In due time, however, the press reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TORIO. Apparently no attempt was made by American authorities to recover her, andsoon the matter diminished to an occasional gossip-column mention; as a newsstory, it was revived only once: on Christmas Day, when Sally Tomato died of aheart attack at Sing Sing. Months went by, a winter of them, and not a word fromHolly. The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satinbed, the tapestry, her precious Gothic chair; a new tenant acquired the apartment,his name was Quaintance Smith, and he entertained as many gentlemen callers of anoisy nature as Holly ever had -- though in this instance Madame Spanella did notobject, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever hehad a black eye. But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, andsigned with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. NotTiffanys, but almost. Am joined at the hip with duhvine $enor. Love? Think so.
He wouldnt. He wrenched the flowers from the vase and thrust them at her; theymissed their mark, scattered on the floor. "Good-bye," he said; and, as though hewere going to vomit, scurried to the mens room. We heard the door lock.
Then I made her a promise, I said Id come back and find her cat: "Ill take careof him, too. I promise."
But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by pottedplants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warmlookingroom: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now,certain hed arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Hollyhas, too.
The Carey chauffeur was a worldy specimen who accepted our slapdash luggagemost civilly and remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptownthrough a lessening rain, Holly stripped off her clothes, the riding costume shednever had a chance to substitute, and struggled into a slim black dress. We didnttalk: talk could have only led to argument; and also, Holly seemed too preoccupiedfor conversation. She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned constantlyforward to peer out the windows, as if she were hunting an address -- or, I decided,taking a last impression of a scene she wanted to remember. It was neither of these.
We never -- " she said, and her voice collapsed, a tic, an invalid whiteness seized herface. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then she had the door open, she wasrunning down the street; and I ran after her.
Wed traveled a block before she replied. "I told you. We just met by the river oneday: thats all. Independents, both of us. We never made each other any promises.
But the cat was not at the corner where hed been left. There was no one, nothingon the street except a urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweetsingingchildren. Other children emerged from doorways and ladies leaned over theirwindow sills to watch as Holly darted up and down the block, ran back and forthchanting: "You. Cat. Where are you? Here, cat." She kept it up until a bumpyskinnedboy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: "You wantsa nice kitty, miss? Gimme a dollar."
She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. "But what about me?" she said,whispered, and shivered again. "Im very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because itcould go on forever. Not knowing whats yours until youve thrown it away. Themean reds, theyre nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouthsso dry, if my life depended on it I couldnt spit." She stepped in the car, sank in theseat. "Sorry, driver. Lets go."
Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, shescratched his head and asked. "What do you think? This ought to be the right kind ofplace for a tough guy like you. Garbage cans. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums togang around with. So scram," she said, dropping him; and when he did not moveaway, instead raised his thug-face and questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes,she stamped her foot: "I said beat it!" He rubbed against her leg. "I said fuck off!"
The limousine had followed us. Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door,she hesitated; she looked past me, past the boy still offering his cat ("Haifa dollar.
