floor.
Brett had left for the office, and Edith and Melanie were in the kitchen tidying up, before Edith said, ‘I want to take Mildew to the vet. She might’ve caught a poisoned mouse. It’s happened once before.’
‘I noticed she was awfully quiet last night,’ Melanie said. ‘Where is your vet?’
‘Doylestown. We’ve got a second car now, you know. Half Cliffie’s —’ Edith dwindled off. Cliffie had paid about a hundred dollars toward the second-hand Fiat 600. It was useful for Edith, with Brett having to take the Impala to Trenton workdays. Cliffie could use the Fiat whenever he wished, but in fact he didn’t use it much.
Just before 10 a.m., Edith and Melanie got into the Fiat with Mildew in her basket.
The vet was Dr Speck. One didn’t make appointments, just turned up between 10 and 12, and waited one’s turn. They had not long to wait.
‘I think it’s another bad mouse,’ said Edith, though she feared something worse.
Dr Speck, a graying man with muscular forearms, pushed his fingers deeply into Mildew’s sides as the cat stood docilely on his white table. The doctor had a puzzled expression. Then he looked directly at Edith.
‘Cat has a liver tumor – I’m sorry to say.’
‘You’re sure?’ Edith asked.
‘I can feel it,’ said Dr Speck.
‘Well – can you operate?’
Dr Speck shook his head and smiled quickly, regretfully. ‘Not at this age, you know. With a thing like this – Poor old Mildew,’ he said, pressing the cat’s sides gently, bending over her, because he knew the cat since years. ‘It’s a matter of old age, you know, Mrs Howland. There’s nothing one can do.’
Melanie was standing with them, and she said, ‘Oh, Edith, I
am
sorry.’
Edith was shocked. The next seconds passed, the next minute, and she talked, replied to the vet’s statements and questions, but she felt miles away, as if she were going to faint. The vet was suggesting that she should have Mildew put away now, painlessly with a needle. And Edith had to acquiesce. There was nothing else she could do. She didn’t want Mildew to suffer. Yet the verdict had been so sudden.
Then Edith was sitting with Melanie in the waiting room, along with another woman who had a squirming beagle puppy, and Edith smoked a cigarette. She got up with Melanie when the vet summoned them. Mildew was wrapped in a white paper, tucked in at the ends like a package, and Edith watched him deposit the still limp body gently in the basket.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Howland. But your cat had a long life and a happy one. You must think of that.’
On the street, Melanie said, ‘Do you feel all right to drive home, dear? I’m sure we could get a taxi and arrange to get the car home some other way.’
‘No, I’m all right.’ Edith pulled herself together and drove. Melanie was wonderfully comforting, saying just the right things. Melanie made tea in the kitchen and insisted on Edith’s drinking a cup before they buried the cat in the garden, as Edith had said she wanted to do.
Cliffie was home, his radio was on, and he came into the kitchen while Edith was drinking her tea. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Poor Mildew just had to be put away,’ Melanie said.
The cat’s basket was on the floor.
Cliffie looked at it. ‘Really? She’s in there – dead, you mean?’
‘Maybe you can help us,’ Melanie said. ‘We’re going to bury her in the garden.’
‘Oh.’ Cliffie glanced at his mother and their eyes met.
Cliffie went back to his room, and Edith knew Melanie supposed he would come back in a minute, but Edith knew he wouldn’t. Edith picked up the basket and said:
‘Let’s go ahead. The sooner the better.’ With her free hand, Edith took a clean white dishtowel from a kitchen shelf, jiggling it free from the stack, an old linen cloth from a Pennsylvania antique sale.
Edith dug with the fork, Melanie helped with the spade, and they lowered the paper-wrapped, towel-wrapped form into a grave more than
Brett had left for the office, and Edith and Melanie were in the kitchen tidying up, before Edith said, ‘I want to take Mildew to the vet. She might’ve caught a poisoned mouse. It’s happened once before.’
‘I noticed she was awfully quiet last night,’ Melanie said. ‘Where is your vet?’
‘Doylestown. We’ve got a second car now, you know. Half Cliffie’s —’ Edith dwindled off. Cliffie had paid about a hundred dollars toward the second-hand Fiat 600. It was useful for Edith, with Brett having to take the Impala to Trenton workdays. Cliffie could use the Fiat whenever he wished, but in fact he didn’t use it much.
Just before 10 a.m., Edith and Melanie got into the Fiat with Mildew in her basket.
The vet was Dr Speck. One didn’t make appointments, just turned up between 10 and 12, and waited one’s turn. They had not long to wait.
‘I think it’s another bad mouse,’ said Edith, though she feared something worse.
Dr Speck, a graying man with muscular forearms, pushed his fingers deeply into Mildew’s sides as the cat stood docilely on his white table. The doctor had a puzzled expression. Then he looked directly at Edith.
‘Cat has a liver tumor – I’m sorry to say.’
‘You’re sure?’ Edith asked.
‘I can feel it,’ said Dr Speck.
‘Well – can you operate?’
Dr Speck shook his head and smiled quickly, regretfully. ‘Not at this age, you know. With a thing like this – Poor old Mildew,’ he said, pressing the cat’s sides gently, bending over her, because he knew the cat since years. ‘It’s a matter of old age, you know, Mrs Howland. There’s nothing one can do.’
Melanie was standing with them, and she said, ‘Oh, Edith, I
am
sorry.’
Edith was shocked. The next seconds passed, the next minute, and she talked, replied to the vet’s statements and questions, but she felt miles away, as if she were going to faint. The vet was suggesting that she should have Mildew put away now, painlessly with a needle. And Edith had to acquiesce. There was nothing else she could do. She didn’t want Mildew to suffer. Yet the verdict had been so sudden.
Then Edith was sitting with Melanie in the waiting room, along with another woman who had a squirming beagle puppy, and Edith smoked a cigarette. She got up with Melanie when the vet summoned them. Mildew was wrapped in a white paper, tucked in at the ends like a package, and Edith watched him deposit the still limp body gently in the basket.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Howland. But your cat had a long life and a happy one. You must think of that.’
On the street, Melanie said, ‘Do you feel all right to drive home, dear? I’m sure we could get a taxi and arrange to get the car home some other way.’
‘No, I’m all right.’ Edith pulled herself together and drove. Melanie was wonderfully comforting, saying just the right things. Melanie made tea in the kitchen and insisted on Edith’s drinking a cup before they buried the cat in the garden, as Edith had said she wanted to do.
Cliffie was home, his radio was on, and he came into the kitchen while Edith was drinking her tea. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Poor Mildew just had to be put away,’ Melanie said.
The cat’s basket was on the floor.
Cliffie looked at it. ‘Really? She’s in there – dead, you mean?’
‘Maybe you can help us,’ Melanie said. ‘We’re going to bury her in the garden.’
‘Oh.’ Cliffie glanced at his mother and their eyes met.
Cliffie went back to his room, and Edith knew Melanie supposed he would come back in a minute, but Edith knew he wouldn’t. Edith picked up the basket and said:
‘Let’s go ahead. The sooner the better.’ With her free hand, Edith took a clean white dishtowel from a kitchen shelf, jiggling it free from the stack, an old linen cloth from a Pennsylvania antique sale.
Edith dug with the fork, Melanie helped with the spade, and they lowered the paper-wrapped, towel-wrapped form into a grave more than
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