1959 October 05 Monday 17:40
When the elevator car opened on the eighth floor, Dett entered, carrying a leather shaving kit in his right hand.
“I wonder if you’d mind holding on to this for me until I get back,” he said to Moses.
The old man pulled a folded brown paper bag from inside his uniform jacket. He snapped open the bag, inserted the shaving case, rolled the bag closed tightly, and deposited it atop the padded stool next to the brass control lever. He moved the lever to the right, and the car slowly descended.
Neither man spoke until the car opened in the lobby and Dett stepped out.
“You have yourself a good evening, suh,” the operator called out.
Dett walked over to the front desk, waited patiently as Carl finished speaking with one of the maintenance men, then asked, “Do you know where I can find a good flower shop around here?”
“At this hour?” Carl said, glancing at his watch.
“Yeah,” Dett said, his voice shifting tone so slightly only a human mine-detector like Carl would have noticed. “Right now.”
“Give me a moment,” Carl said. He picked up the desk phone, dialed a number from memory. “Laurel,” he said, to whoever answered, “we have a guest who needs some flowers. Yes, I know you close at six. But this is a VIP request, Laurel. The Claremont would very much appreciate… Hold on,” he said, turning to Dett. “Did you have any particular flowers in mind?”
“Just nice ones.”
Covering the receiver with his hand, Carl leaned toward Dett ever so slightly, said, “Forgive me if I seem intrusive, sir. But there are flowers one brings to a lady, flowers one leaves as an offering, although that would be more a floral arrangement…”
“I’ve got a date,” Dett said, the spaces between his words so measured, the effect was just short of mechanical. “I want to bring her some flowers.”
“Ah! Excuse me…” Carl removed his hand from the receiver, said, “Laurel, we can make do with American Beauties. I know you still have some very fresh ones from earlier. Of course long-stemmed. And, I think”-glancing over at Dett-“some whites, too.” Catching Dett’s confirmatory nod, Carl went back to the phone: “No, Laurel, not a dozen. That’s so… ordinary. Let’s have six white, with three red, centered, of course. Wait…” Turning to Dett, he said, “Their boy has already gone for the day; they won’t be able to deliver. Shall I send someone over to collect them for you, or would you prefer-?”
“I’ll pick them up myself,” Dett said. “Just tell me where I have to go.”
“He’ll be there in, say, ten minutes, Laurel. We won’t forget this.”
Carl hung up. “It’s really not even five minutes from here by car,” he said to Dett. “I’ll just draw you a little map.”
1959 October 05 Monday 18:45
Tussy peered out from behind the living room curtains. It was six-forty-five in the evening, past dusk, but the street was alive, as if the unseasonably warm weather had turned back the calendar. The men in work clothes had been home for a while; the ones in business suits always came later. A man played catch with a boy wearing a blue baseball cap with a white bill. Tussy didn’t need a telescope to read the embroidered logo on the cap-anyone in her neighborhood would recognize the colors of the Beaumont Badgers, the Little League team sponsored by Beaumont Realty.
Some of the men were doing what Tussy always thought of as weekend work-washing their cars, mowing their lawns. A pack of kids were playing touch football in the street, making the kind of noise that quiets every mother’s anxiety. A little girl jumped up and down excitedly in front of her parents, telling them something wonderful. The neighbor’s beagle-a notorious escape artist no fence could contain-charged across a backyard, chasing an invisible rabbit.
Parents watched as a bronze Buick came slowly down the block, silently approving of the driver’s cautious approach. It was more than his being alert to the ever-present possibility of a child or an animal darting into the street-somehow, it felt as if he was showing respect for their neighborhood, like a man who knew enough to take off his hat in church.
They all watched as the Buick pulled to the curb in front of Tussy’s house. Tussy watched, too. And when a tall, neatly dressed man emerged from the car, a bouquet of roses in his hand, and started up her flagstone walk, she thought, Now they’ll have something to talk about for weeks!
Dett felt eyes on his back. He didn’t feel endangered; he felt… appraised. Squaring his shoulders, he tapped the brass door-knocker gently, the sound barely registering.
He counted to seven in his head, and was just reaching for the knocker again when the door opened.
Tussy.
“Hi!” she said. “You’re right on time. I’m almost ready. Come on in.”
Dett stepped across the threshold, holding out the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Oh, they’re just lovely! I never saw roses like that, so… perfect.”
“Well, I-”
“I have to put them in something. I think I have… Oh! I’m sorry; I have no manners. Please sit down; I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dett looked around the small living room, dominated by a large couch made of some dark wood, with an ornately carved frame into which sky-blue cushions with a white fleur-de-lis pattern were inset. In front of the couch was a simple slab of white-veined pink marble, standing on wrought-iron legs. The floor was wide pine boards, with knotholes showing through a gleaming coat of varnish. Against one wall was a small hutch, backed by a mirror. Its shelves held framed photographs, some hand-painted porcelain figurines, and what looked like military medals.
He took a cautious seat on the edge of the couch, back ruler-straight, unsure of where to put his hands, eyes trained on the door through which Tussy had departed.
The gray-and-black cat entered the living room, regarding Dett with unflinching yellow eyes. His thick tail twitched twice, then he effortlessly launched himself onto the seat of an armchair upholstered in the same fabric as the couch. The cat curled up comfortably, his bulk covering the cushion completely. His eyes never left the intruder.
“Oh, you met Fireball,” Tussy said, smiling as she came back into the living room.
“He looks like someone should have named him Cannonball,” Dett said, making a face to show he was impressed.
“Yes, he’s a big fat load now, aren’t you, boy?” Tussy said, scratching the monster behind his ears, a move instantly rewarded with a sound like a trash compactor. “It was my dad who named him. Even when he was a little kitten, he was the laziest cat on earth. ‘A real ball of fire,’ my dad said one day, and it just stuck.”
“I never saw one that big. Is he part bobcat or something?”
“I don’t know what he is. My dad brought him home one day from work. I had been asking for a kitten for the longest time, and it was my birthday, so…”
“But that had to be when…”
“When I was a little girl, yes. Well, twelve, anyway. Fireball’s been with me ever since. Guess how old he is?”
“I… uh,” Dett struggled, trying for the right number, “… thirteen?”
“I don’t know who you’re being nicer to,” Tussy said, “me or Fireball. He’s twenty-one-old enough to vote.”
“Really?”
“Why are you so shocked? Didn’t you ever hear of a cat who lived that long?”
“I… I don’t know much about cats. I never had one. But if he’s twenty-one, and you got him when you were-”
“I’m thirty-three years old,” Tussy said, hands on her hips, as if daring him to deny it.
“You don’t look… I mean… I don’t know how to say things sometimes. I thought you were…”