Page 43 of The Botanist's Assistant
Felis Silvestris Catus
The cat watches from hisspot in front of the fireplace as the old/new coffeemaker burbles and Margaret prepares her breakfast. Do cats eat oatmeal? Should she make a little extra? She decides she will ply the small hunter with more tuna, then figure out what to do next.
The rational part of her says a cat is both an expense and a responsibility she doesn’t need. If the cat stayed, wouldn’t she be required to install a litter box in her cottage? The thought of the box with its little clumps of droppings and its grit scattered all over the floor makes her cringe. And what about all the cat hair she’ll have to sweep up and the special food she’ll have to buy? What if the creature gets sick and requires surgery?
She opens a tuna fish tin and forks half of it into a bowl for the cat.
The coffeemaker gurgles out its last drip of coffee, reminding Margaret of the little animal’s purr. Ancient Egyptians believed that cats were magical beings and that they brought good luck when they were let into a person’s life. Margaretdoesn’t believe a domestic cat would bring you luck, but there is something about the little scrapper she admires.
Like her, he is unattractive and scarred by life and seems to want the same things she seeks: food on his plate, a warm place to lay his head and a purpose. Hadn’t the gopher he’d left for her proved that?
She decides she will give the feline four days, then they will decide whether this experiment in mutual dependency will work. If not, each will move on.
She eats her oatmeal, fills her thermos with coffee, does her dishes and asks the cat, “In or out?”
The cat stops its after-breakfast grooming and walks toward the front door.
“The radio said there’s a 45 percent chance of showers today,” Margaret warns.
The little feline, however, just stands at the door as if waiting for an elevator to arrive.
“All right. Suit yourself but don’t blame me if you get soaked,” Margaret says and opens the door to a freshly laundered world. Raindrops shimmer on pine branches, the air is alive with the brown-sugar scent of rich, wet soil. The cat steps outside and sits on the edge of the porch as if it too is enjoying the refreshed start to the day.
“I’ll leave some water out for you,” Margaret tells it.
The cat’s tail twitches against the wood as if to say, “Do whatever you want, I’ll be fine,” a hardy attitude, which Margaret also admires. She herself will bring an umbrella to work.
As it usually is, the lab is empty when Margaret arrives. She hangs her purse and sweater on the hook by the door andleans her umbrella in the corner, then gets to work. She isbeginning to rewrite the grant application with Dr. Blackstone’s information—it leaves a sour taste in her mouth—when Calvin walks in. He wears the same Fall Out Boy T-shirt as if he slept in his clothes.
“Morning,” Calvin mumbles and gets right to work without a word of complaint or a single sigh.
Had he been out drinking last night? Been PTSD’d by some dog this morning? Margaret would ask except his betrayal sits heavy along with what she learned about Dr. Deaver yesterday. Such a tangle of thoughts. It’s why she prefers science, which is more clear-cut. An experiment either works or it doesn’t, and, sometimes, even if it doesn’t, it can still prove something.
She has just re-sent an email asking their Brazilian guide if he can supply more leaves for the next phase of work (maybe he hadn’t seen her earlier request) when Blackstone appears at the lab door.
“May I speak with you, Margaret?”
“If it will take only five minutes, then yes. Otherwise, it’s eleven fifty-five and since I always leave for lunch at noon, a longer meeting won’t work.”
“Very well,” he says with a barely controlled sigh. “Can you be in my office at one?”
“It will take me three minutes to walk from the breakroom to your office so it will be one oh three.”
“Of course,” he says. “One oh three, then.”
Did he just roll his eyes?
“What was that about?” asks Calvin after Blackstone leaves.
It’s the first full sentence he’s spoken since he came in.
“How should I know? Maybe you can tell me.”
The reply isn’t what people would call polite, but Margaret thinks that betrayal is not polite either.
Lunch is quiet and satisfying. Margaret found a sharp Irish cheddar on sale at the market, which she decides is delicious with apple slices, and her after-lunch coffee rounds out the meal nicely. Rachel Sterling comes in just as Margaret is preparing to leave. She carries another cup of ramen noodles, which she opens and fills with water, then puts in the microwave. Margaret notices the condition of the appliance, which is so splattered inside with food it looks like some kind of gastronomic abstract painting, and she decides to clean it the next time she comes to care for the coffeemaker.
She watches as the woman goes to the soda vending machine and studies the selections. Her fingers seem to hover over the Diet Coke button, then finally come to rest on a sparkling lemonade instead. It gives Margaret an idea. Maybe she should park herself in the breakroom one afternoon around three when energy was known to flag and see which person came in and selected Diet Coke, which might be a clue to who had been in the office with Dr. Deaver before he died.
