Bono

“Where’s Bono?” Michaela asked, batting her eyelashes in anticipation.

I tried to summon a socially acceptable answer, or maybe even a white lie.

“Under the bed.”

“Oh.”

“He’s shy, but he comes out when we’re away,” I said, trying to sound casual. “At least, we think he does.”

“He’s magical,” Lydia chimed in. “Come see.”

My daughter dropped to her knees beside the bed, lay on her stomach, and beckoned Michaela over. Watching the elegantly suited editor lie down and adopt the same position beside her, I wished I’d thought to mop the floor.

“Oh, he is adorable!” Michaela said.

As she stood up and dusted herself off, Michaela didn’t seem at all disappointed. She agreed with Lydia that he was indeed a beautiful cat.

“I’ve got some wonderful news,” Michaela said. “Vida has been working very hard and she’s scored you a portal on the Huffington Post. It’s really quite a coup.”

Of course I’d heard of the Huffington Post, the online newspaper set up by Ariana Huffington in 2005. Millions of eyeballs scrolled its pages every day. But a portal sounded like something out of Star Trek. I had enough trouble posting on Facebook, let alone diving into a portal.

“We think it would be great if you wrote a blog for them about Bono,” Michaela said, beaming megawatts of optimism.

“If we can stir up some interest, maybe we can find him a permanent home.”

At that moment, the usual tightness in my shoulders upgraded to an ache.

“You mean, someone who’ll adopt him?” I asked.

Not only were we to foster this terminally ill cat, I was supposed to write a Huffington Post blog that would find him an actual home? What did Michaela and Vida imagine I could say about a cat who refused to come out from under the bed?

“I’m not much of a blogger,” I said. “In fact, I have no idea how to go about it.”

“Vida’s a tech wizard,” Michaela said. “Her team of marketing mavens will help you log on. Or you can just email the pieces to her and she’ll put them up for you.”

I grabbed another fig biscuit off the plate, chomped it in two bites and waited for the calming effects of a sugar high to kick in. There were approximately three people in the world who’d read anything I wrote for the Huffington Post. Two of them would have cats already. To hope anyone might fall in love with our antisocial housemate enough to offer him a home was beyond whimsical.

“Don’t worry,” Michaela said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

I wondered if General Custer said the same thing when he heard Chief Sitting Bull was waiting for him.

Chapter Fifteen

IN PRAISE OF MELANCHOLY

Sometimes a cat craves nothing more than solitude.

One of the reasons Lydia had wanted to visit New York was to walk the same streets as her literary hero, Nora Ephron. Sadly, the witty, self-effacing author of Heartburn (along with magnificent works of journalism) had died the previous year. In one of her pieces, Nora made a reference to eyebrow threading as a “fantastic and thrilling” form of hair removal. The practice had yet to arrive in Melbourne in any noticeable way. My daughter had been quick to point out a salon a few doors up from our neighborhood deli. I knew she was keen to undergo the process in homage to Nora, and I was curious. Besides, I wasn’t about to discourage her from exploring vanity as a concept.

Peering through the salon window, we watched a therapist insert a string of white cotton between her teeth. She then bent over her client and manipulated the string into a sort of cat’s cradle. Client and therapist were deep in concentration.

This ancient practice, which began in Asia thousands of years ago, looked enjoyable compared to the agonies of waxing. I have often wondered what kind of sadist dreamed up the idea of smothering hot wax above someone’s eyelids before ripping it off, along with multiple layers of skin.

We bounced into the salon to emerge thirty minutes later chastened, our faces red and stinging. Compared to eyebrow threading, waxing’s a holiday in Fiji. Still, I had to admire Lydia’s brows, which now formed perfect, elegantly shaped arches.

We both wanted to look our best for our big night on the town. Michaela had invited us out, along with Gene, to contra dancing, which she assured us was a simple form of folk dance imported from the British Isles. While musicians played reels and jigs, the caller instructed the dancers in a series of moves that sent them spinning around the room in intricate, aerobic patterns. I noticed that the dancers smiled and laughed a lot, and a good deal of flirting was taking place.