Bono

Blossoms on the trees alongside the East River had deepened to crimson since the first time Lydia and I had walked past the UN Building. The wind hadn’t lost the edge to its tongue so my ski cap still came in handy. It seemed only yesterday we’d carried our precious cargo home from Bideawee. Lydia had wept then because Bono had a sad and limited future. Now a life brimming with love was waiting for him.

“This is an animal shelter?” Philip asked, when we reached the elegant building.

We sat quietly in the foyer while a wild-haired man argued with Jon over a dog he was determined to take home with him.

“I’ve been watching that dog for four hours and I want him now!” the man yelled.

In a calm voice Jon explained to the visitor that his background check didn’t add up, that in fact the last time he’d adopted a dog it had ended up with the man’s mother. On top of that, the man had given a false address.

“What are you saying? It’s not false!” the man yelled.

“We’ve just put a call through to the number you gave and the woman we spoke to says you don’t live there anymore.”

The security guard shifted the weight on his feet as the man launched into another tirade and finally, to everyone’s relief, left the building.

“Sorry about that,” Jon said to us. “People don’t always adopt animals for the right reasons. They want healing without giving back.”

I was surprised how casually Jon acknowledged the healing power of animals. The depth of thought and care he put into his work was beyond anything I’d encountered. Our conversation was interrupted by a call from someone anxious to rehome an incontinent 14-year-old dog. Jon’s patience was limitless, as usual.

From inside his carrier, Bono watched the parade of people, cats, and dogs passing by. I wondered if he recognized the place. If he did, he was giving nothing away.

I gripped the handle and rubbed a tear from my eye. All relationships end with good-bye. This one was happening sooner than my selfish heart would have liked. Bono had transformed New York City into a second home for me.

A flood of what-ifs washed through my mind.

“Let’s go,” I said, taking Philip’s hand.

“What?” He seemed alarmed

“Let’s take Bono and walk out of here right now.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Patrick’s words echoed inside my head: Good luck with that one. But my husband was no Doc Golightly. He’d hardly flown to New York to drag me back to life as a hillbilly. Besides, it was impossible to go “back.” Even if I returned to Melbourne, it would be as a different woman.

As Philip leaned over to kiss my cheek, Monique and Berry arrived. Fantasies of abducting Bono dissolved in their laser beam smiles. I introduced them to Jon, who swept them away to his office to sign papers. When they emerged a few minutes later, Monique was glowing. Berry had the befuddled air of a new father.

“I thought we were taking a cat home for a trial,” he said. “She didn’t tell me we were adopting him!”

But when he saw Monique’s smile, I could tell he wasn’t going to raise a serious argument. He was a man who put his wife’s happiness above all else.

“You can go now,” Monique said to me, taking the cat carrier’s handle.

Who, me? Now? I fought the instinct to snatch the handle back.

I peered into the cat carrier and rubbed Bono’s nose through the wire.

“Be a good boy, won’t you?” I whispered. “I love you.”

That little black cat with the lion haircut had enriched my time in New York beyond words. Through him I’d met incredible people and experienced the soft heart of the city. His story had touched people around the world. I couldn’t say good-bye.

“Are you crying?” Philip asked as we walked back along the East River.

“It’s just the wind,” I lied.

Philip wrapped his arms around me. I wept into his neck. Darling Bono. It was the best possible good-bye. Besides, I wasn’t the first woman to cry over a cat.

Chapter Thirty-six

CROSSROADS

A cat becomes a permanent resident in the heart.

Before she left New York, Lydia had made me promise to visit the Rubin Museum of Art, a gallery specializing in Buddhist masterpieces from Tibet and the surrounding countries. To my surprise, the Rubin was in Chelsea on West 17th Street and Seventh Avenue. Awash with sculptures and tapestries, the gallery’s serenity was a world away from the bustle out on the streets.

Every married couple has a different protocol when it comes to viewing art. We’re not the ones who walk hand in hand from artwork to artwork. Philip generally gives each piece an allotted amount of time and respect, whereas I flit from one to the next until I find something that speaks to me. If there’s a seat nearby, I might happily absorb that one work for twenty minutes. To avoid discord, Philip and I usually take off in opposite directions to find each other forty minutes or so later near the exit.