Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

I looked through the glass wall and saw a large ruddy man at the bar grinning at me. He had a bullet-shaped bald head and eyes like black ball bearings. He raised his glass to me and began to slide off his bar stool with the clear intent of coming out to the porch.

“Take it back,” I said.

“It’s paid for. You might as well drink it.”

“Take it back, and tell the bartender to make me another one.”

He set the glass on his tray and hightailed it away to the bar. My admirer turned to him and asked a question, and then looked out at me with a dark scowl when the waiter answered. The bartender looked out at me, too, and his lips firmed into a tight-mouthed smile as he dumped the margarita and whipped up another one.

I cut a thick slab of bread with the giant knife, and was using the knife to smear butter on the bread when the waiter brought a new drink. He carried it out on a tray held shoulder-high and set it down with a flourish.

“He says you’ve got an attitude.”

“Tell him I’ve also got a sharp knife.”

“Whoa, hon, just take it as a compliment. Men are gonna hit on you. That’s just life.”

He left and I looked toward the two men on my right. They had forgotten their first-date anxiety and were grinning at me. When they caught my eye, they raised their wineglasses in a toast. I smiled back and sipped my margarita. Inside, the bullet-headed man put money on the bar and stomped out, his pants creasing around a thick wad in his crotch.

By the time I got the stone crab, I had eaten enough bread and salad to be in a better mood. Stone crab is probably what God eats every night of the year, but in Florida we mortals only have it from mid-October to mid-May. Florida law prohibits fishermen from killing the crabs, but stone crabs can regenerate lost claws, so fishermen break one off and throw the crab back into the sea. That only leaves them one claw to defend themselves with, but they’re not boiling to death like they would be if they were lobsters.

The claws are steamed right there on the boat, and then they’re chilled and delivered to restaurants like the Crab House, where people like me eat them without giving a thought to the crab’s trauma. Mine came with mustard sauce and a wooden mallet for cracking the claw, and I happily cracked and slurped away.

Sixteen

While I ate, I watched boats bobbing at the dock and idly listened to bits and pieces of conversation from neighboring tables. I learned that somebody named Tony was a real bitch and a half, and that somebody named Grace had finally gotten the money she had married for when her husband’s rich and ancient mother died. Grace, they said, was hell-bent to move back east where people would be impressed with their new wealth, but the husband was refusing to give up his golf and tennis life just to hobnob with some snooty New Englanders. Poor Grace. All that money and no place to flaunt it.

It was almost eleven o’clock when I ate the last morsel. I put some bills on the table before the waiter came back, adding a hefty tip to make up for being churlish earlier, and stood up and started inside. The waiter saw me leaving and scurried over with a questioning look.

I said, “I’m going to sit at the bar and listen to the piano player.”

He looked over my shoulder at the money on the table and smiled. “No prob,” he said. “The pianist should be here any minute.”

“You know him?”

“Just to speak to. Seems like a real nice guy.”

“He is.”

“Oh, he’s a friend of yours?”

I smiled, suddenly feeling proud to know Phillip. “Yeah, he’s a friend.”

Inside, only a few people were at the bar. All men, and all with the appraising look of people who realized the evening was growing old and if they hoped to hook up with somebody, they’d better do it soon. None of them gave me a glance. I took the stool at the end near the bandstand and ordered another margarita.

The bartender grinned when he set it in front of me. “This will be your third, right?”

“Counting the one I didn’t drink.”

“That guy, what an asshole! What’d he think, anyway?”

“Maybe that works for him sometimes.”

“Not with a woman like you. He shoulda known that.”

Behind me, Phillip’s voice said, “Miz Hemingway?”

I spun around, to see him standing there looking at me in disbelief, as if I were a genie he had conjured up from a bottle. Up this close, I could see the black flocked jacket he wore had been made for a much larger man. He looked like a little boy dressed up in his father’s suit coat.

“Gosh, you snuck up on me, Phillip!”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t, I just didn’t see you come in.”

“I came in the back.”

“Can you talk a few minutes before you start playing?”

He grinned nervously, and I wanted to hug him. He was all wrists and ears and cheekbones, too ill at ease to know how to handle this unexpected moment.

“Come on,” I said, “let’s go sit at a table for a minute. You want something to drink?”