Page 92 of Dying to Meet You
My daughter sneaks glances at me most of the way to Harrison’s place. I can tell she’s dying of curiosity but doesn’t want to push me on why I’m suddenly Team Harrison. I don’t think I could explain myself, even if I tried.
I’ve already sent the lawyer a text—hiring her to represent Harrison at his hearing on Tuesday. And now we’re going to get his cat.
We turn onto a seedy residential street, and Natalie reads the house numbers. “There. It’s that one.” She points at a colonial that badly needs a coat of paint. “It isn’ttoobad.”
She’s a glass-half-full girl when it comes to Harrison, and it’s painful to recognize how invested she is in his reappearance. I’ve been telling myself for all these years that she didn’t care so much about her lack of a dad.
With a heavy heart, I park and then carefully lock the car after we get out. Natalie is already bounding up to the saggy porch and knocking on the door.
For a minute or two, I think nobody is coming, but then a young man answers the door. He’s got bedhead and a Taylor Swift T-shirt on.
“Nice shirt,” Natalie says.
“Thanks?”
“You wouldn’t be Rick, would you?” I ask.
He licks chapped lips. “Depends who’s asking.”
“We’re here about Harrison’s things. He sent us.”
The young man frowns. “You too? It’s like Grand Central Station here. First the police with a warrant. That was fun. And then another woman came by yesterday. Needed access to his room to get her things, she said. Swear to God I didn’t know Harrison even had friends.”
“Another woman?” It comes out sounding wrong. Like I’m jealous. But I really don’t want my daughter walking into a room strewn with condom wrappers.
He shrugs. “I didn’t ask her name. But then she made it weird by staying in his room for a while, and I wondered what she was doing in there. I finally knocked, and she walked out a minute later, but she wasn’t carrying anything.”
I don’t need this much information. “Okay, look. We’re here for a couple of things at Harrison’s request. Starting with the cat.”
His expression brightens. “Oh shit! Be a real favor to me if you took her. Haven’t seen her all day. And you don’t look like pet thieves.”
“We’re not. This is Harrison’s daughter.” I lay a hand on Natalie’s shoulder.
His first reaction is astonishment. Then he laughs. “Dude! I can totally see it. You play the bass, too?” He does a pantomime of someone shredding on the guitar.
Natalie smiles in spite of this idiot’s red eyes and lack of hygiene, and then shakes her head.
“Bummer. Okay, what did you all need? Just the cat?”
“And his bass, for safekeeping.”
“Sure. His room is back here.” He leads us into a dark, little rabbit warren of a house. I’m mentally knocking down all the interior walls as we go, wondering if it’s even possible to get decent light in this place, or if I should mentally bulldoze it instead.
But Harrison’s room, when we reach it, is as neat as a monk’s cell. He has so few belongings that if the police searched this place, there’s no way to tell. There are two milk crates full of books. Music. Philosophy. Poetry. There’s a mattress on the floor, but it’s tidily made up. A reading lamp. A phone charger. And his bass leaning in the corner.
“Not very homey, is it?” Natalie asks, sounding despondent.
“Well...” It’s so much like his room from that first summer I met him that it’s almost eerie. This is the room of a man who’s starting over. “I’ve seen worse. Your father never cared much for material things. Not a bad quality.”
Natalie is already onto the next disaster. She crosses to a pet-bowltray on the floor. “Ohno. Her bowls are empty.” I hear a note of panic in my daughter’s voice.
“Cats are very resourceful. She’s probably been sipping from leaky faucets and dining on mice in the basement.”
That’s probably why Harrison has a cat in the first place. He’s resourceful, too.
“Here, kitty,” Natalie says softly. “Here, Zoe!” She checks behind Harrison’s books and even the bass. She opens a door and finds a narrow closet. “Do cats like closets?”
“Sometimes.”
