What could look more comfortable than a healthy tabby cat stretched out in a sunbeam on a fur coat with two white forepaws crossed in front of her snoozing face? Her long whiskers arching into the brilliant yellow warmth tremble in a twitch of her snout.
What could be more uncomfortable than the thought of that cat tearing the silk lining of Daisie’s old fur coat where she has tossed it over the arm of the couch with the faint odor of camphor released from its folds?
I couldn’t get far into the room when I arrived, but can see signs of the cat’s earlier relaxation from where I stand near the couch. There are open boxes and their contents distributed across the floor. All recently arrived.
The coat lining is not shredded, but there are tiny holes in the silk lining exposed where the coat fell open on the cushioned seat. “Is that Moth balls?”
Daisy looks down at the coat. “Yes, strong isn’t it? I am going through old clothes.” She strokes the fur where it is spread over the arm of the couch. “Well I can’t wear the thing now.”
“Why not Daisie, it is only 12 degrees outside and there’s a wind?”
“Because, it is unacceptable to wear the fur of murdered minks!”
“But they weren’t murdered for you. That was probably, what? sixty years ago?”
“More than that Fred. I think this dates back to the 1930s”
It is hard to think of Daisy in that fur coat. In fact I don’t know any one who wears them. “Was it your mother’s?”
“No, one of the Canadian aunts. You remember Theophilus at the party after Derwent’s death?”
“Yes, he fell asleep on the table with his face in his arms by the punch bowl.”
She picks up a sleeve. “Well, he brought me this in a trunk when he visited.”
“So you don’t want to be seen wearing ancient dead Canadian mink fur.”
“No, not Canadian. It was war booty. Theophilus, or was it his older brother? Anyway one of them served in Europe during world war two, interrogating Hungarian Fascists of the Arrow Cross or Cross Barby.”
“No Daisy, I think that was too far east for Canadians. It would have been the Soviets wouldn’t it?”
“He was in on it somehow. He spoke the language. I mean I don’t know. It was all hush hush but sort of came out one day … we aren’t supposed to talk about it … I can’t explain it any further anyway.”
“You mean these are Hungarian fascist minks?”
“I mean Fred, that I don’t know the coat’s provenance and that is really creepy.”
“Yes a lot of people were deported and murdered.” Daisy is looking at the floor. She puts down the soft furry sleeve and walks slowly over to the front door and back. She stops close to me and looks into my face, speaking quietly. “Right, that’s what I mean!”
“So there’s a creepiness factor as well as a fur factor.”
“Ouch!” Daisy bends down and finds a small screw she has trodden on in her thick knee-length purple woolen socks.
“I think it fell out of the trunk’s hardware when I opened it.”
She picks it up and holds it, and then stands still looking back at the coat.
“Yeah, it gets more complicated the more I think about it. I mean should I even keep it? I don’t know … so shall I just leave it in that trunk … or … ?”
“He has put you in a difficult position.”
“He didn’t mean to. You know, he thought it would be nice for me to have.” She points to the boxes, “and all this stuff that UPS brought yesterday too.” One box has a big art book balanced on top. It is Vision in Motion by Laslo Moholy Nagy, with its dramatic red black and white modernist dust cover, still intact after nearly 70 years. It catches my eye, but now is not the time to discuss the Bauhaus in Chicago. “Didn’t you say you are going to a gala down town?”
“Well Fred, I am invited, but I wasn’t going to go. Now Artie wants me to go with her. That’s why these old clothes are spread all over the place. I was looking through that trunk. I mean I don’t go to galas. It’s not my thing.” She points out an old fashioned steamer trunk with tarnished brass corners, and the arched lid open. There’s a bent lock hanging from it.
The cat is awake and glances up at me looking vulnerable with one back paw in the air.
“When did you get this cat?”
“Last week, it’s not mine. I am cat-sitting for a friend.”
“No sign of separation anxiety I see.”
Daisy walks over and pulls gently on the coat and the cat moves up on to the back of the couch, swishing its tail in an ‘S’. She stands there for a moment and then starts sniffing the crack between cushion and the couch back, pressing her nose in and trying to pull the cushion away with her white tipped left paw. “She made herself at home as soon as I let her out of the crate.”
“What’s her name Daisie?”
“Her deep and inscrutable singular name?”
“No I am not up to feline metaphysics, I just mean the name you call her.”
“A cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES you know. Any way let’s say her name is Jennyanydots, one of her names that is, but I call her Dots. That’s what Val calls her.”
“Who’s Val?”
“My friend Val Eliot.”
“Dots has moved to the windowsill. She knocks a brass candlestick on the floor in agitation and then a small brass windmill. “That must be Artie she can see over to the driveway from there. I guess we really are going to this thing together.” Daisy moves toward the front door and Dots jumps to the floor and follows, getting between her feet trying to rub against her leg. She picks up Dots and lets Artie in.
“Hi Daisy, how is Val’s cat doing?” Artie pets Dot’s head and she struggles to get down. Daisy lets go with a wince as Dots’ claws come out and she jumps free to the floor. Daisy looks at her upper arm. “She didn’t break the skin but she’s pulled out all these stitches in this old sweater. Look at that Artie!” Artie is well protected from weather and claws by her unusual insulated orange jump suit. It looks like something from an Arctic oil-drilling site. Daisy shows no sign of surprise. She winds several inches of wool around her index finger as Artie goes on. “Yeah, you going to charge Val for that?” Artie greets me and asks if I am going to Frank’s shindig.
“No I came over drop off some magazines, and now this!”
Artie steps towards me, “Magazines, oh great! let’s see!”
I hand her my Trader Joe’s paper shopping bag. Artie takes it and pulls out a copy of Country Life.
“Looks like Constable on the cover. What’s this mag. Fred?”
Before I can answer Daisy grabs my arm. “Fred, thanks so much. Oh that’s my favorite Brit. Mag.! God I am so preoccupied with all these reeking clothes … So interesting to see a modern photograph of the house in Constable’s painting!”
Artie looks at the picture. “I didn’t know it had survived. It’s The Hay Wain isn’t it?”
Daisie confirms and takes the magazine and Trader Joe’s bag from Artie, who is looking for a place to put down her shoulder bag.
“So what’s with all these clothes all over the place?”
Daisy puts the mag. back in the Trader Joe’s bag and puts them on top of one of the boxes. She points out the trunk on the floor. “I opened the Uncle-Theophilus-trunk, Artie, you know, the one I was telling you about?”
“What’s down the bottom, a skeleton?”
“Well, in a way yes, Artie.” Daisy picks up the coat for Artie to see.” Dots is looking out from under the overhanging trunk lid. Artie doesn’t see the cat and puts her bag under there and the cat rushes out and disappears down the hall with a yell.
“For God’s sake Daisy, is that a Mink?”
“No, it was Dots.”
“I mean the coat, Daisy.”
“Its more like a ghost. I mean it’s haunted.”
Artie has a sleeve in her hand and she strokes it gently admiring the fur. “This mink coat would be a great nostalgia thing tomorrow night.”
“What “thing” is that, Artie?”
“Fred, it is Frank Vasari’s fund-raising gala for the PU Arts Center. It’s definitely the mink coat crowd. You know, jewels, bare shoulders, a little décolletage, phony smiles, kissy kissy, and all that.”
“Oh Artie, that’s us isn’t it? Hanging with the zillionaires!”
“Sure, anything to make a buck. Val’s going to be there isn’t she?”
“No Artie, Dots is staying here remember?”
“Oh right, right right … So who is going to represent the Mcavity Theater?”
Daisy shrugs, “Fred, Have you seen their production of The Cocktail Party?”
“No, didn’t know it was on. Didn’t know any one was still interested in that old T.S. Eliot thing.”
Artie walks over to the trunk and looks in. “Sure they are. It’s a student production. You should check it out.” Artie holds up a garment from the trunk. “Check this old cocktail dress.” She holds by a pair of narrow straps.
Daisy looks up from the coat. She is fiddling with the loose wool hanging from her sweater. “Wow, very slinky! and way too small for me.”
I was going to tell them I have to go when Daisy’s ring tones sound. She searches under various things for her phone before pulling it from her pocket too late to answer but listens to a message. “Oh no! It is the Fauxmont Militia saying they … ” There’s a knock on the door, which Artie opens. Two men in black flak jackets are standing outside with automatic weapons pointed up.
Daisy puts her phone back in her pocket. One says he’s sergeant Kurtz and asks if every one is all right.
Artie steps aside to let Daisy speak to him. “What’s going on?”
“Just a routine call Ma’am.”
“What do you mean? No-one ever called before.”
“Have a nice day Ms. Briscoe.” The two Militiamen turn and walk away, draped like dark Christmas trees, with equipment hanging from their belts and jackets.
I say goodbye and follow them back to their Hummer, and then on down the road back home.
