Companion, regained my senses, another Companion has come to me-not as fine a one as Ede nor as well-trained or clever I daresay, but a Companion nonetheless-and I have found you.' He set the cat down and folded Edanne in his embrace. 'I have found you, haven't I?'
'Yes. I love you. I always have.'
Outside, the rain began pelting down in earnest. The cat, an unfathomable expression in its greenish-brown eyes, stared and stared at the two of them. Then it sneezed.
Clara's Cat by Elizabeth Moon
The old lady was almost helpless. She had never been large, and her once-red hair had faded to dingy gray. Behind thick glasses, necessary since the surgery for cataracts, her eyes were as colorless as a dead oyster. She had always had a redhead's white skin that freckled first, then burned at the least touch of the sun. Now the duller brown spots of age speckled her knotted hands.
It was going to be easy. Jeannie had a blood-claim-the only claim, she reminded herself. Her mother had been the old lady's niece; the old lady had never had children. So it was simple, and no court could deny it. Besides, she was going to spend a while convincing everyone that she had the old lady's best interests at heart. Of course she did. They knew that already. She had come to take care of dear old Great-aunt Clara, left her job in the city-a pretty good job, too, she had explained to everyone who asked. But blood being thicker than water, and her the old lady's last blood relative, well, of course she had come to help out.
'Did I ever tell you about Snowball?' The soft, insistent voice from the bed broke into her fierce reverie.
'I think so, Aunt Clara.' Just a little dig, that implication of careful patience.
'He was so sweet.' A vague sound meant to be a chuckle, Jeannie was sure, then…'Did I tell you about the time he clawed Mrs. Minister Jenkins on the ankle, when she scolded me about wearing my skirts too short?'
Oh, god. Jeannie had heard that story on every visit-every reluctant, restless visit-since childhood. It was disgusting, that someone of Great-aunt Clara's age remembered the juicy side of youth, remembered rolling her stockings and flirting with a skirt just a bit short… that she could still enjoy the memory of a minister's wife's clawed ankle, that she still thought a stupid cat had defended her. But there were visitors in the house, Clara's friends, people Jeannie had not yet won over completely. Clara's lawyer, Sam Benson, stocky and grave and not quite old enough to fall for any tricks. Clara's old friend Pearl, still up and walking around-though Jeannie thought it was disgusting for anyone her age to wear sleeveless knit shirts and short skirts which left knobby tanned knees all too visible.
Jeannie let out a consciously indulgent laugh. 'Was that when you were courting Ben, Aunt Clara?'
Again that feeble attempt at a chuckle. 'I wasn't courting
'I didn't,' said Pearl, in the deep voice Jeannie found so strange. Little old ladies had thin, wispy voices, or high querulous voices, or cross rough voices… not this combination of bassoon and cello, like a cat's purr. 'I thought he was a lot more than dashing, but you, you minx, you wanted him to play off against Larry.'
'Ah… Larry.' Clara's head shifted on the pillow. 'I hadn't thought of him in…'
'Five minutes?' Pearl conveyed amusement without malice.
'He was so…' Clara's voice trailed off, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Jeannie was quick to blot it away. 'The War…' said Clara faintly. Pearl nodded. The War they meant was the first of the great wars, the one to end wars, and Jeannie was not entirely sure which century it had been in. History was a bore. Everything before her own birth merged into a confused hash of dates and names she could never untangle, and why bother? The lawyer cleared his throat.
'Clara, I hate to rush you, but…'
The old lady stared at him as if she couldn't remember his name or business; Jeannie was just about to remind her when she brightened. 'Oh-yes, Sam, of course. The power of attorney. Now what I thought was, since Jeannie's come to stay, and take care of me, that she will need to write checks and things. You know how the bank is these days… and the people at the power company and so on don't seem to remember me as well…' What she meant was lost bills, checks she never wrote, and a lifetime's honesty ignored by strangers and their computers. But it had never been her habit to accuse anyone of unfairness. 'Jeannie can take care of all that,' she said finally.
In the face of the lawyer's obvious doubts, Jeannie's attempt at an expression that would convey absolute honesty, searing self-sacrifice for her nearest relative, and steadfast devotion to duty slipped awry; she could feel her lower lip beginning to pout, and the tension in the muscles of her jaw. Silence held the room for a long moment. Then Pearl, carefully not looking at Jeannie, said, 'But Sam's been doing all that, hasn't he, Clara?'
'Well… yes…' Clara's voice now was the trembling that meant a lapse into confusion, into dismay and fear, as the edges of her known world crumbled. 'I mean… I know… but he is a lawyer, and lawyers do have to make a living… and anyway, Jeannie's
The lawyer's face stiffened at the mention of money, and Jeannie wished she had not put those words in her aunt's mouth. Yet that seemed to do what she had wished of the whole conversation; his warm voice chilled, and he said 'If that's how you feel, Clara-Mrs. Timmons-then of course there's no question of not doing exactly as you wish. I brought the papers, as you asked.' Jeannie left the room on a pretext of making iced tea for everyone, while Clara signed and Pearl witnessed; she was not surprised, when she returned, to find them on the point of leaving. The lawyer's glance raked her up and down like an edged blade, but his voice, in deference to Clara, was gentle.
'I'm quite sure you'll take excellent care of your aunt, Mrs. Becker. She's one of our town's favorites, you know- if you need help, you have only to ask.'
'Thank you,' said Jeannie softly, in her best manner. Great-aunt Clara must have told him she'd been married. She herself liked the modern fashion of 'Ms.' which left her marital status handily obscured. Keith had been a mistake, and the divorce had been messy, what with the battle over the kids. He had custody, on account of her drinking-not that she was really an alcoholic, it was just that one time and unlucky for her that the roads were wet. But she could trust Great-aunt Clara not to have told anyone about that; she had too much family pride.
Pearl shook hands with her firmly. 'I'll be dropping by every day, you know,' she said, with her big old teeth showing in a fierce grin. 'If you need a few minutes to go downtown, that kind of thing.'
The old lady. Clara. She had a heart condition, for which she was supposed to take two of these little pills (morning and evening) and three of those (with each meal.) There were pills for the chest pain that came on unexpectedly, and pills for the bloating. She could just get out of bed, with help, to use the toilet and sit for a few minutes while Jeannie changed her bed. Jeannie was very careful and very conscientious, those first weeks. She kept the rasping whine out of her voice, the note Keith had told the judge was his first sign that something was really wrong.
And in return, Great-aunt Clara talked. She had had no full-time companion for years, not since her last sister died, and she had a life's stored memories to share. Jeannie gritted her teeth through the interminable tales of Clara's childhood: the pony her brother had had, the rides in the buggy, the first automobile, the first electric light in the town. And endlessly repetitive, the stories of Clara's favorite cat, Snowball.
'He looked
