Simon Witowski’s apartment is on the second floor, reachable only by a set of outside stairs that run from the lower piazza to the one above. The railings are rickety, a couple of the balusters missing. The house—antebellum, once a single-family dwelling—badly needs painting. It stands out among the others on Gadsden Street, all of which have been redone in pastel colors approved by the Board of Architectural Review.
“I’m in the process of moving, so things are a little chaotic,” he’d said when I called to confirm the appointment. When I step inside I see what he means: There are piles of books on the floor, on the dining room table, on every available surface. He points to the cardboard boxes under the table. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
He’s thin, his gray wool jacket too big for him, the excess fabric of the trousers bunched into his belt, but despite an obvious limp there’s a surprising vitality about him. “I had a little accident a few years back, tripped—ankle’s never been quite the same.… Yes, I remember you from the bookstore. You were quite keen on short stories, weren’t you? Flannery O’Connor, Mary Gordon.”
“You introduced me to Lorrie Moore.”
“Ah, yes. Birds of America! Milk, sugar?”
“No, this is fine, thank you.”
“The new owners couldn’t keep up with the rent increases,” he says. “King Street’s gone very posh, you know. And even Gadsden Street now … This neighborhood used to be a melting pot, a little bit of this, a little bit of that—medical students, faculty from the college, young couples just starting out, the older ones like me—but everything’s changed. Some people from New Jersey just bought this one. Oh, watch your step there,” he says, pointing to a litter box. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of that.”
“You have a cat?”
“It’s left over from McCavity. You might remember him from the bookstore.”
“The big yellow one?”
“Old devil finally passed away. About a month ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was the last of my bookstore cats. But when you’re as old as I am, you accustom yourself to losses.”
“When are you moving?”
“I must be out by January first. I’ll have a small room at the Franke Home, so most of these books are going to the county library for their fund-raising sale. You’re welcome to look through them before you go.”
He catches my expression as I survey the room. “Yes, I know, I haven’t made much progress.”
“Do you have some help with all this?”
“My niece wants me to hire a crew, but I can’t tolerate strangers handling my books. And there’s the expense.”
The whole place smells like old books and candle wax. There’s a menorah on a little table in the corner, and beside it a potted plant hung with Christmas ornaments. “That’s for my great-nephews,” he explains. “My niece married, as my mother would have said, out of the tribe. She brings her boys around on Christmas afternoon, so I do my best to be ecumenical. It’s just a small party, my family and a few others. But you came to talk about the cat, isn’t that right?”
“As I told you, my job is to choose a caregiver for her.”
“I haven’t met Beatrice,” he says. “But I understand she’s highly intelligent and rather temperamental, like her owner. I remember when Lila named her. I assumed some reference to Dante’s beloved, so I joked to Lila that if she ever felt lost in purgatory, the cat might lead her out. She took offense.” He smiles. “She could be quite thin-skinned.… Who’s keeping the cat now?”
“She’s staying with me until I’ve finished my investigation. Mrs. Mackay named three people as possible caregivers.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Your name wasn’t on the list, yet she kept some of your letters, and I … I can’t help but think she did so for a reason, that maybe she intended you to shed some light on—”
“Or perhaps she was merely sentimental,” he says.
“I was told by her nephew Philip that you and Mrs. Mackay were very close at one time.”
“Philip—how is he these days?”
“He seems well.”
“What a talent! I do hope he’s still writing. I haven’t had a letter from him in a while, but then of course no one writes letters anymore, and I don’t do e-mail.”
“He shared some of your story with me … your relationship with Lila.”
“Philip was one of the few people she told about it, but even Philip didn’t know everything,” he says.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear it.”
“I suppose there’s no harm, now that she’s gone, though I doubt our story will shed any light on your task. A little more tea?”