The Cat Translator Clause

Chapter 4 What My Mother Filed

The letter from the county was the key.

It was dated three years ago, and it was a notice of a proposed lot-line adjustment, and it was unsigned because my mother had not signed it. But on the back, in her handwriting, was a note to herself: Warren Cole called. Ask Hallorans about the fence agreement.

The Hallorans.

I found them online in twenty minutes. Thelma Halloran had died in 2014, but her son, Peter, lived in a town ninety miles north, and his phone number was listed. I called him from the studio with the door closed.

"Nora Ellis," he said. "You're Janet's girl."

"I am."

"I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a good neighbor. She used to bring us tomatoes."

"I know this is strange," I said. "But I need to ask you about the fence."

There was a pause.

"The fence," Peter said.

"The fence between your parents' parcel and the Bennetts'. The one they put up for the dogs."

"Right. That fence."

"My mother called your mother about it three years ago. Do you know why?"

Peter was quiet for a moment. I could hear a television in the background, and a dog barking.

"My mother kept a file," he said. "She kept everything. And after she died, I found it. There's a letter in there from Franklin Bennett's father, from 1998, saying the fence was a mistake and it should be moved back to the wall. And there's a note from your mother, from three years ago, saying she was going to fight it."

"Do you still have the file?"

"I have the file," Peter said. "I didn't know what to do with it. I figured it wasn't my business."

"Can I buy it from you?"

He laughed. "You don't have to buy it, Nora. I'll mail it to you. Give me your address."

I gave him the studio address, because I did not want anything coming to the house. Then I hung up and sat there with my heart going hard.

Pearl was on the windowsill. She was watching the driveway.

"Someone is coming," she said.

"Who?"

"The one with the glasses. And the one who is always on the phone."

Vivian and Margot. I looked out the window. They were walking down the garden path together, and Margot had a folder under her arm, and they were talking in the low, steady way they talked when they were planning something.

I opened the studio door before they knocked.

"Nora," Vivian said. "We need to talk."

"Then talk."

Margot held up the folder. "This is the quitclaim. Warren drew it up this morning. It transfers the disputed strip to the Bennett parcel, and in exchange, Franklin will release any claim to the studio and the garden."

I looked at the folder but did not take it.

"The studio and the garden are already mine," I said. "I've been using them for four years."

"You've been using them, yes. But they're on our side of the line."

"According to a survey that contradicts a 1998 agreement your father-in-law's father wrote."

Vivian's face changed, very slightly. "What agreement?"

"The letter Franklin's father wrote to the Hallorans in 1998. The one that says the fence was a mistake."

Margot's hand tightened on the folder. Vivian did not move.

"Who told you about that?" she asked.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters because it's not true."

"It's true," I said. "And there's a copy coming in the mail."

Vivian looked at me for a long moment. Then she smiled, and it was the smile she used at fundraisers, warm and empty.

"Well," she said. "That's very resourceful of you. But a letter from 1998 doesn't change the deed. The deed is what the county has on file. And the deed says the fence line is the boundary."

"The deed says the stone wall is the boundary."

"The deed says 'the existing fence line and stone wall.'"

"It says the stone wall."

Vivian's smile did not waver. "Warren has read that deed more times than you have. If you want to argue about it, you can argue with him. But I'll tell you what I told Daniel this morning. If you sign the quitclaim, Franklin will pay for the studio to be moved. He'll pay to have it rebuilt on the other side of the line. And you can keep your cat and your garden and everything else, and we can all stop talking about this."

"And if I don't sign?"

"Then we file the lot-line adjustment, and the county decides, and you'll spend the next two years in a legal fight you can't afford. And Daniel will be in the middle of it."

She said his name like a weapon.

I stood in the studio doorway with the sun on my face and the wind coming off the water, and I thought about my mother, who had fought this fight alone when she was sick, and who had died before she could finish it.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"That's all we're asking," Vivian said.

She and Margot turned and walked back up the path. I watched them go. Then I went inside and closed the door, and Pearl jumped down from the windowsill and sat on the desk.

"They are lying," she said.

"About what?"

"The deed. The one with the glasses said something else to the man with the folder. She said, 'If she reads the second page, we're finished.'"

"The second page?"

Pearl blinked. "That is what she said."

I opened my laptop and pulled up the county file again. I had only looked at the first page. I had not ordered the full document.

I ordered the full document. It cost eighteen dollars and would be ready in the morning.

Then I sat on the floor of the studio with my cat in my lap and did not sleep.