Worthless Earns His Keep

Silas Lapham Cobb, Attorney-at-Law, sat behind his cluttered desk, leaning back in a wooden swivel chair, snoring softly. A large white cat with one ragged ear lay curled on his lap, its purrs nearly matching the snores. A ceiling fan turned languidly overhead, uselessly pushing hot August air from one side of the office to the other. The clock on the wall, ticking in eerie accord with the snores and purrs, showed nearly three o'clock. The wall calendar showed 1891.

           When the minute hand reached 12, the clock chimed, cutting the silence like a dull knife. The cat raised its head then settled back. Cobb slept on. 

           A gray-haired woman in a severe black dress stepped into the doorway. She put on the eyeglasses that had been hanging across her ample bosom and studied the scene.

           "Are you busy at the moment?" Her voice had been slightly above a speaking tone, but loud enough to break the spell.

           "Hmm, yes, Miss Crone," Cobb said, sitting up and shoving the reluctant cat off his lap. "Yes, indeed." He straightened his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, shoved the cat to the floor, brushed cat-hair from his dark blue, pinstriped suit, and looked at her. "I was pondering."

           She smiled. "You might get more done if you kept your eyes open."

            Cobb smiled back, sharing the mutual respect garnered from her 30 years as his secretary. "I'll take that into consideration," he said as he picked up a file and set it before him. "Now what is it I can do for you?"

           "I've got a Mrs. Roberts here, wants to talk with you."

           "Show her in," Cobb said, quickly running a comb through his silver hair.

           A tall, overly thin blonde woman came in, followed closely by a brown-haired boy of perhaps eight years, both unsmiling. Cobb gestured them toward the chairs in front of his desk. The woman sat, with the boy standing beside her. 

           "I'm Sarah Roberts," she said, "but I guess you already knew that." Cobb nodded. "And this," she continued, “is my son Leon. Leon, say hello to Mr. Cobb."

           "Hi," Leon said, but his attention had been drawn to the half-open window, where the white cat had settled on the sill, tail curled around its legs. He walked over and touched the cat, jumping back when one eye opened and studied him with solemn dignity, while the other eye seemed to squint with special interest.

           Cobb laughed. "I see you've found Worthless, the pride and joy of this establishment." He walked over and picked up the cat, as though hoisting a sack of loose ball bearings, and cradled it in his arms. A loud purr filled the room. "He's a nice enough old guy, my Worthless is, though my secretary has a fit if I ever let him wander into her domain. So the door is weighted to swing shut if not propped open, to keep him in here.”

           Cobb suspected he was going on too much about the cat, but noticed how the story had relaxed the boy. So he continued. “I must admit, I often risk the wrath of the housekeeper and let Worthless sleep in my bed at night. To hear her talk you'd think the woman never had to brush cat hair off a quilt before.”

           He smiled at the boy, who smiled back.

           "But he spends most days in my office, with ready access to that window, which I keep propped open, except in deep winter. He allegedly hunts pigeons and keeps the mice under control, but about all I usually see him do is sleep." 

           He carried the cat to Leon. "My standard caveat is to be cautious about uninvited touching, because he can be persnickety or downright hostile," he said, "but since you've passed that threshold unharmed, you may presume him a friend."

           Leon stroked the cat. "I thought at first he was an old stuffed animal. He seems so dirty and ragged."

           "Guilty on all counts," Cobb said, setting the cat on the floor.  "His appetite being what it is, one could nearly always deem him stuffed. And he was as he is on the day – must have been three years ago now – that he slipped through that window and deigned to make this his home, with a sort of regal decrepitude."

           "But why is his name Worthless?"

           "Because," Cobb said, smiling, "he is. Look at him." The cat freed himself from Leon's attentions and sat a few feet away, cleaning his face with one paw and studiously ignoring his visitors. "He's a worthless hank of hair and bone" Cobb said, "and that's why I like his company. No pretense. He is what he is." 

           A warm silence filled the room for a few moments. "Now if you'll excuse me," Cobb said as he rose, "we can get things going here."  He walked to the doorway and called for Miss Crone. "Would you please take our young friend into the waiting area?"

           He turned toward Leon, "There's a lot of things in there you might like to look at, some real stuffed animals, even a few books." The boy looked doubtful, but left without complaint, though with a last longing look toward his mother.

           Once Leon was safely out of earshot, Cobb turned to Sarah. "Now, what brings you here, Mrs. Roberts?"

She took a deep breath. "I want a divorce."

           "That's a hard situation to be in," Cobb said. "I’m sorry for you.” He pulled over a yellow legal pad and picked up his pen from the inkwell. “Can you fill me in on the reasons?"

The woman sighed, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "It's . . . I . . . I just can't stay with him any longer. It's not good for me and so hard on Leon."

"I see. What exactly is happening?"

"My husband, George. He's not the man I married, he's. . . He's someone I don’t know anymore, don’t like, and am afraid of.” She described a life filled with violence, accusing George of striking and knocking her down, a man with an ungovernable temper, aggravated by intoxication, who often used abusive language toward her, such as 'damned old whore.' 

           "I could maybe stand it if it were just me," she concluded, "but he does it in front of Leon, and I'm afraid he'll start on the boy next." With that she broke down in tears.

Cobb sat silently until she stopped and dried her eyes. “No one should have to stand that,” he said.

She spoke with a soft but desperate voice. "So can you help me? I have some money hidden away and you can have it all, and if it's not enough I promise I'll pay you when I can."

"Let's not discuss fees right now," Cobb said. "That we can work out later. But, yes, I will help you. From what you describe, these things, this cruel treatment and drunkenness, are sufficient grounds for divorce."  

"Thank you," she said. A moment later she added, "But I have to warn you, I'm going to go stay with my sister because when he learns about this he'll explode, and he's likely to go after you when he's on one of his drunks."

Cobb laughed with an air of confidence he didn’t really feel. "He won't be the first to threaten me and won’t be the last. Usually that’s all bluster but if not, I assure you I can take care of myself." He rose. "Now perhaps you could gather up your son, and be sure to leave all your contact information with Miss Crone. I'll get started on the paperwork."

2.

One night a few weeks later Cobb was working late in his office, door and window closed, the only light from a kerosene lantern on the desk. Worthless provided his usual condescending companionship, seated on the windowsill, beside the closed heavy curtain, apparently in deep contemplation. Still, he was always ready to jump down if Cobb should get up, because that often meant a snack to be cadged from whatever Cobb might find.

            Though Cobb kept writing, Worthless suddenly rose to his haunches, and stared across the room, toward the closed door. His good eye widened, the fur rose on his back, his ears and tail twitched. He shifted to a crouch. Moments later he leaped from the sill and vanished beyond the ring of light and into some darkened corner. 

           Cobb watched him go. "Stupid cat, always chasing ghosts," he muttered, and began to write again. He stopped when he heard a rustle near the doorway. He turned, expecting to see the cat batting at something. Instead, he heard the click of the turning doorknob and the door's hinges creaking. Cobb nearly called out, but something, perhaps the cat's behavior, suggested caution. He blew out the lamp and silently rose to his feet in the sudden blackness.

           The door flew open. 

           The pale light from the hall window outlined a figure in the doorway. The figure stepped forward and the weighted door swung shut. Full darkness returned. Cobb pressed against the wall.

           Careful quiet steps edged closer. Cobb slid along the wall, hoping to work his way to the door, not daring to move fast until he knew the figure's location. The steps stopped. Cobb held his breath. He heard breathing near his desk and sensed someone testing the silence. Too late, Cobb remembered his weighted walking stick, his only weapon, leaning beside his desk, on the far side of the intruder. 

           His only advantage lay in silence. But he had to breathe, and when he did, he sensed the figure turning toward him. An almost inaudible shuffle moved closer. Cobb crouched and raised his arms protectively before his face.

           A yowl burst out of the darkness, followed by a mumbled curse, and a stumbling. Cobb dashed behind the desk, grabbed the walking stick by one end and swung it into the dark. He hit nothing. He sensed the figure moving toward him and prepared to swing again. A harsh low whine sounded from somewhere out there, followed by loud hissing and spitting, then a scuffle. Something heavy and soft struck Cobb in the chest, nearly knocking him over. He swung the stick again and heard a satisfying thunk followed by a moan and thud.

           Cobb relighted the desk lamp. Worthless lay beside the desk, a nasty red gash along one rear leg, blood pooling onto the floor. A man sprawled silent and still in front of the desk.

            Cobb knelt beside the cat and reached out his hand. Satisfied that the cat was not mortally injured, he turned toward the man, who seemed about to stir. Cobb rose, got a rope from the bottom drawer of his desk and hogtied his visitor. Then he called the police, who later told him the man’s name was, as he had suspected, George Roberts.

           Next morning Sam Walker, the local county attorney, listened to Cobb's story of George's nocturnal visit.  "Well, Silas," he said, "it appears you were fortunate indeed to escape without injury, perhaps with your life. And the cat?"

           "He'll be fine. I called Doc Huffman to sew up his leg. You never heard such grumbling, though. Something about being awakened at four a.m. 'for a goddammed cat.' Mr. Roberts had a knife and old Worthless apparently got in the way, though I'm not sure why or how. I like to think the cat attacked him, and the man threw him at me in frustration, but I'm willing to concede a mere happenstance encounter. Whatever it was, I think I owe my life to that animal."

           "I've always wanted to throw a cat," Walker said, "I wonder what kind of distance he got." 

            “Please,” Cobb said in a tone of mock dignity, “show some respect. For once our feline friend has earned his keep."