The ride home from Springs Grove was the most uncomfortable I’d ever been in my life. I was trying to digest what Dagmar had said to me, and from the look on Tim’s face, she’d said something similar to him as well. I don’t think he could have gripped the steering wheel any harder. I don’t think I could have clenched my jaw any tighter.
I didn’t speak until he pulled up in front of the house that I’d just rented three blocks from my father’s.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said. He didn’t respond.
My life returned to normal over the next two weeks. I’d tried to share with my stepmother what Dagmar had said in the hospital, but as soon as Rose got an inkling of what was coming, she told me to stop.
“I don’t want to hear about this, and you shouldn’t be talking to her either,” she said sternly.
Dagmar was released from the hospital sometime in mid March and she went back to her house where she no longer had her dogs, but atleast she had her cat. Tim stayed in town too, and I didn’t hear or see much of them for about a week. Dagmar went back to the temp agency, and the pizza place didn’t care that she had been gone for three weeks. They still had pizza that needed to be delivered. It was easy for Dagmar to fall back into her regular routine.
On March 27, that routine changed. Armed with a warrant, county police came to her home and arrested her on a charge of first-degree murder. Her bail was set at $1 million. I found out about her arrest when her brother Tim called to ask me to take her cat. He said their mother was coming into town and she was allergic.
I told Tim I didn’t think that was a good idea since my basement wasn’t very secure. If cat-sized rats could get in, I was fairly certain that cat-sized cats could get out, I explained. Tim didn’t push the issue and I thought I had avoided the obligation. That was until Dagmar’s mother came to town.
In her 80s, Berta may have looked fragile, but she was formidable. She called me almost immediately upon her arrival and introduced herself over the phone. I wondered why I had suddenly become Dagmar’s only friend. My stepmother and aunt had pretty much cut off all ties with her, but I thought for sure there were other people in her life besides just my family.
“I cannot stay here with this cat,” she said in a heavy Dutch accent. “There is so much dog hair here still, that I might have to find someplace else anyway. But if you take the cat, we can clean up the dog hair.”
I repeated my concerns about my basement, but it didn’t matter. The conversation ended when I agreed to take the cat.
Tim and his mother showed up at my house an hour later. There was little fanfare as they handed over the black cat and its food.
“Thank you,” said Berta as she looked down her nose at me.
“I just hope it doesn’t get out” I said. “I went downstairs and shored up all the holes I could see.”
“It will be fine,” she said, then turned on her heel and marched out the door.
I put the cat down and went into the kitchen to get dinner ready for the kids. It followed me for a little while, and as I went to bed that night it was on the couch. In the morning, however, I couldn’t find the cat. After my job at the restaurant, which by this time had turned into a waitressing stint, there was still no cat. I looked under every piece of furniture, in every closet and cupboard and under every loose floorboard in the basement. Still no cat. After three days I was certain the cat was gone.
Berta reading my mind, gave me a call.
“How is the cat,” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. Um, I think the cat got out,” I stuttered.
“The cat got out,” she squealed. “Dagmar is going to be very upset.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I said, telling her that I didn’t think she should mention it to Dagmar while she was in jail.
“She made us promise to take care of that cat,” said Berta, being sure to solidify my guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” I whined, then attempted to deflect some of the blame, “I warned you about the basement.”
“You could have fixed that,” she scolded.
“If I could have fix it, I would have done that when I found rat turds,” I said getting defensive.
“She’s going to be very upset,” repeated Berta.
“I know,” I whined again.
Berta hung up. What a bitch, I thought.
