Morning became Roger’s shift.
Evening remained Beatrice’s.
The afternoon 4:15 appointment gradually became unnecessary because Roger now saw Hector twice as much as before.
Still, at 4:15, Roger often found himself looking toward the clock.
Habit.
Sometimes Hector appeared anyway.
Other times he was busy conducting whatever secret business occupied the rest of his day.
Roger began visiting Beatrice regularly.
At first, practical reasons.
Medication.
Groceries.
Physical therapy appointments.
Then the practical reasons disappeared.
Roger still visited.
“Tea?”
Beatrice would ask.
“Coffee.”
“You drink too much coffee.”
“You call a cat Honey.”
“Leave.”
He never did.
Tea became dinner.
Dinner became Wednesday and Sunday dinner automatically.
Roger cooked poorly.
Beatrice cooked slowly.
Between them, they achieved competence.
The building changed too.
That part happened so gradually nobody identified a single beginning.
Maybe it began when Maya left her phone number with Beatrice in case she needed something.
Maybe when Frank organized a list of residents willing to check on older neighbors during bad weather.
Maybe when Darren placed a notice beside the mailboxes asking residents to update emergency contacts.
Maybe when Roger put a small bowl of cat treats near the lobby desk.
Or maybe it began the first time somebody said:
“Have you seen Hector today?”
Because people started noticing.
Hector became the unofficial superintendent of Alderman Court.
He appeared in hallways no cat should logically have accessed.
He sat beside the elevator.
He slept near the radiator in winter.
He inspected grocery bags.
He entered apartments selectively.
Nobody knew where he truly lived.
That question became a building-wide debate.
Mrs. Dobbs claimed he slept in the basement laundry room.
Frank swore he saw Hector climbing the fire escape to the roof.
Maya discovered him sleeping on her couch one afternoon despite having no idea how he entered.
Darren insisted there was a loose basement window and repeatedly promised to fix it.
Every time he tried, Hector appeared elsewhere.
Eventually Darren stopped.
“Building code does not account for him.”
A printed photograph of Hector appeared on the lobby bulletin board.
Underneath, someone wrote:
HECTOR ALBRIGHT-KESSLER
BUILDING SECURITY
PAYMENT ACCEPTED IN SARDINES
Beatrice crossed out ALBRIGHT-KESSLER and replaced it with:
HONEY
Roger crossed out HONEY.
This continued for weeks.
Other residents added names.
Sir Hector.
Honey Boy.
Chairman Meow.
The Mayor.
Frank wrote:
CAT.
Nobody agreed.
Hector answered to none of them.
One Saturday, Susan flew in from Vancouver.
Roger had told her about Beatrice.
A lot.
Perhaps too much.
Susan arrived at apartment 214 carrying a suitcase and the expression of a daughter trying not to smile.
“Dad.”
Roger hugged her.
“You look tired.”
“Six-hour flight.”
“Sit.”
She stepped inside.
Hector was sleeping in Elaine’s old chair.
Susan stopped.
“Oh.”
Roger followed her gaze.
“Hector.”
“That’s him?”
“Yes.”
“The famous rescue cat.”
“He exaggerates.”
Susan laughed.
Hector opened one eye.
Later that afternoon, Susan met Beatrice.
Roger watched the two women study each other.
Beatrice said:
“So you’re Susan.”
Susan smiled.
“So you’re Beatrice.”
Roger became suspicious.
“What have you two heard?”
Beatrice looked innocent.
“Nothing.”
Susan said:
“Absolutely nothing.”
They both laughed.
Roger rolled his eyes.
That evening, after Beatrice returned upstairs, Susan sat with her father in the kitchen.
“You’re different.”
Roger frowned.
“Older?”
“No.”
“Happier.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I suppose.”
Susan smiled.
“I’ve worried about you for eight years.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know.”
“That’s different from not doing it.”