Cat in the Dark (9 page)

“Where's Greeley?” Ralph asked, looking around the VW as if he expected his father-in-law to materialize from beneath a suitcase.

“He's really anxious to see you,” Mavity said. “Too bad there wasn't room in the car.”

“How long is it to the house?” Dora said nervously. “I should have stopped in the ladies' room.”

“Ten minutes,” Mavity lied, cutting the time in half.
“You remember. Only a little while. You can hold it.”

“Is there a Burger King near? We could stop there for the restroom. Or a McDonald's?”

Patiently Mavity swung down an off-ramp to McDonald's and watched Dora make a trip inside. When Dora wedged herself back into the car she was toting a white paper bag emblazoned with the golden arches and smelling of hamburger and onions. She handed Ralph a double burger, its wrapping damp with mustard, and shoved a giant paper cup between her knees.

Mavity, pulling onto the freeway again, was glad the Sunday traffic wasn't heavy. Already she was beginning to feel like a sardine packed too tight. She tried to keep her mind on the cool, piney sea wind blowing in through her open window. Ahead, as she turned toward Molena Point, the wide expanse of sea with the sun on it eased the tight feeling across her shoulders. But when they turned off the highway into the village, Dora said, “I'd love to see where you work, where they're doing that remodeling. Could we stop by there?” Dora loved anything to do with houses.

“We can come back,” Mavity told her. “After we unload. Or this evening after supper we can take a run up, the four of us.” If she didn't get out of the crammed car soon she was going to have one of those shaky attacks that left her feeling weak.

But Dora's face crumpled with disappointment.

“Or what about tomorrow morning?” Mavity said quickly. “You and Ralph and Greeley can drop me off for work, take your time looking at the building—though it's just a mess of lumber and Sheetrock—then you can have the car for the day, go out for a nice lunch, and pick me up at five. How would that suit
you?” She seldom offered her car when they were visiting, because she needed it for work, and she knew Dora wouldn't refuse.

Dora nodded, despite the disappointment that pulled down her soft jowls. Mavity only hoped she could show them through the apartments quickly tomorrow, without getting in everyone's way. Dora seemed totally set on seeing the project, and when Dora got her mind on something, it was hard to distract her.

They found Greeley at home in the kitchen frying chicken. He made drinks for Dora and Ralph, and they sat in lawn chairs out on the grass, looking at the bay, talking and catching up, until Dora and Ralph got hungry.

 

Dora didn't mention the apartment building again during dinner, but Monday morning she and Ralph were up early getting themselves ready, getting in Mavity's way as she tried to wash and dress.

And up at the apartments, they insisted on poking through every room, bothering the two carpenters and chattering to Pearl Ann and Charlie, who were busy hanging Sheetrock, slowing everyone's work until Pearl Ann opened a can of paint thinner and accidentally spilled some on Dora, and that sent Dora off with Ralph in the VW to change her clothes.

She thought it strange that Dora had seemed to avoid the patio, keeping to its roofed walkway or inside the apartments, but glancing out often—almost as if she didn't want to be seen, though there was no one living in the apartments, only Mr. Jergen, and his office lights weren't burning; the upstairs windows were dark as if he had gone out. Maybe Dora, looking out at the flower beds, had developed an interest in landscaping. Heaven
knew, the patio could use some nice plants and bushes; it must look to Dora like last year's dried-up farm stubble.

Well, despite Dora's peculiarities, it was good that she had gotten her mind off her troubles; this was not an easy time for the Sleuders. Mavity guessed she ought to be a bit more tolerant of Dora's irritating manner.

A
T THREE O'CLOCK
on Tuesday morning across the moonlit village nothing stirred, no hush of tires on the damp streets, no rumble of car engines beneath the cloud-veiled moon; the tangle of cottages and shops and sheltering trees was so still the village might have been cast beneath some hoary wizard's hundred-year enchantment. The white walls of Clyde Damen's cottage and its ragged lawn were patterned with the ancient scriptures of tree shadow as still as if frozen in time. But suddenly a shadow broke away, racing across the mottled lawn and up the steps and in through the cat door, his white paws flashing.

Tracking mud across the carpet, Joe Grey trotted through the sleeping house accompanied by comforting and familiar sounds; the creak in the floor as he crossed the hall, Clyde's irregular snoring from the bedroom, and beyond the kitchen door, old Rube gently snuffling his own doggy snores. Joe pictured the Labrador sprawled on the bottom bunk in the laundry, among the tangle of cats, all sleeping deeply. The four household
animals had slept thus ever since Barney died, dog and cats crowding together to ease their loneliness for the elderly golden retriever.

Joe missed Barney, too. The old golden had been a clown, always into something, dragging Clyde's Levis and gym equipment all over the house, huffing and growling in the kitchen as he goaded the white cat to knock a pack of cookies off the top of the refrigerator.

Moving swiftly down the hall, Joe's nostrils were filled with the stench of human sleep laced with beer and garlic. Loping across the bedroom's antique rug, he sprang onto the blankets inscribing muddy pawprints, avoiding Clyde's stomach by leaping over his housemate. Kneading the empty pillow, he stretched out across it and began to wash.

Around him, the room was a montage of twisted tree shadows, as dense as if he resided in a jungle—though the thought of jungle irritated him, reminded him of the invading tom. As he washed, Clyde stirred and moaned—and woke, leaning up to stare.

“What the hell are you doing? You're shaking the whole damned bed.”

“How could I shake the bed? I was simply washing my face. You're so sensitive.”

Clyde snatched up the digital clock. “It's three
A.M.
I was sound asleep.”

“You wouldn't want me to go to sleep unbathed.”

“I don't care if you never take a bath—if you call that disgusting licking
bathing.
” Clyde flipped on the bedside lamp, scowling at him.

“My God. I might as well have a platoon of muddy marines marching across the sheets. Can't you wash outside? When I go to bed, I don't drag half the garden in. And I don't do all that stomping and wiggling.”

“
You
have hot and cold running water and a stack of
nice thick bath towels. All I have is my poor little cat tongue.”

Clyde sighed. “I presume the hunting was successful, by the amount of blood on your face. And by the fact that you are not out in the kitchen banging around clawing open the kibble box, ripping through the entire supply of cat goodies.”

“When have I ever done that after a night's hunt? Of course the hunting was successful. Was, in fact, very fine. The full moon, even with clouds streaked across it, makes the rabbits wild.

“It's the lunar pull,” Joe told Clyde, giving him a narrow leer. “Oh, the rabbits danced tonight. Spun and danced across the hills as if there wasn't a cat within miles. Lovely rabbits. Such tender little rabbits.”

“Please. Spare me your feline sadism.”

“What we do is certainly not sadism. We are part of a complicated and essential balance of nature—a part, if you will, of the God-given food chain. An essential link in the necessary…”

Clyde snatched up his pillow and whacked Joe.
“Stop talking. Stop washing. Stop shaking the bed. Shut up and lie still and get the hell to sleep.”

Joe crawled out from under the pillow, his ears back, his head ducked low, and his bared teeth gleaming sharp as knives.

Clyde drew back, staring at him. “What? What's the matter? I hardly tapped you.”

“You didn't
tap
me. You
whacked
me. In all our years together, you've never hit me. What's with you? How come you're so irritable?”

“
I'm
irritable? You're the bad-tempered one—I thought you were going to take my arm off.” Clyde peered closer, looking him over. “You and Dulcie have a fight?”

“You're so witty. No we didn't have a fight. I simply don't like being hit. Fun is one thing, but that was real anger. And why would Dulcie and I fight? For your information, I left Dulcie on Ocean Avenue staring in the window of that new Latin American shop, drooling over all that handmade stuff they sell. And why are
you
so edgy? You and Charlie have a fight?”

“Of course not. She…” Clyde paused, frowning. “Well she was a bit cool.”

“And you're taking it out on me. Venting your bad mood on a defenseless little cat. What did you fight about?”

“Nothing. She was just cool. She's been cool ever since Sunday morning. Who knows what's with women?”

“Bernine,” Joe said and resumed washing his paws.

“Bernine
what
?”

Joe shrugged.

“You mean she's in a bad temper because Bernine's staying with Wilma? But why get angry at me?”

“You figure it out. I'm not going to draw pictures for you. I don't suppose you would want to get up and pour me a bowl of milk. I'm incredibly thirsty.”

“You're not saying—Charlie's not
jealous.
Jealous of Bernine Sage?”

“Milk is good for the stomach after a full meal of raw game. A nice chilled drink of milk would ease my mood, and would wash down that cottontail with just the right dietetic balance.”

“Why the hell would she be jealous of Bernine? Bernine Sage is nothing—a bimbo, a gold digger. Doesn't Charlie…? Bernine doesn't care about anything but Bernine. What's to be jealous of?”

“If you would keep a bowl of milk in the refrigerator where I can reach it, I wouldn't have to ask. It's
demeaning to have to beg. I have no trouble opening the refrigerator, but without fingers and a thumb I really can't manage the milk bottle.”

“Please, spare me the details.”

“And have a glass yourself—it will help you sleep.”

“I was asleep, until you decided to take a bath. And now you want me to get up out of a nice warm bed and freeze my feet on the linoleum, to…”

“Slippers. Put on your slippers. Put on a robe—unless you really enjoy schlepping around the kitchen naked, with the shades up, giving the neighbors a thrill.”

“I am not naked. I have on shorts. I am not going to get out of bed. I am not going to go out to the kitchen and wake up the other animals, to pour you a bowl of milk. I can't even describe the rudeness of such a request—all so you can wash down your bloody kill. That is as barbaric as some African headhunter drinking blood and milk. The Watusi or something.”

“Masai. They are not headhunters. The Masai are a wise and ancient people. They drink milk mixed with the blood of their cattle to give them strength. It is an important Masai ritual, a meaningful and religious experience.
They
know that milk is nourishing to the soul as well as to the body of a tired hunter. And if you want to talk disgusting, what about those Sugar Puffs or Honey Pops or whatever you eat for breakfast with all that pyridoxine hydrochloride and palmitate, to name just a few foreign substances. You think that's not putting strange things in your stomach?” Joe kneaded the pillow; its springy softness gave him the same sense of security he had known in kittenhood kneading at his mother's warm belly. “There's a fresh half-gallon of milk in the refrigerator, whole milk.”

Clyde sighed, rose, and began to search for his slip
pers. Joe watched him for a moment then galloped along past him to the kitchen.

And as Joe drank milk out of his favorite bowl, which Clyde had placed on the breakfast table, and below him on the floor the other animals slurped up their own hastily supplied treats, Clyde sat at the table drinking cold coffee left over from the morning before.

“I hope you killed that rabbit quickly and didn't tease it. I don't like to think of you and Dulcie tormenting…” Clyde shook his head. “For two intelligent beings, you really ought to show more restraint. What good is it to be sentient, to be master of a culturally advanced language, and, supposedly, of advanced thought patterns, and still act like barbarians?”

“The rabbit died quickly. Dulcie broke its neck. Does that make you happy? It was a big buck—a huge buck, maybe the granddaddy of rabbits. It clawed her in the belly, too. For your information, a rabbit can be as vicious as a Doberman when you…”

“Wouldn't you be vicious if someone was trying to flay you for supper?”

“We're cats. We're hunters. God put rabbits on the earth for cats to hunt—it's what we do. You want we should go on food stamps?”

Finished with his milk, he dropped to the cold linoleum, Clyde turned off the light, and they trucked back to bed again. But, getting settled, clawing his side of the blanket into a satisfactory nest, Joe began to worry about Dulcie.

When he had left her in the village, not an hour before, he thought he glimpsed a shadow moving across the rooftops. Probably a raccoon or possum had climbed to the rooftops to scavenge bird's nests. And even if it had been Azrael, Dulcie would be in control;
she was quite capable of bloodying Azrael if he got fresh.

Or, he hoped she was.

 

The moon's light cast the sidewalk and shops into a labyrinth of confusing shadows, but the street seemed empty, and Dulcie heard no sound, nor had noticed anything moving except, high above her, the little bats darting and squeaking. Her attention was centered on the shop window against which she stood, her paws pressed to the glass, the bright colors of weavings and carvings and clay figures softly illuminated into a rainbow of brilliance. Oh, the bright art drew her. Pushing her nose against the pane, she sniffed the exotic scents that seeped through, aromas no human would detect; the faint drift of sour foreign dyes, of rare woods and leathers, the heavy stink of sheep fat from the handmade wool rugs and blankets. Studying the bold Colombian and Peruvian patterns, she thought that their strange-looking horses and deer and cats were closer akin to mythological animals than to real beasts.

Closer akin to me,
she thought.

The notion startled her, shocked her, made her shiver.

The idea must have been playing on her mind without realizing, from the myths she had read—the notion that she was strange and out of sync with the world.

It isn't so. I am real flesh and blood, not some weird mythical beast. I am only different.

Just a little bit different.

And stubbornly she returned her attention to the bright and foreign wares.

She had, coming down the street, paused at each shop to stand on her hind paws and stare in, admiring handprinted silk blouses and cashmere sweaters and
handmade silver jewelry, her hunger for those lovely embellishments making her purr and purr with longing.

Now, dropping to all fours, she slipped into the garden that ran beside the shop and trotted along to the back, staring up at the transom above the back door.

She did not intend to steal—as she had, in the past, stolen silky garments from her neighbors. She meant only to get nearer the lovely wares, to sniff and feel and enjoy.

Swarming up a purple-blooming bougainvillea vine that climbed the shop wall, forcing up between its tangle of rough, woody limbs, she clung above the back door, clawing at the narrow transom until the hinged window dropped inward. It stopped halfway, held by a chain.

Crawling through on the slanted glass, she jumped down to a stack of packing crates, then to the floor.

She was in the shop's storeroom. It smelled of packing straw and the sour scent of the raw mahogany crates that had been shipped from South America.

Trotting into the big showroom, she was surrounded by primitive weavings and carvings and paintings, was immersed in a gallery of the exotic, every tabletop and display case filled with unusual treasures. Leaping to a counter, she nosed at straw figures and clay beasts, at painted wooden animals and medieval-looking iron wall hangings and appliqué pictures made from tiny bits of cloth. Lying down on a stack of wool sweaters as soft as the down of a baby bird, she rolled luxuriously, purring and humming a happy, half-cat, half-human song of delight.

It had been a long time since she'd coveted anything so fiercely as these lovely creations.

Choosing the softest sweater, a medley of rust and cream and black that complemented her own tabby
coat, she forgot her good intentions. Dragging it between her front paws—like a leopard dragging an antelope—she headed across the floor to the storeroom. There she gazed up toward the high window, her head swimming with the heady pleasure of taking, all for herself, something so beautiful. She was crouched to leap when a sharp thud made her spin around, bristling.

She could smell him before she saw him. In the inky gloom, he was a whisper of black on black, his amber eyes gleaming, watching her. Sauntering out of the darkness, he smiled with smug superiority. “What have you stolen, my dear?”

She crouched, glaring.

“My, my. Would you report me and Greeley to the police, when you're nothing but a thief yourself? Tell me, Dulcie, where are you taking that lovely vicuña sweater?”

“I'm taking it to nap on it,” she lied, “in the storeroom, away from the display lights. Is there a law against that?”

The tomcat sat down, cutting her a wicked smile. “You don't steal, my dear? You have never stolen from, say, your neighbors? Never slipped into their houses and carried away silk underwear, never stolen a black silk stocking or a lace teddy?”