How to Moon a Cat (11 page)

In between the media vans sat several gleaming stateof-the-art tour buses. The riders spilled out of their homeson-wheels into the busy parking lot where they mingled with media, sponsors, and support staff. With lean muscular bodies, minimal body fat, shaved legs, and shortclipped hairstyles, the professional athletes were easy to pick out.

We found a shaded space for the van several hundred yards away from the rear of the hotel, and I sent Monty out on his bike to explore. I figured the delicate process of trying to check into our rooms with the cats could wait until later—preferably after dark. In the meantime, I let the cats loose in the van to stretch their legs.

Rupert shook his head with a short chin-flapping vibration; then he proceeded behind the curtain to the red igloo-shaped litter box. By the time I’d set out the cats’ food and water dishes, he was merrily digging away. I returned to the front passenger seat and rolled down the window, hoping to dissipate some of the smells associated with Rupert’s ruckus in the cargo hold.

After a lengthy visit to the food and water station, Isabella sauntered to the front of the van and hopped into the driver’s seat. Her tail wrapped tightly around her body as she sat primly looking up at the steering wheel. Her claws flexed, gripping the seat cover’s leather fabric. Slowly, she turned her head toward me, an expression of entitlement on her pert face.

“I don’t care how long you sit there,” I said with a stern sigh. “You’re not driving the van.”

Isabella glared back, her blue eyes resolute. “
Mreow
,” she replied curtly.

Thoroughly satisfied with his litter box session, Rupert bounced into the front seating area to join us. He climbed happily onto my lap, the feathery poof of his tail sticking straight up in the air. I tried to dodge the inevitable tail whap to my face as Rupert turned around in a circle, kneading my stomach, his typical precursor activity to curling up in my lap.

“Okay, you two,” I said, scooping up Rupert before he could collapse into his second nap of the day. “Let’s see what kind of bears we can find in Nevada City.”

 

 

WITHIN THE NETWORK
of team buses and television trucks, a bevy of mechanics had set up shop on the asphalt, spreading out their bike stands and toolboxes so they could fine-tune the high-end cycles that would be used for the coming race. Wrenches whipped through the air, wheels spun, and tubes of lubricant squirted in every direction.

In the midst of all this frenetic activity, one man kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the other mechanics. From the hunch of his shoulders, it was difficult to make out the narrow etching of the scar that ran down the left side of his face. Ivan Batrachos knew how to avoid drawing attention to himself.

No one noticed as he left his pile of tools and followed a woman pushing a large stroller across the parking lot.

 

 

IT TOOK AT
least fifteen minutes for me to figure out how to unfold the Cat-mobile, but I finally managed to assemble it into its open configuration. After that struggle, loading the cats into the carriage compartment was a relatively straightforward, if not altogether scratch-free, procedure. Then, I locked up the van and directed the stroller toward the Broad Street end of the congested parking lot.

Isabella sat upright in the carriage, keenly looking out through the screened netting that covered the passenger compartment. For his part, Rupert began tunneling down into the pile of old towels I’d tucked in with him. He was not one to be dissuaded once he’d decided it was time for a nap. As Isabella’s eyes stretched wide, taking in all the colorful sights, Rupert put his paws over his ears and wound himself into a determined white ball.

The area where we’d parked the van was mostly level, but the portion of the parking lot that led toward Broad Street was laid out across a steep side slope. Isabella issued a slew of cautionary comments as I maneuvered the stroller down the slick grade. All the while my hands tightly gripped the bar that formed the back handle, fearful of the wild ride the stroller might take if I lost control of it.

When we reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the parking lot, I stopped to look up and down the street, trying to get my bearings amid the sea of pedestrians.

On my right, the road dropped down to form an overpass over Highway 49. Broad Street’s historic district spread out across a sloping hill above us to the left.

“
Mrao
,” Isabella called out from the carriage.

“Up it is,” I replied, flexing my leg muscles. I grunted as I began pushing the carriage up the sidewalk’s incline. “It might be time for one of these cats to go on a diet.”

Rupert wheezed out a loud I’m-ignoring-you snore.

I continued up the street, pausing every so often to weave around people mingling outside restaurants or perusing racing memorabilia from one of the many mobile vendors. Surprisingly few bystanders noticed the cats in the stroller. Most assumed the carriage compartment contained human passengers and politely jumped out of our way.

I was immersed in and yet separate from the crowds, a woman pushing a stroller loaded with cats through hoards of cycling-obsessed fans. I tried not to think of how ridiculous I looked as I searched the street for any reference to Oscar’s toy bear or the California state flag it held in its paw. So far, the Bear Flags attached to the lampposts along Broad Street were the only potential clue I’d found, but that seemed reason enough to continue my slow climb up the hill.

As a small group moved to clear my path, I noticed a line of sandwich boards dotting the sidewalk ahead of us. Due to the heavy pedestrian traffic, I couldn’t read the first advertisement until I was right in front of the placard. Bright green lettering on a white background read:

The area was too crowded to see very far up the street, but the theater, I suspected, was just up the hill.

I glanced down at the stroller. “Hmm,” I said to Isabella. “Let’s give this a look-see.”

About ten yards farther on, we reached a second placard that pronounced:

The
not
was in a dramatically smaller print, so that one had to squint to read it.

Isabella stared at the sandwich board for several seconds; then she issued her instructions.

“Mrao,”
she said sharply.

“It’s a teaser, Issy,” I replied with a laugh. “They’re just trying to suck you in.”

“Mrao,”
she insisted.

“Okay, okay,” I said, shaking my head. I waited for an opening in the surrounding foot traffic; then I maneuvered the stroller around the placard.

Another block up the street, we stopped in front of a third green and white sign propped up against the side of a lamppost. It offered a similarly misleading enticement:

“Hippopotami,” I muttered with a grin, but Isabella was now even more determined.

“
Wraaaow
,” she called out persistently.

“What would happen if I ever stopped taking orders?” I asked with an exasperated sigh, but I moved the stroller forward anyway.

We found the red brick two-story building that housed the Nevada Theatre at the top of Broad Street’s long hill. Tall arched windows with black-painted shutters faced the sidewalk. A notice board set into the wall denoted it as “California’s oldest original-use theater.” Further details boasted of famous thespians and presenters who had appeared on its stage, including onetime San Francisco newspaper reporter Mark Twain.

The last piece of information immediately piqued my interest. Mark Twain had been one of my uncle’s favorite writers. The previous summer, I’d found an old photo of Oscar dressed up as Twain—his costume had included the writer’s signature rumpled linen suit and bristly white mustache.

My pulse began pounding as I pushed the stroller up to the fourth and final billboard, displayed outside the theater’s front entrance. The crudely drawn image of a bear took up the left-hand side of the poster space. Isabella began frantically pawing at the stroller’s top netting as I read the writing next to the animal:

THE FRONT DOORS
of the theater were propped open, an indication, I assumed, that the show was about to begin. I pushed the stroller over the threshold and paused in the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dusky interior.

The walls of the lobby were covered with a rough concrete plaster, giving the room the feel of a cold damp cave. It was an eerie contrast to the warming bustle on the street outside.

The place had a recently vacated aura. A table pushed up against the back wall contained the remnants of what appeared to have been a sizeable spread of hors d’oeuvres and snack food. A handful of leftover sandwiches, each one cut into a triangle with the crusts removed, lay on a tray alongside a few scattered cookies and a lone deviled egg.

Rupert suddenly woke from his slumber and stretched his head upward, sniffing hungrily against the stroller’s top netting.

“You just ate,” I hissed down at him.

He gave me a confused look as he smacked his lips together. His last meal in the back of the van was already long forgotten.

I tapped Rupert’s head through the netting and turned my attention to the door leading into the theater’s auditorium. Red velvet curtains had been pulled back to facilitate entrance into a semicircular stadium of seating. An easel-mounted placard beside the curtains identified the evening’s performer as traveling Mark Twain impersonator Clement Samuels.

I grinned at the sign and whispered down into the stroller. “Doubt that’s his real name, Issy.”

She murmured her agreement as I peeked through the curtains to the auditorium. The overhead lighting had been dimmed, and the members of the audience had taken their seats. The room was filled with the respectful silence of a preperformance hush.

I didn’t see anyone selling or collecting tickets, so I nosed the stroller inside and rolled it down a wide aisle near one of the back rows. With a light thud, I flipped the red vinyl cushion of the nearest chair into its horizontal position and sank into the anonymity of the darkness.

Craning my neck, I could just make out the front rim of a balcony positioned above my row of seats. Given the numerous pieces of lighting and sound equipment poking out over the ledge, the second floor looked as if it was closed off to the audience.

I dropped my gaze to the darkened area around me. The auditorium’s walls and floor were constructed of the same concrete substance as those in the lobby. If the theater was as old as it claimed, I mused, extensive renovations must have been done to the original structure.

At the bottom cusp of the seating area, a focused flood of light poured down onto the stage, where an open checkerboard surface awaited the afternoon’s performer.

Looking out across the audience, I noticed the front spotlights reflected the tops of mostly white-haired heads. The majority of today’s patrons, I suspected, were local theatergoers. The occasional cycling tourist mixed into the crowd was easy to pick out.

After a crackling of static, a man’s deep, resonant voice, warmed by the soft edge of a Southern drawl, echoed from behind the stage. “Friends, Romans, countrymen—and a few bewildered bystanders drawn in from the street. Welcome to the Nevada Theatre!”

A whiskery, rosy-cheeked man in a tattered black bow tie and a rumpled linen suit strolled gallantly onto the stage. He stroked the corners of a white mustache as he approached the microphone stand. Then, standing center stage, he turned toward the audience and pumped his wild flyaway eyebrows.

I stared at the actor, momentarily transfixed. The unkempt eyebrows, the bended curve of his shoulders, the twinkle in his eyes as he assessed the crowd—all these features were strikingly similar to the man in the black-and-white photo I’d found almost a year earlier in the basement beneath the Green Vase—the photo of my Uncle Oscar posing as Mark Twain.

I tried for a moment to recall the details of the photograph so that I could perform a mental comparison between my costumed uncle and the actor on the stage. But quickly, I abandoned the idea. Of course there’d be a strong resemblance between the two men, I told myself with a firm reasoning gulp. They were both impersonating the same historical figure.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and”—the man paused for effect—“
assorted beasts
.” I gripped the handle of the stroller as he winked toward the rear of the auditorium. “Again, welcome to this afternoon’s program. Now, I presume introductions are unnecessary?”

He stopped expectantly, as if waiting for confirmation from the audience. As the silence stretched out, he turned his whole body sideways, cupped his hand around his right ear, and leaned out over the front row of seats.

“What’s that I hear?” he called out belligerently, stamping his lace-up ankle boots in exaggerated irritation as he spun to face the audience. “Surely, my reputation precedes me?”

Beneath the overgrown mustache, the man’s lips puckered petulantly. He unbuttoned the loose-fitting linen jacket and stroked the paunch of his collared white shirt.

“Don’t tell me that you are unaware of my extensive collection of work?” He put his hands on his hips defiantly. “Come now, I have not been dead that long. Someone in the audience must have read my writings . . . ”