When she had had enough running she discovered Sally’s lap and settled there for a time, purring as Sally gently petted her. When Sally’s hand grew tired, Trixie bounded off to explore behind the sofa.
Supper was followed by another session on Sally’s lap, this time with the TV on; the supper dishes were left, unwashed, in the sink.
And then, finally, Sally stood and announced, “I’m going to bed, Trixie; you’ll have the house to yourself for awhile. Take good care of it for me!”
She turned off the TV and the light and shuffled into her bedroom, but this time, when Trixie tried to follow, Sally closed the door, shutting her out.
“I’m sorry,” she said through the closed door, “but I’m not up to having a kitten bouncing on me while I’m trying to sleep. Maybe when you’re a bit older, and we know each other better.”
Trixie didn’t understand a word, but she heard and accepted the apologetic tone. She didn’t meow at the door or otherwise protest; instead she rambled off around the house, looking for prey.
She stalked down the darkened hallway, smelling the air and watching the shadows. A faint whiff of something caught her attention—not a mouse or bird, something sweet. She made her way silently to the kitchen doorway—even kittens can be silent when they want to.
Something was moving in the kitchen—she could hear rattling and thumping. It wasn’t loud enough for humans, but it wasn’t catlike, either. She crept in and looked around.
There was something moving on the kitchen table, and something on the counter; water was running and the dishes were rattling in the sink. Everywhere was a gingery, unfamiliar scent.
Trixie leapt to the seat of a chair, and then onto the table, and found herself face to face with something she had never seen before.
It was roughly her own size, but shaped like a human. Its skin and clothing were entirely gingerbread-brown, from the tip of its pointed hat to its curly-toed shoes; its face was long and narrow, with a pointed chin, and pointed ears thrust up on either side of its cap. It held a great wad of cloth in one hand, and had evidently been polishing the table when it heard Trixie’s approach.
It squeaked at the sight of her, and the rattling from the sink ceased abruptly. From the corner of her eye Trixie could see more of these creatures on the counter and the edge of the sink, all of them turning to stare at her.
Trixie considered the situation for a moment.
One of the creatures would be a little large for prey to begin with; half a dozen of them were definitely more than any sensible kitten would tackle. The fact that they weren’t running away made it plain that they didn’t consider themselves prey, either.
They were too small to be considered humans, and therefore she could not expect food, petting, or pampering from them. She didn’t think they could even open the bedroom door for her, so she could crawl into bed with Sally.
They might be playmates; Trixie had had playmates when she was younger, before being separated from her two littermates. She meowed questioningly.
The creature before her squeaked again, then shrugged, made a shooing gesture, knelt down, and began polishing the table.
That wasn’t any fun. Trixie ambled over and batted at the polishing cloth with one paw, claws sheathed.
The creature chittered angrily and snatched the cloth away. Trixie leapt after it.
The creature dropped the cloth and glared angrily at Trixie, then whistled.
Trixie paid no attention at first as she batted the oily cloth around the slippery tabletop; then she felt a sudden grip on her tail and looked up to find herself surrounded by the little brown people.
One of them snatched away the cloth, and when she tried to pursue it another yanked at her tail. She turned, spitting, and swiped, claws out.
The brown things didn’t back down or give back the cloth; instead they moved in in a coordinated effort. One grabbed each of her four legs, one ducked under her chin and lifted her head, and one kept a grip on her tail. Then, together, they carried her to the edge of the table and dropped her, no more roughly than necessary given her squirming, to the floor.
She angrily jumped back to the chair and prepared to jump back on the table, only to find herself confronted by a solid barrier of the creatures.
Trixie knew the proper cat thing to do in a case like this; she sat down and began washing herself, pretending she had never had any intention of jumping onto the table.
After that she generally ignored the brown creatures. She watched them occasionally as they washed and dried and put away the dishes, dusted the furniture, and swept the floor, but did not interfere with them.
And at the first light of dawn they all scurried away and vanished—Trixie didn’t see where they went, which annoyed her, and she resolved to do better next time.
An hour or so later Sally emerged from her room, and a new day began with a generous breakfast, followed by curling up on Sally’s lap in front of the TV.
The days thereafter followed a similar pattern—by day Sally and Trixie kept one another company, and at night while Sally slept Trixie and the little brown creatures ignored each other while the creatures cleaned the house. Over time Trixie grew from a kitten into a cat; Sally slept longer and moved about less. Annie visited often, remarking sometimes on how tidy Trixie was in using her box—which wasn’t really true; the brown creatures cleaned up spills, though they didn’t change the litter. Sally’s nephew Albert stopped by occasionally, and tried to talk Sally into moving into a nursing home. There were phone calls and other visitors, as well, and the comforting flicker and mumble of the TV.
One day each year Annie brought over a little cake for Sally’s birthday. Trixie was there for the ninety-third and ninety-fourth.
And then one morning Sally didn’t come out of her bedroom to give Trixie breakfast. Trixie waited and waited, but Sally never emerged. Trixie began meowing, and when that didn’t work and the hunger became serious she began yowling. She reached up and batted at the bedroom doorknob, but couldn’t budge it.
The phone rang, interrupting a yowl, and Trixie ran to the device, ready to demand attention when Sally came to pick up the receiver, but even then, Sally didn’t appear. The phone rang and rang, but finally stopped.
A few minutes later it rang again, and was again ignored.
And then, perhaps half an hour later, the doorbell rang—again, without effect.
Albert’s voice called, “Aunt Sally? Are you all right?”
Trixie meowed loudly.
A key rattled in the lock, and Albert stepped in. Trixie meowed anxiously and ran beside and around him as he called, “Aunt Sally?” and made his way to the bedroom door. His big human hand easily turned the knob Trixie had been unable to move. The instant the opening was wide enough Trixie dashed inside and jumped on the bed.
Sally was still there—but cold and lifeless.
“Oh, hell,” Albert said. He turned and hurried to the phone in the living room.
Trixie meowed at Sally for a moment, then gave up and went out to the living room to meow at Albert.
No one paid any attention. No one fed her or petted her.
And then strangers came, and talked to Albert, and looked at Sally, and took her away, and still no one paid any attention to Trixie, until at last Albert and Trixie were alone in the house, and Trixie meowed so insistently for attention, practically climbing his leg, that Albert finally noticed her.
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked.
Trixie meowed once more and led the way to the kitchen, to her bowl.
Albert sighed and got out food, and sat at the table watching as Trixie ate.
“I suppose it’s off to the pound for you,” he muttered. “I don’t want a cat, certainly!” He looked idly around the kitchen. “At least you haven’t made a mess of the place the way I thought you would. It’s ama
zing that Aunt Sally kept this house up so well at her age.”
Trixie was too busy eating to pay much attention.
She was just finishing, licking her paws, and Albert was sitting at Sally’s desk looking through the drawers, when the doorbell rang. Albert closed the drawers and rose, and Trixie trotted out to see who had come.
It was Annie, her expression worried. “Albert?” she said. “What happened? I just got home from work, and Ms. Rose next door told me there was something going on here…”
Albert stood silently, helpless to answer; Annie saw his face and asked, “Where’s Sally?”
“She’s gone,” Albert said.
Annie sat down heavily on the sofa. “Gone gone?”
“She was ninety-four,” Albert said.
“I know, but…”
Trixie had long ago given up on Albert, but Annie knew how to pet a cat, and right now Trixie desperately wanted some proper attention. She jumped into Annie’s lap, interrupting whatever Annie had been saying.
Annie’s breath came out in a startled rush, but she recovered quickly and began stroking Trixie, scratching behind her ears and smoothing her fur.
Trixie settled down and began purring.
For a moment no one spoke; Albert settled uneasily onto a chair and sat facing Annie with his hands on his knees.
“What’s going to happen to Trixie?” Annie asked at last.
Albert hesitated. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “If I don’t find someone who wants her I guess she’ll go to the pound…”
“No!” Annie said, startling Trixie out of purring. “No, I’ll take her. I don’t have a cat right now; I’d be glad to keep her.”
“I hoped you would,” Albert said, relieved.
And that was settled. Twenty minutes later Trixie found herself being carried up the street to No. 1216, reversing the trip she had taken two years earlier.
Once she was delivered Annie returned to the other house to fetch Trixie’s food and litterbox, while Trixie began to find her way around her new home.
Annie’s house was both familiar and different. The rooms were in the same places and the same sizes as in Sally’s house, but the furniture was entirely different—and it wasn’t anywhere near as clean. Trixie wrinkled her nose in disgust as she explored her new home. Where Sally’s house had smelled of fresh food and flowers, Annie’s smelled of mildew and neglect.
This, Trixie thought, would never do. She looked up at Annie as the human passed by with the litterbox and meowed reproachfully.
“What is it, Trixie?” Annie asked. “Do you miss Sally?” She knelt, put the box aside, and petted Trixie. “So do I. But she’s gone, and we’ll just have to get used to it.”
Trixie meowed again, but Annie did not respond properly by getting out a broom or duster; instead she just went on stroking Trixie’s fur and talking about Sally.
After awhile Trixie noticed with distaste that Annie had stopped talking, and water was dripping from her eyes. She pulled free of Annie’s petting hand and went to wash herself in private—and to think.
Annie was all very well; Trixie had liked Sally, after a cat’s fashion, but she understood that Sally was gone, and while that was unfortunate there wasn’t much she could do about it, and Annie was an acceptable substitute.
This new house, though, was so dusty Trixie found herself sneezing every time she poked her head under the furniture, and it simply didn’t smell right at all. It wouldn’t do. Any cat who stayed here would have to spend all her time just licking dust from her fur.
Annie didn’t seem to understand that, and presumably, since she had lived here for some time, she didn’t care.
Trixie couldn’t very well clean the house herself; even if she had hands, it would be beneath her dignity as a cat. But somebody had to clean the place.
Of course, Sally hadn’t cleaned her own house; she had had the brown creatures to do it. Why didn’t Annie have any?
Trixie looked around and decided that Annie needed some brown creatures—and after all, with Sally gone, they wouldn’t have anything to do at the other house any more.
The question was, how could she get them from there to here?
The direct approach seemed in order; Trixie went to the back door and meowed.
Annie emerged from the laundry room and saw her.
“Oh, no, Trixie,” she said. “You live here now. And I’m not going to let you outside—it’s too dangerous. You could catch something; I don’t know if Sally ever got you all your shots.”
Trixie meowed.
“No,” Annie said emphatically.
Trixie knew what “no” meant. It meant that the human saying it was not going to cooperate.
Well, she thought, we’ll just see about that. Then she sat down and began grooming herself, to lull any suspicions Annie might have.
Just then the doorbell rang; Annie hurried to answer it, and found Albert standing on the stoop. Trixie followed at Annie’s heel, watching and awaiting her moment, and when Albert started to step inside she dashed for the opening.
Before anyone could stop her she was outside. Annie shrieked, but couldn’t push her way past the startled Albert quickly enough to grab Trixie before the fleeing cat ducked behind a bush, out of sight.
A moment later Annie and Albert were standing on the front lawn, looking up the street toward Sally’s house, calling, “Here, Trixie!”
“I don’t see it anywhere,” Albert said.
“Well, but she must have wanted to go back home,” Annie said. “Where else would she go?” She looked about, mystified.
Behind the bush Trixie crouched down, her black fur invisible in the shadows. There wasn’t any point in going back down the street yet; the brown creatures wouldn’t come out until the middle of the night.
Annie and Albert walked down the street, calling and searching; Trixie watched them go.
Some time later they came wandering slowly back. Albert said, “I’m sure the cat will turn up again. When it gets hungry it’ll find you. Or maybe it’ll be waiting on Aunt Sally’s steps tomorrow when I go back.”
“I hope so,” Annie said, unconvinced. She climbed the two steps to her front door and stood there, arms crossed over her chest, as she looked around the neighborhood for some sign of Trixie’s whereabouts.
Albert waved goodbye and left, and at last Annie shrugged, shivered in the cooling evening air, and went back inside.
Trixie snoozed cheerfully behind the bush.
Hours later she awoke, yawned, stretched, and ambled out of concealment.
The street was dark and deserted. No cars rumbled on the pavement; most of the windows were unlit. This was just what Trixie wanted; the brown things would probably be hard at work. She strolled easily down the block.
In front of Sally’s house she paused, considering.
She was outside. The brown creatures were inside. This could be a problem. Cats couldn’t open doors.
She had seen the brown things open cabinet doors often enough, though, and sometimes the pantry or the laundry room door—they had never opened the bedroom door, but Trixie thought they could have, if they wanted. If they could do all that, they could presumably let Trixie into the house.
The question was, would they?
Trixie thought they would. After all, they liked everything to be in its proper place, and Trixie’s proper place had always been inside that house. If she could just get their attention…
She ambled around the side of the house, and bounded up to the kitchen windowsill—fortunately, the screen was not in place. There she peered in through the glass.
The brown creatures were there—and apparently puzzled by the lack of dirty dishes, as two of them were sitting on the edge of the sink, looking about unhappily.
Trixie meowed, loudly, and thumped her tail aga
inst the glass.
The brown creatures started and looked up at her. Then they began to make their odd little noises at each other.
Trixie meowed again, and patted the glass with one paw.
One of the brown creatures climbed up on the sash and pried at the latch, while no fewer than four of the others gathered on the inside sill, staring out at Trixie.
That was perfect. Trixie had thought out exactly what she had to do, and it appeared she would have her chance.
The latch snapped open, and the brown creature jumped down from the sash; then all five bent down and began heaving. The window slid open slowly; Trixie waited. Then, when the opening was wide enough, she pounced.
The brown creatures scattered, squealing, but not quickly enough. She had caught one of them in her forepaws. Now she snatched at it with her mouth, and got her jaws around its neck.
Then, as gently as she could, as gently as if she were handling her own kitten, she picked the shrieking creature up, turned around, and leaped back out the window to the ground.
There she began trotting up the block toward Annie’s house, holding her head up as high as she could, with the brown thing squirming in her hold.
Behind her the other creatures chattered and squealed, then followed her, one by one, leaping out the window and chasing her across the close-trimmed lawns.
At last she reached Annie’s house, climbed awkwardly up the two steps to the front door, and waited, still securely holding her captive.
The brown creatures gathered around her, chattering. Trixie waited, making it as obvious as she could that she expected them to open the door for her.
Eventually, as Trixie’s jaws began to tire, two of the creatures stepped forward. One hoisted the other up onto his shoulders, and the top creature stretched up until he could reach the doorknob. He grabbed it and pulled himself up, then climbed on top and seated himself on the knob, where he looked thoughtfully at the lock in front of him. He pulled a tool from his pocket, squinted into the keyhole, and set to work.
The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy Page 27
