Cat in the Dark

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Reaching to her nightstand, she switched on the travel-size coffeepot that she had prepared the night before, wondering if her flowered India skirt and sandals and the low-necked blue T-shirt were the right clothes for the opening or if she'd better try the black dress again, with the silver necklace her aunt had loaned her. She imagined the gallery as it would be tonight, lighted and festive, thinking about the crowd of strangers, hoping she could remember people's names.

  As the scent of coffee filled the room she sat up, pushing her pillow behind her, and poured a steaming mug, blowing on the brew to cool it. Coffee in bed was pure luxury, a little moment to spoil herself before she started the day, pulled on her jeans and boots and a work shirt, and hurried out to be on the job by eight, installing Sheetrock and trying to figure out how to do things she'd never done before. She would not, once she got moving, stop again until dark overtook her, except for a hasty sandwich with her girls, maybe with Clyde, and with whatever subcontractor might be working.

  Leaning back into the pillows, she planned her day and the week ahead, laying out the work for the plumber, the sprinkler man, and the electrician, and watching, through her open windows, the sky brighten to flame, the sunrise staining the room, and laying a wash of pink over her framed drawings. Her studies of the two cats looked back at her, so alert and expectant that she had to smile. Dulcie had such a wicked little grin, such a slant-eyed, knowing look, as if she kept some wonderful secret.

  The portraits of Joe Grey were more reserved. Tomcat dignity, she thought, amused. Drawing Joe was like drawing draped satin or polished pewter-the tomcat was so sleek and beautifully muscled, his charcoal-gray coat gleaming like velvet.

  But his gaze was imperious. So deeply appraising that sometimes he made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she could swear that she saw, in Joe Grey's eyes, a judgment far too perceptive, a watchfulness too aware and intense for any cat.

  Charlie didn't understand what it was about those two; both cats had a presence that set them apart from other felines.

  Maybe she just knew them better. Maybe all cats had that quality of awareness, when you knew them. Her thoughts fled to last night when she had stood alone in the moonlit village looking up at the black rooftops, stood touched by that vast, wheeling space, and had glimpsed two cats leaping between the rooftops across the pale, night sky, and she felt again a wonderful delight in their freedom.

  She had gone out to dinner alone, hadn't felt like a can of soup or peanut butter and crackers, which was all her bare cupboard had offered. And she didn't feel like calling Clyde. Their dating was casual; he probably would have been happy to run out for a quick hamburger, but she'd wanted to be by herself. Besides, she'd been with him half the day, working on the house. She'd been tired and irritable from dealing with a hired carpenter, had wanted to walk the village alone, watch the evening draw down, have a quiet dinner and then home to bed. When she had taken on the job of refurbishing Clyde's newly purchased relic of an apartment house, she had bitten off almost more than she could chew. She'd had no intention, when she started Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It, of becoming a remodeling service. The business was meant to be just what it said: minor household repairs and painting-replacing a few shingles, spiffing up the yard, window washing, gutter cleaning, a good scrub down, total maintenance for the village homes and cottages. Not tearing out and replacing walls, supervising workmen, replacing ancient plumbing. She had no contractor's license, but Clyde was, for all practical purposes, his own contractor. All they had to do was satisfy the various building inspectors.

  She'd gotten home from work as the summer twilight faded into a clear, chill night, had peeled off her sweaty jeans and shirt, showered, put on clean denims and a warm sweater. Leaving her apartment, she had walked through the village down to the shore ten blocks south, moving quickly between wandering tourists. This was the beginning of the Fourth of July weekend, and along the narrow streets, NO VACANCY signs glowed discreetly among climbing nasturtiums and bougainvillea.

  She had chosen a circuitous route, cutting across Ocean to the south side of the village, slowing to look in the windows of the Latin American Boutique, enjoying the brightly painted carvings and red-toned weavings, admiring and coveting the beautiful crafts and trying not to make nose prints on the glass.

  She had met the shop's owner, Sue Marble, a white-haired woman of maybe fifty who, people said, kept the store primarily so she could claim a tax write-off on her frequent Latin American trips. Not a bad deal, more power to her.

  But as she had moved along beside the window, a Peruvian death mask gleamed through her own reflection, an ugly face superimposed over her face, framed by her wild red hair. The image had amused her-then frightened her. Swiftly she had turned away, hurried away toward the shore.

  She hit the beach at Tenth Avenue, and had walked south a mile on the hard sand, then turned back up Ocean to The Bakery, thinking that a glass of Chablis would be nice, and perhaps crab Newburg. She thought sometimes that she led herself through life only with these little treats, like beguiling a mule with a carrot.

  But why not treat herself? Tuck some bits of fun in with the hard work? Hanging Sheetrock all day was no picnic-and the heavy work had left her ravenous.

  The Bakery, a rambling structure of weathered shingles, had been a summer-vacation house in the early 1900s. A deep porch ran along the front, facing a little seaside park of sand dunes and low, twisted oak trees spreading like dark, giant hands over the curves of sand and sweeps of dark ice plant. She'd been disappointed that all the terrace tables were taken, but then had spied a small corner table and soon was settled facing the darkening dunes, ordering wine and the Newburg, quietly celebrating the first gallery exhibit of her drawings.

  After her father died, it was her mother's subtle control that had eased her in the direction of art school, to develop the talent her mother thought was her strongest. Her mother would not consider that her skills at repair work and at organizing the work of others had any value. Sipping her wine, Charlie thought about her mother with regret and disappointment. Her mother had died a year before she finished art school.

  Beyond The Bakery veranda, the breaking waves were tipped with phosphorescence, and above them the night sky flowed like surging water, its light seeming also to ebb and change. She'd been so physically tired from the day's work that the Chablis had given her a nice buzz, and the conversations around her were subdued, a relaxed ambience of soft voices against the hushing surf. When her Newburg arrived she'd made herself eat slowly, not wolf the good dish but savor each bite-had to remind herself this wasn't noon on the job, eating a sandwich with the work crew and with Mavity and Pearl Ann and Clyde, all of them starved. Had to remind herself this was not supper with Clyde. Eating with Clyde was much like eating with the carpenters; she was inclined to follow his lead, devour her meal as if it would remain on the table only briefly and must be consumed before it got away.

  But Clyde was good company. And he was honest, quick to see the truth of a situation. If he was lacking in some social graces, who cared? There was nothing put-on or fake about him.

  That first morning, when they went up to look at the five-apartment building after he signed the escrow papers, he'd been so excited. Leading her in through the weedy patio and through those moldering rooms, he'd been deep in the grip of euphoria, imagining what the place would look like when they'd refurbished it-imagining he could do most of the work himself, just a little help from her. Just a little paint, Charlie. A bit of patching. They'd agreed to exchange labor. She'd help with the house, presenting him with bills that he'd honor by working on her declining Chevy van.

  Of course there was more needed than patching, but the five apartments had nice large rooms and high ceilings, and Clyde had envisioned the final result just as clearly as he saw the possibilities in restoring an old, vintage car.

  The difference was, he knew what it took to restore a car. Beneath his skilled hands the Mercedeses and BMWs and Bentleys of M
olena Point purred and gleamed, as cared for as fine jewelry. But Clyde was no carpenter. To Clyde Damen, carpentry was a foreign language.

  In order to pay cash for the building, he had sold his five beautifully restored antique cars, including the classic red Packard touring car that he so loved. The sales nearly broke his heart, he had done every speck of work on those cars himself in his spare time. But he was too tight to pay interest on a mortgage, and she didn't blame him.

  As the dining terrace began to empty, she had dawdled over her dinner enjoying her own company, quietly watching the surf's endless rolling, feeling its power-spawned by the interplay of wind, the moon's pull, and the centrifugal whirling of the earth. The sea's unending motion seemed to repeat the eternal power of the universe-its vast and unceasing life.

  She relished her idle thoughts, her idle moments, the little pauses in which to let her mind roam.

  After the Newburg she had treated herself to a flan and coffee, and it was past midnight when she paid her bill, left the veranda, and headed home through the softly lighted village. The streets were nearly empty. She imagined the tourists all tucked up in their motel rooms, with maybe a fire burning on the hearth, perhaps wrapped in their warm robes nursing a nightcap of brandy.

  Walking home, she had paused to look in the window of a sporting goods shop at a beautiful leather coat that she would never buy; she'd rather have a new cement mixer. It was then, turning away, that her glance was drawn to the rooftops by swift movement: Two dark shadows had sailed between the peaks. She had caught only a glimpse. Owls? A pair of large night birds?

  But they were gone, the sky was empty.

  No, there they were. Two silhouettes, not flying but racing along a peaked ridge, leaping from roof to roof then dropping out of sight.

  Cats! They were cats; she had seen a lashing tail against the clouds and sharply peaked ears. Two cats, playing across the rooftops.

  And she had to laugh. There was no mistaking Joe Grey's tailless posterior, and his white paws and white nose. She had stood very still, setting carefully into memory the cats' swift flight against the pale clouds. They appeared again, and as they fled up another peak and leaped between dark ridges, scorching in and out among the tilting roofs, she had itched for a piece of charcoal, a bit of paper.

  As she stood watching them, she heard a young couple laughing somewhere ahead, the woman's voice soft. Glancing to the street she didn't see the man and woman, but their conversation was playful, challenging and happy; she couldn't make out their words. Then silence, as if they had turned up a side street.

  And the cats were gone. She had stood alone on the sidewalk, her painter's mind teeming with the two racing felines, with the joy of their carefree flight.

  But now, lying in bed, seeing the leaping cats among the darkly angled rooftops, she felt a sudden chill.

  Puzzled, sliding out of bed, she refilled her coffee cup and stood before the easel looking at the quick sketch she had done, from memory, before she went to sleep, the swift lines of charcoal on newsprint, her hasty strokes blocking in jutting roof lines against the sky, and the lithe, swift cats leaping across-and a sense of threat was there, that she had not meant to lend to the scene. Studying the drawing, she shivered.

  Last night she had been so charmed by the cats' grace and freedom, by their wild joy; she had felt only pleasure in the hasty drawing-but she saw now that the drawing did not reflect joy. Its spirit was dark, pensive. Somehow she had infused the composition with foreboding. Its shadowed angles implied a dark threat.

  Threat to the cats? Or threat because of the cats?

  Perplexed, she turned away. Carrying her coffee, she headed for the shower.

  The bathroom was tiny. Setting her coffee cup on the edge of the sink basin, she slid under the hot, steaming water of the shower, her mind fully on the sketch.

  What had guided her hand last night? Those two little cats were dear to her; she had gotten to know Dulcie well while she was staying with Wilma. And if not for her drawings of Joe and Dulcie, sketching them for her own pleasure, her work would not have been seen by Sicily Aronson. She would never have been invited to join Sicily's prestigious group. Without Joe and Dulcie, there would be no exhibit for her tonight at Sicily's fine gallery.

  Letting the hot water pound on her back, reaching out for a sip of coffee, she told herself she had better get her mind on the day's work. She had building materials to order and three subcontractors to juggle so they didn't get in each other's way. Coming out of the shower to dress and make a peanut-butter sandwich, checking over her work list, she forgot the dark drawing.

  But then as she opened the front door, carrying her denim work jacket and the paper bag with her lunch, a folded sheet of paper fluttered down against her boot, as if it had been stuffed between the door and the molding. Snatching it up before it blew away, unfolding it, she read the neatly typed message.

  Charlie:

  You'd be a good tenant, if you didn't clutter up the yard. You've had a week, and two previous warnings, to get your stuff out of the backyard. The other tenants are complaining. They want to lie in the sun back there, not fall over wheelbarrows and shovels. I have no choice. You are in violation of your rental contract. This is a formal notice to vacate the apartment and all premises by tonight. Any item you leave behind, inside the apartment or in the yard-cement mixer, buckets, the entire clutter-will be mine to keep and dispose of.

  She set her lunch bag on the porch, dropped her jacket on top, and read the note again. Looking down toward her landlord's apartment, just below hers, she wanted to snatch up that neat little man and smear him all over his neat little yard.

  Swinging back inside, she grabbed her stacked cardboard boxes and began shoving dishes and pots and pans in on top of her folded clothes. Jerking her few hanging garments from the closet, she rolled them into a bundle, snatched her framed drawings off the wall, and carried the first load down to her van. Halfway through her packing, she grabbed up the phone and called Clyde, told him she'd be a bit late. Didn't tell him why. And within an hour she was out of there, chalking up another defeat.

  5

  THE BRIGHTLY lighted gallery, from the aspect of the two cats, was an obstacle course of human legs and feet. They had to move lively toward the back to avoid being stepped on by spike heels, wedge sandals, and hard, polished oxfords that looked as lethal as sledgehammers. Slinking between silken ankles and well-creased trouser cuffs, they slipped beneath Sicily Aronson's desk into shadow where they could watch, untrampled, the champagne-fueled festivities.

  In Joe's opinion, the way to attend an art exhibit was from, say, a rooftop several blocks removed. But Dulcie had to be in the middle, listening to the tangle of conversations, sniffing expensive French perfumes and admiring dangling jewelry and elegant hair arrangements. "No one will notice us-they're all talking at once, trying to impress each other."

  "Right. Of course Sicily won't notice us. So why is she swooping in this direction like a hungry barn owl?" The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd with her usual exuberance. "On stage," Joe muttered. "Always on stage." She was dressed in silver lame evening pajamas that flapped around her ankles, a flowing silver scarf that swung around her thin thighs, and an amazing array of clinking jewelry. Kneeling and laughing, she peered under the desk at them, then scooped Dulcie into her arms. Pulling Joe out, too, she cuddled them like two teddy bears; Joe had to grit his teeth to keep from clawing her, and of course Dulcie gave him that don't-you-dare scowl.

  "You two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed," Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. "This is lovely to have you here-after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?"

  Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly-she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point's Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on;
she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the piece de resistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuna scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. "You two stay right here-just curl up and look pretty-and I'll fix a plate for you." Leaning down, she stared into Joe's eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. "Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?"

  Joe felt himself weakening.

  But as Sicily left them, a big woman in a plum-colored dress descended, pushing her way out of the crowd. "Oh, the two little models. Oh, look how sweet."

  Joe growled and raised his paw. Dulcie nudged him.

  "Isn't that cute. Look at him put up his paw to shake hands. Just like a little dog."

  The lady's male companion had sensibly stepped back from Joe. But the woman reached for him. "Oh, they look just like their portraits. Such dear little cats. Come and pet them, Howard. Look how sweet, the way they're posing here on the desk, so obedient."

  She patted Joe on the head like a dog, a gesture guaranteed, under most circumstances, to elicit a bloody stump. He held his temper with heroic effort, but he calmed as she chose a slice of ham from her plate and gave them each a share.

  He was beginning to feel more charitable when a woman in a white dress joined them. "Oh, the darling kitties, the kitties in the drawings." And an elderly couple headed their way, practically cooing. A regular crowd was gathering. Joe eyed them sourly. Even the good party food wasn't enough to put up with this. As other guests circled the desk reaching to pet them, Joe lost it. Lashing out at the nearest hand, he leaped past it, hit the floor running, sped out the door and across the street and up a bougainvillea vine. Didn't stop until he was on the roof of Mara's Leather Shop, pacing among the vents.