by Ingrid Lee
Reddick threw himself away from the heat. Rolling to the edge of the steep roof, he jumped for his life. He was no cat. He could have snapped his neck. Only the junipers planted around the deck set him down easy.
The whole show was over in a matter of seconds. The wounded cloud bled buckets of rain. The roof got wet, Reddick got wet, and so did the cat. As soon as the cloud drained dry, it trailed away like a rag shot to smithereens.
The water had made short work of the flames. Reddick was still staring at the smoldering hole in the house’s roof when the cat jumped right over his head. She tore out of the juniper bushes with his sandwich in her mouth.
The sorry truth hit Reddick like a round of buckshot.
All that yowling was done for a purpose. That cat had seen the future. That cat had saved his life.
“To heck with it, cat!” Reddick scrambled to his feet and shook his fist. He yelled to the empty yard. “To heck with it, cat, you can keep the sandwich!”
There was no way Reddick was climbing back on the roof again that day. He grabbed his ladder and jammed it under the veranda. Then he drove to the hardware store to phone the fire department. “I’ll need more than shingles to finish the roof now,” he told the hardware store owner after he had finished telling his story.
The owner had a story of his own. “Did you see the news, Walt?” he asked.
Reddick was still thinking about the cat. “What news?” he muttered.
“Here.” The owner shoved the local newspaper into his hand.
Reddick almost laughed out loud. The picture on the front page showed a bunch of placard-waving people around the steps of City Hall. All the signs said the same thing:
SAVE THE CATS. STOP THE ROUNDUP!
“It’s no laughing matter.” The hardware man sounded upset. “The people in that picture don’t look like folks around here. I’ll wager most of them have come from the city to make trouble. Those people have no business interfering in the affairs of our town.”
The hardware man had a point. But he had paid no mind to the facts. Reddick recognized some of the faces. Those people worked in the neighborhood. But the hardware shop owner expected Walter Reddick to agree with him anyway.
Reddick took a closer look at the paper. The kid with his back to the camera looked familiar. In fact, he looked a lot like his Billy. For once, Roddick kept his mouth shut.
He paid for his nails and got out.
Conga ate the sandwich ravenously. Then she scurried back to her nest in the coal cellar. Her young’uns needed a meal, too. Only something was wrong. Something blocked her way. Metal bars crossed the hole in the boards. She couldn’t get into the chute. She couldn’t get to her kittens. “Myuuuuur!” she cried.
The kittens “mew-mewed” back. They wanted their mother. They wanted milk.
Conga railed at the ladder rungs in her way. She stuck her paw through a crack and clawed the dark air. Back and forth under the veranda, she searched for another way into the cellar. It was no use. Finally she stuck her nose between the bars and commanded her kittens.
“Myuuuuur!”
It took a while for the kittens to decode the message. Their mother’s cry sounded far away. One by one they toppled over the side of the old car seat. The slippery slope of the chute was another challenge. The gray led the charge. Near the top, he lost his footing and bowled his sisters over. All the kittens ended up in a quivery heap at the bottom. They had to start their climb all over again.
The white kitten was too little to make the journey. It huddled between the springs of the car seat. All it knew was how to wait.
Conga coaxed her kittens. When each one stuck their head between a rung and a board, she pinched their skin between her teeth and hauled them out. Briefly she let them nurse. Then she began to dig. Her back paws flung dry clods of earth and stone chips against the veranda over her head. Back and forth, her paws scraped at the hard ground.
Several inches down, she came to the outside wall of the coal chute.
It was made of tin.
TWENTY-THREE
Conga dug. Luke scraped the poster off the window in the mayor’s office. Salome kept her grandmother company at the breakfast table. Billy looked for his cat.
It was seven in the morning and the new day was well on its way.
Billy walked along Main Street. The doorways and windows of the shops were plastered with Salome’s work. Only a few of the drawings had been ripped away. The posters showed the mayor with five-dollar bills stuffed in his collar and falling from his pockets. On the one at Corky’s, someone had added a mustache to his stiff upper lip. The ends of the mustache stuck out like cat whiskers.
Billy avoided the cameras at City Hall. He gave Luke a small backhanded wave as he pushed past the mob milling outside the front doors. The mayor looked madder than a March hare. Good, thought Billy. Maybe the council would get the message. Maybe they would see that the cats needed help.
As for his dad’s friends and their plans — well, Billy had a gun, too.
He needed to find Conga. He tried to think like his cat. He tried to be her. Where would she go? He knew where she liked to hide: in his bathrobe, in his boots. There was nothing like that in people’s backyards. Billy scoured the alleyways one more time without luck. Conga had disappeared from the face of the earth.
How could he know she was digging a tunnel to the middle of the world?
By eleven in the morning, Billy couldn’t fight his need for sleep any longer. He went home. He expected ructions when he opened the door. He expected his mom to be waiting in the kitchen with her arms crossed, biting her bottom lip. Or maybe his dad would be there instead, one hand clenched around a cup of cold coffee. So it was a surprise to find the apartment empty, and his bedroom door as he always left it — shut.
Billy crawled under the covers where it was dark. He slept. Around dinnertime, the sound of low chatter roused him, and he hurried out of bed. There was packing to do. He found his dented old flashlight and clipped it to his belt. He emptied his money jar. This time he wasn’t coming home again — not without his cat — and not as long as the whole town was up in arms.
His folks were in the kitchen. When Billy eased open his bedroom door, the smell of fish and chips made his stomach growl. Billy sucked in the rumblings. Conga was probably hungry, too. He stood in the hall behind the utility room waiting for a chance to get past his parents and escape out the kitchen door.
“I don’t know why they can’t give an exam that makes sense,” his mom was complaining. “I failed the math section for sure.”
Billy waited for his dad to put his mom down. He waited for his dad to say, “I told you so.” He waited for one of them to stomp out. It made Billy tired all over again — the waiting for it.
Only his dad didn’t say, “I told you so.” Instead he said, “Mae, the way I see it, life is too short to cry over spilt milk. You can take the math again if there’s a need.”
Billy barged into the middle of the kitchen in a big hurry. He thought his dad was sick. Maybe his dad was so sick he was going to die. “Well, it’s about time you got up,” his mom said to him. “You spend too much time in that room of yours. Have some dinner. You can keep me company tonight when your dad goes to the pub.”
Billy looked his dad over from top to bottom. He looked the same as always. “Maybe tomorrow,” Billy said, and streaked out the door.
“What’s got into him?” his mom said. “The boy looks like he just lost his best friend.”
His dad shook his head. He had something to get off his chest. “Mae, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “A cat saved my life today — a real smart cat with a taste for homemade sandwiches.”
Billy’s mom sat down at the table. “How’s that?” she said.
That’s when Billy’s dad told Billy’s mom the whole story. He told her about the jungle cat that could open lunch boxes, and he told her about roof-jumping away from the bright white flames. When the story was over, he reach
ed for her hand. “I guess that was the best sandwich you ever made me, Mae,” he told her. “I owe you. I owe the cat, too. It’s a bad business to be beholden to one of them critters.” He moved his hand to touch her hair. “There’s something I’ve got to tend to right now. But I’m hoping you’ll wait up for me.”
Billy’s mom sat very still. Finally she put her hand on her husband’s forehead. “You feeling feverish, Walt?” she asked.
Luke had fed and watered the feral cats by the time Billy got to the alley. Salome stood on the little balcony. “The two of you go and look for Conga,” she called down when Billy rounded the chapel corner. “I’ll wait in the loft with a can of food in case your cat decides to drop by.”
Billy and Luke headed out with the flashlights. They split up and got on with the job of finding a mother cat in a town full of strays.
Maybe they believed that needles stuck out of haystacks.
Once they were gone, Salome went into the choir loft. She slumped against the slope of the roof, pulled Billy’s bathrobe over her shoulders, and opened a can of cat food. The air darkened around her.
It had been a long day. After breakfast Salome had gone to the pet store as usual. Joxie was full of talk. “Funny how that big sign found its way into the mayor’s office in the dead of night,” she’d said. “The only way to get in would be through one of the windows in the dome.” Joxie had peered suspiciously at Salome. “Girl, you’ve got dark circles under your eyes. It looks to me like you’re missing sleep.”
Sitting in the choir loft, Salome reached into her bag for her notepad. Before she had her pencil drawn, her eyes got heavy. By the time Billy came back to the chapel yard, she was dreaming in charcoal. She didn’t hear Billy fishing in the manger. And when he got to the loft with his burden, she didn’t have questions.
Billy stuck a pellet in the chamber. He clicked the gun in place and sat down next to a crack in the loft door. It was nine o’clock. He hadn’t found Conga. The mayor hadn’t called off the roundup. And it was almost dark.
Time was up.
Under the veranda, Conga scrabbled dirt away from the outer side of the tin chute. Her work wasn’t worth much. The clay along the chute was well packed, and she had to dig around chunks of rock. The old wound in her paw tore wider with the wear. Blood mixed with the stones and dirt.
All the while the kittens harassed their mother. They tugged at her haunches, and crawled under her belly. She stopped long enough to fill them with milk. She took more precious time to find water in a bit of drainpipe. Before she went back to her digging, she called again to the little white kitten.
There was no answer from the cellar. Nothing stirred in the foam nest of the Ford seat.
The waiting was near over.
Time was up.
The boys at the bar already had their drinks in hand by the time Reddick arrived.
“I’ll wait till midnight,” Joe Close was saying. “I’m bringing Johnny along. He can watch his pa bust those pests. I might even let the boy take a shot of his own. I bought him an air gun, a real little beauty, for Christmas. Took him down to Lucky’s Range a few times. The boy’s set to go.”
The man with the red face ordered a second beer. “There’s a rumor that the mayor’s getting cold feet,” he griped. “My bet is he’ll pull the roundup afore it starts. Maybe I’ll give you and your boy a hand at the chapel. Show you a trick or two. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
The men all shifted to let Billy’s dad fit at the table. “Hey, Walt,” said the man with the red face. “I heard you had a bad moment on the old chapel house roof today. Glad to see you’re all right. A bit of cat-hunting might lighten your mind.”
Reddick chugged back his brew. “Gayle, I’ve already put the day behind me. As for your hunting plans tonight, that’s asking for trouble. The press is nosing around. We don’t want the town to get a bad name.”
The men guffawed. “Walter, that’s the first time I ever heard you care what anyone thought,” one of them joked. “Next thing you know, you’ll be siding with the strays.”
Reddick didn’t answer. The beer tasted like sawdust. Curse that cat. He took a long, dry swallow and shoved his chair back. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “The way I see it, the cats —”
He didn’t get any further. The bartender pointed to the screen over the bar. “Looks like the cats got a reprieve,” he declared. “Roundup’s cancelled.”
Joe Close slammed his fist on the table. “The mayor’s a wimp,” he declared. “And my mind’s made up.” He looked Reddick in the eye. “The old chapel’s crawling with feral cats. My boy and I are hunting cat tonight. I don’t want to hear any more lax talk.” He walked out.
Reddick watched him. He let the conversation swirl around him as he reviewed his day. The house he was shingling backed onto the chapel yard. Maybe that fool cat sheltered there. The more Walt thought about that, the more he faced what he had to do. He stood up and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “I think I’ll call it an early night,” he said. “You boys have another round on me.”
As soon as the pub door slammed shut, Reddick turned toward the chapel alley. He’d take a shot at finding the cat ahead of Joe and his boy.
He had a debt to pay.
Time was up.
TWENTY-FOUR
Down in the yard, the cats took their night stations. The three copycats climbed into the low branches of the mulberry tree. Mac and Cheese hunkered down between the rafters of the stable roof next to Nosey Parker. And Scat shredded the manger scraps into a cloud woolly enough to fill the space left by a gun already claimed.
On top of his castle of crates, the gray tom scanned the alley. The moon turned his coat into silver armor. When the boy and the man showed up, he eased into the shadows.
“There!” said the boy. He pointed to the crates. “There’s a cat up there. It’s a big one. Got eyes like slick ice. Get it, Dad!”
“Easy as pie.” Joe Close nodded. “You get over toward the old stable, away from the mulberry tree. I’ll back up a bit the other way. We’ll coax that brute into the open.” He handed his son the gun, and reached into his pocket for the shot. “Load her up. Keep the cat in your sight.”
“Now hold on, Joe.” The quiet warning sliced through the dark yard. Walter Reddick stepped into the moonlight. He stood with his back to the alley, his hands up.
Johnny’s father spun around. “Walt!” he declared. “You gave me a start. What are you doing here? My boy and I will take care of these cats. You go on over to City Hall, if you want to see fur fly.”
“No call for a gun in a chapel yard,” Reddick said. He took a few steps deeper into the yard. “Why don’t you two —”
“There it is!” Johnny interrupted. “C’mon, Dad. Hurry! It’ll get away.”
The gray tom darted from the shadows and sprang up to a fence post. He waited there, his eyes glittering, his shoulders hunched, waited until the three pairs of eyes held his own. Then he began to slink along the lip of the fence away from the yard. He moved deliberately, stopping every few steps to look back.
It was an outright dare.
“Shake a leg, boy!” Joe Close hissed. “Duck around the tree. That cat thinks we’re stupid. Once you get a clear view, line it up in your scope. I’ll grant you one shot. Takes more than that to rouse people from their beds. Don’t waste it.”
Johnny cut through the stable. He hurried out past the old manger and readied his gun.
Reddick reached down and swiped a stone from the chapel earth. He drew back his arm.
“Get away from the cats!” The words fell from the sky.
Reddick’s arm froze in midmotion. There was someone outlined against the moon over his head. Someone had come out of the choir loft. It looked like a boy. It looked like his … “Billy!” Reddick called out. He dropped the stone. “Billy, put down that gun!”
Billy was so focused that he didn’t even hear his dad. He swung up his rifle easily. He�
�d had a lot of practice.
Joe Close couldn’t see the boy. But he heard the rifle cock. He yanked Johnny under the stable cover. The commotion riled the cats hiding in the rafters. They jumped every which way.
It was cat rain.
Joe Close threw up his arms when one furry beast brushed his face. The reflex spun Johnny into the manger. That sent Scat off like a cannon. The scraggy bolt of rage shot from his woolly bed and latched onto the back of Johnny’s head. As soon as the boy felt claws digging into his scalp, he started to dance. He stomped his feet so fast he forgot about his fingers.
The gun in his hand didn’t need more coaxing. It went off.
In the same instant, Salome bolted out to the loft landing. “Fool!” she yelled. She grabbed Billy by the collar.
Billy fired, too.
Both bullets found a mark.
Johnny shot himself in the foot.
And Billy shot his dad.
TWENTY-FIVE
The pellet grazed Billy’s dad’s arm.
Reddick looked down at himself in surprise. He watched the dry burn darken. A drop of blood welled up.
“Dad!” Billy cried. He threw the gun down to the yard and hurtled after it. He didn’t stop his headlong dash until he had run right into his dad’s arms. “Dad, are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” His sobs were full of grief, and anger.
“Hold it right there, son,” his dad said. He gripped Billy at arm’s length so they could look at each other. “I’m all right, you hear me? Simmer down! I’m to blame for what’s happened here.”
Johnny Close hopped over the yard yelping louder than a cat on a hot tin roof. “That’s enough!” Reddick called out. “You’re all right, boy. Take off that shoe. Your boot has a steel toe. You’ve got nothing more than a hot foot.”
He turned to Joe Close. “Your kid needs to go home,” he growled. “And mine. We’re done here.”
