Cat Found

by Ingrid Lee

  As soon as the other two had left, Billy blurted it out. “They wanted to kill my cat.” He didn’t care if his dad knew the truth.

  Billy’s dad tilted his boy’s chin. He didn’t want to believe in Providence. But he was too sensible to ignore bare facts. “What did you say, son? What do you mean, your cat? You’ve got no cat.”

  “I do!” Billy cried. “I’ve got Conga. She’s my cat. I had her in my room the whole summer. And now she’s out there with her kittens and it’s my fault. I have to find her!” He pushed his dad’s arms away. “Conga!” he yelled. “Where are you? Conga!”

  The wild shriek shut him up. A she-cat materialized on the top of the fence. She ran at the gray tom, backing him into the post by the edge of the yard. Then she gave Billy one of her looks.

  “Conga!” Billy yelled. “Conga, wait!” He could have saved his breath. The cat vanished over the far side of the fence. Billy ran across the yard, kicking at the crates, scrambling up the sides. “That’s her!” he cried. “That’s Conga. She wants me to follow her. I’ve got to get over the fence! Dad, help me!”

  Billy’s dad didn’t hesitate. He picked up his boy and dumped him over the boards.

  “Wait for me!” a girl shouted. Reddick practically jumped out of his skin. He looked up to the mulberry branch spreading over his head. A black ghost hustled along the tree limb. She was nothing more than a hurried shadow blocking the star-spangled sky, but it didn’t take a genius to know she was headed after his Billy.

  Reddick reached for the rim of the fence.

  “Stop right there!” another voice shouted.

  “What the —?” Reddick muttered. There was someone else in the yard! He spun into the glare of alien eyes. They were headlights, fierce yellow ones. A bulldozer had rumbled into the alley. The dull drone of the motor swelled into a vibrating roar as it squeezed between the narrow walls.

  “Stop!” the voice yelled again. In front of the headlights, a figure waved his arms wildly. “Stop!”

  “Luke, no!” the girl in the tree shouted, hooked to a swaying limb by her knees. “That thing is bigger than you! Get out of the way!”

  “It’ll have to flatten me first!” the figure roared back.

  Then Billy’s dad recognized the dark shape in front of the lights. It was the ponytailed kid, the street boy, the one always rummaging in the trash cans. He was trying to stop a bulldozer from coming into the chapel yard. Idiot! Did he think he could stop ten tons of steel?

  The bulldozer rolled relentlessly down the alleyway, closer and closer. The man with the red face leaned out the window. “Move it!” he yelled at the boy blocking his path. “The council wants this place cleaned up. I’ve got a contract. You can’t obstruct the city!”

  “Over my dead body!” Luke yelled. He stood his ground.

  “Oh, brother!” grumbled Salome, dropping from her perch over Reddick’s head. “This is really gonna land me in the slammer.” She sprinted toward the boy and linked her arm through his. “Make that two bodies!” she yelled at the bulldozer. She stamped her foot at the hungry shovel. Her silver hoops flashed.

  The driver leaned out the window. “No stupid kids are gonna stop me from doing my job!” he bellowed.

  “In the name of reason!” Reddick grunted. He left the fence, clambering over the crates and barrels, and shoved his bulk between the girl and the ponytailed kid. “Cut that motor!” he ordered the driver. “Before someone gets hurt.”

  “Yowl!” The scream rode over the roar of the machine. Reddick felt the hair on his neck stand up when a heap of wire bristles shoved between his feet. The gray tom had joined the party. The cat took up a stance at the front of the line.

  The bulldozer kept coming.

  “Yowl!” the tom screamed again. His blue eyes chilled the fierce machinery.

  Six feet from the blockade, the man in the bulldozer gave up. He cut the engine and climbed out of his cab. “Hey, Walt!” he said. “What brings you out in the middle of the night? You turn into some hippie tree hugger?”

  Billy’s dad looked down. The gray tom was gone. So were the kids. He was alone. “I guess I keep company with ghosts,” he said to the man planted beside his bulldozer. “It’s turning out to be a long night. And I want to go home. I suggest you do the same. You and I can have it out tomorrow. Drinks on me.” He folded his arms and waited.

  The driver put his hands on his hips and did some waiting of his own. The chapel yard got quiet. It could have been the stage set of an old Western, it was so still.

  The two men sized each other up. Anybody would think they were fixing for a showdown. All they needed were a pair of cowboy hats and a couple of packed holsters. Good thing they decided to use their heads instead.

  The driver stood down first. “Well, Walt,” he said. “A man can yield a little for a free beer.”

  “Call it a night right now,” said Billy’s dad, “and I’ll make it two.”

  They left the bulldozer in the alley.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Billy was aiming to catch a cat on the run.

  He wound through the trees until he was close to the old chapel house. The air smelled faintly of burnt matches. Somewhere beneath the deck, he could hear the gritty splash of sand hitting wood. Billy stuck his flashlight under the boards. There wasn’t much to see — a wheelbarrow, some lawn furniture, a ladder….

  Six tiny mirrors reflected the flashlight’s beam. Billy had found the kittens.

  Billy rolled under the veranda and squirmed over to the pile of warm kittens. He scooped them close. A spray of stone chips stung his cheek, and he aimed the light in its direction. Some creature was digging. “Conga!” he called out. “Conga, is that you?”

  Her tail was sticking out of a hole. When he reached over to haul her out, she swiped a paw across his hand. Billy stared at the trail of blood. It wasn’t his blood. It was hers. What did she want? Why was she digging? “Conga,” Billy coaxed. “You can stop that now. Your kittens are here. We’re going home.”

  Conga didn’t let up. Her front haunches worked like tired pistons, scratching at the rocky earth alongside the coal chute. Billy couldn’t figure it out. His cat wanted to go right through a tin wall. Maybe there was something in the old coal cellar. Maybe it was a mouse or a rat. He scanned his light over the opening. Ladder rungs blocked the entrance.

  Billy was his father’s son. He didn’t waste time with questions. “Okay, Conga,” he said. “I don’t know what’s down there. But I’ll help you get to it.” He wrenched the ladder loose.

  Conga darted past him. She headed into the black hole.

  Now what?

  Billy waited. He tried to be patient. The kittens mewled and he cradled them in his lap, kneading their soft bodies until they melted into a sleepy puddle. He waited some more. “Come on, girl,” he pleaded. “Conga, come on.” He stuck his eye to the hole. “Hurry up and come back,” he cajoled. He pursed his lips and tried to sweettalk his cat up the chute.

  Kiss, kiss, kiss.

  None of it was any use.

  Billy waited until he was done waiting. He settled the kittens down on the ground and attacked the rest of the cover. The splinters of the old boards jabbed his skin. The shards ripped his hands. When the last piece of wood gave up, he stuck his head and shoulders into the hole. The darkness gobbled the thin beam of his flashlight.

  Billy didn’t want to go into a deep, dark hole. But he intended to find his cat. He started down.

  The shaft was just big enough for him to wriggle along on his belly. He stuck his elbows into the corrugations for grip. “Conga,” he whispered. “Where are you?” His voice sounded faint in his ears, as if the sound were coming from far away. Near the bottom of the shaft, he dropped into a little room. On his knees, he tried to make sense of the space. The vault was crammed with junk — old shovels, rakes, a garden chair. There was a car bumper and part of an old sink. There was a bucket and some coal. But where was Conga? He panned his light.

  She la
y on her side in some bits of foam. Billy crawled closer. A white kitten was buried in her belly, getting milk, sucking hard.

  “Conga,” Billy breathed. “Where did that kitten come from?”

  Conga looked at him. Her eyes dripped honey.

  That was the last thing Billy saw before his flashlight flickered out. The cellar turned black as a tomb. Billy didn’t care. “Cool!” he whispered. “Conga, we’re going out now. I don’t need any light. I know the way.” He flung the cylinder into the blackness.

  The heavy flashlight rocketed across the cellar true as an arrow. It slammed right into a bell. An old chapel bell.

  BONG! The loud chime reverberated against the tin walls. It rattled the shovels and rakes, the springs of the car seat, the old bumper. The peals rang up the chute and poured music into the fresh night.

  Salome stood on the veranda listening to the wellspring beneath her feet. “Oh. My. God!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” said Luke. He bent down to look under the side of the deck. “What’s that ringing?”

  Salome crossed her arms. Men, she thought. They can’t see what’s right in front of their faces. “That, Luke,” she said, “is the sound of your miracle.”

  “Hey!” Billy called up to them. He wriggled out from under the deck. After the dark of the tunnel, the stars in the sky twinkled as bright as budding suns. “Hey!” he said again. “Look, you guys! I’ve got Conga. Her kittens are here, too.” He opened his hands to show them the white one. “And she’s got another baby!”

  “Well,” said Salome. She looked as smug as a cat with the cream. “I guess there are miracles all around tonight.”

  Billy didn’t wait to find out what she meant. He fetched the kittens and headed home.

  Conga rode shotgun on his shoulder.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The mayor held an emergency session with the Clydesdale councillors. He was all in a tizzy. The town was so divided over the cat issue, the whole mess threatened to ruin his chances in the next election. “We’ve got to get a handle on this thing,” said the mayor. “First I had to cancel the roundup. Now I’ve got to put the cleanup of the chapel yard on hold. Everybody in this town has something to say. Why, look at ’em!” He pointed to the table. It was covered in letters, e-mails, and messages. “Everyone wants something different.”

  The mayor snatched a paper. “Listen to this one,” he said.

  Email: jboy@clydesmail.com

  See here, Mr. Mayor. I don’t want my hard-earned money going into some cat shelter. I’ve got kids that need shoes. This town needs jobs. It needs more people to visit and spend their money. The cats give the town a bad name. Shoot them, trap them, drown them, starve them — whatever gets rid of them!

  I’d sooner let a mosquito suck my blood than help a stray cat. You boys up there at City Hall have lost my vote. Our town needs decent direction.

  The mayor tossed the e-mail back on the pile. He waved another letter. “This one’s the flip side of the coin,” he declared.

  Dear Mayor,

  Bounty indeed! Are we going to kill the robins and the sparrows for defacing our streets? Shoot the gulls that come in from the sea when the weather changes? How about the squirrels — and those dirty rabbits?

  I’ll say one thing: Come election time, you’ve lost my vote. And if anyone comes on my property looking to nab a cat, I’ll post their picture on my blog — right along with yours. I get a thousand hits a day on that blog.

  We need decent leadership. Our town has lost its way.

  Yours truly,

  Lucie Morton

  “See what I mean?!” the mayor blustered. “I tell you, we have to come up with —”

  The mayor’s assistant came into the council chamber. “There’s a delegation to see you,” she said to the mayor.

  “Not now!” the mayor replied, waving his hand. He waved his hand so hard it looked like he wanted to sweep his assistant under the table. “There’s no time to see anyone. The council has to solve this cat thing before every newspaper in the country sets up shop in Clydesdale. The stray cats have got us between a rock and a hard place.”

  “You mean between a coal cellar and a lump of coal,” a voice drawled.

  The mayor swung around. So did the councillors. Salome Davies, Mrs. Davies’s granddaughter, was leaning against the council room door. She had on a funny getup as usual — tight black clothes and shiny hoops in her ears. The ponytailed young man from maintenance was there, too, and another kid. The mayor searched his memory. It was Walter Reddick’s son, Billy.

  The mayor did some more hand waving. “You three can’t interrupt my meeting,” he said. “Billy, if you have a school project, my assistant can let you have whatever information you need. Luke, don’t you have work to do on those loose windows up in the dome? And Salome, as far as I know, your grandmother doesn’t like you straying too far from home.”

  “Mr. Mayor,” said Billy, “it’s August. School hasn’t started yet. We’ve come to talk to you. We’ve got a proposition for the council.”

  “I wrote to you about it,” Luke added. “You might want to consider the idea now.”

  The mayor could feel his temper in his eyeballs. He didn’t have time to listen to some childish scheme — not while his picture was plastered on every Main Street shop, not when he might end up the laughingstock of the whole county. “Enough!” he exploded. “Now you all get out of here and let us —”

  “I guess the old chapel bell can hide out forever,” Salome drawled to Billy and Luke. “Come on. The mayor isn’t interested in our discovery. Let’s get out of here.”

  They turned away.

  The mayor was no fool. At the sound of the word bell, his mouth began to water. He was out of his chair before the three of them reached the stairs. “Wait!” He plastered a smile across his face. “Why don’t we all go into my office for a chat?” he wheedled. “My door is always open. I’m always ready to hear from my constituents.”

  His hand swept them up. He was a good sweeper. As soon as they were seated in his office, he leaned forward across his desk. “A bell, you say?”

  “First things first,” Salome said. She unrolled a paper.

  The mayor studied it. “That drawing reminds me of the town,” he said slowly.

  “It’s a model — a pint-sized version of Main Street,” said Luke. “I want to build it behind the chapel. The cats can shelter there.”

  “A cat home!” the mayor snorted. “We can’t even afford to get people off the streets. Who’s going to look after something like that?”

  “I will,” said Luke. “I’ve already got a couple of volunteers.” He set down his package and pulled away the wrapping. The little bell tower was inside. The tiny hand bell swung from the belfry. “This is some of my work.”

  “It’s a good idea to rally the town,” Salome said to the mayor before he could protest. “All the city has to do is encourage people to mind their pets. They need education. Lots of places have a cat problem. Our town can be an example. Other city councils will be running to see how you do it.”

  “Half the town hates the cats,” the mayor argued. His voice strangled in his own throat. He liked the tower. The kids had a point.

  Salome didn’t let up. “The council already has the money to restore the chapel,” she said. “Luke’s cat sanctuary will attract tourists, too. They’ll spend money in the shops and eat in the restaurants. Some of them might even decide to settle. My grandmother says what’s good for the cats is good for all.”

  The mayor hemmed and hawed. “Maybe she’s right,” he said finally. “That grandmother of yours always was a straight shooter. Now, what’s this about a bell?”

  Salome looked at Billy. Luke looked at Billy, too. It was Billy’s turn to speak.

  “We need an agreement before I tell you where the bell is,” Billy said. “You need to talk to the council.”

  Salome grinned. “My grandmother’s bringing her lawyer,” she told the mayor, “soo
n as you decide. So nobody pulls a fast one.”

  Billy’s mom and dad were at the kitchen table when he got home. They were talking in a comfortable way.

  “Glad you could join us,” said his mom. “I made some of that potato salad you like so much. Your father helped me peel the potatoes.”

  Conga and her kittens were taking in the late sun that slanted through the porch window. Conga’s eyes were half closed. Her front paws were swaddled in strips of cloth. The white kitten slept between the bandages.

  “Billy,” his dad said slowly. “I know we have some mending to do. Maybe I should have asked you how you felt about the gun. I wanted to teach you the same way my dad taught me.” He gestured toward the air rifle propped up beside the closet.

  Billy looked toward the rifle. But his gaze slid right past it. He fetched his dad’s toolbox and put it on the table. “Dad,” he said, “I’m going to help someone with a project. It’ll take a while. Maybe you can teach me how to use this.” He handed his dad the hammer.

  It was a beautiful tool. The warm hickory handle ended in a steel cap and claw.

  “Well,” his dad said, sitting up a little taller. He smacked the hammer lightly against the palm of his left hand. “You’ve come to the right man. A hammer is all about control. The nail has to go in straight. If your aim is off, you might as well be splitting logs. You’ve got to know what you’re hitting, too. Too much force will …”

  “Men,” muttered Billy’s mom. She handed Billy the potato salad. “I’ll never understand them.”

  They were smiling words.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was the second Sunday before Christmas.

  People began to gather in the light snow. At three o’clock the mayor arrived on foot. He went up to the double doors and knocked. As soon as the doors swung open, everyone flocked inside the chapel. Straw matting was strewn over the newly varnished floor. There were cups of cheer on a red-clothed table. Mae Reddick held up a plate of cookies.