Cat Laughing Last

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Vivi said, "You notified the others right away, before they left the theater."

  "Fern's the one," Elliott said. "No question."

  Sam looked across to the waiting actors. "Go home. We'll call you in the morning."

  "No!" Vivi snapped. "Let them stay. You know we're short on time." She looked hard at Ladler. "Have you forgotten, conveniently, that Elliott's permission to produce is subject to his approval of the cast?"

  Ladler nodded to the small group and they settled back, dropping their jackets and scripts again on empty seats. "Fern, if you and Cora Lee would like to go out to the lobby and get a Coke, we'll call you in a few moments."

  Cora Lee slipped away backstage. Fern took a seat beside Vivi, looking defiantly at Ladler. The cats watched the little drama, fascinated. They felt terrible for Cora Lee. The kit's tail lashed so hard that Dulcie put a paw on it. "Stop it, Kit. Before someone looks up here."

  Ladler looked Fern over. "All right, if you want to hear this." He turned his back on her, facing Elliott. "Fern's not right for the part. She can't hold a candle to Cora Lee. Not right physically or emotionally. Her singing does not do justice to the songs, or to your play."

  "I have to disagree," Elliott said. "Fern has the part, or there is no play."

  "They're not in the same league," Sam snapped, the color coming up in his lean face. "Cora Lee is Catalina. We couldn't have a better fit. What is it you're seeing here? Do you want to try to explain?"

  "Fern's completely right for the part," Traynor repeated, glancing at Vivi. "I'm the writer. I know what I-"

  Mark King, stepping to the edge of the stage, stood looking down at Traynor. "There's nothing right about her. Fern, you really ought to leave, and not have to hear this. But I have to agree that Cora Lee is perfect."

  "That is so shallow and wrong," Vivi snapped, her look nudging Elliott.

  "I'm sorry," Elliott said stiffly. "It's my play. Fern Barth has the part or you can stop production."

  Ladler looked them both over. "Cora Lee French has the part or I don't direct the play."

  Elliott rose, staring at him.

  Ladler stiffened almost as if he would hit Elliott. High above them, the three cats looked down from the shadows ready for a good brawl, even if Elliott was to be considered an invalid.

  Ladler looked at Elliott a long time, then turned away. "Stuff the play." He dropped the script on the floor and moved on down to the little group of fascinated actors. "Go home. The play is canceled. You'll have to wait for this one until Mr. Traynor finds another theater."

  Vivi rose, snatching up her jacket, but Elliott pushed her into a seat, glaring at her, and moved after Ladler. "Wait, Sam."

  Ladler turned, scowling. Quickly Elliott took his arm and walked him outside through the exit door. From the stage, Mark King stood watching them, his round, bespectacled face pale with anger, then he moved away toward the dressing rooms, where Cora Lee had disappeared.

  Elliott and Ladler were gone for some time. Fern sat quietly beside Vivi, both staring straight ahead, never glancing toward the other actors. No one spoke, the atmosphere in the theater had swung from the poignancy of Catalina's lament to conflict as brittle as shattered glass. Above in the darkness the kit rose and padded along the rafter heading backstage, looking for Cora Lee.

  When Elliott and Sam Ladler returned, Elliott was smiling amiably, Ladler stone-faced. He paused stiffly before Fern.

  "The part is yours. Cora Lee will understudy." He turned away to the waiting actors and sat down among them.

  In a few moments, Cora Lee and King came out from backstage. Cora Lee looked at Ladler for a long moment. He said, "Will you understudy?"

  "I suppose I will," she said, her face closed and expressionless. As she turned away again, the cats could see the kit behind her, lurking in the shadows.

  "What did Traynor offer him?" Joe said. "And why? What does Fern have that Traynor needs? Or what does she have on Traynor?"

  Ladler rose from the group of actors. "Let's get on with it. I want readers for Marcos. We'll get through tryouts tonight. Rehearsals will start Wednesday."

  Joe and Dulcie were too disappointed to listen to further readings; they didn't care who got the part of Marcos. The dark, good-looking young Latino man would likely have it. Or maybe the pale-haired surfer, who had a good voice, too, but would certainly have to resort to dark makeup and black hair dye. Probably it wouldn't matter to Cora Lee who got the male lead. Dulcie could imagine her backstage, dealing with her disappointment, maybe with the kit snuggling up close, trying to cheer her. Why had Elliott Traynor gone along with this? It had certainly been Vivi who pushed for it. Neither Joe nor Dulcie had any answers. Among the rafters, they dozed until tryouts ended. As the players rose to leave, they heard Vivi arrange quietly to meet Fern at Binnie's Italian.

  Beating it out of the theater, the two cats headed for Binnie's, galloping across the dark roofs beneath a skittering wind. Watching the street below, they saw the Traynors' black Lincoln pass them, and when they dropped down to a low overhang, then to the sidewalk around the corner from Binnie's, the Lincoln was parked at the curb. Elliott and Vivi were still in the car, arguing.

  Crouching by the rear tire, the cats listened, trying not to sneeze at the stink of hot rubber and exhaust fumes.

  "… know damn well you went too far," Elliott was saying. "Don't you think that looked-"

  "What was I supposed to do? That was the deal, that Fern get the part. And you were going to cave!"

  "This Cora Lee French was good, Vivi. How do you think this looks, when we-?"

  "Good has nothing to do with it! Looks have nothing to do with it. What the hell are you thinking!"

  "I'm thinking that if you keep this up, you'll blow it. Ladler will back out. And don't you think people will start asking questions?"

  "Sam Ladler knew it was part of the deal. Fern has the part, or there's no money on the side. What made him defy you like that? How did you straighten him out?"

  "I upped the ante. It isn't every day a little theater director sees that kind of money."

  "And he didn't ask questions?"

  "What's he going to ask? He knows not to ask. We've been through this. I said he'd get twice what you offered."

  "You what? Didn't you think-"

  "Twice what you offered. You don't have a choice, Vivi. So shut up. Right now, I'm in the driver's seat."

  17

  The two cats watched Fern's Toyota pull up in front of Binnie's Italian. Vivi and Elliott were still sitting in their black Lincoln, snapping at each other. When Fern parked in front of them Vivi got out and hurried into the restaurant with her, slamming the glass door nearly in Elliott's face. Catching the door, he swung in behind them and eased it closed.

  On the warm concrete beneath the newspaper rack, Joe and Dulcie crouched looking up through the restaurant window where Vivi and Fern and Elliott were settling into a booth. Vivi glanced out blankly to where the cats were idly washing their paws, the cats of less interest to her than the metal newsstand. Dulcie loved spying on someone when she was in plain sight. Through the thin glass they could hear every word.

  The waitress on duty was Binnie's niece, a slight, shy Italian girl who didn't look old enough to have a work permit. Certainly she was too young to serve liquor. When Vivi ordered a bottle of Chablis, Binnie himself hurried out with it, uncorking the bottle across his white-aproned, ample belly, his jowled face rosy from the kitchen. Binnie did enjoy going through the little tasting ritual. Elliott handled Binnie's ceremony with abject boredom.

  Binnie poured in silence, smiled hesitantly at Vivi, and when his smile was not returned, he retreated quietly to his kitchen.

  "Here's to it," Vivi said, lifting her glass. "So far, very smooth. Even Ladler wasn't much of a problem."

  "It's a wonderful part," Fern gushed. "I'll do well by it, you'll see." She patted Elliott's hand. "I'm going to be great in this part; it's going to make my career." Fern was, apparently, not the
brightest young woman. The cats sat through interminable small talk, licking their whiskers when the pizza was served. Vivi and Elliott ate in silence, letting Fern ramble, a tedious monologue that left Joe and Dulcie yawning. They were ready to cut out and go hunt rats when Clyde and Ryan Flannery came around the corner, walking arm in arm, softly laughing.

  Clyde didn't see the cats slip deeper under the newsstand, he was totally involved with Ryan. "So that's the rest of the shop. That's what we do, master mechanics to Molena Point's wheels."

  "All those beautiful Mercedeses, Jags, and BMWs parked in your garage, to say nothing of that silver Rolls. It's a great shop, Clyde. I'm awed by the state-of-the-art electronic equipment-a far cry from my cordless drill and electric saw." As the couple passed the window, Vivi's eyes widened. She nudged Elliott so sharply he spilled his wine.

  "You really find that stuff interesting?" Clyde said, holding the door for Ryan. Before he could close it, the cats slipped through behind him. He scowled down at them, surprised and annoyed, but said nothing.

  "If I hadn't ended up as a building contractor," Ryan said, "I might be a mechanic. I seriously thought about it at one time."

  Elliott had risen and was heading toward the men's room, behind a partition that also led to the kitchen. Ryan looked after him, glanced at Vivi, and turned away, moving beside Clyde to a table in the far corner. Clyde looked toward the kitchen, waving to Binnie, and they slid into the booth. "You'd like being a mechanic? Working with a bunch of guys? They can get pretty rank."

  "I do work with a bunch of guys," she said, laughing. "They're okay if you set some ground rules. But, I don't know, there's something restful about putting things together, about figuring out the little mechanical glitches, solving the problems and making them right. Makes me feel safe, somehow, in a chaotic world. Does that make any sense?"

  "Quite a lot of sense."

  Under the table, the cats settled down next to Clyde's shoes, looking around his pant cuffs to where the Traynors sat. The carpet smelled clean and was of good quality, not like some restaurants where the rug stank of ancient French fries. Elliot had not returned. At the Traynor table, Vivi was pale and agitated, gulping her wine. Fern only looked perplexed, her round face and short golden hair catching light from a stained glass corner fixture. Binnie had recently redecorated, abandoning the simple red checkered tablecloth and candle-in-a-bottle motif, with which the village had long been familiar, for bright abstract murals covering the walls and tabletops, splashes of primary color illuminated by the colored glass fixtures. The effect was cozy and inviting. But then, any place that smelled as rich with tomato sauce and garlic and herbs as Binnie's had to be inviting. As the cats watched Vivi nervously wolf her dinner, Ryan bent down to look under the table.

  "Hi, cats. You having pizza?" They smiled at her and purred, and Dulcie rose to rub against her extended hand. She scratched Dulcie's ear, looking pleased with the greeting. Her face was flushed from the chill outdoor air, her dark hair tangled in a mass of short, unruly curls. In a moment she sat up again. "They're charming, Clyde. As responsive as any dogs."

  "I suppose they can be charming," Clyde said. "When it suits them."

  "But pizza, and Mexican food? Doesn't that stuff upset them? What does the vet say?" She was wearing faded jeans, and brown leather sandals that smelled of saddle soap. Her ankles were nicely tanned. Joe sniffed at her toes until Dulcie hissed at him, laying back her ears. "You don't need to smell her feet!"

  Clyde said, "The food doesn't bother them; they seem to have cast-iron stomachs." He looked under. "What do you want on your pizza? Cheese, hamburger, and anchovy?"

  Joe Grey purred, thinking, Heavy on the anchovies and plenty of mozzarella.

  "Where's the third cat?" Ryan asked. "The little dark one? Doesn't she belong to Wilma Getz? Wilma worked with my dad, years ago before she retired, in the San Francisco probation office. The dark cat-what's that color called?"

  "Tortoiseshell," Clyde said. "She's been hanging around the theater lately. She likes to prowl the rafters."

  Ryan laughed. "Theatrical aspirations? But when the cats are out on the village streets at night, don't you worry about them?"

  "They're careful about traffic. And all three are pretty resourceful."

  "My family has never had cats, only dogs. I had no idea cats would-well, these two follow you, don't they? And they mind you."

  "Sometimes," Clyde said. "If they're in a cooperative mood."

  "When my sisters and I were young, and we came down to the village for weekends, we always brought the dogs. Dallas was raising pointers then. We'd each get to bring our favorite pup, we ran them on the beach, took them in the outdoor cafes. It was great fun, everyone made a fuss over them-we were very popular. I've always loved the village. I'm going to love calling it home. San Francisco, under the right circumstances, is wonderful, but I think my nesting place is here."

  "And you liked Charlie's apartment-the duplex?"

  "It's perfect. One big room, and I love the high ceiling. Charlie says we can put in a wood-burning stove if I like. And that wonderful garage, that's the space I really need. She told me she bought the place for a song."

  "In village numbers, yes. It was pretty run down. Will you need furniture?"

  "I don't need much. Right now, I just want the necessities."

  "Which are?"

  "Drafting table. Bed. Breakfast table and a couple of chairs. Desk for my computer."

  "Your taste may be too simple for the Iselman estate sale, but it wouldn't hurt to look."

  "Which is when?"

  "Saturday morning. You go around seven, take a number, go back at ten to be called. They let people in a few at a time."

  "Want to come?"

  "Sure. We'll get our numbers, go have breakfast, and walk the beach."

  The cats looked at each other, amused. Clyde never did waste time. When the pizza was served, they could hear Clyde cutting their share into bite-sized pieces, could hear him blowing on it to cool before he set it on the floor. Across the restaurant, Vivi and Fern were still alone; Elliott had not returned. Vivi was paying the bill. In a moment she rose, said something to Fern, dropped a tip on the table, and was gone, leaving Fern to finish her dinner alone.

  "She sure didn't want any part of me," Ryan said softly. "Elliott can't still be in the men's room."

  "I think that slamming kitchen door might have been Elliott leaving," Clyde said.

  "Maybe Vivi and my womanizing husband did get together last fall. But why would Elliott avoid me? I can understand Vivi staying away-though at this point, I couldn't care less. But why Elliott? He and I are the wronged parties."

  From beneath the table, the cats watched through the far window as Vivi hurried around the corner to her car. They heard her gun the engine and the Lincoln roared away, apparently leaving Elliott to walk home.

  The cats looked at each other with amusement. What a tangle humans could devise. No group of cats ever made such a muddle of their personal affairs. Vivi and Elliott's behavior not only entertained Joe and Dulcie but left them puzzled and unsettled. As if they'd followed a rabbit scent that led nowhere; that ended abruptly with no rabbit hole, and no rabbit.

  They would be far more concerned, however, when the night ended; when dawn broke and they confronted a dead body, a bloody scene of battle, and one very distraught tortoiseshell kit.

  18

  Rehearsal was over. Everyone but Cora Lee had left the theater. Mark King had closed the piano and departed reluctantly, worrying about Cora Lee, standing backstage holding her hands, his round face flushed with anger and concern.

  "I'll be fine, Mark. I just want to sit here for a few minutes alone, in the quiet theater. Guess this part meant more to me than I thought," she said, laughing.

  "There's nothing I can say about this. It's incredible. I'm hoping something will happen to change Traynor's mind," he said darkly, then turned and moved away through the dressing rooms.

  The kit h
eard the back door slam. When Cora Lee sat down on a folding chair near the piano, the little tortoiseshell came out from the shadows and crawled up into her lap. Around them, the empty theater seemed to echo with the spirits that had been summoned from the past-and with the tensions, with the inexplicable trade-off for which Mark King and Cora Lee had no answers. The kit reached a paw, touching Cora Lee's cheek.

  "All right," she told the kit. "Let someone else play Catalina. But does it have to be Fern Barth! Fern will destroy Catalina. I do love the story, I love the songs, Kit. I feel so close to Catalina-I don't want her story made ugly and common."

  She hugged the kit close. "Maybe after Traynor's dead," she said coldly, "if he is indeed dying, there'll be a real performance somewhere of Thorns of Gold. But not for me, Kit. It will be too late for me.

  "I'm sixty-four years old. I keep myself in shape, but there's a limit. Maybe Vivi Traynor's right, maybe I'm already too old."

  Cora Lee wondered-was it possible that, for some reason she didn't understand, Vivi didn't want this play produced? She looked around the empty theater. "There are ghosts here, Kit. All the ghosts of plays past, people who have been brought alive here. Did you know that?"

  The kit knew. She climbed to Cora Lee's shoulder, nosing at her cheek.

  "Emotions so powerful, Kit, that they're part of the old walls, even part of the plywood sets that we cut up and use over and over until there's nothing left but chips. All those lives are here. And now, is Fern's saccharine version of Catalina going to join them?"

  She rose abruptly, settling the kit more securely on her shoulder. "Well, I can't help it. I can't make anything different, I can't unmake whatever twisted motives Vivi and Elliott Traynor follow." She cuddled the little cat close. "It isn't losing the part that makes me cry, Kit. I cry from anger, always have. Anger at unfairness, at human coldness. Why would Elliott Traynor butcher his own play?

  "When I was little, Kit, in second grade, we had a teacher who baited us unmercifully. Prodded us, bore down on us, accused us of things we didn't do, ridiculed and beat us down until she made me cry out of pure rage."