“Your own child, your bright calico baby. Her past lives are set into humankind’s history, her portraits grace man’s ancient art from centuries gone. You will find the antique paintings, the tapestries, the illuminated manuscripts, you will find her image if only you will look.”
He glanced at Joe. “There is no other cat marked like her. She has moved through time with an elegance unique even to our own speaking race, this kitten who will be your child.”
Dulcie’s heart beat fast; she burned to search among the library’s old volumes, to find their own calico child. Yet she was shaken with fear for the treasure she carried, fear at bringing such a one into the world, fearful of the challenge, the responsibility for that precious creature.
“Courtney,” Misto said. “Courtney is her true name. She has carried it through much of time, she would welcome owning that name again.” The old cat laughed. “A name bigger, right now, than the little mite herself. But she will grow big and strong, this kitten who is destined to a life of honor.”
“What honor?” Dulcie whispered, even more stricken. “Oh, my. What destiny?”
But the old tom had dozed off again. As if, when he thought he had said enough, he escaped slyly into an invalid’s sleep. Softly Dulcie moved to the foot of the bed beside Joe, where the gray tomcat sat rigid and uneasy; and strange imaginings filled them both.
It was now, with the two cats so nervous and unsettled, that Dulcie’s housemate found them. Wilma slipped into the room beside John Firetti as the good doctor brought medications for Misto.
Wilma Getz was as tall as the younger doctor. She wore a tie-dyed sweatshirt today, a garment so old it was back in style, its soft reds setting off her gray hair, which was tied at the nape of her neck. John was in his white lab coat, having just come from the clinic. His light brown hair was short and neat, his sunburned forehead peeling, his light brown eyes kind as he greeted Joe and Dulcie. Moving to the dresser, he set down the tray with the syringe and medicine, to be administered when the yellow tom woke. He stood beside Wilma, looking down at the two cats sitting rigid and edgy. They looked deeply at Joe, then at Dulcie.
Dulcie flicked a whisker. “I told him.”
Wilma smiled and stroked Joe Grey. “It will be all right,” she said. “They’ll be fine, strong kittens.” She frowned at Joe. “What? They’ll be healthy kittens, Joe. You’ll be a fine father. What?” she repeated. “You don’t want these sweet babies?”
Joe stared up at her, his conflicted look filled half with joy, half with distress. “Of course I want them! Our kittens! Our little speaking kittens. It’s a miracle. But Misto . . .” he hissed softly. “Does Misto have to make predictions? I don’t need predictions!” Joe said. “I don’t want to hear predictions.”
Wilma and Dulcie exchanged a look and tried to keep from smiling. Dulcie rubbed her face against Wilma’s hand. “Misto’s prophecies were . . . they frightened us both,” she said softly.
It was then that John interrupted—as if perhaps he didn’t want to hear predictions, either? Or perhaps he wanted only to soothe Dulcie and Joe. “Let’s have a look at you, Dulcie. Let’s see how the kittens are getting on.”
Moving his medical tray to a chair, he cleared the dresser and lifted Dulcie up. She stretched out, looking up at him trustingly, only the tip of her tail moving with a nervous twitch. She loved John Firetti, but even his gentle hands pressing her stomach filled her with unease, an automatic reaction to protect her babies.
But John’s hands were warm and tender on her belly. “Feel here, Wilma. And here . . .” He watched as Wilma’s familiar fingers softly stroked Dulcie’s stomach. “It’s a little late now to feel them properly,” he said, “it was easy when they were smaller. There are three kittens. Come on, Joe. You’ll feel better when you can see for yourself. Maybe you can wipe that scared look off your face.”
Reluctantly Joe leaped to the dresser. He hesitated, then placed a careful paw on Dulcie’s tummy.
“Feel along here,” John told him.
Joe stroked Dulcie as soft as a whisper. As he found the faintest divide between each tiny shape his expression turned from surprise to wonder.
“Three little heartbeats,” Dr. Firetti said, holding the stethoscope against Dulcie, then letting Joe listen. “I’d say about two more weeks, they’ll be ready to face the world.” Scooping Dulcie up again, he handed her to Wilma. “A ride home would be a good thing.”
He looked sternly at the tabby. “You are to stop galloping all over the village. No more running the rooftops. No more racing up and down trees. No climbing. You’ll soon be a mother, Dulcie. You have babies to think about. A little circumspection,” he said. “You are to slow down, take care of the kittens. We don’t want to lose these little treasures.”
Dulcie laid her face against his hand. Of course he was right. No one said pregnancy would be easy; no one said she’d like being a stay-at-home cat, being quiet and calm and doing nothing. Sighing, Dulcie snuggled down in Wilma’s arms. She guessed her theft of the pink scarf had been her last craziness before she accepted a dull and sensible boredom.
Wilma had once told her, “To admit to boredom is to admit to intellectual poverty.”
That remark, at the time, had shamed Dulcie because she’d been bored and restless and didn’t know what to do with herself. Now the thought nudged her again as they headed for the car.
We do have a snug and cozy home, she told herself. I can curl up before a cheerful fire, we can read together, we have music, and we always have nice things to eat. And, she thought, smiling, there’s Wilma’s computer right there on the desk . . . Now, maybe . . . Now, if I must be idle, maybe more poems will come, maybe new poems. Why should my idleness be boring?
As Dulcie and Wilma headed home, Joe raced away across the empty side street into a tangle of cottages, through a maze of gardens, and up a pepper tree to the roofs. Heading home himself, he was still getting used to the idea of kittens, to the fact that soon they would have their own family. His thoughts were all atangle, part of him annoyed at the interruption of his busy and sometimes dangerous life, part of him ashamed at such a thought. But what he felt most was an incredible tenderness for Dulcie and their babies, a fierce desire to protect them. What he wished was that the world was a safer place for their kittens—for all the innocent of the world.
These violent attacks on the frail and elderly seemed far darker, now, a cruel contradiction to what life should be. He didn’t want to think about human evil just now, but he couldn’t stop. Suddenly, passionately, with the amazement of kittens filling his thoughts, Joe Grey wanted no viciousness at all, anywhere in the world.
But that’s the way the world is. This is the balance between innocence and cruelty that Misto talks about.
Still, Joe thought, no one has to like it. No one has to accept the twisted humans who relish their brutal plots, no one has to accept the corruption of the world. I can hate it if I choose. And maybe, he thought, even a cat, once in a while, can do something to push back the dark tide.
6
This wasn’t a game, this was for keeps. It was that very fact that made it the best game of all. Dead is dead, losing is for keeps. Snuffed like a candle, and that was the end of it. Death for the real scum among the decoys and shills they’d set up, and most of those were elderly, they’d chosen those to help mislead the law. So far the actions they’d laid out had gone down just fine. One or two they’d had to back off, but they’d make up for that.
They hadn’t liked moving to Molena Point, but this was where the marks had come. Prissy little place for retired rich people. Or for those who wished they were rich. That’s what most of these people were, the want-to-be rich. Poking around the fancy shops, maxing out their credit cards, gaga over the big prices. Talking about the big-deal social events and wanting to be part of them, that’s what these newcomers were about. Living beyond thei
r means, trying to get a glimpse of the movie stars and big-time executives who lived on their high-toned estates back in the hills.
And in the town itself, little shops all too cute and pretty, sleazy tourists taking in the sights, dragging their fancy dogs on a pink leash. You couldn’t move for tourists and foo-foo mutts with fluffy scarves around their necks, dogs even in the outdoor cafés. Well, but the crowds were part of the game, the crowds were cover, all these strangers from out of town worked right in to confuse the action.
Two people dead now, and before they moved down here two more taken care of in the city. According to the papers, both cases were accidents. Cops didn’t have a clue. Too bad some on the list had moved away. New Hampshire, Georgia, Mexico.
As for these local cops, any town where the chief wore jeans and western shirts, and stray cats wandered in out of the station, had to have hick-town law enforcement despite their fancy money.
No, the game was playing out just fine. Every death, every name they crossed off the list evened the score one more notch. They’d keep on until they had them all, or as many as they could reach. Maybe in time they’d snuff every one of those killers, who themselves so badly deserved to die.
While the unknown bully entertained satisfying thoughts of success and while Joe Grey fumed uselessly at the evils of the world, across the village Dulcie sat in her window in the kitchen, purring and content at last.
Looking out at Wilma’s bright spring flowers, at the rich alstroemerias and the last of the winter cyclamens, she licked her whiskers at the smell of broiling flounder. Tonight they would have their supper in the living room before the fire and then would tuck up together on the couch with a favorite book, maybe one of Loren Eiseley’s that they reread every so often.
Maybe being pregnant wasn’t so bad; maybe she’d better enjoy her leisure while she could. When the kittens came, tiny and helpless, she’d have her paws full. And later when their eyes and ears were open, when they had grown bold and wild, she wouldn’t have a moment of her own.
Yes, now was a moment for herself, to rest, maybe think about the poems that insisted on waking her at night and wouldn’t go away. Even as Wilma dished up their supper, a poem was nudging at Dulcie like a bright glow—though maybe this verse, she thought, amused, was born of a pregnant cat’s ravenous hunger, and that did make her smile.
No thin beggar, never shy
This lady dines quite royally
Fine salami, leftover Brie
Salmon freshly from the sea
She is beautifully obese
Who feasts on kippers and roast geese
But as the poem slowly formed, and as she followed Wilma in by the hearth, she had a sudden flash of something else. Watching Wilma, she saw suddenly the darkly dressed boy, or small man, following Wilma on the street, alone on a foggy morning.
But how foolish. No one was going to attack Wilma, not without sprawling on the concrete themselves, seriously damaged. Wilma Getz might be up in years but she was strong, she was well trained, and she had a carry permit if she wanted to use it. Defensive tactics and firearm training put her in a different category from most of her fellow seniors. Too bad, Dulcie thought, that more seniors have never availed themselves of such skills.
Maybe, in the last few decades, life didn’t seem so dangerous. Maybe, the way some people looked at their lives, only a very special need would lead one to consider such training.
But of course Wilma’s training had come with her profession, in probation and parole. Yet even now that she’s retired, Dulcie thought, those skills are a plus. And any citizen can carry pepper spray or a cane, can learn how to use those simple weapons against a would-be mugger.
She thought about earlier centuries, about the wild young years of the country, when self-protection was the only protection a person had, when there was no nearby law enforcement, when the skill to fight back was an essential way of life.
These trusting humans today, the tabby thought, they need to rev up some anger, they need to substitute complacency for sharp teeth and claws. They need to find a little mean in themselves and learn how to use it.
Joe Grey, heading for home over the rooftops thinking about the kittens and then about the street crimes, wondered again if it was time to call Max. He had nothing to tell the chief but a few vague observations: the smell of turpentine and bike oil after Merle Rodin’s attack. The person following that woman in the wheelchair as if ready to attack her, racing away when Joe Grey himself shouted, then dove out of sight. That couple from San Francisco recognizing the woman, knowing her from the city and distressed to see her there in the village. What was that about? Ben Stonewell not wanting the couple to see him, and Ben, too, was from San Francisco. Wondering what these matters might add up to, well aware of their vagueness, he knew that Dulcie was right. They needed solid facts, needed leads that Harper couldn’t brush off, that wouldn’t make the chief lose faith in the phantom snitch.
Leave it for now, Joe thought. Just leave it. This time, listen to Dulcie.
Leaping from a pine branch to his own shingled roof, he trotted across to look down on the driveway. Ryan’s parking spot was empty, she’d still be at work. No big surprise, she’d been late every night since she started on Tekla Bleak’s renovation.
That Bleak woman was a pain in the tail. Ryan never should have taken on her remodel, particularly with so many sensible, likable clients waiting for Ryan to start on their own houses. Ryan’s innovative design talents, her conscientious attention to construction details and fine materials had generated a long line of eager customers.
The Bleaks hadn’t been in the village more than a few months when they bought the cottage just down the street from the Damens’ house, and because Ryan felt sorry for Sam Bleak, in his wheelchair, she had agreed to work them in soon for the needed renovations, so they could live more comfortably. Meanwhile Sam and Tekla were renting a backyard guesthouse just a few blocks from the center of the village, a cottage so tiny there was hardly room at all for the couple and their teenage son, or so Tekla complained.
Now as Joe looked down at his own driveway, he could smell their supper, lasagna or maybe spaghetti sauce, and he thanked God Clyde could cook. Clyde’s new green Jaguar stood in the open carport, a gleaming collector’s item, the result of a three-way trade Clyde had managed, offering his fine mechanical workmanship on other vehicles, in trade for the Jag. Licking his whiskers at the smell of supper, Joe slipped into his glassed-in cat tower that rose atop the second-floor roof, padded across his tangled pillows, and pushed into the house through his cat door onto a rafter above the master suite. Below him, to his left, was the master bedroom: king-size bed, fireplace, TV, all the amenities. To his right lay Clyde’s small study, and beyond it, Ryan’s large, glass-walled studio. The tops of oaks and pines rose on three sides, forming a leaf-sheltered workplace which, like Joe’s tower, blended with the woods and sky.
Dropping down from the rafter onto Clyde’s desk, hitting a stack of paperwork, he barely managed to avoid a landslide. The entire suite felt empty. Even Clyde’s leather love seat was bare, no little white cat and big silver Weimaraner curled up together. Snowball and Rock would be down in the kitchen licking their chops, waiting hopefully for spaghetti. The two would never admit they were geared for disappointment, that spicy sauces were not on their agenda.
Months ago Ryan had put both animals on a diet of lean cooked beef or chicken, a safe selection of fresh vegetables—and added taurine for Snowball. No treats from the table, none of the human-type food that Joe and Dulcie indulged in. Who could explain to them that speaking cats were different, that they thrived on food that would do inestimable damage to the organs of most animals?
Dr. Firetti was more than careful about regular checkups for the speaking cats, but they always rated A-plus. Who could explain why? Except for John Firetti, the medical p
rofession didn’t know that talking cats existed.
Well, Joe thought, Rock and Snowball felt great on Ryan’s diet; they were sleek, lively, and sassy. Ryan had tried only once to put Joe on the same regimen. He’d raised so much hell that she and Clyde gave him what he wanted—though he knew she was now slipping in a few vegetables. He admitted only to himself that they weren’t bad, a little change of flavor that went down fine.
He wondered if Wilma was preparing similar special fare for Dulcie, to better nourish their babies? How would his lady take to that? Again a thrill of amazement shivered through him, another smile twitched his whiskers as he dropped from desk to floor, galloped down the stairs and into the big family kitchen.
Clyde stood at the stove stirring spicy tomato sauce, his short brown hair neatly trimmed, his tanned face showing only a hint of stubble after a long day at the automotive shop. He was still in his work clothes, pale chinos, Italian loafers, a green polo shirt. He had substituted a navy blue apron for the pretentious white lab coat that he wore at the shop. Clyde catered to expensive foreign models, classic cars, and antiques; he liked to keep an upscale image: medical specialist to your ailing Maserati, the best in tender loving care for your frail old Judkins Brougham. As Joe leaped to the table, Clyde turned from the stove.
“What?” Clyde said, frowning at him. “What’s the silly grin?”
Why was Clyde always so suspicious? “Bad day at the shop?” Joe asked coolly.
“What, Joe? Why are you smiling like that? What have you been up to?”
“Ryan still down at the Bleak job? Why does that woman show up every evening just at quitting time? Doesn’t she know people have lives of their own? Doesn’t she understand the term quitting time?”
“I said, ‘What’s the grin about?’ What gives?”
Cat Shout for Joy Page 5
