Cat Breaking Free

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She guessed she wanted, too, to be spoiled a little; to snuggle close at night as they shared the pages of a favorite book. The two of them would be up at Charlie's tomorrow night, and Charlie would spoil them both just as she would spoil Kit. At Charlie's house, Kit would tell more of her tales for Charlie to write down, and Wilma could be cosseted and cared for even if she said she didn't need that. In Dulcie's opinion, a little spoiling never hurt anyone. Ask a cat, spoiling was what made the rest of life worthwhile.

  And maybe tomorrow Charlie would tell them what had happened on the pack trip. Tell them what she had left out of her story, over dinner at Lupe's Playa-what she had not told everyone else, about the dead cyclist. Tell them what had caused the nervous twitch of her hands under the table, and her evasive glance. Maybe tomorrow, after Captain Harper had gone off to work, they would learn Charlie's secret.

  12

  Joe had dreaded going home. He felt in every bone that old Rube was gone. Leaving Dulcie and Kit stealthily gathering information within the offices of Molena Point PD, he scrambled up to the rooftops, worried by Clyde's call, heading home fast and feeling heavy as lead; he was already mourning for his old pal, was sure that Rube was gone or close to it. There was no other reason Clyde would have called the station asking for him. He needed to be with Clyde, needed to comfort him and to be comforted.

  He'd known Rube since he himself was a kitten, when Rube was a young, strong dog. When Joe was half grown and feisty, it was Rube who had mothered him. Already mourning Rube, Joe felt like half of him had dropped away into an empty abyss; life would be very strange, with Rube gone.

  Dulcie had read something to him once, in the library late at night as he lounged on a table among the books she had dragged off the shelves, something about part of your life suddenly breaking away, sliding away, forever gone. Even then, the words had stirred a huge emptiness in him. He was filled with that same dropping feeling now as he raced over the rooftops toward home.

  The thin moon and stars were hidden, the sky gone dark and dense with clouds, and the sea wind blew harsher, too, and more cruel. Jumping wearily across the last chasm from an overhanging cypress branch to the rooftops of his own block, Joe glanced down automatically at Chichi Barbi's small front yard.

  There were lights reflected there, no light from the living room window and no flickering from the TV The house beneath him was silent, and when he looked around the side, down the drive, no light reflected from her bedroom. Making one last mournful jump from Chichi's roof to his own, landing heavily on the fresh cedar shingles, Joe padded into his cat tower dreading what lay ahead.

  "Joe?" Clyde spoke from the study just below him. Joe studied the flicker of firelight that reflected through his plastic cat door, sniffed the nose-twitching scent of burning oak logs, and pushed through under the plastic flap flinching as it slid down his spine. Padding out along the rafter, he dropped down to the desk, trying hard not to scatter Clyde's papers.

  Clyde sat in the leather chair holding Snowball, stroking and cuddling her. They were alone. He had not carried the invalid dog upstairs. Joe thought Clyde would not have left Rube downstairs alone.

  Clyde looked up at him, and there was no need to explain.

  "I brought his body home," Clyde said sadly. "So the cats could see him, so maybe they'd know and understand. He's downstairs, tucked up on the loveseat on the back porch, as if… so they can see him there."

  Joe nodded. If animal companions were not allowed to see the dead one when he passed, their grieving was far worse; they never understood where their friend had gone. The finality of death was, for an animal, far kinder than thinking a loved one had simply gone away, far less stressful than waiting for the rest of their own lives for that pet or human to return.

  "I wrapped him in his blanket. I'll take him in the morning, to be cremated."

  Again, Joe nodded. They would bury Rube's ashes beside old Barney's ashes, at the foot of the high patio wall beneath the yellow rosebush. There was room there for all the animals. Room for me someday, Joe thought, and felt his paws go cold. Leaping from the desk to the arm of Clyde's chair, Joe rubbed his whiskers against Clyde's cheek, then crawled into Clyde's lap and curled down beside Snowball. And for a while he was only cat, safe in Clyde's arms, at one with Snowball and with Clyde in the pain of their grieving.

  Only after a very long time, when the fire had burned to ashes and the moon had come out again gleaming down through the skylight, did Clyde get up and warm some milk for all four cats, and break up bits of cornbread into the bowls, a special treat they all enjoyed. He waited at the kitchen table while the cats ate, then settled the two older cats cozily among the blankets in their bunk. He made himself a rum toddy. Carrying Snowball and his toddy, he headed upstairs behind Joe, and the three of them tucked up in bed.

  But as Snowball slept in Clyde's arms huffing softly, all worn out, and Joe's eyes drooped and jerked open, Clyde insisted on hashing over Rube and Barney's puppyhood in a maudlin display of memories that Joe found more than painful. Clyde reminisced about how he would take the young dogs to the beach to chase sticks in the ocean, how he judged his girlfriends by how they related to the two dogs. On and on, trying to get rid of the pain. The red numbers on the bedside clock flipped ahead steadily toward morning. It was after four when Clyde finally drifted off. Exhausted, Joe curled down deeper in the blankets, but he couldn't sleep. All the joyful and irritating and funny memories of Rube crowded in to nearly smother him. Long after Clyde was snoring, Joe lay atop the pillow wide awake, his teeming thoughts too busy to settle.

  He tried to pull his mind from Rube, to examine again the jewelry store scenario, to see Chichi all dressed in black slipping into her dark house carrying that small black bag, hiding something important, while a dressed-up kitchen broom sat in her easy chair watching sitcoms. Thinking about anything was better than lying there wide awake, thinking about Rube.

  Right now, was Chichi asleep over there? How deeply did the woman sleep? Frantic for distraction, Joe rose and leaped off the bed.

  What was the best way inside?

  He considered the tried-and-true methods: check all the windows; if he couldn't claw one open, then try a roof vent and go in through the attic.

  Except that moving those plywood doors that opened from an attic could get noisy, and they were heavy as hell. Most weren't even hinged, and you had to lift them away Usually, Dulcie was there to lend some muscle.

  But who knew, maybe Chichi had left a window unlocked and he could claw right on through the screen. Worth a try. He wasn't doing himself any good lying there fretting, listening to Clyde and Snowball snore.

  Trotting across the little Persian rug into Clyde's study, he leaped to the desk, so preoccupied he sent the stapler clattering to the floor. Cursing his clumsiness, he sprang to the rafter and pushed out through his cat door.

  Scorching across the shingles to Chichi's roof, he backed down the jasmine vine and dropped to the scruffy yard. First thing, he tried the front door just to make sure, swinging like a monkey with his paws locked around the knob. When the knob turned, he kicked hard with both hind paws.

  But it was bolted, all right. The door didn't budge. Well, what did he expect? Trotting around the side of the house he peered up at the evenly spaced roof vents.

  They all looked pretty solid, as if they were not only nailed but sealed with several generations of paint. Circling the house, he pawed at the eight under-house vents, shaking them as hard as he could. All were screwed down tight. His nose was filled with the damp smell of earth and moldy wood, and of the dusty old bushes that pressed around him.

  Making his way around to the door of Chichi's bedroom, he swung on that knob, kicking vigorously while trying to make no noise. Of course it was locked. But hey! From the power of her sleeping scent, and the tiny sounds of her slow, even breathing that came from the far window beyond the door, he knew that window had to be open.

  Leaping up onto the narrow sill, Joe sm
iled. She had locked the window open six inches, a space no human burglar could breach. Pressing his nose to the screen, he looked in sideways at the bolt that locked the sliding glass in place. Lifting a paw, claws rigidly extended, he ripped down the old, rusty screen wincing at the dry scraping sensation as it gave way under his pad. The long, jagged tear jerked and caught at his paw, then at his fur as he slipped through.

  The room smelled of dust and of Chichi, that distinctive sleeping-woman smell, as rich as baking bread. In the dim room, Chichi lay curled up around her pillow. She slept naked, with the covers thrown back, even on this chill night. She was tan all over, no strap or bikini marks. Maybe a salon tan. Or maybe sunbathing on her San Francisco rooftop? When he and Clyde lived in the city, Clyde always hurried home on sunny days, to enjoy the view from their apartment window.

  Stepping down onto the dresser among a mass of bristly hair curlers, loose change, and wadded tissues, he reached down a paw, to pry gently at the top dresser drawer. Not likely she'd hide anything of value in the first place a burglar would look, but you never knew. Silently he slid the drawer open.

  A jumble of panties and panty hose, a box of tampons, an open box of Hershey bars with almonds. He pawed underneath the clutter but found nothing of interest. Dropping down to the carpet he reared up to close the drawer, then clawed open the next two. His search netted him a pile of folded T-shirts, more panty hose, a lacy slip, balled-up socks. No little black bag, no package, mysterious or otherwise. No precious jewels tucked beneath her lingerie. No faintest scent of metal, no hint that such items had been there and had been moved. The drawers smelled only of old, sour wood, of Chichi's sweet perfume, and of Hershey's chocolate.

  Making quick work of the lowest drawer, rummaging between and under half a dozen folded sweatshirts, he checked the undersides of all the drawers, then squirmed inside the dresser itself, to paw around behind the drawers. Maybe the jewelry was taped inside the back.

  He found nothing but dust. He was growing edgy. He crawled beneath the dresser to look up under the bottom.

  Again, nothing. He tackled the rest of the room, the cushions, the underside of the upholstered chair, the undersides of two straight chairs, the small drawers in the little dressing table, and, carefully, the night table, working not a foot from Chichi's face. She slept on. The deep sleep of innocence? Or of someone without conscience? Stopping to scratch his shoulder with a hind paw, he had turned toward the closet when suddenly she came awake. He had his back to her when he heard a movement of the sheet, a tiny hushing that jerked him around, wanting to run.

  She was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled tight around her. She stared down at him, frowning. She looked at the torn screen, then looked again at Joe. In her eyes he saw fear and rising anger. He was starting to pant, he had to get out of there. He was crouched to leap to the dresser, but then thought better of that. Instead, he smiled up at her.

  "Meow?" he said weakly, trying to look cute. "Meow?" He tried hard not to glance toward the window. It took all his willpower to roll over on the rug giving her the round-eyed innocent-kitty look. He purred as loud as he could manage, given the way his heart was thundering. Something about Chichi scared him, scared him bad. He had the feeling that this woman would grab him, that she didn't like nor trust cats-that Chichi Barbi could hurt a little cat.

  Her hands looked strong. Long, capable fingers. Lean, well-muscled arms. Chichi Barbi was, Joe thought, not all curves and bleached hair and girlie giggles.

  He wondered if he could make it to the top of the dresser and out before she swung out of bed. Somehow, he was afraid to try, that might really set her off. Instead, he continued his rolling-over, inane-purring routine.

  "Hi, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty." Chichi threw back the covers and approached him, half crouching, her hand out as if to stroke him. Or to grab him. He didn't relish being attacked by a naked woman. She looked far too predatory, too intent. Staring into her eyes, Joe lost it. Filled with terror, he bolted to the dresser, sliding on the jumble of loose change, and flew through the screen snagging his fur, its metal fingers snatching him.

  But he was out of there. Out. Free. Leaping to the grass and scorching away through the graying early shadows, his heart banging like kettledrums. Beating it for his own front porch; he crouched before his cat door, shivering and looking back, he half expected her to come racing around the corner chasing him. Above the rooftops dawn had turned the sky the color of faded asphalt. What was wrong with the woman? Why was he so afraid of her? Why was she so intent on grabbing him? Particularly when, during past encounters as she passed him in the yard or came to Clyde's door, she had avoided him as if she did not want to be near a cat-not at all like she'd been in San Francisco.

  But that didn't necessarily make her a cat abuser, that didn't mean she would hurt a little cat. Did it?

  Watching her house, he could see no bright reflection on the grass or in the branches of the pine tree as if a light had come on inside. He heard no stealthy sounds, no creaking floors, no stirring at the windows.

  Maybe he should have stayed, kept on playing friendly kitty. Maybe he'd only imagined her cruel intent. Maybe she would have knelt on the carpet petting him and baby-talking him, even offering him a midnight snack. If he'd made friends with her, gotten cozy, he could have tossed her place at his leisure. Could have pretended he was bored living at Clyde's house, started hanging out at Chichi's. He would soon have the run of the place, have her leaving the window open so he could come and go at his pleasure.

  And why not? Dulcie had once played lost, starving kitty for over a week. Moved right in with a murder suspect and come away with information that nailed the killer.

  But Joe shivered, remembering the look in Chichi Barbi's eyes, and he knew he couldn't have done that. That woman put a cat off, big time. Even Dulcie would hesitate to play easy with Chichi Barbi.

  Yet no matter his fear, no matter how he distrusted her, Joe fully intended to find out what she had stashed in that black silk bag.

  13

  The big family kitchen of the Harper ranch smelled of freshly baked shortbread and fresh coffee, and of homemade custard for Wilma. She sat at the round kitchen table in her best tartan robe and new slippers, having come straight from the hospital where Lucinda and Pedric had picked her up. They had brought Dulcie to be with her, and brought Kit so she could continue telling Charlie her story. On the window seat Dulcie lay curled among the quilted pillows. But Kit sat straight and alert, her fluffy tail twitching. She was very much onstage and she had a most attentive audience as she told about her early life running with the wild band. At the table, Charlie was writing it all down.

  Writing a book about me, Kit thought with excitement. And she's making the pictures, too. Pictures of me! Charlie had already collaborated-that was a new word for Kit-on a big, thick novel, so Kit guessed she knew how to write a book by herself, and she even had an agent who said it wasn't wise to make pictures for your own story except if you were a real artist, which Charlie was, so that was all right.

  This story wouldn't have anything about how Kit could speak or was in any way different from other cats. Nothing about how the wild band was different, just a wonderful story about the adventures of a band of feral cats and an orphan kitten that they didn't want, that no one wanted but who tagged along with them because she had nowhere else to go.

  "I was always hungry," Kit said, "and we were always moving on and on. I ate the scraps from the garbage cans, if they left any. They stole other cats' food from yards and porches but they never left any for me. The best place we ever came to was all among the green hills where there were rabbits under the bushes and in the little hollows and the big cats could catch them. I tried but I couldn't, they were too big and fast and the big cats didn't want to teach me to hunt, no one wanted to teach me like a mother cat would. My mother was dead. On the hills sometimes the coyotes came hunting us but there were oak trees to go up, and once I found a bird nest in the branches and I
ate the baby birds but the big birds flapped their wings at me and swooped and pushed me out of the tree and I fell." The kit sighed. "I wanted to stay on the green hills but the others moved on, no one cared what I wanted, I was only a dumb kitten and I was scared to go off on my own."

  Sometimes Kit felt shy telling her own story out loud, but she was excited, too. The same kind of excitement she'd felt when she'd sneaked onstage that time when Cora Lee was playing the lead in little theater and the whole audience watched her, Kit, the whole theater was still and she and Cora Lee did the whole scene together with Cora Lee singing, and they were stars that night, stars together for the whole play. Thorns of Gold ran for weeks and weeks and her picture was in the paper right there with Cora Lee, and Wilma and Clyde wanted to take her away and hide her and hide Joe and Dulcie too before anyone figured out that they were more than ordinary cats, but then Wilma thought of a way to make it all right, to make her, Kit, seem like just a trained cat that didn't talk but just had learned to do tricks.

  Now telling her story she felt like she had felt on that stage in the bright lights; and her human friends listened and sipped their coffee and Dulcie purred. "When summer got real hot," Kit told them, "there was no more water in the hills and the grass turned all brown and more coyotes came real hungry all hunting us. We moved on then and I got so tired and so hot and hungry and thirsty. When I thought I couldn't go another step we came to a city with garbage in the alleys falling out of big metal cans and thrown away wrappers with bits of pizza and hot dogs still in them and the leaders ate and ate but they would never share. There were some empty houses with boarded-up basements, too, that we could get in when boys chased us or it rained, but once two boys shot at us with a gun and we ran and ran into a canyon and never went back there except to sneak food and run again. Arroyo Secco the canyon was called and it had bamboo jungles and broken concrete water pipes to hide in and we lived there a long time and came up among the houses at night to get food and to drink from the puddles where people watered their lawns. I was getting bigger and I learned to fight for something to eat but once I got bit and clawed real bad and that hurt for a long time so I could hardly walk."