World without Cats

by Bonham Richards

  “Are you a sports-car aficionado?”

  “Yes, but I’ve never owned one. Maybe after I retire … It’s amazing that batteries are so light they can be used in hybrid sports cars.”

  Vera nodded. “Right you are. Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been possible.” Who’d have thought I’d have anything in common with this guy?

  It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at Dorothy’s. As they approached the front door, Angelo suddenly stopped and grabbed Vera’s arm. “Wait. What is that I hear?”

  “A harpsichord. Dorothy plays the harpsichord.”

  They stood silently in the chill air, listening to the strident chords of a Bach toccata. Finally, Angelo whispered, “Marveloose.” Vera cocked her head, eyeing the epidemiologist. She was suddenly aware that there was was more to Kraakmo than science and ego.

  Inside, Angelo proclaimed, “You play very well, Madame Knowland. I would like to hear more, if you would be so kind. Perhaps after we discuss your cats …”

  “Do you enjoy Bach?” asked Dorothy, obviously flattered.

  “Absolut!” said Angelo. “After 1750, there has been no reason for any composer to write a fugue or toccata or partita. Bach did all there was to do in these forms.”

  “Well, I don’t know …” said Dorothy, “you certainly have strong opinions about Bach.”

  “I am sorry,” he replied. “I guess I do.”

  Dorothy smiled. “Dr. Kraakmo, I would be happy to play something after dinner.”

  Vera was becoming concerned that Kraakmo was behaving a little too genially toward Dorothy.

  The three spent an hour going over the disease and its catastrophic effect on Dorothy’s feline colony. All the while, Angelo assiduously took notes on his e-tablet.

  Vera noted that Angelo’s questions emphasized dates and facts. He’s good, she thought. If he just had a more agreeable demeanor …

  “Did you ever receive any cats from the university?” he inquired.

  Dorothy replied, “No, I don’t think so. Most of my cats were strays or they were given to me by other people.”

  “Did you acquire any new ones in the month or two before your cats got sick?”

  Dorothy closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Just one, I think. Clyde, the tomcat that Pete Wingate brought over.”

  At this, Angelo let out a guffaw. “That is very funny name for a little cat. I never heard of a cat named Clyde.” The two women glanced at each other. Vera shrugged. Angelo resumed his questioning. “Can you remember just when this Clyde cat came here?”

  Dorothy thought a moment. “I think it was around the middle of February. Yes, I remember, it was a Saturday afternoon, and Pete brought me some pippin apples along with Clyde. I baked a pie the next day.”

  “Where does this Mr. Wingate live, please?”

  “He has a small farm about ten miles from here.”

  Dorothy rarely had dinner guests, but when she did, she prepared an attractive table. After dinner, Angelo asked, “Will you play Bach now?” It was not quite a command, not quite a request.

  Vera frowned. “Maybe we should be heading back.”

  “Oh, you can stay a while longer,” said Dorothy. “I don’t often have someone to play for.”

  “All right,” Vera said. “Just for a while.”

  For over an hour, Dorothy played harpsichord music of Bach, punctuated from time to time by Angelo’s “Marveloose!” Vera could see that the epidemiologist was enraptured. At one point, Dorothy began a sonata by Scarlatti, but Angelo interrupted, “Bach. Just Bach, please.” Finally, she began “Toccata and Fugue in D minor.” Angelo’s eyes widened. When the piece finally ended, Angelo, eyes glistening, said, “Madame, I have never heard it played so skillfully on harpsichord. On organ, yes, but never on harpsichord.”

  Dorothy turned around to face him. Vera saw that her face was pink and beaming. Dorothy opened her mouth, but no words came. The lonely widow could only manage a smile of gratitude.

  Angelo looked at his watch. “Well, it is getting late, and I don’t have a room yet. I must find a hotel.” Vera rose. “The motel where McNally checked in isn’t far from my place.”

  Dorothy found her voice. “I won’t hear of it. I have a spare bedroom. You will stay here tonight.”

  Vera, startled, was about to protest, but thought better of it.

  Angelo eyed Dorothy slyly and asked, “You will play Bach tomorrow morning?”

  Dorothy smiled. She pursed her lips and, affecting a parody of Angelo’s accent, said, “Absolut! I would be happy to play Bach tomorrow morning.”

  “Marveloose,” he said, and they laughed. “I will have to go to my rented car to get my things.”

  Vera wondered, “Will you be able to find your way back here in the dark?”

  “Absolut! There’s a fine GPS console in the car.”

  The next day, after collecting McNally from her motel, Angelo visited the institute. At the open doorway to Noah’s office, he inquired, “You are Doctor Noah Chamberlin?”

  Noah eyed the strange-looking man standing in the doorway. He surveyed the ruddy countenance of the mustachioed fellow, who reminded Noah of the character Mario from the video games he had played as a kid. “What can I do for you?”

  “I am Dr. Angelo Nils Kraakmo, epidemiologist from the Centers for Disease Control. I am here to investigate the feline epizootic that has been occurring in this village.”

  Village? What kind of guy calls Camarillo a village? “Come in, come in,” he said. Angelo removed books from the two Eames chairs in front of Noah’s desk, introduced McNally, and sat down.

  Noah said, “I suppose you’ve been told that the disease started here in my laboratory.”

  “Yes.” He looked Noah straight in the eye. “But I would like you to understand that I, myself, have come to no conclusions.”

  “Thank you,” replied Noah with a trace of sarcasm.

  “Please describe to me your research and your facilities, if you will be so kind.”

  “May I record this discussion?” asked McNally. “I’m gathering material for a series on the disease.”

  Noah shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care. I have nothing to hide.” Prohibited from doing any experiments, Noah was not particularly busy that day, so he patiently told Angelo of his plans to clone the feline alpha-globin gene. He soon realized that Angelo was conversant in the arcane language of molecular biology, and he described his work in some detail, leading McNally to shake her head from time to time. Later, he took the two of them on a tour of the lab and cat room. All the while, as McNally recorded the conversation, Angelo meticulously wrote his own notes on his e-tablet. He was particularly interested in the break-in and theft of the cats.

  “Scandaloose!” Angelo exclaimed when Noah told him about the episode. “And there never was a sign of the cats after that?”

  “Not a trace. I had to procure all-new cats, but now they are all dead from this new disease.”

  “I suspect the lady veterinarian has a good theory,” commented the epidemiologist, “and I will proceed with it as my working hypothesis. But I will keep an open mind, Dr. Chamberlin. In epidemiology, the most likely theory does not always turn out to be the correct one.”

  After working the swing shift, Jake Moloney arrived home to find the lights still on in his white-frame bungalow. Joan greeted him at the door. Their six-year-old daughter, Irene, was asleep on the couch.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

  “Slim died, and Irene’s been crying all evening.”

  “Oh, hell.” Slim, Irene’s tabby, had been ill for a week. Their vet had warned them the cat might not survive. Jake went over to his sleeping daughter, her eyelids still red. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, “We’ll get another cat soon, don’t worry.”

  But th
at was not to be.

  In Sweet Home, Oregon, Rebecca Smith called out for her cat. “Bib! Bib! Come here right now, you little devil!”

  Bib had always raced to her call at mealtime.

  “Lee,” she cried, “have you seen Bib?”

  Leon Smith put down his newspaper. “Not since yesterday. Isn’t he showing up for breakfast?”

  “No. Lee, I’m scared. What if he’s got that virus thing you were telling me about?” She descended from the porch and walked the path into the woods. Shortly, she spied the cat’s body twisted in an unnatural position. Ants and other insects were already at work on the remains. Rebecca screamed, “Aaiioo! No. No. No!”

  Leon ran out. When he saw Bib’s dead body, he took the grieving woman in his arms. They remained silent. They knew they’d never have another companion like Bib.

  11

  May 2020

  1,050,000,000

  Angelo continued to question cat owners—mostly former cat owners—in Camarillo and surrounding communities. When he arrived at the residence of Dr. Amend, city council member, Mrs. Amend invited him in. Angelo looked around at the opulent furnishings, parquet floor, deep-pile carpet, and, what looked to him like original artwork on the walls.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Amend, “what is it? I suppose you want to ask me about my cat.” Angelo found her manner both condescending and rude.

  “Yes, Mrs. Amend. That is correct. I am seeking clues to the origin of this feline epizootic.”

  “It certainly didn’t start here,” said Mrs. Amend coldly.

  “No,” Angelo replied. “I didn’t think it did. However, I am trying to learn how the disease is transmitted from cat to cat. Anything you can tell me about the days before your cat—er, what was its name—became ill?”

  “My cat was not an ‘it.’ She was named Madame.”

  Oops, thought Angelo, that was a faux pas on my part. I’ve got to treat this lady with tact. “Yes. I’m sorry. I had forgotten her name. I meant no offense. I know that you miss her very much. All the cat people I’ve spoken with are saddened by the loss of their pets. This is a difficult time.”

  Angelo saw that his words had the appropriate effect. Mrs. Amend’s face softened noticeably. She said, “I don’t know how I can help you. Madame was healthy. She got sick. A few days later, she died.”

  Angelo pulled out his e-tablet. “Did you let Madame outside or did you keep her inside all the time?”

  “Madame was strictly an indoor cat,” replied Mrs. Amend. Angelo wrote on his pad.

  “Were there any cat visitors in the week or so before Madame fell ill?”

  “No. Dr. Barnett asked me the same question.”

  Angelo asked a few more questions, thanked the woman, and said good-bye.

  The next day, Angelo visited Noah at the institute. “I would like to take some swab samples from surfaces in your lab and the cat room,” he said.

  “Oh, now you really do think the disease originated here,” said Noah in an angry tone of voice.

  “Please, Dr. Chamberlin, as a scientist you surely understand that I am merely trying to be as thorough as possible. My taking samples from your lab does not implicate you in any way. I will also take swabs from Dr. Barnett’s clinic and from Mrs. Knowland’s house. I will have a complete picture of the disease only when all the data are analyzed.”

  “Of course,” said Noah. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m on edge as a result of all the attention my lab has been getting.”

  “I understand.” Angelo was silent a moment. “You know, it is possible that my investigation will exonerate you. Let us leave it to science, for better or worse.”

  Angelo sent all the swabs by express mail to the Atlanta headquarters of the CDC.

  He even requested stool specimens from Noah, Gary, Vera, and Dorothy to have them checked for any unusual strains of E. coli that might have originated with Noah’s research strains.

  “Angelo, that’s a nasty thing to ask,” Dorothy complained.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I should have explained why this is necessary.” Angelo chose his words carefully. “Have you ever been asked by your doctor to furnish a stool specimen?”

  “Yes,” Dorothy replied, “several times when I had intestinal problems.”

  “Do you know why doctors need to examine stool?”

  “I guess so. It’s so they can look for germs that might be causing a disease.”

  “Exactly!” Angelo cried triumphantly. “That is the same reason I want the CDC to examine your feces. To see if you or Dr. Barnett or Dr. Chamberlin might be carrying some germ that is associated with the cat disease.”

  “Well, since you put it that way … I guess sometimes there are unpleasant aspects to your job.”

  Angelo smiled. “Yes, my dear, that is correct. However, it is honorable work, no matter how disagreeable it is on occasion.” He put his arms around Dorothy and hugged her. “Thank you for understanding.”

  His phone buzzed. It was the reporter McNally. Although she had spent three days running around Los Angeles, interviewing the biologist at UCLA and several veterinarians in the city, and even the vet at the Griffith Park Zoo, she had not obtained any information she hadn’t already gotten while spending time with Angelo. She was planning to return to Atlanta that day.

  “I wish you success with your article,” said Angelo. “Perhaps we will meet again in Atlanta.”

  During his sojourn in Southern California, Angelo stayed in Dorothy’s guest bedroom. One evening, while Angelo was typing notes into his laptop on the day’s investigation, Dorothy was playing the harpsichord. Angelo looked up from his work. “Woman, I find it difficult to concentrate on my work while you play. Oh, that’s not a criticism, it’s a compliment.”

  Dorothy stopped playing and walked over to where Angelo was sitting. “You know, we have a lot in common—at least where music is involved.”

  “Yes, I guess we do.” He stood and faced her. “I … I think I am becoming very fond of you.” Dorothy took his hands in hers and squeezed them gently.

  Angelo was quiet. Finally, he pulled her close and gently stroked her face. He broke away and returned to his seat. Dorothy resumed her playing, but Angelo noticed it was a bit choppy. He refrained from commenting.

  A few days later, after Angelo had spent the day investigating the disease in nearby Oxnard, he was relaxing as Dorothy played the “Goldberg Variations.” Deeply moved by the beauty of the music and Dorothy’s skillful rendering of it, he walked over to the harpsichord and put his hands gently on her shoulders. For a moment, the music faltered, and then continued. After she had finished the fourteenth variation, she turned and looked up at Angelo. His eyes were moist—the man was weeping. “What’s wrong?” she asked, “Did I …”

  Angelo stifled her question with a chaste kiss. A little embarrassed, he backed away. “I am sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

  Dorothy gazed at him fondly. “It’s all right. I thought for a moment that you didn’t like the way I was playing.”

  Angelo smiled. “Scandaloose,” he said quietly. He took Dorothy’s hand and drew her from the bench. He brought his smile to hers. Now, without embarrassment, he kissed her with considerable passion. She responded in kind.

  Angelo was in Ventura, interviewing a vet, when his phone buzzed. It was Vera. The tortoiseshell tabby had expired. The vet informed him that she’d dissected the furry corpse, placing small samples of the tissues Angelo had requested into small vials. She’d labeled each vial with the date and, in a notebook, recorded the gross and microscopic anatomy of the tissues. “The cat’s spleen was much enlarged,” she said, “and, as expected, there was considerable internal bleeding.”

  “Thank you,” said Angelo. “I see you are thorough in your work.”

  Angelo went to Vera’s cli
nic on the same day and sent the samples, frozen over dry ice, to his home base at the CDC for analysis. He included a lengthy note requesting a complete viral workup with special attention to feline leukemia, AIDS, and sarcoma viruses.

  He had previously been providing a continuous flow of dust, skin scrapings, saliva, stool specimens, and other biological material to Atlanta. The technicians at the CDC were used to Angelo’s donations. No other epidemiologist sent so many specimens for analysis. Angelo knew that some of the techs complained, but Bronkowski would always defend him; more than once it had been some obscure scraping or tissue sample Angelo had sent in that proved to be the breakthrough in tracing the origin of a particular epidemic.

  However, this time, nothing had turned up. Even the stool samples contained only the normal intestinal flora one would expect in a cat or human. No recombinant plasmids or anything like that had been found. Angelo was mystified; the disease was like no other disease he’d encountered.

  On Saturday morning, while Dorothy was tuning the harpsichord, Angelo browsed the local newspaper on his laptop. He came across a notice of Ibsen’s play, A Doll’s House, currently running in Ventura.

  “Do you know this Tiber Theater?” he asked.

  “Why yes,” answered Dorothy, “Dave and I used to attend plays and musicals there.”

  “Ventura. Aha! That is not far. They are performing a fine play, A Doll’s House by Norway’s greatest playwright, Henrik Ibsen. Have you ever seen this play?”

  Dorothy thought a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Wasn’t there a movie, though? With Jane Fonda, I think. There’s a woman named Nora, isn’t there?”

  “Absolut. That is the one. We will go tonight.”

  “We may not be able to get tickets on such short notice.”

  “I will try.”

  As it happened, there had been a cancellation moments before Angelo phoned the ticket office. He was able to arrange for tickets provided he arrived early to pick them up.