Catwalk

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  Drake beat his tail against the floor in agreement.

  “So, my boys, here’s the plan …” The little demon on my shoulder seemed to be in a mood, because I heard something like as if they care coming from her direction. Okay, I know they don’t care what’s on the agenda as long as they have fun and get fed, and I know that they don’t share all my enthusiasms and probably have some things they’d like to do if I’d give them a bit more autonomy. Still, they seem to enjoy being included in the conversation. At least I like to think so, because I enjoy including them.

  “Leo and I need to train a bit, so we’ll do that while you guys,” I looked at the dogs, “have a snooze.” They wouldn’t snooze, I knew. They’d paste nose glue all over the sliding door while they watched us in the backyard. “Then I need to return some calls. Got to make a living, you know.” Jay tilted his head as if considering that one. “And then I need to go see Mom.” I try to visit my mother at least three days a week, but the visits are becoming ever more difficult. I just never know what I’m going to walk into. “I hope she’s having a good day,” I told Jay. I took another bite and then said, “Or at least not a bad day.” Mostly I hoped she knew who I was.

  My house phone rang, but I decided to let the machine answer. My friends all use my cell number, so land line calls are mostly business, and I prefer to hear the message, line up my ducks, and call back. The next voice I heard after my own, though, was Alberta’s.

  “Janet! Are you there?” Pause. Wheeze. “It’s me. Alberta.” Pause. “Alberta Shofelter.” Right. I waited, and after a few seconds she spoke again. “I’m so angry. Has anyone been to your house today?”

  Now that’s odd, I thought.

  “Okay, I guess you’re out. Maybe I’ll try your cell. If I have the number.” I assumed she did, since she had called it the day before. “Well, maybe they haven’t been there yet.”

  Who, I wondered. But I knew that if I picked up the phone, I’d be on it for an hour.

  “That bastard, Rasmussen,” She coughed. “He’s filed charges. Another lawsuit.”

  The machine cut her off. I sat perfectly still for a moment, trying to process the call. Did she mean that I was named in a lawsuit? How could I be? Then again, anything’s possible in the world of courts and lawyers, or so says my brother-in-law Norm, and he would know. For about two seconds I considered calling Alberta back, but I really did have things to do. I decided it wasn’t life threatening. It could wait.

  Ten minutes later I went out, checked that the agility obstacles were set the way I wanted, and then went back for Leo and my training equipment. I fastened my treat pouch around my waist, clipped my retractable clicker holder to the belt, and slipped a half-used tube of fish paste into a plastic bag in the main compartment. Both dogs had globs of drool dangling from their chops, and Leo was mashing his cheeks into my calf and chirping.

  “Okay, Leo mio, let’s do it.” Leo shot out the back door when I opened it. I turned to the dogs and tossed them each a treat from the bag. “Not as yummy as ground up fish, I know, but something at least, boys.”

  Leo knew what was coming. He was waiting for me on the bottom of one sloped board of the dog walk, or, for the moment, catwalk. As I looked at him, at the eagerness in his posture and round, whiskered face, I wondered what could make a person hate an animal, a whole species. It had to be something more, something deeper, I thought. What had gone wrong in Charles Rasmussen’s genes or life to make him hate kittens and threaten to throw their lives away like so much trash? I shook that memory loose and made myself focus on Leo, waiting now with one paw raised.

  Training on the canine equipment isn’t exactly regulation feline agility, but a few months earlier the little orange guy had decided to stop watching from the sidelines. He started following Jay over the dog walk and the A-frame, through the tunnel, onto the pause table. At first he scooted under the jump bars, but I encouraged him to go over, and he never looked back. I could imagine him singing, “Anything dogs can do, I can do better.”

  Although I hadn’t yet competed with Leo in a cat agility trial, I did know that the obstacles, rules, and training methods were different from what we were doing. But Leo didn’t seem to mind working like a dog, as it were, especially when there was fish paste in the offing for a job well done. One of my regular clients is president of the local cat club, and when I mentioned Leo’s performance prowess, she suggested that I help them put on a demo at the upcoming canine agility trial. The trial was being held at Dog Dayz, where I train Jay. Marietta Santini, the owner, has five lively Abyssinians, so she was an easy sell once we figured out the safety protocols. The planning all started months ago, and here we were, just five days from the big event. Even more exciting, it was all happening a week before another big event—the Tri-State Cat Show and Feline Agility Trial.

  I squeezed out a wee dab of fish paste, called Leo to me, and let him lick the oh-so-fishy reward from the end of the tube. “Holy mackerel, Catman, that stuff smells worse than Limburger cheese!” Leo gave me his Foolish Human stare and licked his lips, so I said, “Okay, let’s get started.”

  eight

  We had just finished running the second course when I heard a voice say, “Who’s that, the Border Collie of cats?”

  I sat down on the ground to give Leo a jackpot squeeze of fish paste and called over my shoulder, “Nah, he’s better than that. He could do it in the dark.”

  Goldie came through the gate. “Isn’t it cold and damp down there?” she asked.

  “No, not too bad.”

  She joined me on the grass. “You could do it in the dark, couldn’t you, Mister Leo?” Her face had lost some of the gauntness it had just a few weeks earlier, and a warm sense of reprieve enveloped me as I watched her. Goldie was in remission, and I was beyond grateful.

  “You look perky this morning,” I said, withdrawing the fishy tube and twisting the cap on tight.

  “Perky is as perky does,” she said, holding the back of her hand out to my cat. He pushed his cheek into it, said mmrrwwwlll, and set about cleaning his muzzle with his paw.

  We sat and chatted for a few minutes, and then Goldie got up and brushed off her pants. “Too chilly on the grass. Let me go grab a blanket to sit on.”

  “No, I need to get moving anyway.”

  Goldie turned and looked at me, squinting into my face. “I’ve been thinking about that Ratcatcher guy from last night.”

  “Rasmussen.”

  “Whoever.” She adjusted a bobby pin in her upswept hair. “I think he’s the guy my birding group is talking about. He’s a developer, right?”

  “More like an investor, I think. What were they saying?”

  “If it’s the same guy, he’s part of a consortium of some sort that wants to put up some apartments or houses or …”

  “Condos.”

  She gave me a look. “You know about this.”

  “They want to put up condos on a small wetlands next to Alberta’s house.”

  “Be careful, Janet. From what I hear, he likes to get his way. And if your hunch is right about his wife, he’s not averse to hurting women.”

  “Oh, come on. I’ll be fine. I don’t even expect to have any more dealings with the guy.” I tried to ignore the nagging memory of Alberta’s message.

  Goldie gave me a look very like the one my mother used when I tried to hide things from her as a kid.

  “You’re right, though. Anyone my dog doesn’t like is someone to keep at a distance.”

  “Exactly,” said Goldie, and then let the subject go. “So what kind of trouble are you into today?”

  “None at all. I have a very routine day ahead of me.”

  The words were no sooner out of my mouth than my Janet-

  angel began to tut-tut and Janet-demon sing-songed, You’ll be sorry you said that.

  I took Leo inside and let the dogs ou
t for a short game of tennis ball. I couldn’t shake the image of the pond, wetland, and woods. I had seen the place in summer, had seen wild roses dancing at the edge of the woods and heard the trills of the red-winged blackbirds that nested in the cattails. A rough estimate put the whole semi-wild area—water and woods­—at eight or so acres. I had thought about walking the area when I was there in the summer, but had never followed up. Small places can be vast treasures. I kicked myself briefly, and decided it was time to call Alberta and go take a look.

  It was my turn to leave a message, so I told Alberta’s voice mail, “I want to take some photos of the pond, and the light is good this morning, so I’m heading over to your place.” I started to hang up, then added, “If you get back before I leave, I could take a few photos of the kittens, too, if you like.”

  Ten minutes later I was on my way. The only sign of life at Alberta’s house was a cacophony of terriers brought on by the doorbell, so I grabbed my camera and walked down the closely mowed slope to the pond. I spent about half an hour taking photos. You might think there’s not much to see in the browns of late autumn, but you would be wrong. I found a dozen abandoned nests hanging from cattails, and managed to spot several cocoons. From Alberta’s driveway, I had thought the pond ended before the woods, but in fact the more open water merged into perhaps a half-acre strip of marsh that extended into the woods, where a mix of sycamore, beech, and oak were, for now, standing in water.

  I had just turned to walk back up the slope to my car when something caught my eye in the eastern sky. At first it was indefinite, just a suggestion against the glare of morning. But then a small flock of ducks became clear. There were only a handful of them, closing fast, but I had time to get set, and clicked off a long series of shots as they came in low over the cattails and settled into the pond. I was thrilled when I zoomed in to see not the ubiquitous mallard, but a half dozen green-winged teal. The males’ heads gleamed like bronze where the sun caught them. One of the drakes started to whistle and chitter, and the duck closest to him let out a series of quacks. She sounded like Daffy Duck.

  I lowered the camera and scanned the sky. A movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention, and I turned to see a figure watching from the far side of the street. That wouldn’t have been unusual in itself. People are often fascinated by my long lenses. But something about this person gave me the creeps. I couldn’t be sure whether it was a man or woman—or boy or girl, for that matter. Any measure of identity was obscured by jeans, gym shoes, and a dark hoody. I waved, but whoever it was never moved. Fine, I thought, and turned my gaze back to the water.

  I snapped my lens cap on and spoke to the ducks. “They can’t fill this. It’s a wetland.” As I drove home, I had an idea. One of my former students was a reporter for the Fort Wayne newspapers. She was always looking for good stories. I emailed her about the pond as a stopover for migratory waterfowl as soon as I got home, then decided to let it go for a while. The muscles in my neck were so tight they ached, so I thought it was time for a little self care. I took a hot shower, wrapped up in cozy old sweats, and made a pot of blackberry sage tea. The fragrance alone always calms me.

  Rarely do I get to spend a whole afternoon catching up with all the small jobs and pleasures that pile up around the house in busy times, but that’s how the rest of the day unfolded. I was beginning to think my angelic and demonic voices had been wrong this time—I really could have a routine day and stay out of trouble. I sat down and started to read the latest issue of National Wildlife with Leo on my lap, Jay snoring, and Drake sleep-running on the floor. When the phone rang, I looked up and was surprised to see that it was nearly dark outside.

  nine

  “Hi you.” It was Tom.

  “Hi yourself.” That had become our telephone greeting ritual since … I couldn’t remember when we started that. Funny how little things—a word or two here, a common memory there—stitch people together. “What time is it?”

  “You still haven’t found your watch?” Tom sounded more concerned than I thought a ten-dollar watch deserved and I bristled, waiting for him to say something snarky.

  “It’s around somewhere.” It’s gone, and you know it.

  “It’s a quarter to six. I got held up. The meeting took longer than

  it should have.”

  Don’t they all, I thought, thankful once again that I work for myself.

  Tom interrupted my thoughts. “I’m leaving now.” I heard a door close and a lock snap to. “I need to run home before class tonight,” he said, meaning obedience practice at Dog Dayz, “so I’ll stop and get my boy. And you, too, if you need a ride.”

  “Thanks, but they dropped my van off at noon.”

  He never mentioned my watch again, and I heard a little scold in my head say, Yeah, that was the ex who never let things go, remember? After we hung up, I toured the house and found I was a little surprised at what I’d accomplished. Laundry done and put away—sheets, towels, clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time all the dirties were dealt with at the same time. The dishwasher was empty. The floors were vacuumed. The pile of bills and correspondence on my desk was a fifth its usual size, and all my invoices were sent. I had even tidied the pile of magazines and books on the dining room table. Leo and the dogs followed me from room to room.

  “So what do you guys think? Too organized?”

  As soon as I said the word “organized,” I realized what had been bothering me about Louise Rasmussen’s painting studio. Well, other than her bully of a husband. It was too neat. There must be a completely organized neat-freak of a painter somewhere, but none of my creative friends are that tidy. I closed my eyes and pictured the space. There was an easel, I remembered, with a blank canvas on it. Surely I was just too distracted to notice whatever mess there must have been? I didn’t think so. I don’t have a photographic memory, but I do have a photographer’s eye. I tend to frame scenes, and to notice and remember details and arrangements. I couldn’t recall any of the things I would expect to be there—works in progress or newly completed, sketches and studies, pencils, half-empty paint tubes lying around waiting to be squeezed into service. As I recalled, everything in the studio had seemed regimented.

  Drake made a gurgling noise that brought me back to the moment. He might have been agreeing with me. It was hard to tell since he had a tennis ball and a chew toy in his mouth and was banging the metal filing cabinet with his tail. Jay wriggled at me, and Leo watched from a bookcase.

  “It won’t last.” I scratched a dog ear with each hand. “We’ll have it all messed up again in no time.” Leo meowed for equal attention.

  Tom was there a few minutes later and left with Drake. I gave Jay a quick once-over with a brush, then ran it through my own hair. My brother Bill saw me do that once and was appalled, but really, I’d rather share grooming equipment with my dog than with most people. I clipped Jay’s leash to his collar and grabbed my training duffle and keys and started for the door. Phone! I looked around, then remembered that I’d stuck it in my pocket.

  When I had Jay safely in his crate and myself belted in behind the wheel, I wrestled my phone out of my jeans to check the charge. I’d become paranoid about failed batteries after having a series of them at critical moments and I checked my bars several times a day. When I opened the cover, the message light was flashing. I backed into the driveway while Voice Mail Woman retrieved the missed call, but shifted back into park as I listened to Alberta Shofelter’s voice, running at warp speed.

  “Janet, are you there? Are you there? Are you coming, I hope you’re coming to training tonight. I’m so angry! I have to talk to you, you’ll probably be getting one, oh, I just got served …” The message timed out and I closed the phone.

  What in the world? What did she mean, she just got served? Was she in a restaurant? I flipped the phone open, intending to play the message again, but saw that I had a new one. From Alberta. I listen
ed. She still spoke fast, her voice pitched high and punctuated now with wheezing every few seconds. “That man! What kind of … Oh, never mind, I’ll see you, you’re probably on your way there … I’d like to just knock him …” and the message cut off again.

  For half a second I considered calling her back, but I don’t talk while I’m driving and I didn’t relish being stuck in my driveway while Alberta ranted for an hour. Besides, she sounded like she planned to be at Dog Dayz. That was a bit unusual, since it was obedience training night and she didn’t compete in obedience with her Welsh Terriers. But she knew that Tom and I are both involved in the sport, so apparently she was making a special trip to see me.

  I set the phone on the console, started the van again, hit the button for Northeast Indiana Public Radio, shifted into reverse, twisted around to see behind me as we started to roll, and slammed the brakes hard enough to launch my phone into the back of the van.

  “What the … ?” I blurted. A black car was parked on the street smack behind my driveway. My street is dark—too dark—because a few hold-outs keep the neighborhood association from putting in street lights. I couldn’t see much except that the car’s headlights were on. “If this doesn’t just …,” I said, putting my van in park and undoing my seatbelt. As I reached to kill the engine, I heard a tapping and realized that a man was standing outside my door. A big man.

  ten

  The man standing beside my car window stepped back and made a whirligig of his index finger, so I rolled down my window.

  “Hutchinson! What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Ms. MacPhail.” Officer Hutchinson bent toward me and rocked mildly from foot to foot.

  “Janet.”

  “Right. Janet.” He held a cheap pen in one hand and was twisting the cap with the other. He didn’t say anything.

  This can’t be good, I thought. “So, Hutchinson, what’s up?”