A Curious Affair

by Melanie Jackson

  And you want to do this, don’t you? You like the sheep man.

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  If Atherton had been human, he would have nodded. I think he was dubious but he wanted me to be happy.

  Will you tell Tyler about me? That I talk to you?

  I hesitated, taking time to wipe my cheeks dry while I considered this question. It was a tough one. I was still suffering from regret for not being open and honest with Cal at a time when he needed me, for shying away from the pain that honesty about his chances of survival could bring. And hadn’t I decided that the pain of regret was worse than confronting the truth, however hard? Yet being completely honest in this situation…

  “I don’t know,” I finally said. And that was the truth. I wanted to, but I didn’t know if I would. It would be asking a lot from a very young relationship, especially when Tyler was such a logical, unfanciful man. The best I could do was promise: “I will never do anything that would hurt you or the other cats.”

  And we would never hurt you, Jillian.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime for her more than she is to me?

  —Michel de Montaigne, Essays, 1580

  In most places, the Stanislaus River runs rather fast and is not especially scenic, but right near Knight’s Crossing it slows down and widens out into something that looks like it should be feeding the Mississippi. You know what I mean? It’s the sort of stream you see in the South, perhaps in Arkansas—snags of deadfall, giant old trees with limbs trailing in the peaceful water. While Tyler got his hat from the car I sat on a broad stone and stared at the pastoral scene with sleepy eyes. Letting breakfast digest at a leisurely pace, I didn’t attempt to think about anything in particular, except that I liked Tyler’s aftershave and it was nice to hold hands with someone again, even it was under the breakfast table.

  There were the occasional golden leaves floating by—like faerie boats—and you could see the young fish darting about in the clear lazy water that lapped in the shallows. Pale blue butterflies lined the grassy banks that rolled down to the stream, and small birds bathed in the miniature pond whose banks were woven of tree roots. I don’t know what plant was growing at the bottom of the river, covering it like a carpet, but it looked like a vast garden of thyme swaying to unheard music. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a mermaid swim by.

  “Ready?” Tyler asked. I looked up at him and was a bit amused and dismayed to see the orange paper in his hand. They had them at the visitors desk in the lobby. All our hotels and parks have displays of such pamphlets and flyers. We like to make things very easy for the tourists. “It looks like they have a lot of interesting things out here,” Tyler said enthusiastically.

  “Lots,” I agreed.

  Tyler read out loud. The pamphlet from visitors center said that people fished for salmon here and I could believe it. Salmon fishing has always seemed rather peaceful to me, especially when Tyler read about it in his slow deep voice. They also had some interesting stories about the ruins of the old mill destroyed in a flood—a haunted place, if the pamphlet was to be believed—and the old covered bridge we had just crossed. According to the flyer, its three hundred and thirty foot length is the longest west of the Mississippi. I believe that. In spite of Tyler’s large hand, all I could think about was how the old planks might give way under me, dropping me onto the giant boulders far below, cracking my leg bones and maybe my spine. I made the walk across because Tyler wanted to, but I was fighting vertigo—and rebelling eggs Benedict—the whole time.

  We didn’t talk much that morning. Perhaps neither of us knew what to say about what had happened the night before. But on the far side of the bridge, I broke the silence and suggested that we take the long way around back to the parking lot. It wasn’t scenic, but it would aid my digestion. It was also where the ferals hung out. I didn’t try and question them with Tyler there, but I felt that I needed to check up on them and see that they had enough food. They all seemed fit, but I was both delighted and sad to see the new generation of kittens. They were so darling—and so damned if they weren’t trapped and given a chance to bond with humans while they were young.

  We strolled slowly, our eyes mostly looking upward, not wanting to miss the osprey nests in the cedars at the edge of the pond, but we frequently got distracted by the amazing display of wildflowers encroaching on the trail—Chinese houses, fairy lanterns, twining lilies, and I think all eighty-one varieties of California lupine. There was also a truly lush paradise of poison oak that the deer had been eating in spite of it being poisonous. The whole morning was so beautiful and our path so exquisite that I came away feeling truly blissful and with a feeling that all would be well. It had to be, on a day that perfect.

  Possibly it affected Tyler differently, since the scenery was somewhat foreign after his years in the concrete jungles of LA. I noticed that he seemed more energized than meditative. In fact, he sometimes seemed downright distracted, his brow occasionally furrowed. I thought maybe it was the lack of sleep and all the coffee he’d had at breakfast. But I saw him smile as he looked at the lake and the sky, with its solitary ea gle-shaped cloud, and knew he was present enough to appreciate at least some of the wild beauty.

  “You really like it here? I mean, in Irish Camp?” I asked. “It isn’t too…slow for you? There’s not much to do except watch the flowers bloom and chase big fish in slow creeks.”

  Tyler looked down at me. “How could I not like it? The Sierras in early April. I had no idea it was so damned beautiful. I’ve got to get my family up here for a visit. My sister would love it.”

  His family Here. I was a bit startled, but then thought, well, why not? They were probably nice people.

  “We’ll have to hike in Yosemite. Another couple weeks and the flowers will be at their peak. That is a sight that shouldn’t be missed,” I said. This took a bit of courage, suggesting that we would still want to hike together two weeks from now. I was proud of myself for being so brave.

  Tyler turned his smile on me. He settled an arm over my shoulders. I had the feeling that public displays of affection were as difficult for him as they were for me, not because of any puritanical streak, but because he was a private man and didn’t necessarily want to share our very new relationship with the wider world. Still, a part of me wanted to reach beneath his shirt and touch everything I hadn’t gotten to see the night before—and to hell with anyone who might be looking. I had gotten past the shame and guilt of being intimate with anyone but Cal. The rest of the town held no terror for me.

  “I’d love that. Is the park open on Tuesdays? That’s my day off. If the weather is nice, we could go then.”

  “I think so. I can check.” I leaned my cheek against him. He was wearing my favorite aftershave, and I let myself breathe deeply. I felt a light kiss on the top of my head and he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Thanks,” he said. I think he meant this for many things.

  Tyler was back on duty at noon, so we bypassed the walking tour of the mill and headed back for his Jeep. He is too disciplined a driver for us to hold hands while he was behind the wheel, but he made no objection to the hand I rested on his leg just above his knee. There was a homey peace about the ride back.

  I tried to work after Tyler dropped me at home, but I didn’t have much luck. I finally gave up attempting to write an outline for my piece on feline leukemia and went to make a pot of tea. The barometer was falling again and I wasn’t feeling inspired. Instead I sat on the sofa, sipping Darjeeling and doodling on my note pad, hoping that my scribbling would give me some clever new insights that would lift this sad story of feline casualties above the mundane warnings and into something that would provoke people into action.

  What are you doing? Atherton asked, watching my pen wiggle back and forth as I sketched the limbs of an oak tree. I’ve noticed that scratching sounds intrigue him, especially if he can’t see what’s making the no
ise.

  “I’m drawing,” I said. “Making a picture of a word.”

  Why?

  “Because I don’t want to write about death yet.”

  Oh.

  “Would you like me to draw you?” I asked impulsively.

  Atherton thought about this.

  Yes, he finally said.

  “Okay, just sit still for a moment.” I turned to a clean page and began drawing. The picture wasn’t as good as one done by a trained artist. In fact, it was a bit cartoon-ish, but I thought it a fair enough likeness.

  “There,” I said finally, turning the pad so he could see it. “What do you think?”

  Atherton stepped closer, walking gently down the back of the sofa. He sniffed the drawing, recoiling a bit at the scent of the wet ink. He raised his left paw as if to touch the picture but then put it back down.

  The color is almost right, I think. But it doesn’t smell like me. And I am not flat.

  “No, you’re not,” I agreed, amused. “But if I showed this to another human, they would know it was you. Even without the right smell.”

  Humans don’t have very good senses, do they?

  “No, we don’t have much sense at all,” I said, thinking of Tyler and how I was mooning over him instead of working. I turned the sketchpad back. “Let me draw something else.”

  I added a mouse to the picture. It wasn’t as good as my drawing of Atherton, since I had no model, but any human would have known what it was.

  I turned the pad back toward Atherton. “There. What’s this?”

  You’re trying to draw a mouse, aren’t you? he said kindly. The face is good, but the back legs are wrong.

  “Oh.” I squinted at my picture. “I’ll take your word on that. You’ve probably seen more mice than I have.”

  Probably. But your pictures are very nice. If you can learn how to draw smells, I am sure all the cats will like them.

  Draw smells. I didn’t think that would be happening anytime soon, though the idea was interesting. How would I go about this? Rub quills on the subjects’ body before I drew them? Dip my nibs in their urine? No, me producing art for cats probably wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t say this, though. It seemed a bit unfair that Atherton had to do most of the accommodating in our relationship.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud around two o’clock and this time didn’t reappear. I tried to get comfortable and sipped more tea, but it wasn’t working. Something was nibbling away at the back of my brain and I couldn’t concentrate.

  A part of me wasn’t surprised when I heard a knock on the door and it turned out to be Josh. I had been expecting a visit from someone in Dell’s camp for a couple of days. Josh, surrounded by an invisible cloud of stale cigarette scents, inched his way into the foyer and at my invitation took a seat on edge of the spool-backed bench on the wall behind the door. Hands twitching, he said he had been up to visit Irv’s cabin and was stopping in to see if I needed any help. What he had been doing at Irv’s cabin wasn’t something he volunteered, and I didn’t ask.

  Thinking swiftly, I mentioned that I needed to mend a broken spindle on my brass headboard, and did he think that a chemical weld—basically a two-part epoxy for metal—would do the job? We discussed the merits of different brands of epoxies—by the way, Josh recommends J-B Weld—and then, when the subject was exhausted, I just flat out said that I knew about Irv and the gold and asked if that was why he had been up to the cabin.

  Josh was surprised, but also looked relieved to be able to speak freely.

  “I thought maybe he’d talked to you about it. Maybe asked you to keep his stash? He was real fond of you, Jillian.”

  “And I of him.” This was a bit of revisionist history, but all in a good cause. “He didn’t give me his gold, though.”

  “I can see that you liked him, what with you takin’ in Irv’s cats. No one else was willin’. Especially not that useless nephew. That one’s mean through and through.” I nodded, hoping he would feel the need to fill the silence with something useful. Nature and Josh seemed to abhor a vacuum.

  “Irv never did tell us where he found that gold. I was thinking it was maybe down one of those coyote holes his dad dug way back,” Josh said eventually.

  I didn’t blink, but wanted to. So, Irv hadn’t told his closest friends about where he found the gold. And if Josh could be misled—perhaps deliberately—into thinking that Irv had been working the old shafts, maybe the nephew had been, too. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Of course Irv lied about where he’d found the gold. These people were his friends, but gold was gold.

  “I told the sheriff that I thought Wilkes killed Irv for his gold,” I said softly. “But…”

  “He doesn’t believe you?” Josh sounded surprised.

  “I think he believes me, but we haven’t got any proof. It’s all circumstantial evidence and Tyler can’t take that to the DA.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Josh said, and I believe he meant it. “That bastard’s gonna walk free and get the gold, too. It makes me mad enough to spit.” To spit, but not to kill. Not mad enough to go to the police with his suspicions. He would leave that to me.

  Well, fair enough.

  “I don’t think he’ll go free. No, I don’t think that at all.” My voice sounded definite, so definite that I shocked myself.

  “You think God’ll put a hurt on him for killin’ his uncle?” Josh was again taken aback.

  I hesitated. I didn’t think it was God who was going to get Wilkes; not directly. But someone or something was. Finally I said: “I think that what goes around comes around. No one gets away scot-free forever.” I looked up at the top of the stairs where Atherton crouched. He was watching with unblinking eyes. The god of retribution would have just such a stare. I spoke again, this time talking to Atherton. “No, Wilkes is going to have to face the consequences of what he’s done. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But eventually. Too many of us know. One way or another, he’ll be punished.”

  Josh nodded, clearly hoping I was right.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  What greater gift than the love of a cat?

  —Charles Dickens

  I hate the basement of my house. It’s dank in the winter and smells like bad breath in the summer. However, it’s a great place for wine and storing daffodil bulbs. It was a bit late in the season but I decided to go ahead and plant the three-year-old King Alfred and Pheasant’s Eye Narcissus I’d been storing and see what happened. Perhaps, like me, they were ready for rebirth and would seize the chance to live again.

  I brought the bulbs upstairs but the world got dark before I was done sorting them into baskets. I looked out the window, feeling glum and unexpectedly a bit nervous. I thought suddenly about that poem by Robert Frost. You know, the one about the world ending in fire or ice? I didn’t know which would be our fate, but felt pessimistically that we humans would probably have a hand in our destruction. Unless we got KO’d by a meteor from outer space first, of course. There are some scientists who believe this could happen.

  What’s wrong? Atherton asked, jumping onto the sill. The first fat drops of rain were splatting across the window and making the privet’s limbs bow low and then spring back upright. Atherton’s tail twitched, and I saw a ripple of unease travel across his skin. His dark coat appeared to creep toward his tail.

  “I…” There was a weird light shimmering in the air, and the sky was swiftly covering up with sour clouds the color of old bruises. There were no silver linings there, just rancid things. Dangerous things. And they were starting to fall to the ground disguised as raindrops. I knew this storm, this dangerous thing whose color could not be found in any crayon box.

  A pain stabbed behind my eyes and I exhaled slowly, trying not to jar my head. After a moment it passed, but I stayed by the window, staring out in reluctant fascination. The sky looked awful, like it had last Halloween. When I was hit by lightning. On that day there had also been sickly, leech-shaped cloud
s that hovered close to the earth and sucked the color out of the plants and dirt and even the air. Death’s vampire had returned to Irish Camp, and was taking a long drink from our hill and draining the world of hope and perhaps life. It would drain me, too, if it got the chance.

  “Fuck you,” I muttered. I wasn’t planning on giving the vampire any opportunity to get at me again.

  Jillian? What are you thinking about? Do you see something?

  I made myself release the dish towel I had been wringing in my hands. I forced my panting breath to slow.

  “I’m tired of being afraid of storms,” I said to Atherton, unwilling to admit to the whole vampire-cloud thing and how very afraid I was underneath my bravado. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I feel like I need to hide. Now. Just because…because of the lightning. It feels like death. Or insanity.” And I did want to hide. Because of my growing fear of the unnatural storm, the urge was illogically strong.

  That seems wise, Jillian. I don’t care for the smell of the air. It’s bad—very bad. You must stay under cover.

  Yes, I knew that hiding from the storm was the wise if undignified course. I knew that I should back away from the window, run for the stairs that led to the basement because something was coming, something was—

  Before I could move, a feline scream of outrage and terror filled my head. The voice, perhaps audible but perhaps not, was desperate and impelled me to action. Sudden fear for Irv’s cats—my cats—was a snake springing with fangs extended right at my heart, and it squeezed out all other emotion, even my terror of the storm. I had no more time to be afraid of the congealing clouds that looked like curdled egg or the frightening smell of ozone growing in the air; I could only hope that lightning wouldn’t strike the same person twice, even if that person was stupid enough to go out in it.

  “It’s Day-O!” I cried, recognizing the cat’s voice as I fumbled with the deadbolt on the front door. At last I popped the stubborn latch and Atherton and I raced out into the breaking storm, leaving the door open behind us. Ahead, I heard more feline screams and knew in my heart that the cats had finally decided to corner Wilkes—and he was fighting back. They were being hurt, perhaps badly.