The Cat's Job

by Sharon Lee

  THE CAT'S JOB

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Pinbeam Books

  http://www.pinbeambooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.

  THE CAT'S JOB

  Copyright © 2002, 2010, 2011 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works. First published in 2002 by SRM, Publisher.

  The Big Ice by Sharon Lee first appeared in CatFantastic V

  The Cat's Job by Steve Miller first appeared in Chariot the Stars

  Ginger and the Bully of Lowergate Court © 1996, 2002 by Sharon Lee

  King of the Cats ©2002 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Hexapuma and this edition © 2010 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  10th Life © 1979 by Steve Miller

  ISBN:

  Kindle: 978-1-935224-33-4

  Epub: 978-1-935224-34-1

  PDF: 978-1-935224-35-8

  Published April 2011 by

  Pinbeam Books

  PO Box 707

  Waterville ME 04903

  email info@pinbeambooks.com

  Cover photograph Copyright © 2010 Steve Miller

  THE CAT'S JOB

  Smashwords Edition

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  For all the cats who have made our lives more livable,

  for the vets and aides who have helped keep our cats healthy and wise, if not wealthy,

  and for our many friends who have acted as guardians and supporters of our cats

  while we lived the often roaming and penny-pinched lives of writers.

  Feline Fact

  Ginger and the Bully

  of Lowergate Court

  by Sharon Lee

  For nine years Steve and I (with Archie, Arwen, Brandee and Buzz-z) lived in an impossible little townhouse on Lowergate Court in Owings Mills, Maryland. Lowergate was one of five courts that comprised the stunningly misnamed Bright Meadows, the entire campus of which was roughly three-quarters of a mile around.

  The best thing about Bright Meadows (besides that the rent was cheap and the roof kept the rain off. Mostly.) was that there were many dozens of cats in the neighborhood. Steve and I would go for walks up and down and around the various courts and say hi to Jazz and Mom, Sasquatch, Pirate, Taffy, Sandy, The Gentleman, Blue and Ginger.

  Ginger was the mayor.

  I didn't say he was the mayor -- anyone could see that he was, just by looking at him. An orange striped cat of middle years with a habitual demeanor of grave attentiveness, he made his rounds every day, up, down and around the courts, across to World's End and down the back woods. He would stop by our place mid-morning and trade orange cat stories with Archie through the bottom screen in the kitchen door. At least once I saw him at World's End with Brandee, hunting moles. He cuffed Buzz-z once when they first met and that took care of that -- deference to the mayor was Buzz-z's rule, ever after.

  Ginger was a non-partisan mayor. He was a cat, true enough, but he held every resident of the courts to be citizens, equally subject to his authority -- and his protection. Steve saw him run off a stray dog that had frightened one of the toddlers in the playground. I saw him streaking to the rescue, the day Pirate was treed by a couple of boys with too much time on their hands.

  The Gentleman, who was Brandee's special friend, was a Cat of the World -- a wire-tough black-and-white with gnawed-up ears and a limp off the back right leg -- and even he accorded Ginger the respect of his rank, whenever he found himself on Hizzoner's turf.

  Not so, the Siamese.

  I do not at this distance remember the Siamese's name. Perhaps I never knew it. Steve claims some vague recollection of having heard him called "Khan." I'm not so sure. What I am sure of is that he arrived outside my kitchen door one April morning, just before Ginger's daily visit, swearing and cussing and hissing at Archie, who was standing up on his hind legs and giving back as good as he got.

  I threw a glass of water on him through the screen and told him to get a life, which, as it happens, was a mistake.

  From that moment on, the Siamese targeted our house. He would show up at all hours, bitching and screaming. He would crouch under the bush by the door and leap on Brandee, or Steve or me as we left.

  But we weren't the only ones.

  He made Taffy's life a misery. He jumped The Gentleman so many times that The Gentlemen went to visit friends in the country. He clawed Jazz so badly the vet was afraid he wouldn't be able to save the eye. S'quatch would scream when he saw the Siamese coming his way and scramble up the drain pipe to sit wailing in the rain gutter until his lady fetched him down. Brandee would flatten herself to the ground and her ears to her head and dare him to try it, which was also Sandy's approach -- damages there were minor, but the name-calling sessions were deafening.

  Ginger tried to reason with him, to no avail. I tried to reason with his owner and was told to mind my own business and "if that cat come missing," she'd know who to blame.

  This went on from April until August.

  And one hot August afternoon, with the heat beating out of the sky colliding with the heat rising off the tarmac at the level of your ears -- up at the top of Lowergate Court, right next to the dumpster -- an amazing thing occurred.

  The Siamese was sitting in the parking lot, swearing at Pirate, who was scrunched down under a starveling cedar tree, pretending to be invisible. They had been doing this for some time.

  Suddenly, in other parts of the court, there was -- movement.

  From up-court came Mom and Sasquatch; from down-court, Brandee and Sandy. Taffy and Jazz drifted down the hill across and Blue pussyfooted in from somewhere and sat next to the cedar tree, tail wrapped around his toes.

  The Siamese cut off in mid-curse and looked around him. The rest of the cats kept moving, slowly and purposefully, even Snowball-called-Avalanche, who never left her patio, until they had made a circle, with the Siamese in the center.

  The Siamese yawned. He got up and headed for the gap between Jazz and Taffy. The cats moved closer together as he approached. Somebody growled. The Siamese backed up.

  After a minute, he chose another direction, this one toward the cedar tree. He started to growl as he got closer and puffed himself up. But Pirate screamed back and made himself even bigger and Blue said something that was perhaps not quite polite.

  The Siamese slunk back to the center of the circle and sat, carefully, down.

  Which was when Ginger left his place in the ring and walked forward.

  Immediately, the Siamese was on his feet, fur every-which-way, swearing like a ship full of sailors.

  The circle of cats drew a little closer together. Ginger kept moving forward.

  The Siamese flattened his belly to the tarmac and his ears to his head and swore he was the master of every cat there and a black belt in seventeen secret martial art
s, besides.

  Ginger kept coming.

  The Siamese yelled for his mommy.

  Ginger reached out and smacked him upside the head, none-too-gently. The Siamese babbled and wailed.

  Ginger smacked him again, a little harder, but not nearly as hard as the Siamese had hit Jazz.

  The Siamese stopped screaming. V-e-r-y slowly, he sat up. Even more slowly, he got his ears back into position. He licked his lips. Ginger sat down, utterly at ease, and began to bathe. All around, the cat circle waited.

  They held that tableau for half-an-hour, I guess, then, one-by-one, the cats in the circle drifted away, back to their usual rounds. Ginger, spotlessly clean, left last, saving only the Siamese, who waited another four or five minutes, blue eyes darting this way and that. When he was certain he was unobserved, he got up and headed for home.

  I never heard another ill word out of him, from that day until we moved.

  Feline Fancy

  The Big Ice

  by Sharon Lee

  The rain stopped.

  Agnes Pelletier sat up in the feather bed she and Jakey had shared for forty-two years before his dying, startled wide awake by the absence of sound.

  It'd been raining steady, the last three days, the mercury sitting just above 32. The air was too warm to freeze the water as it fell, according to the weather fella on the radio. So they had rain instead of a regular Maine January snowstorm. Some towns, there'd been floods. Up on the Interstate, the radio told her, cars and trucks slid off a roadway sheeted in ice, for the rain froze where it struck.

  Down on the Wimsy Neck Road, at Pelletier's farm, Agnes slipped and damn' near broke her leg walking down the drive to the mailbox day before yesterday. Yesterday, there'd been a special announcement on the radio: The Post Office had canceled rural route delivery, due to conditions. Agnes had already decided not to risk another walk to the mailbox. Fine time to take a fall, she'd told herself; the way that rain's coming down, you'd be froze flat to the drive in a second.

  But the rain had stopped; and there was a rosy glow showing around the edges of the shuttered window. Agnes pushed back the quilts and eased out of the feather bed. Sunshine! Now, there was a welcome difference.

  #

  In the kitchen, she added wood to the stove, then hauled on a pair of heavy work boots and laced them up. She squinted at the mercury reading as she zipped Jakey's old barncoat over her sweaters. Thirty-two and windless -- she could do without the watch cap. She pulled on the mittens she'd knitted for herself and went over to unlatch the door.

  She hesitated on the sill, looking up at the big old oaks that shaded the dooryard, their January-bare branches glittering like they'd been dipped in diamonds. They stretched tall against the bright blue sky, and Agnes felt a little dizzy, seeing something as familiar as the trees made strange and discomfortable.

  She moved her eyes, squinting against the bright. Everything -- trees, truck, dooryard and barn -- was covered in ice. Thick, shiny ice that the sun struck spark from, like a hammer against steel. There wasn't a sound to be heard in all the bright, frozen world. Agnes wondered if the birds were frozen tight to their trees.

  She took hold of the doorpost and eased down the ice-encased steps, skidding off the bottom and scrabbling to keep her feet when she struck the yard. Slowly, half-skating in her work boots, she went across to the bird feeder. Froze solid: she could see the seeds through the ice, double-sized, like she was looking through a magnification glass. She had a couple whacks at it with her mittened fist, holding onto the slick pole with her other hand, but the ice didn't so much as take a nick.

  "Damn," she said, and her own voice spooked her, too loud in the brilliant silence.

  Careful, careful as she could and then some, she turned and skated across the dooryard, heading for the truck.

  She was doing all right 'til her forward foot slid a little too quick, the bad knee gave and she sat down sudden on ice hard as stone, feeling the jolt from her tailbone to her head.

  It was a comedy skit, then, with her trying to get upright with nothing close by to hang on to and her boots everywhichway on the slick. Finally, she gave it up and scooted the last couple feet to the truck on her can, the beginning of a breeze tickling her ear. She reached up for the door latch and didn't quite connect, reason being she was staring at tires fully encased; the ice sheathing the rubber growing right into the ice surface of the drive. Three, four inches of ice.

  "Need the axe for that work," Agnes muttered, and her own voice wasn't quite so spooky now, what with the breeze moving around and pinging off the frozen branches. Not quite a natural sound, that ping, but better than silence.

  She put her attention on the matter, got a hand on the latch and hauled herself upright, shoulder popping and knees complaining. When she was pretty sure her feet were going to stay where she'd put them, she let go the latch. The mitten stuck to the ice and mites of wool pulled loose, but the knit held without raveling.

  The breeze had picked up to a near-wind, burning her ears on the way by, which made her regretful of the watch cap. Just over her head, the oak groaned and she heard that ping again, which she thought might be the ice, cracking.

  The truck was in solid: Axe work, sure enough. She figured to hack out a couple sections of ice, expose some metal, and let the sun do the rest of the work. There was plenty food put by, between the freezer and the pantry; plenty wood for the stove. A drive into town wasn't an urgency, but she didn't like being without the means to travel, if travel was called for.

  The wind snarled, sudden and winterly; the oak over her head moaned.

  Out in the back wood, some damn fool fired a gun. Agnes jumped, skidded, threw herself flat against the truck and managed not to fall. Following the shot was a sound like a barrel-load of jelly glasses being smashed, and a thud.

  "Tree," Agnes gasped into the cold, while the wind chewed the tips of her ears. "Tree down." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to settle out the tightness in her chest. She opened her eyes again and looked over to the barn, which was where the axe would be, hung up on its peg, just like Jakey'd always done it.

  It was then she saw the cat.

  They'd always had cats -- barn cats, that was. Working cats, not your tuna-fed layabout the pedigree for which cost more than Jakey had paid for the farm, back in '48. There were fewer cats now -- maybe two, maybe three, since Jakey died and she'd sold off the animals. Still, where there was a barn, there were mice. And where there were mice, there were cats.

  This cat -- Agnes had seen this cat around the barn. It had stared at her, like cats stared, about as friendly as you'd expect. A big gray it was, shaggy as a pony, with a back as wide as both Agnes' hands put side-by-side. Strong, upright ears lined in long gray fur, a white muzzle and white feet the size of snowshoes, with fur growing out between the toes. A barn cat, like all the others.

  Except barn cats didn't march purposeful across the drive, round golden eyes focused, she would swear it, on her face.

  "Brow-wow," the cat announced, as soon as it saw it was seen. "Brow-wow."

  Calling to her, Agnes thought, and the next instant told herself not to be an old fool.

  The wind slapped her face with a gust and she shivered where she stood braced against the truck. "Best fetch that axe and get on with business," she said and slid a step away, letting go of her support with caution. Her tail hurt where she'd sat down sudden, and her knee did, too. She hesitated, wondering if she might leave the axe work for later, if it was worthwhile trying to work the latch loose. If she could get the door wide, get the key in the ignition, she could try rocking the truck...

  "Brow-wow!" the cat shouted. "Move!"

  Move Agnes did, from sheer surprise. The ice turned her start into a skid, which she fought down to a slide, then to a skate, heading, by no intention of her own, toward the cat, or the barn or --

  Behind her, a cannon went off.

  Agnes stumbled, pitched forward, flung her arms out to break
the fall and felt the shock in every joint when she hit. The world slid sideways, roaring. Then came a smash, a shatter and -- silence.

  Belly down on the ice, Agnes took stock. Nothing broke, she decided, though much was considerably shook up. After a minute, she undertook to gain her knees, and then her feet. Twigs tumbled off her back and she dared a look to the rear.

  Overburdened with ice, one of the biggest limbs of the oak she'd been standing under had let loose. The truck was stove in; windshield shattered, the glitter of glass lost among the hard shine of the ice. If she'd've stayed where she'd been....

  She turned back the way she'd been going, careful. The big gray cat was sitting on the ice, bushy tail wrapped around white toes, ears perked forward, green-gold eyes intent on her face.

  Agnes stared back. Cats could be talky, when the mood took them. She couldn't recall ever hearing one speak out in plain English before, but that didn't count for nothing. She'd been a twice-a-week regular customer at Halley's Variety for close to ten years before she heard old Ben Halley launch a sentence. If barn cats didn't break out into English as a regular event, it likely just meant they had nothing to say.

  Agnes glanced back over her shoulder, wincing at the size of the branch across the truck. Her head would've been stove in along with the cab, if the cat hadn't decided it was time to speak out. She looked away from the wreckage; the cat was still sitting on the drive, staring at her.

  "Appreciate the warning," she said, nodding politely. The cat stared at her a second longer, then looked aside, and yawned.

  Out of the woods came a volley of shots -- onetwothreefourfivesix! trees dying between one breath and the next. Agnes shuddered and slid a foot forward, intending to get into the house and stay there, tending her bruises by the woodstove until --