Cat Raise the Dead

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  The few old people who were already in attendance, scattered about in the soft chairs, seemed to have dozed off. They were settled so completely into the faded furniture that occupant and chair might have been together for decades, growing worn and shabby as one entity.

  The focal points of the room, besides the TV, were a set of wide glass doors leading out to the inner patio and, at the opposite side of the room, through an arch, the dining room, its tables laid with white cloths, its wide windows looking out through decorative wrought iron to the drive, the fountain, and the gardens beyond. A pair of swinging doors led to the kitchen, from which wafted the pervasive scent of boiled beef and onions. But it was not the kitchen that drew Joe. He looked away longingly toward the sunny patio, where, it seemed, freedom beckoned.

  Off to the left of the patio doors, a second long hall led away. The two long wings, separated by the patio, were joined far at the back by a third line of rooms, completing the enclosure of that garden. Glass doors led from each bedroom into the sunny retreat.

  As they entered the social room one of their group, a tiny fluff of dog, whined with eagerness. Immediately the dozing old folks stirred. Rheumy eyes flew open, little cries of pleasure escaped as the residents saw their visitors. A waxen-faced old man grinned widely and hoisted himself up from a deep recline, his faded eyes lighting like a lamp blazing.

  Dillon's response was surprising. Squeezing Joe absently, hardly aware of him, her body went rigid as she studied the approaching residents.

  As patients rose from the deep chairs, others straggled in from the far hall, some led by nurses, some wheeling their chairs energetically along or hobbling in their walkers, converging toward the Pet-a-Pet group moving in slow motion but as eagerly as if drawn forward by a magnetic force.

  The animals' responses were more varied. While the little dogs wiggled and whined, hungering for the lavish attention without which, Joe was convinced, the miniature breeds would wither and die, and while the golden retriever, grinning and tugging at his lead, plunged ahead toward his geriatric friends, the cats were sensibly restrained, waiting circumspectly for further developments.

  Bonnie Dorriss's poodle remained sitting at heel in an attitude of total dullsville. This was why cats were not given obedience lessons-no cat would put up with this smarmy routine.

  But suddenly the poodle stiffened. His short tail began to wag as a wheelchair approached bearing a thin, white-haired woman. His mouth opened in a huge laugh. Sitting at heel, he wiggled all over.

  Bonnie spoke a single word. The poodle leaped away, straight at the wheelchair, and stood on his hind legs, prancing like a circus dog around it, reaching his nose to lick the woman's face. His front paws didn't touch the chair until the white-haired woman pulled him to her for a hug.

  Within minutes, the pair had whisked away out the front door, the dog pulling the wheeled chair along as the woman held his harness, the two of them heading for some private and privileged freedom.

  And now their little group began to disperse as each animal was settled with an old person. And the assorted cats surprised Joe, settling in calmly with one patient or another, relaxed and open and loving. Joe watched them with uneasy interest. It appeared that each cat knew why it was there, and each seemed to value the experience. For a moment, the simpler beasts shamed him.

  Dulcie had coached him endlessly about his own deportment. Don't flinch at loud noises, Joe. Don't lay back your ears even if they pinch you, and for heaven's sake don't hiss at anyone. Keep your claws in. Stay limp. Close your eyes and purr. Just play it cool. Don't snarl. Think about how much you're helping some lonely old person. If you don't pass the test, if you fail, think how ashamed you'll be.

  That was her take on the matter. If he didn't pass the test, he'd be out of here, a cause for wild celebration. If he didn't pass muster, he'd be free, a simple but happy reject.

  Bonnie Dorriss had helped with the testing, and that had been all right, but the two women who came down from San Francisco were another matter, two strangers poking and pushing him and talking in loud voices, deliberately goading him. He'd responded, he felt, with admirable restraint, smiling up at them as dull and simple as a stuffed teddy bear.

  He'd passed with flying colors.

  So I'm capable of equanimity. So big deal. So now here I am lying across this kid's shoulder wishing I was anywhere else because in a minute she's going to plop me down in some old lady's pee-scented lap. The approaching group of duffers that now converged around them thrilled him about as much as would a gathering of vivisectionists.

  An old man in a brown bathrobe toddled right for him, pushing his chrome walker along with all the determination of a speed runner. Watching him, Joe crouched lower on Dillon's shoulder. But then the old boy moved right on past, heading for the black-and-white cat, his sunken, toothless grin filled with delight. "Kittie! Oh, Queen kitty. I thought you'd never get here."

  Joe watched Bonnie Dorriss take the old man gently by the arm and settle him into a soft chair, setting his walker aside. When the cat's owner handed down the black-and-white cat, the old man laughed out loud. The cat, a remarkably equable female, smiled up at him with pleased blue eyes, and curled comfortably across his legs, reverberating so heavily with purrs that her fat stomach trembled.

  This was all so cozy it made him retch. He changed position on Dillon's shoulder, turning his back on the gathering. This was not his gig.

  He wasn't into this do-good stuff, had no interest in the therapeutic value of cat petting. Absolutely no desire to cheer the lonely elderly. He'd come only because of Dulcie, because of the bargain they'd made.

  You mind your manners at Casa Capri, not embarrass me, really try to help the old folks, and you can give Max Harper the make on the cat burglar's blue Honda. Okay?

  He had agreed-with reservations. Now he watched Dulcie, listened to her happy purring as Wilma lifted her down to the lap of a tiny, wheelchair-bound lady. This had to be Mae Rose, and she really did seem no bigger than an oversize doll. Her short frizzy white hair was like a doll's hair, her bright pink rouge rendering her even more doll-like. She sat stroking Dulcie, smiling as hugely as if someone had plugged in the Christmas lights.

  He watched Dulcie reach a gentle paw to pat the little woman's pink cheek. Then, curling down in Mae Rose's lap on the pink afghan, Dulcie rolled over, her paws in the air waving limply above her. The little woman's thin, blue-veined hands shook slightly as she stroked Dulcie. What a fragile little human, so thin that Joe thought a hard leap into her lap would break her leg.

  He stiffened as Dillon lifted him down from her shoulder. She held him absently, like a bag of groceries, as she stood looking around the room, preoccupied with some private agenda. Irritated, he mewed to get her attention.

  She stared down at him, as surprised as if she'd forgotten he was there. Shifting his position, she fixed her sights with purpose on a big lady coming toward them.

  She was going to dump him on that woman, he could feel it; all the kid wanted was to get rid of him.

  The solid woman approached, leaning on the arm of Bonnie Dorriss, a big square creature clumping along, making straight for the empty overstuffed chair beside Mae Rose's wheelchair. The old woman's face was molded into a scowl. She walked like a rheumy ex-football player, rocking along. Why didn't Dillon move away from her, get him away from her? The kid couldn't dream of dropping him in the lap of that creature. That lady was not in any way a promising candidate for feline friendship therapy.

  As the old lady descended on them he couldn't help the growl that escaped him, it rumbled out of his chest as uncontrolled as an after-the-hunt belch. A growl that made the old woman's eyes open wide and made Bonnie's blue eyes fix on him with surprise.

  "Oh," Dillon said, "I squeezed him too hard…" She petted him furiously as the old woman settled weightily into the easy chair. "It's all right, Joe Cat, I didn't mean to hurt you." Dillon's face was so close to his that their noses touched. She snuggled her
cheek against him, and gently scratched under his chin, whispering almost inaudibly.

  "Just play along, Joe Cat. Please just play along?" And she petted him harder. "Just make nice," Dillon breathed. "I wish you could understand."

  He was trying.

  As Dillon approached the woman's chair, the old lady scowled deeper and pulled her maroon woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "I don't want a cat. I don't like cats, take it away." The old girl looked like a hitter. Like someone who would happily pinch a little cat and pull its tail, particularly a stub tail.

  But Dillon lifted him down to the old woman's lap and stroked him to make him be still, keeping a tight grip on his shoulder.

  The woman glowered and moved her hands away from him as if he carried some unspeakable disease. She smelled of mildew. Her face was thick and lumpy. Her voice was as harsh as tires on gravel. "I want a dog, not a cat. I want one of those fluffy little dogs, but you gave them to everyone else."

  Her angry stare fixed hard on Bonnie, as if all the ugliness in her life might be Bonnie's fault. "That fluffy little French dog, Eloise got it. She always gets the best. Gets the biggest piece of cake and the best cut of roast beef, too. Gets to choose the TV programs because no one will dare argue with her. No one asked me if I wanted a little dog." She flapped her hands at Joe as if she were shooing pigeons. "I want that French dog. Take the cat away." Joe crouched lower, determined not to move.

  Bonnie told her, "The last time, Eula, when you held that little fluffy Bichon Frise, you pulled his tail and he snapped at you." She smoothed Eula's iron gray hair.

  "Is that why you gave me a cat without a tail? So I won't pull its tail?" Eula laughed coarsely. "Is this supposed to be one of them fancy breeds, them Manx cats? Looks like an alley cat to me."

  She stared past Bonnie, at Dillon. "Why would you bring a mean old alley cat?" She studied Dillon's faded jeans and T-shirt. "And why can't you wear a skirt to visit? That's all you girls wear, jeans and silly shirts. I see them all in the village when Teddy takes us shopping. Why would you bring this bony cat here? No one would want to pet this mean creature." She peered up harder at Dillon. "Do I know you, girl? You look familiar, like I know you."

  Two spots of red flamed on Dillon's thin cheeks, but she knelt beside Eula, stroking Joe.

  "The creature is going to scratch me. It's just laying to scratch me."

  Joe raised innocent eyes to her, giving her his sweetest face, fighting the powerful urge to nail her with a pawful of sharp ones. He was at a crossroads here. He could show this old woman some teeth and claws and get booted out on his ear-in which case he'd be free to go home. Or he could make nice, stay curled up in her lap, and endure, thus effectively keeping his bargain with Dulcie.

  The bargain weighed heavily.

  With Dulcie's eyes on him, warily he settled down again. He hadn't called Harper yet to give the police captain the make on the blue Honda. So he could still back out, cut out of here.

  "If I had a dog instead of this alley cat," Eula said, "I wouldn't let anyone else pet it, certainly not Frederick. Frederick can get his own dog. Where is Frederick? It's criminal for that Prior woman to move me right out of my own apartment and make me stay over here in a hospital room like a prisoner and give Frederick all the fun in that apartment alone just because I had a little blood pressure."

  Bonnie said, "Frederick will be over pretty soon. Pet the cat gently, Eula. Maybe he'll purr for you; he has a lovely purr."

  Joe sat up clamping his teeth against any hint of a purr. But Dulcie's look said, You promised. If you didn't mean to be nice, why did you promise? And, reluctantly, he curled down again, into a rigid, unwilling ball.

  Dulcie was so sure that this gig was important, that a dose of feline therapy really would help these old folks- help them be happy, help them deal with thoughts of death.

  Personally, he didn't agree. You get old, you get feeble. Pretty soon you check out. That's the program. That's how nature works, so why fight it. Let nature take its course, don't screw things up with some kind of newfangled therapy.

  Thinking about getting old, he tried hard not to dwell on Barney's plight. After all, Barney was just a simple, lovable dog, he had no need for-and no way to acquire-some fancy philosophy, some comforting idea of an afterlife the way Dulcie believed.

  Dulcie was convinced there was an afterlife for all creatures. So, fine. So who said the next life would be all sardines and cream? That realm could be anything, any number of terrors could await the unwary voyager.

  He had, after the Jeannot murder, after weeks of thinking seriously about such matters-and growing incredibly nervous and irritable-decided that this starry-eyed dream of eternity was not for him. That he was not constitutionally equipped to maintain on a long-term, conscious level, Dulcie's idyllic and nebulous dreams.

  He'd rather believe in nothing. Rather subscribe to plain uncomplicated termination, than keep wondering about a chancy unknown.

  Soon Bonnie Dorriss left them, moving quickly across the room to attend to a pair of ladies who both wanted the yellow cat and were arguing loudly. The cat, smiling up from the lap of one of the participants, looked unaffected by their furor, lying limp and relaxed, enjoying every moment.

  Dillon paid no attention to the battle; she stood scanning the room, intently scrutinizing each newcomer who appeared belatedly from down the hall. The kid was wired, so intense she made his whiskers itch.

  "Stuck here all day alone," Eula said, "and Frederick over there in the apartment doing who knows what. Likely over there with some woman. Or reading some storybook. Always getting out of bed before it was decent to read a storybook. Sun not even up, but he's out there making coffee and reading, I could always smell the coffee. Hiding in the kitchen wasting his time." Her stomach shook violently against Joe.

  Dillon glanced down at Eula, hardly listening. And Mae Rose and Dulcie seemed oblivious, engaged in some silent communication of their own. Mae Rose kept smiling and petting, and Dulcie had that beatific look on her face. Mae Rose's overburdened wheelchair was fascinating. The vehicle was hung all over with bags: cloth bags, flowered bags, red bags, blue ones hung from the arms of the chair and from the back, all of them full to bulging. He could see magazines sticking out, a copy of the Molena Point Gazette, the sleeve of a blue sweater, a box of tissues. A clear plastic bag contained little bits of bright cloth, and he could see the end of a Hershey bar, a single white glove, and the smooth porcelain face of a doll.

  Dillon sat down on the arm of Eula's chair. She wiggled some, getting settled. She did not seem so much relaxed as determined.

  "I bet," she said to Eula, "you have a lot of friends in here."

  Eula looked at her, surprised.

  "Did you live in Molena Point a long time before you moved to Casa Capri?"

  Eula didn't answer. She stared hard at Dillon. "I know I've seen you somewhere."

  "I guess," Dillon said, "if you go into the village much."

  "No, not in the village. I remember a face, girl. Forget a name but remember a face.

  "But then," Eula said, "there's always some child visiting out in the parlor.

  "Though my nieces don't come. Never bring their children. Only came here twice, both times to find out what's in my will." She glowered at Dillon. "Well I never told them. None of their business."

  "I bet you and Mrs. Mae Rose are good friends, too," Dillon persisted. Joe had to smile. The kid wasn't subtle. Someone ought to have a talk with her; she wasn't going to get anywhere in life without a little guile.

  She leaned closer to Eula. "I bet you and Mrs. Rose watch TV together." Joe had no idea what she was after, no notion where she was headed with this interrogation, but she meant to hang in there.

  "No TV," Eula grumbled. "All Mae does is play with her dolls." She scowled deeply at Dillon. "You have as many questions as my old mother. Dead now. Dead a hundred years." She cackled wickedly.

  "I didn't mean to be nosy," Dillon said, "but I bet you kn
ow everyone, though. Everyone here at Casa Capri. I bet you know if they lived in the village, and all about them."

  Eula shut her mouth, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. Dillon sank into a quiet little funk, realizing she had pushed too hard. But then soon she rose, leaning to stroke Joe. "Would you hold him a little while longer? Don't let him get away? While I go to the rest room?"

  The old woman snorted, but she took such a good grip on the nape of Joe's neck that he had a sudden flash of her reaching with both hands and squeezing; her fingers were as strong as a man's. "I won't be long," Dillon said, and she was gone down the hall toward the entry. Joe stared after her wondering what she was up to. Maybe the kid was going to skip-beat it out the front door.

  "That's not…" Eula called after her, but Dillon was gone.

  Joe could see the rest room in the opposite direction, a door clearly marked, just outside the dining room. He listened for the front door to open, but he heard nothing. Where was the kid headed, acting so secretive?

  12

  "That cat killed an entire litter of newborn pigs," Eula Weems said. "Biggest cat on the farm. So mean even the sow couldn't run it off.

  "And after it killed those pigs it kind of went crazy. From that day, it just wanted to bite your bare toes. You couldn't go barefoot all summer, had to wear shoes. Terrible uncomfortable and hot." Eula stared accusingly down at Joe, where he crouched rigid in her lap, glowering at him as if the dead pigs were his fault.

  Mae Rose said, "If they won't let us see Jane or Darlene or Mary Nell, then I say they aren't here. Not in Nursing, not anywhere in Casa Capri."

  "Maybe in the county home," Eula said helpfully. "Maybe they couldn't pay. County home is free. When that cat got run over by the milk wagon everyone celebrated. It sure did feel good to go barefoot again. Took a month, though, for my feet to harden up on them tar roads. Burn your feet right off you."