Cat On The Edge

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She had meant to take her car, but she didn't want him to know she'd been home. She was, suddenly, afraid of Jimmie. She closed the drawer and left the room quickly.

  In the bedroom she opened her purse and snatched out the twenties and hundreds, put them back in his dresser drawer. When she looked out the bedroom window to the backyard, she saw that the neighbors were setting up their barbecue. The afternoon had grown gray with cloud, heralding an early dark. In the Jenson yard, four tiki torches burned, and a crowd of kids had gathered. There were more than a dozen children in the yard. One of the Jenson kids must be having a birthday. She watched Joan Jenson spread a paper tablecloth over the long picnic table, watched the two Jenson boys weight down the corners with rocks. Well she wasn't going out that way in the form of Kate, not when Jimmie had alerted the whole neighborhood that she was missing. And when she looked out the front, there were cars pulling up in front of the Jensons'. She'd have to leave as the cat.

  She stuffed her checkbook and keys in the pocket of her jeans. If her clothes had stayed with her, surviving the change, then whatever she put in her pockets might survive, too. She had no idea if there were rules to this alarming new life. She hid her purse and her packed bag on the shelf of her closet, behind some boxes. And she changed to cat with a haste that left no time to enjoy the strange rush it gave her.

  The little cream-colored cat slipped out the back door, praying that the children wouldn't see her. Those boys were death on cats.

  To leave without money or her car was going to present endless problems. But she couldn't shake the idea of getting out unseen. She wanted to leave no trail for Jimmie; not until she knew what was going on. Not until she knew where those bank accounts came from.

  She fled around the side of the house and into a flower bed. She was crouched between some clumps of daylilies, looking out, scanning the street when a noise startled her.

  Before she could run, Wark was on her, he had appeared out of nowhere. He grabbed her by the legs, squeezing with excruciating pain, and swung her high, then down toward the concrete. She fought, twisting, trying to reach him with her claws. A shout from the street put him off-balance.

  But again he swung her.

  This time she got a paw free and raked him. There was another shout, and she hit the concrete in a jarring explosion that dropped her into blackness.

  The cat lay on the cement walk unmoving. Wark shoved her with his foot, pushing her under the bushes. Then, goaded by the shout, he ran, pounding away through the gloom that had gathered beneath the overhanging oaks.

  Halfway down the block he swung into a black BMW and burned rubber, screeching away into the darkening evening.

  13

  Joe watched Dulcie remove every trace of fur from their freshly killed squirrel before she touched the rich, dark meat. He had watched her do this at each meal, remove feathers, claws, beaks; he had never seen a cat so fastidious. The squirrel was big and fat and it had fought hard, leaving a long bloody gash down Dulcie's leg. They had caught it by working together, by driving it away from all available trees.

  He was impressed by Dulcie's bold hunting style. She was quick and fearless, and she could catch a bird on the wing, leaping to snatch it from the wind. He had seen her outrun a big rabbit, too, and bring it down screaming though the animal outweighed her. The rabbit had raked her badly. It hurt him to see her beautiful tabby coat torn and bloodied, hurt him to know how those gashes stung and throbbed. He had licked her wounds at intervals all night to ease the pain, and to prevent fever. She was so beautiful, so delicate. And so puzzling.

  At first light yesterday morning he had watched her steal a child's blue sweater from a deserted porch. Waking, he had watched amazed as she dragged the sweater deep into the bushes.

  Following her, he found her in a little clearing arranging the sweater, kneading and patting it. She was so engrossed she didn't hear as he brushed softly in through the foliage. When she had shaped the sweater to her liking she curled up on it and rolled onto her back, her head ducked down, her paws limply curled above her belly. Her purrs rumbled.

  But when she glanced up and saw him she looked startled and embarrassed. And when he asked her what was so great about the sweater and why she had taken it, she clutched the blue wool with her claws and stared at him, hurt. He felt ashamed. Her need was a private thing, a preoccupation he should not have spied on and really didn't understand.

  "It's so soft," she said, by way of explanation. "So soft and pretty, and it's the very color of a robin's egg. Can't you imagine wearing it, all soft wool against your bare skin?"

  "I don't have bare skin," he said uneasily. What was this? What was she dreaming? What did she imagine?

  "Don't you ever wonder, Joe, what that would be like? To be a human person?"

  She had to be kidding. "No way. I may talk like a human and sometimes think like a human, but I'm a cat. I'm a fine and well-adjusted tomcat."

  "But wouldn't you…?"

  "No. I wouldn't. I can just imagine it. Repairing the roof, mowing the lawn. Having to deal with car registration and income taxes. With traffic tickets and lawsuits and fixing the leaky plumbing." He shook his head. "No way would I be a human."

  "But think about concerts and nice restaurants and beautiful clothes and jewelry. About being… I don't know. Driving a nice car, running up to San Francisco for the weekend." She stared at him, hurt.

  When he didn't capitulate, didn't say it would be nice, she returned her attention to the blue sweater.

  He hadn't meant to hurt her. In truth, her intense pleasure in the wooly sweater touched him, made him feel tender and protective. Made him very aware of her soft vulnerability. Made him smile, too. This was the same cat who had told him, late last night as they snuggled in the branches of an oak tree, how she had set out enraged to stalk the man who tried to poison her. The same cat who could explode into a hot chase after a wood rat, all claws and muscle, and nothing soft or helpless about her.

  But yet the mystery was there, like another dimension behind her green eyes. And when she stood looking down the hills at the little village snuggled beside the wide sea, he knew she was not thinking cat thoughts. She was thinking of the tangle of human life; of the shoppers hurrying along the streets, the swiftly moving cars, the sounds of music and of human voices; of the richness of a world foreign to them.

  He was hypnotized by her longing. And when, looking down at the village, she sensed him watching, she gave him a look so filled with mystery that it made his claws curl. And she laid her head against him, purring.

  And in the night when he missed Clyde, and Dulcie missed Wilma, they would curl up close together and she would lick his face.

  She told him a lot about Wilma, how they always shared supper, Dulcie sitting on a little rug by the sink, how they watched television curled on the couch together eating popcorn, and how nice it was to be in the garden with Wilma as she dug in the flowers; she told him about the books Wilma read aloud to her, and that was one thing they had in common, both their housemates read to them. The two humans shared a keen taste for mysteries, and traded paperbacks. They were always trading books, every time they got together.

  But the biggest mystery, more urgent than any book, the real and frightening mystery, Dulcie found difficult to talk about. She would mention it, skirt around it, but soon change the subject.

  And then on their third day in the hills as they crossed the yard of a redwood cottage where newspapers had blown out of the trash can, part of a headline drew Joe. He trotted over and found, on a crumpled portion of the paper,… POLICE SEARC… WEAPO …

  He spread the paper out and smoothed it with his paw.

  POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING WEAPON

  Police have as yet little evidence to the identity of the killer of Molena Point car dealer Samuel Beckwhite. No weapon has been found. Captain Harper requests that anyone having information about the killing, or anyone who may have found a heavy object such as a length of metal d
iscarded in the vicinity of Jolly's Deli, contact him immediately. Employees of the Beckwhite Automotive Agency have been questioned as a routine matter. Captain Harper reminds Molena Point residents that withholding evidence to a crime is a felony punishable by imprisonment.

  "I don't understand," Dulcie said. "If the killer went to the trouble of stealing that wrench from Clyde, meaning for the police to find it with Clyde's prints on it, why didn't he leave it beside the body?"

  "I don't know. All I know is, if he plants the weapon later, for the police to find, Clyde's in big trouble."

  "But why would he?" She cocked her head, puzzled. "Unless he means to use it to force Clyde to do something."

  "Or keep him from doing something," he said. "All I know is, I'll feel better if-when we find the damn thing."

  But it was not until late that night after finding the newspaper, that Dulcie woke mewling and shivering. Joe cuddled her close, clutching his paws around her. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "I dreamed about the murder. I dreamed about the third man."

  "What third man?" he said sleepily, then woke more fully. "What man?" He looked hard at her. "There was no one else in the alley. Only Beckwhite and the killer. And you and me."

  "A third man." She shoved her nose against his neck. "In the shadows. Standing near me between the jasmine vine and a little oleander tree. When he saw the killer hit Beckwhite, he slipped away fast, down the dark street."

  "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "I didn't think of it. I supposed you saw him, too."

  "What did he smell like? Could you see his face?"

  "I couldn't smell anything, the jasmine was too strong. And it was so dark in the bushes. Just a darkly dressed figure, a thin figure, standing in the shadows where the bush and the vine blocked the light."

  A tremble shook her, and she snuggled closer. "I saw the killer leap at you and swing his wrench. Then you ran, and a police light caught me in the face, I couldn't see where you went. I heard the police radio. When they shone their lights in, the killer moved toward me away from the street and stood still, his face turned toward me.

  "He was looking right at me, Joe. He saw me, but then he turned back and chased you." She pressed her face harder against him. "He knows about us. He knows we saw-and more. He knows that we can tell what we saw."

  She stared at him in the darkness. "I think that man knows more about us than we know about ourselves." And she curled down tight against him in a hard little ball.

  He licked her face and ears. In a little while, he said, "If the second man was a witness, why hasn't he gone to the police?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he's afraid."

  "Or maybe he has other plans," Joe said. Then, "Maybe he found the wrench. Maybe he came back and found the wrench, before the police ever discovered the body. Maybe he's keeping it for his own reasons."

  "Blackmail?"

  "Maybe." He pawed at an itch on his shoulder. "Then again, maybe he didn't find it."

  "Could it still be in the alley, somewhere the police didn't look? But how could the police miss it?"

  "I don't know that, either. But it's a place to start looking. If it is hidden there, we need to find it before someone else does."

  14

  Twelve-year-old Marvin Semple had nearly finished his evening paper route. He was headed home on his bike, wheeling beneath low branches along the dim and shadowed residential street, pedaling past a row of overhanging oak trees, when he heard a cat scream.

  The cry came from somewhere ahead, up near the end of the block. A second scream cut the silence, and he pedaled faster. Maybe a dog had some poor cat. He didn't know anyone on this street who had cats, but it could be any village cat. He was gazing ahead into the thickening shadows when he saw movement in the Osborne yard. A man was standing near the house straddle-legged, flinging something at the ground.

  Crouching over his handlebars he raced toward the man, not wanting to believe what he saw.

  Yes, it was a cat. The man was flinging a cat at the concrete walk. For an instant he saw the animal clearly, its pale fur bright in the dark evening as the man swung it down. Its scream chilled him. "Stop it!" What was the guy doing! Again the man flung the cat at the ground. Marvin shouted again and doubled over his bike pumping as hard as he could.

  He screeched to a stop and dropped his bike, scattering his remaining papers as the man pushed the cat under the bushes. The guy ran. Marvin raced to where the cat lay.

  Crouching, he lifted it gently from beneath the bushes.

  It looked dead.

  Holding it carefully, he glanced up in the direction the man had disappeared. A black car was pulling away fast, skidding around the corner.

  He carried the cat beneath the streetlight and stood cradling it, trying to see if it was breathing. He couldn't see any rise and fall of its chest, but when he put his face to its nose, he could feel a faint breath. Gently he cradled it, deciding the best thing to do. The evening was fast growing dark. He was fifteen blocks from home.

  Soon his exploring fingers found a barely discernible heartbeat. He could see no blood. The cat was beautiful, cream-colored and mottled with orange streaks. Marvin held her as delicately as he could in one arm. With his other hand he picked up his bike and straightened the nearly empty paper bags across the rack.

  He laid the cat inside one bag, on a bed of folded newspapers, then removed the belt from his pants and used it to bind shut the bag against her escape. He knew from reading every book he could find about animals, that an injured cat or dog, or any injured animal, might run blindly away, evading the very person who sought to help it. If a horse or dog were injured, you should always get a lead on them to hold them steady. The first aid book said always confine a hurt animal as gently as you could. He had wanted to feel more carefully for broken bones, but he was afraid he'd injure the little cat. He picked up the scattered papers to balance the weight of the cat, so the bag wouldn't slide.

  He was sure there would be enough air inside the closed canvas bag-he had left an inch hole at the top, and the canvas was thin and cheap.

  With the cat safely bedded down, he took a running start and headed for the upper perimeter of the village.

  It was six blocks to Ocean, then up Ocean five more blocks, then over two. He didn't know any faster way to get help. If he called his dad, it would take a while to find a phone, and a while more for his dad to reach him. And they'd still have to lift the cat into the car, and drive the same route he was taking.

  He was headed for one of two animal clinics in town, the one his family used for their assorted pets, for their dogs and their guinea pigs and rabbit, the one he took stray cats to several times a month.

  The clinic would be closed, but Dr. Firreti lived next door. Dad had gotten Firreti out of bed when their terrier was hit by a truck, and Firreti had been real nice. He'd saved Scooter. It had taken him half the night to patch up the little dog. Now, with this cat, Dr. Firreti wouldn't mind having his supper interrupted. Pumping hard, swerving around cars, Marvin sped the seven blocks to the blue frame house next door to the clinic.

  He propped his bike against the porch, undid the canvas bag, and lifted out the unresisting cat.

  Holding her close, he banged on Dr. Firreti's front door. Bending over her, he could still feel her breath soft against his cheek.

  From inside he heard Dr. Firreti's step coming toward the door. Heard the knob turn.

  The door opened and he looked up into the veterinarian's round, sunburned face. Dr. Firreti was silent and still for a moment. "Evening, Marvin. Good, another cat. How come it's not still in the cage? I see, it's too far gone to fight you. My God, we don't need a sick one."

  "She's not sick. A man beat her. He banged her against the ground, tried to kill her."

  Firreti bent down to look closer, touching the cat lightly, feeling its pulse, lifting an eyelid.

  Marvin held her securely, in case she should come awake and try to get awa
y. How many cats had he brought to Dr. Firreti? Nine, he thought. Nine cats, and with each one he had stood beside by the metal table watching Dr. Firreti prepare the needle-the syringe. And the last two times, Dr. Firreti had let him watch the operation.

  Now, he was ashamed of his sudden tears. He hadn't cried with the other cats.

  But then, no one had beaten them. No one had tried to knock the life out of them. And his dad said it was no crime to cry, not for something hurt and smaller than you. Not the way he'd cried for Scooter. But he was ashamed anyway.

  "We'd better get her over to the clinic," Dr. Firreti said. He shut the door behind him, put a hand on Marvin's shoulder, and together they headed next door to the white, cement block building.

  15

  Pale fog brightened the midnight village with auras of diffused light gleaming around the streetlamps. The two cats ran through the mist like small, swift ghosts, hardly visible; it was a low fog, of the kind villagers called a marsh fog. Weaving near the ground it twisted in uneven masses along the sidewalks smearing the lit windows of the galleries, hiding the small details of doorknobs, hinges, potted trees. Above the low river of wet air, the roofs and treetops and the sky shone sharp and clear. The fog's white mass effectively veiled the brick alley beside Jolly's Deli.

  The cats moved quickly into the alley past the fuzzed gleam that swam around the wrought-iron lantern. They stopped beneath the jasmine vine beside Jolly's back door, and looked back warily toward the street.

  They saw no dark, moving shapes within the fuzzed light and mist. They heard no footfall, heard only the muffled beat of Dixieland jazz from Donnie's Lounge up on Junipero. The time was just after midnight.

  Slowly and methodically they began to search the alley for the stolen wrench. They dug into the earth of the planters, around the roots of the oleander trees though surely the police had dug in the pots, looking for the murder weapon. The police must have investigated every crevice in the alley; but the cats searched anyway. Dulcie poked her paw into cracks beneath the uneven thresholds at the doors of the little shops, feeling into every small opening she could find in the old, renovated buildings.