Cat On The Edge

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "Stop it, Kate! For Christ sake, stop it!"

  She stared at him.

  "Why, Kate? Why would you make fun of me? And how did you know?"

  She wasn't tracking, she'd lost something here. What was he talking about? "How did I know what? I'm not making fun of you." She stared at him, perplexed.

  "How did you find out what happened? No one would… Did Wilma tell you?" He stared hard at her. "That couldn't have been you on the phone." His look bored in, then he shook his head. "No, not that voice."

  She didn't know what this was about. He was so angry the look on his face made her cringe. She rose and went around the table, clutched his shoulders. "What's the matter? What's happened? I don't understand." She could read nothing from his expression.

  They were silent for a long time, looking at each other, each of them trying to fill in the blanks. A little heat of excitement shivered through her. She said, "Clyde, where is Joe?"

  "He's gone, of course."

  "What do you mean, of course?" Her pulse began to race.

  "He disappeared a few days ago. I'm sure you know all about it. You know he hasn't been home. That he…" He stopped speaking.

  "That he what?"

  "That he's… That he's been in touch," Clyde said tightly.

  "How do you mean, in touch?"

  "Look, Kate, why go through all this? Why bother? You know all about this. Why hand me that long involved story about wharves and about Lee Wark chasing you. Why not just…"

  "Been in touch how, Clyde?"

  "The phone, damn it! You knew that."

  It took her a while to work it out. She stared at Clyde and stared at the phone. She studied him again, then gulped back a laugh.

  Joe Grey had phoned him.

  Joe Cat was like herself. And he had figured out how to use the phone.

  She collapsed in a fit of merriment that weakened her. Joe Grey had phoned him, had talked to Clyde. Joe Grey was more than a cat, he was like her. And the nervy little beast had had the balls to phone Clyde.

  She could not get control of herself. She rocked with laughter. She was giddy, delirious with the knowledge that she was not alone. That she was not the only creature with these bizarre talents, that there was another like herself in the world.

  Clyde's face was a mix of rage and confusion. "What the hell's wrong with you! After the story you just told about turning into a cat, where do you get off laughing?"

  She stopped laughing and watched him quietly. "You don't believe what I told you."

  "For Christ sake, Kate."

  She played it back to him. "You truly believe that Joe Grey phoned you. But you don't believe what happened to me."

  He just looked at her.

  "I wasn't lying," she said softly. Clyde was the only person in the world she could talk to-it was shattering that he put her off like this. "I wasn't lying, I'll show you."

  And she did the only thing she could do. She used the only rebuttal that he would understand. She said the words, felt the room twist and warp. She let him see her do it, she forced him to witness the whole fascinating transformation. She was suddenly small, standing on the linoleum looking up at him mewling, lifting a paw to touch his leg.

  Clyde's face was white. He stared at her, then rose, pushing back his chair, and backed away from her toward the hall door.

  She followed him, and wound around his ankles. She felt him shiver. She brushed her whiskers against his bare, hairy leg, and heard him groan with fear. She pressed closer to him, rubbing her face against his leg. She was terrifying him. How delicious. It served him right.

  He backed away, snatched up his beer, fled away from her down the hall. She heard the bedroom door close.

  The three cats had run into the laundry and leaped to their high bunk. Even the dogs were wary, pressing against the back door, their ears and tails down as if they'd been whipped. She hissed at them all, flicked her tail, and trotted away down the hall.

  She sat down in front of Clyde's closed door and licked her paws, listening.

  She heard him rustling some papers, and muttering. She heard him set down his beer glass, heard the springs squeak as if he had sat down on the bed. She began to feel sorry that she'd scared him.

  Well what had she expected? That he'd be thrilled?

  One thing sure, she wasn't going to get anywhere with him, as a cat. She said the words again, and returned to the Kate he knew. She knocked.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Go away. You can stay the night if you want, in the guest room, or you can go sleep in a tree."

  "Please, Clyde."

  When he didn't answer, she pushed the door open.

  He was sitting on the bed holding a sheaf of papers. When she opened the door he'd been staring sickly at the threshold, expecting the cat. He stared up into her face, shocked, then watched her warily.

  "Come on, Clyde, I'm still Kate. The cat is gone. What's to be upset about?" She sat down on the bed beside him. He winced and moved away.

  "Hey, I don't have rabies. I'm just Kate. How else was I going to convince you?"

  He remained mute.

  "I really need you. I really need to talk." She moved away from him to the foot of the bed, and pulled her legs up under her. She stared at him until he looked back.

  "I have something to tell you, something else, that hasn't anything to do with-with what I just did."

  She looked at him pleadingly. "I've left Jimmie. Or, I am leaving him. I'll have to get my things."

  He didn't seem surprised.

  She gave him a cool, controlled look. "It's Sheril Beckwhite. Jimmie and Sheril Beckwhite. So damned shabby."

  It was hard to talk when he just sat looking at her. She told him how cold Jimmie was in bed, how decorous and boring; how, if she could get Jimmie drunk enough he would make wild, delicious love to her but that didn't happen often, and the next morning he wouldn't look at her; for days he would be cold and silent, as if he was ashamed, as if she shouldn't have such feelings.

  How ironic, she said, that he'd gone to Sheril Beckwhite.

  "And once when we were out drinking and walked the village streets for hours laughing, looking in the shop windows, acting silly, he said, 'You love the night, Kate. You love the night better than the day,' and he looked at me so strangely. As if he knew something," she said uneasily. "As if he knew, a long time before I did."

  Clyde set his beer down carefully on the night table. He looked at her and kept looking.

  "What?" she said, watching him, puzzled. And then a shock of anger hit her. "You knew about them."

  "I knew. I've known for months. I didn't…"

  "You knew, and you didn't tell me." She stood up, holding herself tight. "I thought you were my friend. I just finished baring my whole damned life to you, I just told you the most intimate secrets of my life. I just performed the most intimate, shocking, personal act for you, and you… You knew all the time about Jimmie and that woman and you didn't tell me."

  "Christ, Kate, how could I tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I thought… I thought I might make things worse. Men don't run to the wives of their friends with that kind of… Jimmie and I go clear back to grammar school."

  "You and Jimmie are not friends, you don't even like Jimmie. You let me suffer, when I was trying to make things work, trying to overlook the painful things Jimmie said and did, when I thought it was all my fault. And all along he was fucking Sheril Beckwhite and you knew it."

  She had been going to tell him about finding the foreign bank books. She had wanted to ask his advice, try to figure out together what Jimmie was into. She had been so sure she could trust Clyde, that they were friends and totally open with each other.

  And, she thought, if he hadn't told her about Jimmie and Sheril, what else was he keeping to himself?

  Could Clyde be part of whatever illegal business Jimmie was into? Was Clyde a part of that?

  Was that why he'd kept quiet about Sheril? Because of secrets, because o
f what he and Jimmie were doing?

  She turned away and left the room. She went into the guest room and shut the door. In a childish gesture she pushed the lock and propped the desk chair against the door. She stripped off her clothes and got into bed, lay curled with her arms around the pillow, lost and angry and alone.

  19

  Kate woke reluctantly. A heavy depression gripped her. She had no clue to its cause. She was not fully awake; she felt certain that the missing fact would make itself known the moment she came alive. The waiting revelation would, in just a moment now, sock her in the belly.

  The impending weight was accompanied by a sense of helplessness, as if she would be able to do nothing whatever about the bad news. In one more minute she'd have to face some unavoidable irrevocable truth.

  And it hit her. She came fully awake: she remembered her small cat self.

  She remembered changing from woman to cat. Remembered doing that last night in front of Clyde, remembered rubbing against Clyde's ankles. Remembered his sick disgust.

  She remembered that he knew about Jimmie and Sheril; and that he hadn't told her. That he had behaved with some kind of uncharacteristic loyalty to Jimmie, a loyalty he would never exhibit, normally, given his long-standing antipathy to Jimmie.

  She stared around at Clyde's small, homely guest room; at the drawn blind awash with early light; at the scarred oak desk, the ugly green metal filing cabinet, the large black-and-chrome structure of his weight equipment, whose immovable part was fixed to the wall. The weights, she remembered, Clyde had shoved under the bed. On the dresser, the small digital clock said six-forty.

  She could hear no sound in the house. She couldn't hear Clyde stirring, couldn't hear water running. There was no impatient shuffling from the kitchen, no scratching at the kitchen door as if the animals were wanting their breakfast. Maybe Clyde was walking the dogs or was out in the backyard with them. She unwrapped herself from the twisted covers and rose, stood naked looking into the mirror.

  Her eyes were puffy. A dark bruise sliced across her neck. The bruises on her arms and body, like giant finger marks, seemed even darker. Her short, pale hair stuck up all on end.

  She smelled coffee, then, as if it had just started to perk, and heard from the kitchen the metallic sound of the can opener. She heard Clyde's voice, low and irritable, then heard the dogs' toenails scratch the linoleum, scuffling, as if he had set down their food. She heard a cat mewl.

  She didn't want to face Clyde this morning. She'd just dress and slip out, go away somewhere. Maybe around nine o'clock she'd call the shop, disguise her voice and ask for Jimmie. Then, assured that he was at work, she'd go home, throw her clothes in the car.

  She guessed she'd left Clyde's robe in the bathroom. She pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and headed down the hall to wash. She wished she had her toothbrush, wished she had her comb and lipstick. Passing the door to Clyde's bedroom, she stopped to look in.

  Last night when he was so upset, why had he been sitting on his bed calmly reading a bunch of papers? The briefcase and notebook lay in plain sight on the dresser.

  She could hear him in the kitchen talking to the animals. She slipped in, walked to the dresser, and flipped open the notebook.

  The pages were filled with short entries listing foreign cars: the year, the make, then particulars as to model, color, type of upholstery and the various accessories. All were expensive models. Each entry listed a state and county, a license number, then a date and the name and address of a Molena Point resident. That could be the purchaser. Twelve pages were filled. She put the notebook down, opened the briefcase, and drew out a stack of papers.

  They were photocopies of book and magazine pages. All were articles about cats. She read quickly, at first amazed, and then eagerly as one would read a letter from home filled with welcome news.

  She read until all sound from the kitchen ceased. She stuffed the papers back in the briefcase, laid the notebook on top as she had found it, and fled for the bathroom.

  She turned on the shower and stepped into the welcome warmth and steam. Why did Clyde have all that amazing stuff about cats? Where had he gotten it? And why, if he'd read it, was he so upset with her last night?

  He must be trying to find out about Joe Cat. In her own distress, she'd almost forgotten Joe. Clyde had gone to some trouble to put together that remarkable information. But if he'd read those amazing articles, he shouldn't have been so upset last night.

  She got out of the shower, brushed her teeth with her finger and Clyde's toothpaste, and brushed her hair with his hairbrush. When she came out, glancing down the hall, she could see him in the bedroom standing at the dresser.

  He was dressed to go out, wearing tan jeans, a dark polo shirt and an off-white linen jacket. As she stood looking, he slipped the little notebook into his jacket pocket.

  He moved to the nightstand and picked up the phone, and she backed away into the guest room. Through her open door she listened to him punching in a number.

  He didn't ask for anyone, he just started talking. "Can I meet with you this morning? Yes, two days ago." He listened, then said, "Don't do that. That could mess us up real bad."

  He listened, then, "No, nothing. But I'm not done with it. It's the money…"

  Then, "Yes." He laughed. "Ten minutes," he said softly. "Soon as I can get there."

  She shut her door quietly, dropped the sheet, and pulled on her clothes. She heard him pass her door going down the hall, then heard the back door open, heard him talking to the dogs as if letting them in. Quickly she slipped out to the living room and out the front door.

  In the carport she slid into the open Packard, thankful that he kept the top down most of the time. The bright red car was an antique, valuable and lovingly cared for, always clean and well polished. Well why not? The men at the shop kept it washed. Sitting in the front seat she took a deep breath, whispered, and in an instant she was little again, four-footed, her tail lashing with nerves.

  She leaped onto the back of the seat, then down to the floor in the back; she did it all so fast she thought she was going to throw up. Crouching on the floor among a tangle of jogging shoes, automotive catalogs, rags, paperback mysteries, and what smelled like stale peanut butter, she heard the front door slam, heard his footsteps. She hoped he wouldn't throw anything heavy on top of her. She heard him calling Joe. After a long silence, he came into the carport.

  Standing beside the car, he called Joe again, and waited, then grumbled something cross and slid in. As he started the engine and backed out, Kate smoothed her whiskers and stretched out behind his seat, hidden on the shadowed floor. Stifling an excited purr, she smiled. Wherever he was going, whomever he planned to meet, he was going to have company.

  20

  Dulcie led Joe a fast pace home through the misty night; crossing her own yard she wasted no time but bolted straight in through her cat door and made for the refrigerator.

  Coming down the fog-shrouded street, sniffing on the damp air the distinctive scent of Wilma's garden, of the geraniums and lemon balm, she had streaked blindly on, skimming past the big old oak trees, racing across the fog-obscured lawns, then careening inside far ahead of Joe.

  The intricately broken front of the charming stone cottage, the deep bay windows, and the incorporation of the two porches deep beneath the peaked roof lent the cottage a warm and cozy appeal. Wreathed in fog, the house, Joe thought, looked like a dwelling in one of Clyde's favorite Dean Koontz novels, a house both mysterious and welcoming.

  He felt uneasy, though, coming inside in the middle of the night, when Wilma would be sleeping. The intrusion made him feel unpleasantly secretive and stealthy. He would rather have had his supper at Donnie's Lounge cadging hamburger scraps, half-deafened by Dixieland jazz among the feet of happy drinkers.

  He pushed into the dark kitchen behind Dulcie and found her stretched out on the linoleum between the dim counters and the refrigerator beside an empty kibble bowl.
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  She was still munching. "Home," she whispered, smiling. Her breath smelled of kibble.

  "Thanks for leaving me some."

  "That was just an appetizer. As soon as I digest this, we'll have supper."

  He sniffed the scent of wet tea bags and onions that radiated from the trash; these were mixed with the smell of floor wax and of a woman's faint perfume. "Will Wilma hear us?"

  "The bedroom's at the far end of the hall. She sleeps like a rock. I can lie down across her stomach at night, and she doesn't wake up. Come on," she said, getting up, yawning. "When I open the refrigerator, hold the door open."

  Lightly she leaped to the counter and pressed her front paws against the inside of the refrigerator handle. Bracing her hind paws against the edge of the counter, she pushed.

  The door flew open, and Joe pressed inside to stop it from closing again. Leaning into the chilly shelves, he smelled the mouthwatering scent of roast chicken.

  Together they hauled out a package wrapped in the kind of white paper Jolly's Deli used. They pawed the paper off, tearing it with their teeth, to reveal a plump half chicken, its skin crisp and brown.

  Joe braced the drumstick between his paws and tore off chunks of dark meat as Dulcie quickly stripped meat from the breast. Dulcie was way too hungry to think about manners. The notion that cats were dainty eaters was an amusing human myth, no less silly than Sick as a cat, or Cat got your tongue.