Dilly screams, throws down her broom, runs into the house, and calls the cops.
In a city of any proper size, a call such as Dilly's would be routed to CFM (Complaints of Feline Marauding) and dropped, but in Apple Valley, every call is noted, if for no other reason than to become an item in the Police Blotter in the weekly newspaper. The dispatcher, of course, knows the marauder. There is only one large orange-gray-white cat with four black paws and a black diamond on his forehead in Apple Valley: Thunderpaws, belonging to that upstart J.Q. Mahoney, whose business, as best as anyone can determine, is talk, with a little coffee on the side to lubricate his jaws.
As a matter of fact, when Dilly calls the cops, Mahoney is where he is on most days at three o'clock, at his excuse for a business, the Coffee Talk.
But his five-year-old daughter, Coral Kay, is home, alone. Again.
Thunderpaws is under Jonah's bed, swishing his tail and grinning, when Officer Archie Swann arrives at the Mahoney residence on Crabapple Drive. When Swann asks Coral Kay where her daddy is, she says he's on his way home, a lie so frazzled from abuse, even the baby sparrows newly hatched in a nest in the sycamore tree know it for what it is. As smart as any sparrow, Swann invites himself into the house and calls Daddy at the Coffee Talk. In short order, Daddy really is on his way home, where he gets an LOPR (Lecture on Parental Responsibility).
Later that evening, Coral Kay says, “Thunder can't read, so how come Mr. Archie was talking about that No Trespassing sign on Dilly's fence?”
Scowling, Jonah dips into the bowl of mashed potatoes. “Instant-toes,” that flaky stuff requiring only water and a couple of rounds in the microwave, then another round after the peas were nuked and the pot roast warmed up—the roast that had burned the day before, because when the timer had beeped (Coral was timer-deaf), Daddy was in the basement, wrestling with a hip-high load of laundry—overalls so long neglected they had sprouted hair, clothes Coral Kay had outgrown months ago, a purple towel Mahoney swore he'd never seen before.
“Thunder can't read?”
“Daddy!”
“Don't ‘Daddy' me. Who sits him down at the breakfast table with his own cereal box?”
“That's when he's pretending to read. Don't you know about imagination?”
Yes, he did: Random House Unabridged Dictionary: 5. Ability to face and resolve difficulties; resourcefulness, and 8. A plan, a scheme, a plot. In fact, Daddy ought to be awarded a silver cup for the imagination it had required to shift quickly from corporate America to bib overalls.
It was a long story he wanted to forget—the years it took to master the techniques of success—for what? Memories of his youth in Tyler, Texas, were pleasant enough, but now that his parents were dead, Jonah liked to forget those days, too. His dad, a farmer, was killed in a freak accident while he was hauling sorghum. An oil rigger on a motorcycle swerved to miss a squirrel on the road, lost control of the cycle and crashed into his father's truck, instantly killing Edward Beaumont. Jonah's mother, Ivy, died soon after of a broken heart.
Jonah had an older brother who moved overseas to work in the oil fields. Anthony was dead, converted to Islam, found love, or was rotting in some prison for drug trafficking. Whatever. Anthony was a reckless sort, and no one had seen or heard from him in over fifteen years.
His real life, Jonah believed, began on the road from Dallas westward, in search of sanctuary. Coral Kay was three months old. Having forfeited the Porsche, along with everything else of material value, he was literally on the road. And Jessica wasn't even his wife. A moot point. She did give birth to Coral Kay. His child.
Lugging two suitcases, Coral Kay bundled on his back, Jonah was stopped by an officer of the law, near the Texas/New Mexico border. The cop inquired of his papers, motives, character, heritage, drinking and smoking habits, and would probably have demanded to check Coral Kay's diapers if Mahoney had not charmed the man with his show of fierce love for the baby. Three minutes into his spiel, the cop's eyes were glazed with tears. Officer Hawthorne invited Jonah and the infant to spend the night at his doublewide out on the prairie in Deaf Smith County, after which Hawthorne arranged transport the next day for father and daughter, with a buddy who was driving an eighteen-wheeler to Salt Lake City.
Coral Kay got the royal treatment from Hawthorne's wife, but the woman evil-eyed Mahoney all through the evening, as the two men drank beer and shared bitter stories.
Women! The root of men's troubles today—not Hawthorne's wife, of course—but women the likes of Coral Kay's mother, who had threatened to abort her, because having a baby would mess up her figure, which, for a professional model was “not even discussable.” Jonah had to promise her the kit and caboodle of his material possessions, to persuade her to give birth to the baby. And forget bonding—Jessica refused to even hold Coral Kay in her arms.
His decision to cash out and hit the road with Coral Kay disturbed his friends. They said his solution was too extreme. Had to be a way, they reasoned, to salvage the baby and still retain his position and a good portion of his assets. Otherwise, what the hell was life all about?
He went about the legalities of transferring title for everything to Jessica and securing full custody of Coral with a numb head; he did what he had to do. But all the time, the smile inside him was growing bigger and bigger. He was getting Coral Kay! He had it all; Jessica had nothing. How could he explain to friends the light he now saw? What was life about if not life itself?
Something was very wrong in the world, Jonah knew, and it wasn't the fault of women alone, as he knew not to push the subject any deeper with Hawthorne. Life is complex, but easy answers soothe troubled minds. Soothing the mind of an officer of the law seemed a good idea.
Sanctuary turned out to be Apple Valley, Jonah decided on the trip northwest. It was no mere decision…the moment bordered on epiphany. The red and gold rock mountains shimmering in the sunlight caused tears to roll down his cheeks. The feeling he was starting a whole new life was so strong he decided on the spot to change his name…from John Arnold Beaumont to…Jonah something….
Old Jonah was a kind of hero to young Johnny Beaumont. When the Bible school teacher was going on about Jonah's prideful attitude after he delivered the message to the king of Nineveh, Johnny pictured a different story…Jonah astride the whale, riding him like a bucking bronco, the sailors cheering him on, God scratching his whiskers at this show of will…yeah.
The Valley was situated in the Four Corners region, Anasazi country, somewhere north-east or east-north of the Grand Canyon—neither in Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, nor Utah; it was hidden from all but special ordinary people, as if tucked behind a veil, kings-X space, wedged between time zones, a perfect place to raise a kid, free from the torments of the past and the uncertainties of the future.
Apple Valley was the place, and Jonah Quiller Mahoney was the name. Mahoney was his mother's maiden name, and Quiller…well, maybe he would write a book someday. Call it J.Q.'s Manual for Survival. First you find a valley hidden behind a veil…a valley with a big apple tree in the center of town, because where there are apples, men and women will manage to overcome the barriers that prevent modern civilized people from bonding, if there is truth to the myth of Eve who intuitively understood that the rosy ripe fruit was for the edification of humankind—never mind the taboo—God just figured in the allure of forbidden fruit to get things moving. The serpent was actually God's left-hand man, a dude who packed an alligator bag full of apple seeds, clover honey, robins' eggs…and a scroll titled J.Q.'s Manual for Survival on Planet Earth.…
After satisfying the legal requirements for a name change, Jonah carved his old name, John Arnold Beaumont, on a small sandstone slab, carved R.I.P. beneath, took the monument down the valley and up to Star Rock, and planted his dead name carved on stone in the dirt. Then he smoked a bud.
It was there at the base of Star Rock, in view of his old-name tombstone, that Jonah decided his new philosophy. From now on, life was going to be simp
le, and fun. If he was judged to be a Neanderthal, by God, that was good. The high, fast, important, complex life was not for Jonah Quiller Mahoney. From now on, he was going to live low to the ground.
While he was gone to Star Rock that day, Thunderpaws moved into “Jo's Abode,” where Jonah and Coral Kay lived with Johanna Vanderbond. Thunder wasn't one of those cats who whimper until you take pity and allow them into your home. The door was open, the cat walked in, strolled over to the fireplace, looked it over, curled up on the hearth, and hissed. Observing the cat, Johanna didn't say a word, she later told Jonah. She went directly to Clyde's Market, and bought a case of Friskies wet food.
“You have a cat,” she announced when Jonah Quiller Mahoney returned from Star Rock.
Some imagine that imagination is coded in the genes; those determined to prove it could use as evidence five-year-old Coral Kay, offspring of a champion imaginer, the way hers played the next day, playing on the theme of cats who can read.
Digging deep in her toy box, she finds a pair of oversized dark glasses Daddy purchased at a carnival. Tying the glasses with red ribbons around the cat's head, she coaxes Thunderpaws to sit at the table, facing an empty Honey Bunches box.
“And that damn cat is allowing this violation,” Jonah observes in grief, when historically and in accordance with cat ethics, Thunderpaws had refused sweaters, bonnets, and diapers.
“Forget to comb your hair again, Darlin'?” he asks his daughter.
“I like it this way.”
“All snarled up?”
“It's sexy. Don't you know? Wild and free.”
Jonah wants to cry. Instead of saying whatever it is he's supposed to say, he says, “So what is the Paws pretending to oracle from the box today?”
“He says if we bomb Iraq, all of the cat spirits might leave and never come back.”
Jonah slams back his chair, the signal for Thunderpaws to make like a colt, shaking off the glasses as he races down the hall to Coral Kay's room, where there are hidey-spots galore.
Coral Kay jumps when the chair hits the floor but is otherwise unalarmed by Daddy's performance. Daddy is a Leo. He even sort of resembles a lion—coppery-brown mane, and those green leonine eyes, like in The Wizard of Oz. But Daddy is already courageous, and sweet, too, his eyes always filling with tears, just like the lion's in Oz, when Daddy says how much he loves his little girl.
Jonah stomps down the hall, into his room, and slams the door. He falls to his knees, clasping his paws on top of the unmade bed, where morning light stripes the rumpled covers through the venetian blinds.
It takes a few minutes for his attitude to adjust to his posture, during which moments he expresses in blasphemous murmurs, the ups, downs, and arounds of his problem. Then forgetting the warning to be careful what you pray for, he raises his head and petitions a source he calls Good Lord to send him a woman. All things considered, it seems the only thing he can do: ask for a woman worthy to be his wife, a mother for Coral Kay—and don't forget, a woman who at the very least is tolerant of, and God forbid, not allergic to, cats, because God knows Thunderpaws is lord and master of Jo's Abode. And, Good Lord, soon. Mahoney isn't getting any younger. Next August, should he live that long, he will be forty-five years old.
That night, Jonah is awakened out of a deep sleep by a noise that sounds like three loud thumps on a bass guitar. He shoots straight up in bed. The room is suffused in amber light. “Weird dream,” he says to calm his pounding heart. The light is definitely gathering into a form. “Weird dream,” he says louder, pressing his back against the headboard. He clutches the bed covers under his chin.
A man is forming in the air between the foot of the bed and the window…tall man, dressed in Biblical garb, swirls and folds of bright white, gold braid crisscrossing his chest and encircling his waist. The silvery hair shimmering down to the man's shoulders quarrels with a look of youth. His face glows, eyes shimmering bright blue.
“Weird dream!” Jonah croaks.
“You can see me? Cool.” The sound of the visitor's voice reverberates through the room.
Jonah doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. At the moment, he is incapable of either. He's shaking so hard, the bed is practically rupturing the floor.
“Smooth out,” the visitor says, as he floats over to the stuffed chair next to the bureau, settling on top of Jonah's crumpled overalls. The amber light encircling him is a huge golden egg, and the air in the room feels electric.
The angel—Jonah thinks he might as well admit it—brings up a golden book he did not notice during the celestial fanfare. The angel crosses a leg, showing a sandal, flips pages, stops, lifts his head. “You are Jonah Quiller Mahoney—formerly John Arnold Beaumont?”
Jonah nods dumbly.
“You can hear me. Cool. You asked for a wife. A commendable desire.”
Jonah laughs. “This is definitely a dream.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and trots down the hall into the bathroom, whistling. As he does his business, he winks at himself in the mirror. “Dream,” he says. “Funny dream.” He fully expects to return to a dark bedroom. But the angel is still in the chair, glowing.
“Done?” the visitor says, lifting a bushy silver eyebrow.
Jonah climbs back into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chest.
The visitor is staring at his book.
“This some new policy? A man asks for a wife, and an angel pays him a visit to talk it over?”
The visitor jerks up his head. “Angel? You'd better hope you do not encounter an angel.”
“Huh?” Jonah says, now becoming very intrigued. “I thought we all had, like, guardian angels.”
“Distorted folklore. There are angels, and there are guardians. But no guardian angels.”
“Then…who are you?”
“A free traveler.”
“A free—?”
“Don't even try to understand. Came through a portal south of here.”
“Star Rock, I suppose!” Jonah chuckles. That old legend haunting his dreams.
“You know about the portal?” the visitor asks.
“I know the fairy tales about it.”
“So, in your astute opinion…how'd I get here?”
“Same way every dream gets here!”
“You want to stick with the dream perception, fine with me. My visit will imprint, anyway. So what made you think I was an angel?”
“Your outfit. The white gown and all.”
“White gown?” The man looks down at himself, puzzled; he smiles and lifts a long finger. “Very interesting. You're confabulating. Interposing archetypal images from your cultural reference.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jonah crosses his arms over his chest. “So what are you really wearing?”
“Green tunic, trimmed in gold. Dark green leggings. Mark of a steward. Hey—toss me a writing instrument and I'll sketch my actual appearance. Want to record this information, anyway. Very interesting.”
Turning to search the side table, Jonah notices the hands on the Little Ben clock are spinning. He gives the clock a shake, and the hands start spinning counterclockwise. Chuckling, he finds a pencil in the drawer, and scoots down the bed. Heat is pulsating off the egg of light. He reaches out and slips the pencil—
“Ouch!” He grabs his hand back. Big blister on his finger. Practically electrocuted him! Nothing like this has ever happened in a dream before. He scoots back up to the headboard; sucks his finger.
“Sorry,” the visitor says. “Forgot to warn you.” He sets to sketching on a page in the book. Rips the page out. “Maybe this won't work, but we'll try it.” He wads up the page, and tosses it. But it disintegrates in a poof of sparks and smoke at the edge of the amber light.
“Well, hell's bells. So far, can't transport so much as a pine needle from this side of the shield. Oh, well. Why don't I keep the writing instrument?”
Jonah nods dumbly.
“Where were we?”
“You were going to tell me who you
are, and why you're here.”
“I'm here to warn you, Jonah. A man exercises his will, the consequences can be severe. Don't get me wrong. Free will is a sacred endowment you're supposed to exercise. But a man has to be careful. When you asked for a wife, were you specific?”
“She's got to tolerate cats. And of course, she's got to be beautiful.”
“You specified beauty?”
“Damn…”
“That's what I mean, Jonah. It was an impulsive request, wasn't it? You probably didn't give one thought to bloodlines.”
“Bloodlines?”
“Marriage usually begets children.”
“I didn't ask for more children. Can't keep up with the one I've got.”
“I like your attitude, Jonah. This is our concern. A beautiful woman shows up on your doorstep, coincidental to your request, so you think she's the answer to your prayers. She's of childbearing age. Maybe she desires to procreate. You fall in love with her, you marry, good chance she will bear children.”
“It's not out of the question. I could—”
“That's what concerns us, Jonah. Not a good idea. This beautiful woman—and may I remind, you did not specify beauty—is of an Indigo Veil lineage. Not a bloodline compatible with Cedar Bow, or Honey Bee.”
“What the blazes are you talking about?”
Too much coffee, Jonah is thinking; too many cigars, not enough sex. Definitely not enough sex.
“I'm talking a complex alphanumeric genetic geometry. Don't try to understand. Beaumont, your birth name…B-e-a, pronounced bow. Cedar Bow clan. But B-e-a is also B-e-e. Mahoney, your mother's name—Honey Bee clan. Beatrice, Jonah. Beatrice is your soul mate.”
Jonah guffaws. “Only Beatrice I know is gay. Come to think of it, I used to know another Beatrice, an old aunt, probably kicked the can by now. But we called her Aunt Triss.”
“Your special Beatrice is out there somewhere, Jonah. This other woman is going to be a problem.”
“What other woman?”
“The one you don't even want to think about marrying. If you want the truth, she's kind of cold. Common Indigo Veil trait. But she is worthy of your help. You help her, it will help to reduce some of your sizeable karma.”
Jonah Page 2
