Cat Found (10 page)

T
he mayor held an emergency session with the Clydesdale councillors. He was all in a tizzy. The town was so divided over the cat issue, the whole mess threatened to ruin his chances in the next election. “We’ve got to get a handle on this thing,” said the mayor. “First I had to cancel the roundup. Now I’ve got to put the cleanup of the chapel yard on hold. Everybody in this town has something to say. Why, look at ’em!” He pointed to the table. It was covered in letters, e-mails, and messages. “Everyone wants something different.”

The mayor snatched a paper. “Listen to this one,” he said.

Email: [email protected]

See here, Mr. Mayor. I don’t want my hard-earned money going into some cat shelter. I’ve got kids that need shoes.
This town needs jobs. It needs more people to visit and spend their money. The cats give the town a bad name. Shoot them, trap them, drown them, starve them — whatever gets rid of them!

I’d sooner let a mosquito suck my blood than help a stray cat. You boys up there at City Hall have lost my vote. Our town needs decent direction.

The mayor tossed the e-mail back on the pile. He waved another letter. “This one’s the flip side of the coin,” he declared.

Dear Mayor,

Bounty indeed! Are we going to kill the robins and the sparrows for defacing our streets? Shoot the gulls that come in from the sea when the weather changes? How about the squirrels — and those dirty rabbits?

I’ll say one thing: Come election time, you’ve lost my vote. And if anyone comes on my property looking to nab a cat, I’ll post their picture on my blog — right along with yours. I get a thousand hits a day on that blog.

We need decent leadership. Our town has lost its way.

Yours truly,
Lucie Morton

“See what I mean?!” the mayor blustered. “I tell you, we have to come up with —”

The mayor’s assistant came into the council chamber. “There’s a delegation to see you,” she said to the mayor.

“Not now!” the mayor replied, waving his hand. He waved his hand so hard it looked like he wanted to sweep his assistant under the table. “There’s no time to see anyone. The council has to solve this cat thing before every newspaper in the country sets up shop in Clydesdale. The stray cats have got us between a rock and a hard place.”

“You mean between a coal cellar and a lump of coal,” a voice drawled.

The mayor swung around. So did the councillors. Salome Davies, Mrs. Davies’s granddaughter, was leaning against the council room door. She had on a funny getup as usual — tight black clothes and shiny hoops in her ears. The ponytailed young man from maintenance was there, too, and another kid. The mayor searched his memory. It was Walter Reddick’s son, Billy.

The mayor did some more hand waving. “You three can’t interrupt my meeting,” he said. “Billy, if you have a school project, my assistant can let you have whatever information you need. Luke, don’t you have work to do on those loose windows up in the dome? And Salome, as far
as I know, your grandmother doesn’t like you straying too far from home.”

“Mr. Mayor,” said Billy, “it’s August. School hasn’t started yet. We’ve come to talk to you. We’ve got a proposition for the council.”

“I wrote to you about it,” Luke added. “You might want to consider the idea now.”

The mayor could feel his temper in his eyeballs. He didn’t have time to listen to some childish scheme — not while his picture was plastered on every Main Street shop, not when he might end up the laughingstock of the whole county. “Enough!” he exploded. “Now you all get out of here and let us —”

“I guess the old chapel bell can hide out forever,” Salome drawled to Billy and Luke. “Come on. The mayor isn’t interested in our discovery. Let’s get out of here.”

They turned away.

The mayor was no fool. At the sound of the word
bell,
his mouth began to water. He was out of his chair before the three of them reached the stairs. “Wait!” He plastered a smile across his face. “Why don’t we all go into my office for a chat?” he wheedled. “My door is always open. I’m always ready to hear from my constituents.”

His hand swept them up. He was a good sweeper. As
soon as they were seated in his office, he leaned forward across his desk. “A bell, you say?”

“First things first,” Salome said. She unrolled a paper.

The mayor studied it. “That drawing reminds me of the town,” he said slowly.

“It’s a model — a pint-sized version of Main Street,” said Luke. “I want to build it behind the chapel. The cats can shelter there.”

“A cat home!” the mayor snorted. “We can’t even afford to get people off the streets. Who’s going to look after something like that?”

“I will,” said Luke. “I’ve already got a couple of volunteers.” He set down his package and pulled away the wrapping. The little bell tower was inside. The tiny hand bell swung from the belfry. “This is some of my work.”

“It’s a good idea to rally the town,” Salome said to the mayor before he could protest. “All the city has to do is encourage people to mind their pets. They need education. Lots of places have a cat problem. Our town can be an example. Other city councils will be running to see how you do it.”

“Half the town hates the cats,” the mayor argued. His voice strangled in his own throat. He liked the tower. The kids had a point.

Salome didn’t let up. “The council already has the money to restore the chapel,” she said. “Luke’s cat sanctuary will attract tourists, too. They’ll spend money in the shops and eat in the restaurants. Some of them might even decide to settle. My grandmother says what’s good for the cats is good for all.”

The mayor hemmed and hawed. “Maybe she’s right,” he said finally. “That grandmother of yours always was a straight shooter. Now, what’s this about a bell?”

Salome looked at Billy. Luke looked at Billy, too. It was Billy’s turn to speak.

“We need an agreement before I tell you where the bell is,” Billy said. “You need to talk to the council.”

Salome grinned. “My grandmother’s bringing her lawyer,” she told the mayor, “soon as you decide. So nobody pulls a fast one.”

Billy’s mom and dad were at the kitchen table when he got home. They were talking in a comfortable way.

“Glad you could join us,” said his mom. “I made some of that potato salad you like so much. Your father helped me peel the potatoes.”

Conga and her kittens were taking in the late sun that slanted through the porch window. Conga’s eyes were half
closed. Her front paws were swaddled in strips of cloth. The white kitten slept between the bandages.

“Billy,” his dad said slowly. “I know we have some mending to do. Maybe I should have asked you how you felt about the gun. I wanted to teach you the same way my dad taught me.” He gestured toward the air rifle propped up beside the closet.

Billy looked toward the rifle. But his gaze slid right past it. He fetched his dad’s toolbox and put it on the table. “Dad,” he said, “I’m going to help someone with a project. It’ll take a while. Maybe you can teach me how to use this.” He handed his dad the hammer.

It was a beautiful tool. The warm hickory handle ended in a steel cap and claw.

“Well,” his dad said, sitting up a little taller. He smacked the hammer lightly against the palm of his left hand. “You’ve come to the right man. A hammer is all about control. The nail has to go in straight. If your aim is off, you might as well be splitting logs. You’ve got to know what you’re hitting, too. Too much force will …”

“Men,” muttered Billy’s mom. She handed Billy the potato salad. “I’ll never understand them.”

They were smiling words.

I
t was the second Sunday before Christmas.

People began to gather in the light snow. At three o’clock the mayor arrived on foot. He went up to the double doors and knocked. As soon as the doors swung open, everyone flocked inside the chapel. Straw matting was strewn over the newly varnished floor. There were cups of cheer on a red-clothed table. Mae Reddick held up a plate of cookies.

Salome leaned over the chapel railing and watched the townsfolk admire the renovations. Gradually people climbed the stairs to join her in the choir loft. The winter light streaming through the stained-glass window colored the art nailed to the walls. The charcoal drawings were framed in bright red. A price tag hung from each corner.

“Those cats look real enough to give me allergies,” someone declared. “I hear the proceeds from this sale will be donated to cat rescue.”

“The artist is a real credit to her grandmother,” a friend agreed.

“Congratulations!” said Officer Jean to Salome. “I’ll buy this one.”

Salome nodded. It was her favorite. A cat curled around blank space. There was no way to tell if it was alive or dead, sated or hungry, warm or cold. It slept mindlessly between heaven and earth.

“Your drawings might be worth a pretty penny someday,” Officer Jean went on, as Salome wrapped up the little picture. “But I don’t care about that. This is a darned good piece. I’m glad you decided to put your talent to work instead of sneaking in and out of other people’s places.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Davies. She gave her granddaughter a hug. “Salome was good company last summer. She never caused me a moment’s worry. Even her folks say she’s a changed girl. The whole family’s coming to stay for Christmas.”

“Humph!” Joxie sniffed quietly. She took the picture of a pregnant cat off the wall. “This one will go in my shop.
Maybe it will remind customers of the true meaning of the season.”

Two of the councillors wandered through the choir loft. One of them said, “These drawings look familiar. I feel as if I’ve seen them before.”

“Beats me,” said the other. “I don’t know much about art. The girl is good. That’s about all I can tell you.”

The mayor called out, “It’s time to dedicate Clydesdale’s newest project.” He led the people through the double doors and down the alley. His hand swept across the chapel yard.

“Somebody shrank the town,” the man with the red face snorted.

It was true. A tiny copy of Main Street stretched along the back fence. Joxie’s pet store was there. And so was the apartment building. Even Corky’s and the Lebanese restaurant had a place.

There was a sign affixed to the mulberry tree:

CAT HAVEN

“Nice job, Walt,” said Joe Close. “That little apartment looks so real, I expect Mae to peek out of a window.”

“Billy and I followed directions,” Billy’s father said. “The town planner is over there.” He pointed at Luke. “That young man is going places. All he needs is a haircut.”

Luke stood behind the picket fence fixing the latch to the gate. A lady in a fancy feathered hat reached over to shake his hand.

The cats were outside their shelters, eyes drowsy, tails slack, smudging their coats with their raspy tongues. A name hung over each door. Scat’s manger filled up the City Hall. Pickerel, Perch, and Pike had the apartment rooms. And Mac and Cheese, and Nosey Parker, took the others. As for the gray tom, he sat in the doorway of the miniature chapel, a wreath of snow wrapping his neck.

He gave the people a haughty stare.

“That’s a big tom,” said the lady in the feathered hat. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name right now,” said Billy. “There’s a suggestion box by the tree. Just fill out one of the papers.”

The lady pulled a pencil stub from her pocket.

The mayor made his way to the front of the crowd. Cameras snapped. It was his finest moment. “Clydesdale extends a warm welcome to all you folks from near and far who have come to share in our celebration!” he exclaimed. “The reopening of the Main Street Chapel has signaled a
fresh start for Clydesdale. And Cat Haven is a reminder of our civic responsibilities. It shows what we can achieve together.”

He pointed skyward. “The town is looking up!”

People looked up as the boards covering the chapel tower were pulled away. Lucie Morton gasped. She blinked away the snow melting in her eyes. “Praise be,” she whispered. “That’s the Redemption Bell. They found it. They found our bell.”

The bell rang out across the town.

Billy left the crowd. He pelted down the chapel alley.

He raced the sound through the deepening dusk.

T
he chapel bell was ringing in Christmas.

The chiming carols carried across the chapel yard and into shops and houses. All throughout Clydesdale, women dropped their books. Men scratched their heads. Gradually doors and windows were flung open to let in the glorious noise.

Conga’s kittens didn’t pay any attention. One of them was in the mayor’s bedroom, asleep in his fleece slippers. One of them lapped cream from atop Mrs. Davies’s fancy dining room table. One of them played with Wiggins. The white one curled up in the lap of Billy’s cat-fearing neighbor.

“Gracie,” the neighbor said. She stroked her new companion. “My ears are ringing again.”

Billy hit the back stairs of the apartment building as the last chime sounded. “Conga!” he cried. He burst
into the kitchen. “Conga, do you hear that?” He slid to a stop at her feet. “That’s the bell. And you’re the one that found it!”

Conga regarded him lazily from the floor by the warm radiator. When Billy got down beside her, she stretched. Her paw mussed his hair.

After a while, the kitchen fell quiet. The last deep tones of the bell had faded away.

Conga listened to Billy breathing. She listened to the silence of each snowflake settling on the sill. Then she stuck her rose-petal nose into Billy’s ear and hummed.

“Conga,” Billy murmured. He could hardly stay awake. “Conga, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

I
would like to acknowledge the help and support of Jane Oates, who gave shape to my ramblings, and to Phoebe Sheppard, librarian extraordinaire. My thanks also extend to the volunteers of Homeless Cat Rescue in Toronto, for generously providing information about the feral cat.

INGRID LEE
is a writer and a schoolteacher. Her first novel,
Dog Lost
, is based on a true story about her own pit bull. Lee lives with her family in Toronto, Canada.