Cat Found (4 page)

I
n a cat-hating town, the strays do their business after the sun sets.

The three silver-striped tabbies jumped from the crates to the back fence. One after the other, they left the chapel yard and pawed into new land. They scouted the freshly planted backyards until they found one to their liking. The first cat sprayed scent over the porch and the new lawn chair. The second scratched at the willow sapling. The last tabby rubbed against the planter and squatted on the tender buds.

Then they lined up on the fence in a pretty row and crooned to the moon.

Mr. Thomas turned over in bed. “Those cats need a tune-up,” he complained to his wife.

The blind cat ventured down the chapel alley. It tasted the wet night air and felt the tap of a grasshopper. It smelled the bitter dandelion. Still in the shelter of the close walls, it listened to the soft swoosh of a late-night car rolling down Main Street.

A couple out for a midnight stroll walked along the sidewalk with their big dog. “Take the leash off the dog for a bit,” the girl sweet-talked her boyfriend. “It’s late. No one will see. The dog wants to run.”

The blind cat didn’t expect a silly dog to scramble into the alley. When the dog started to bark, the noise echoed off the trash cans. The vibrations confounded the cat and sent it scrabbling the wrong way into the street. It careened across the road straight into a brick wall.

The girl laughed. “Come here, boy!” she called out to the dog. “Did you scare that cat? What a brave doggy!”

Across the street, the blind cat huddled close to a strange wall.

Which way was home?

The gray tom went hunting for a mouse meal.

Billy’s father heard yowling in his dreams. He staggered out to the kitchen and peeled back a can of beer. “I gotta get that cat,” he muttered. He went out and leaned over
the landing. He didn’t see the gray tom waiting under the lilac bush. He didn’t see Billy and Conga, either.

Those two were pressed up to the plaster next to Billy’s bedroom window.

When the sun woke up, the street cats headed for their nests while the people crawled out of their beds. Salome climbed up her grandmother’s vine as the sun’s rays caught the greenery. Half in, half out of the window, she held her breath. The house was quiet. She tumbled the rest of the way into her bedroom and pushed a button on the phone. “Salome Davies,” she said after the machine picked up. She steadied her breathing. “Officer Jean, I’m checking in.”

An hour later, Officer Jean listened to the morning messages. She made a record of Salome’s call. Then she read over Salome’s rap sheet:

Name:
Salome Davies
Age:
Fourteen

Apprehended: 06/15/2010

Plea Entered:
Guilty

Apprehended: 09/19/2010

Plea Entered: Guilty

Apprehended: 12/03/2010

Unlawful entry of commercial residence

(Found in hotel attic, hanging Christmas ornaments on rafters)

Plea Entered: Guilty

Officer Jean sighed. There was a string of infractions in the report. Before a judge, Salome had pleaded curiosity. “I like to know about stuff,” she had told him. “I never take anything.”

At her fourth court appearance, the judge had lost his temper. “That’s not the point,” he had ranted. “You can’t go wherever you want. It’s trespassing. You have the makings of a cat burglar. The court should tie a bell around your neck.”

Salome’s grandmother had spoken up. “I live in Clydesdale,” she had said to the judge. “It’s a quiet town in the country. Salome can volunteer at the local pet store.
I’ll make sure she stays put at night. Her parents need a break.”

The judge had agreed. “Make sure that girl follows the rules. She has to check in with the parole officer from home first thing every morning and last thing at night. Next time she stands in front of me, I’ll throw the book at her.”

Officer Jean closed Salome’s file and went back to her messages. It was so far, so good. Salome checked in every day, right as rain.

It looked like the girl was cured.

At seven in the morning, Luke fed the cats. When the blind one didn’t come out for breakfast, he started looking. He looked for the cat for so long, he was late for work at City Hall.

Salome had breakfast with her grandmother in the dining room. They had crumpets with marmalade on white bone china, and orange juice served with mint leaves in crystal tumblers. “Those drawings you stuck on the fridge are quite good,” Mrs. Davies was saying. “We’ll have to see about art lessons. You’ve got talent, Salome. But you need some direction — and lots of practice.”

Salome smiled. She liked her grandmother. “Got to go,” she said. “Joxie’s expecting me down at the pet store.”

Her grandmother watched her leave.
Her parents have raised her fine,
she thought. Those wild roaming days were just a phase. The girl had settled down.

Down the street and over the fence, Mr. Thomas went from his bed to his garden. As soon as the old man got a whiff of cat pee, he called Animal Services. “Last night, some cats fouled my garden,” he griped. “They scratched the willow and tore up my flower beds. The buds in the planter are as hard as dried peas. I bet the cats came from the colony out by the pizza parlor on Weston Road. Somebody’s got to see to those strays.”

After he hung up, the little apricot kitten rubbed against his leg. It mewed softly.

“Does Wiggins want his milk?” Mr. Thomas asked. He picked up his kitty and went to the fridge.

Animal Services sent a man and a truck over to the cat colony on Weston Road. The strays scattered as soon as they heard the motor. The man tore down the shelters and cut back the bushes. He raked the ground and sprayed the soil. Later, when the cats crept back, their shelters were
gone. The only thing left behind was an eviction notice.

The Animal Services man made one more stop on the way back to the garage. He scraped a dead black cat off the street. “Somebody got their luck back,” he joked to himself. He didn’t really think the joke was funny. But then, working for a living wasn’t funny, either.

Billy’s dad came home for lunch early. He was in a foul mood. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he announced over his ham sandwich. “Those roofs can wait. The boy and I are going to have some quality time in the country.”

Billy’s mom looked up from her books. “Walter Reddick,” she objected, “our son needs to do his laundry today.”

His dad turned to Billy. “Grab your gear. Your mom’s a mite nervous about seeing her boy grow up. All that schooling’s got her head twisted around.” He turned back to his wife with his chest puffed up. “Now don’t you go telling me what’s best for the boy, Mae. You can pour me a cold one and make like a good wife. Do what you’re told.”

Billy hid in his bedroom while they had it out. When he went back to the kitchen, his mom had gone.

“Time to get started,” said his dad. The air had gone out of his lungs. He sagged against the kitchen chair. “Go fetch that rifle.”

The man had gotten his way.

But it didn’t feel that good.

B
illy sat in the front seat of the truck. He cradled the air rifle in his arms, letting the steel barrel cool his hot skin. It was a handsome piece of work, as long as a yardstick. The walnut stock was satin smooth. Billy traced the knots with his finger.

“That gun’s a beauty, all right,” his dad said. “A Daisy. A gun with class. Pump it to the max and the shot will ring true. The work will put some muscle on those skinny arms of yours.”

They pulled off the road a few miles outside of town. Billy followed his dad down a rough path, holding the gun broke in the middle and angled down the way he’d been shown, until the woods opened into a meadow.

In the high grass, Billy’s dad swung around and bent down until they were face-to-face. “Now, Billy,” he said, “if anyone asks, that’s
my
gun. I’m just letting you take a
shot. No need to mention the birthday. Law says you gotta be sixteen to own a gun like that. The way I see it, that’s waiting too long. You need to get your hunting eye young.”

He paced out fifty feet and tied a red rag to a sapling. He fit the scope in place on the rifle and adjusted the level, then handed Billy a pellet. “Put it in, boy,” he declared. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Billy’s hand was clammy. The silver shot felt slick. Clumsily, he set one into the barrel, clicked the gun together, and held up the rifle.

“See those crosshair lines,” his dad instructed. “Line ’em up with the rag before you shoot. Once you feel the recoil, you’ll know how to make up for it next time. The rifle’s got a great knockdown. You’ll be able to hit a squirrel at sixty-five feet. Blast the cocky varmint right off its perch.”

His dad adjusted the handle steady against Billy’s shoulder. Billy found the thin hairs crossed in the scope and moved them until they hovered over the red cloth. He pulled the trigger.

The report was loud. Billy jumped. He stared at the target. The rag hung quietly from the branch.

Billy’s dad shook his head. “You missed, boy! You’ve got to stay steady. That rifle will try to fight you back. Next time, expect the recoil. Pump ‘er up and have another go.”

Billy pulled at the base of the gun three times. Each time the gun resisted a little more.

“Keep pumping,” his dad ordered. “The rifle needs to be packed with air. You won’t get any distance if you don’t pump her up.”

Billy pushed again. The gun locked. Four times.

“Again.”

Billy started to sweat. He pushed. The gun pushed back. He couldn’t do it.

“Put some weight into it,” his dad demanded.

Billy shoved with all his might.

The gun locked. Five times.

His dad nodded. “It’ll do seven. You’ve got to eat more meat and potatoes, if that’s the best you can do. Now this time stay steady. Keep your eye on the crosshairs. Go for the gusto!”

Billy planted his feet apart and raised the gun. Through the scope, his target hung like a red flag in a blue sky. This time he braced for the backlash.

And this time the rag whipped up.

“Smokin’!” his dad said. “That’s my boy. You’ll be a credit in the field to your old man.” He had Billy shoot for half an hour.

Back in the car, Billy could feel his arm muscles
quivering. He held the red rag in his hands. It was full of holes. The rifle sat warm and quiet in the trunk.

“Now, son, this bit o’ practice stays between you and me,” his dad was saying. “I don’t want your ma to know the details. She’s got some bleeding-heart ideas about animals. The land would be plumb overrun with critters, if she had her way. I’m a working man. I don’t need to waste time trying to make your mother see the sense of it. We’ll leave the gun in the back. I’ll take it up later.”

He switched on the radio. The local news was on.

“The mayor has announced that a town forum will be held next week after the council reports,” said the reporter. “The debate will discuss the feral cat population. Clydesdale is overrun with strays and resentment against the animals is on the rise. Citizens are divided on ways to deal with the problem. Whatever the outcome, most people want action on the issue sooner rather than later.”

“Ha!” said Billy’s dad, slapping him on the leg. “No good cat ‘cept a dead cat. There’s only one solution to the cat problem. Guess I’ll go to that meeting.”

Billy just sat in his seat thinking. His head was stuffed full of his dad’s thoughts. He could hardly find room for his own.

A
ll July, Conga ate like each meal was her last.

Billy talked to his cat as she ate, and as she groomed, and even during her naps. He talked to her at night while they sat in the bedroom window. Conga always lent him an ear. Only sometimes she stuck her round honey eyes into his dark hazel ones. She wanted to make sure Billy wasn’t making up stories.

Between talks, Billy found and returned bottles. He earned errand money from the neighbors. He shopped for groceries with his mom, and practiced shooting with his dad. With all the things to do, there wasn’t much time to spend with his friends. Whenever he did show up at the park or the community center, they gave him a hard time.

“Getting kind of rare, aren’t you?”

“Hey, Billy, you got a girlfriend or somethin’?”

One day, Billy paid a visit to the library. He wanted to
know what to do when the time came for the kittens to be born. When they saw him coming out with a book, his friends jeered. “‘S that a good book, Billy? Gee, maybe you could teach me how to read.”

After that, Billy did his research in secret.

Billy helped at the cat colony, too. The white cat was pregnant. Luke cursed when he realized she was growing kittens. “I should have had that cat fixed,” he said. “I could have found the money somehow.”

Billy attempted a few questions while the older boy shoved insulation around the white cat’s plant pot. “Luke,” he asked, “what do you do at City Hall?”

Luke wasn’t much of a talker. “I clean,” he said. He cut a piece of plywood with his band saw and added it to a pile. The white cat sat in the shadows watching him anxiously. She wanted to get back inside her home.

“You don’t look old enough to work,” Billy said.

“I’m near seventeen. That’s legal age.” Luke fit two of the pieces into a V-shaped roof and screwed in some hinges. He was good with his hands.

“Where are your folks?”

“Don’t know. We went our separate ways.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’ve got a room over the hardware store.”

Finally Billy asked the question that was always on his mind. “Why did you want that pink glass plate?”

Luke looked at Billy as if he had two heads. He got gruff. “What are you talking about?”

“We looked in the same trash can one morning,” Billy said. “At the apartment building. I took the bottles. But all you wanted was a broken plate. It was pink….”

Luke cut Billy off. “I’ve got a project,” he said, hoisting the new roof over the plant pot. “It’s something to help out these cats.” He attached the sides to the slopes with screws. “There’s not much use in telling you. I wrote to the mayor and made a proposal. He never sent me an answer. I guess the mayor and council are too busy for the likes of me.”

A project? What kind of project uses a pink glass plate? Billy changed the subject. “How come you don’t name the cats?”

Luke stuck more straw in the spaces between the cat’s pot and the plywood cover. He lined the base of the big pot, too. “Naming the cats is a waste of time,” he snorted. “A name means you’ve got a place in the world. The strays aren’t that lucky. Once the city finds out about this colony, the cats will be driven out of town. Or worse.” He stood up and brushed off the sawdust.

The white cat scurried back inside her pot. They could hear her scratching out a new nest in the straw.

“You call the crazy one Scat,” Billy said stubbornly. “That’s a name.”

“That one needed naming,” Luke retorted. “It’s been a holy terror since it moved into the colony. Now that it’s taken over the manger, it thinks it owns the whole yard.”

That was the truth. After the sick cat had died, Scat claimed the manger, lock, stock, and barrel. The little spitfire almost split into parts when any other cat ventured too close.

Billy started to sweep the yard. His silence did the talking.

After a few minutes, Luke relented. “I suppose you could name ’em,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe the mayor will take some responsibility. Maybe my project will get off the ground and these cats will get a real home. All I need is a miracle.” He turned to Billy. “But I haven’t heard of none of those around here.”

Billy rested in the shade of the old stable and started to think. There were nine cats in the colony. Besides Scat, he needed eight names. “We’ll call the white one Snowflake,” he said. “And the snooty orange ones can answer to Mac and Cheese.”

The three silver-striped mackerels poked out their heads. Billy remembered some names from the family fishing trip. “Pike, Perch, and Pickerel,” he decided.

Luke pointed to the tortoise-colored cat checking out an ant hole. “That one is a Nosey Parker,” he said.

“Done,” said Billy.

Only the gray tom was left. Billy was plumb out of ideas. He watched the cat swagger into a leftover patch of sun.

“Leave it for now,” said Luke. “The name will come to you.”

When Billy got home, his mom was stretched out on the couch with a textbook on her lap. “‘Bout time you got home, young man!” she declared. “We need to talk. You come with me right now.”

Billy’s legs turned to jelly. He bit his lip as he followed his mom through the kitchen and past the utility room. The door to his room was ajar. And the bedroom window was wide open.

His mom waved her arms. “Billy, look at this place!” she complained. “You live like an animal. How do you find anything? Your clothes aren’t meant to be carpet cover. There’s a closet and a dresser for that stuff. You get in there and pick up your things. I opened that window
to let in some air.” She clomped back down the hall. “As if I haven’t got enough to do with my course work
and
looking after you and your father.”

Billy closed his bedroom door behind her. His heart was twanging his ribs. It pumped so hard he lost his breath. “Conga!” he choked. “Conga, where are you?”

He got down on his knees and looked behind the dresser. No cat. He looked under the bed. No cat. He checked the closet. Nothing. So he stuck his head out of the open window.

The yard was empty.

Maybe she had run away.

“Conga,” Billy whispered. “Conga, please be here.” He pulled the sweaters out of the drawers. He dumped the garbage from the trash can. He yanked the sheets off the bed. He even checked the inside of his pillowcases. He was about to take to the back stairs when the sleeve of his bathrobe twitched inside the laundry bag.

Billy swooped down and pulled Conga out of the pile of clothes. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to bury his nose in her fur. Only Conga was in no mood for cuddles. She wriggled out of his arms and jumped to the floor. Her tail slapped his leg. She was madder than a hornet’s nest.

Billy let her go. He pulled the window down a little and
put the garbage back in the can. He picked up his things. He straightened his covers. Then he crawled behind the dresser and tried to make peace. “Conga,” he whispered. “That was my mom. She doesn’t mean you any harm. She doesn’t even know you’re here.”

Of course, after he said that, a new worry came to him. His mom was a smart woman. And she had a pair of sharp eyes.

Maybe she knew he had a cat.

If she did, she wasn’t saying.

And he wasn’t asking.