Cat in the Dark (5 page)

As she stood watching them, she heard a young couple laughing somewhere ahead, the woman's voice soft. Glancing to the street she didn't see the man and woman, but their conversation was playful, challenging and happy; she couldn't make out their words. Then silence, as if they had turned up a side street.

And the cats were gone. She had stood alone on
the sidewalk, her painter's mind teeming with the two racing felines, with the joy of their carefree flight.

But now, lying in bed, seeing the leaping cats among the darkly angled rooftops, she felt a sudden chill.

Puzzled, sliding out of bed, she refilled her coffee cup and stood before the easel looking at the quick sketch she had done, from memory, before she went to sleep, the swift lines of charcoal on newsprint, her hasty strokes blocking in jutting roof lines against the sky, and the lithe, swift cats leaping across—and a sense of threat was there, that she had not meant to lend to the scene. Studying the drawing, she shivered.

Last night she had been so charmed by the cats' grace and freedom, by their wild joy; she had felt only pleasure in the hasty drawing—but she saw now that the drawing did not reflect joy. Its spirit was dark, pensive. Somehow she had infused the composition with foreboding. Its shadowed angles implied a dark threat.

Threat
to
the cats? Or threat
because
of the cats?

Perplexed, she turned away. Carrying her coffee, she headed for the shower.

The bathroom was tiny. Setting her coffee cup on the edge of the sink basin, she slid under the hot, steaming water of the shower, her mind fully on the sketch.

What had guided her hand last night? Those two little cats were dear to her; she had gotten to know Dulcie well while she was staying with Wilma. And if not for her drawings of Joe and Dulcie, sketching them for her own pleasure, her work would not have been seen by Sicily Aronson. She would never have been invited to join Sicily's prestigious group. Without Joe and Dulcie, there would be no exhibit for her tonight at Sicily's fine gallery.

Letting the hot water pound on her back, reaching out for a sip of coffee, she told herself she had better get her mind on the day's work. She had building materials to order and three subcontractors to juggle so they didn't get in each other's way. Coming out of the shower to dress and make a peanut-butter sandwich, checking over her work list, she forgot the dark drawing.

But then as she opened the front door, carrying her denim work jacket and the paper bag with her lunch, a folded sheet of paper fluttered down against her boot, as if it had been stuffed between the door and the molding. Snatching it up before it blew away, unfolding it, she read the neatly typed message.

She set her lunch bag on the porch, dropped her jacket on top, and read the note again. Looking down toward her landlord's apartment, just below hers, she wanted to snatch up that neat little man and smear him all over his neat little yard.

Swinging back inside, she grabbed her stacked cardboard boxes and began shoving dishes and pots
and pans in on top of her folded clothes. Jerking her few hanging garments from the closet, she rolled them into a bundle, snatched her framed drawings off the wall, and carried the first load down to her van. Halfway through her packing, she grabbed up the phone and called Clyde, told him she'd be a bit late. Didn't tell him why. And within an hour she was out of there, chalking up another defeat.

T
HE BRIGHTLY
lighted gallery, from the aspect of the two cats, was an obstacle course of human legs and feet. They had to move lively toward the back to avoid being stepped on by spike heels, wedge sandals, and hard, polished oxfords that looked as lethal as sledgehammers. Slinking between silken ankles and well-creased trouser cuffs, they slipped beneath Sicily Aronson's desk into shadow where they could watch, untrampled, the champagne-fueled festivities.

In Joe's opinion, the way to attend an art exhibit was from, say, a rooftop several blocks removed. But Dulcie had to be in the middle, listening to the tangle of conversations, sniffing expensive French perfumes and admiring dangling jewelry and elegant hair arrangements. “No one will notice us—they're all talking at once, trying to impress each other.”

“Right. Of course Sicily won't notice us. So why is she swooping in this direction like a hungry barn owl?” The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd with her usual exuberance. “On stage,” Joe muttered.
“Always on stage.” She was dressed in silver lamé evening pajamas that flapped around her ankles, a flowing silver scarf that swung around her thin thighs, and an amazing array of clinking jewelry. Kneeling and laughing, she peered under the desk at them, then scooped Dulcie into her arms. Pulling Joe out, too, she cuddled them like two teddy bears; Joe had to grit his teeth to keep from clawing her, and of course Dulcie gave him that
don't-you-dare
scowl.

“You two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed,” Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. “This is lovely to have you here—after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?”

Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly—she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point's Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on; she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the pièce de résistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuña scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. “You two stay right here—just curl up and look pretty—and I'll fix a plate for you.” Leaning down, she stared into Joe's eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. “Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?”

Joe felt himself weakening.

But as Sicily left them, a big woman in a plum-colored dress descended, pushing her way out of the
crowd. “Oh, the two little models. Oh, look how sweet.”

Joe growled and raised his paw. Dulcie nudged him.

“Isn't that cute. Look at him put up his paw to shake hands. Just like a little dog.”

The lady's male companion had sensibly stepped back from Joe. But the woman reached for him. “Oh, they look
just
like their portraits. Such dear little cats. Come and pet them, Howard. Look how sweet, the way they're posing here on the desk, so obedient.” She patted Joe on the head like a dog, a gesture guaranteed, under most circumstances, to elicit a bloody stump. He held his temper with heroic effort, but he calmed as she chose a slice of ham from her plate and gave them each a share.

He was beginning to feel more charitable when a woman in a white dress joined them. “Oh, the darling kitties, the kitties in the drawings.” And an elderly couple headed their way, practically cooing. A regular crowd was gathering. Joe eyed them sourly. Even the good party food wasn't enough to put up with this. As other guests circled the desk reaching to pet them, Joe lost it. Lashing out at the nearest hand, he leaped past it, hit the floor running, sped out the door and across the street and up a bougainvillea vine. Didn't stop until he was on the roof of Mara's Leather Shop, pacing among the vents.

Dulcie didn't follow him. Probably she'd stay in there all night, lapping up the attention.

Stretching out beside a warm chimney, he dozed intermittently and irritably. His view from the roof was directly in through the gallery's wide windows and open front door, where the crowd had gathered around a white-clothed table as a tuxedoed waiter served champagne. It was more than an hour before Dulcie came trotting out between a tangle of elegantly clad ankles,
scanned the rooftops, and saw him looking over. Lifting her tail like a happy flag, she crossed the street and swarmed up the vine to join him.

“You didn't have to be so surly. You knew we'd be petted. Cats in a public place always get petted.”

“
Petted?
Mauled is the word. You said no one would notice us.”

She settled down beside him, her belly against the warm shingles. “You missed some good party food.”

“I'll have my share in the alley.”

“Suit yourself. I had duck liver canapés from the hand of my favorite movie star.” She sighed deeply. “He might be sixty-some, but he's some macho hombre.”

“Big deal. So some Hollywood biggie feeds you duck liver like a zoo animal.”

“Not at all. He was very polite and cordial. And he's not from Hollywood; you know very well that he lives in Molena Point. What a nice man. He treated
me
like a celebrity—he told me I have beautiful eyes.” And she gave him a clear green glance, bright and provocative.

Joe turned away crossly. “So where are Charlie and Clyde? Fashionably late is one thing. Charlie's going to miss her own party.”

“They'll show. Clyde told Wilma he'd keep Charlie away until there was a real mob, until she could make a big entrance.”

“This
is
a mob. And Charlie isn't the kind for a big entrance.”

“She will be, tonight.”

Joe snorted.

“It's her party. Why not a grand entrance?”

“Females. Everything for show.”

“I've seen you make a big entrance—stroll into the living room when Clyde has company. Wait until conversation's in full swing, then swagger in so everyone
stops talking. Starts calling to you,
kitty kitty kitty,
and making little lovey noises.”

“That is a totally different matter. That is done for a specific purpose.”

Dulcie cut her eyes at him, and smiled.

The game was to get the crowd's attention and then, when they were all calling and making a fuss, to pick out the person who remained withdrawn and quiet. Who did
not
want to pet the kitty.

Immediately one made a beeline for the cat hater. A jump into their lap, a persistent rubbing and kneading and waving your tail in their face, and the result was most rewarding. If your victim had a really severe case of ailurophobia, the effect was spectacular.

When the routine worked really well, when you had picked the right mark, your victim would turn as white as skimmed milk. If you could drool and rub your face against theirs, that was even better. There was nothing half as satisfying as a nice evening of ailurophobe harassment. Such little moments were to be treasured—such fleeting pleasures in life made up for all the millions of human rebuffs, for centuries of shabby human slights and maltreatment.

“Here they come,” Dulcie said, pressing forward over the roof gutter, her ears pricked, the tip of her tail twitching with excitement.

Clyde pulled up directly in front of the gallery, his yellow '29 Chevy convertible commanding immediate attention. This was the car's maiden appearance. The top was down, and the machine was dazzling. He had completely overhauled the vintage model, had given it mirror-bright metal detailing, pearly, canary-toned paint, pale yellow leather upholstery, and of course the engine purred like a world-champion Siamese. The car's creamy tones set off Charlie's flaming hair to perfection.

Her red, curling mane hung loose across her shoulders over a dark tank top, and as Clyde handed her out, her flowered India skirt swirled around her ankles in shades of red, pink, and orange. The cats had never seen Charlie in high-heeled sandals, had never seen her in a skirt.

“Wow,” Joe said, hanging over the roof, ogling.

“Oh, my,” Dulcie said. “She's beautiful.”

Tonight they saw none of Charlie's usual shyness. She looked totally wired, her cheeks flaming as she took Clyde's hand and stepped to the curb.

Clyde's chivalry prompted them to stare, too, as he gave Charlie his arm and escorted her into the gallery. Clyde himself looked elegant, scrubbed and shaven and sharply turned out in a black sport coat over a white turtleneck and a good-looking pair of jeans. For Clyde, this was formal attire.

“There's the mayor,” Dulcie said, “and his wife. And look—the president of the art association.”

Joe didn't know the president of the art association from a rat's posterior. Nor did he care. But he cared about Clyde and Charlie. He watched with almost parental pride as they pushed into the gallery and were mobbed with greetings and well-wishers. Crouched on the edge of the roof, the two cats totally enjoyed Charlie's happy moment. They remained watching as the party spilled out onto the sidewalk among a din of conversation and laughter, and the scents of perfumes and champagne and caviar caressed them on the night breeze.

But later when two waiters headed away toward Jolly's Deli carrying a stack of nearly empty trays that they had replaced with fresh servings, the cats left the roof, padding along behind them, their attention on those delectable scraps.

Jolly's Deli catered most of the local affairs, the gallery openings and weddings and the nicest parties. And whatever delicacies were left over, George Jolly set out on paper plates in the alley for the enjoyment of the village cats.

Of course the old man put out deli scraps several times every day, but party fare was the best. An astute cat, if he checked the
Gazette
's social page or simply used his nose, could dine as elegantly, in Jolly's alley, as Molena Point's rich and famous.

And the alley provided more than a free handout. Through frequent use, it had become the city version of a feline hunting path, a communal by-way shared by all the local cats.

Some people view cats as reclusive loners, but that is not the case. Any cat could tell you that a feline is simply more discerning than a dog, that cats take a subtler view of social interaction.

When several cats happened into the alley at one time, they did not circle each other snarling like ill-mannered hounds—unless, of course, they were toms on the make. But in a simple social situation, each cat sat down to quietly study his or her peers, communicating in a civilized manner by flick of ear, by narrowing of eyes, by twitching tail, following a perceptive protocol as to who should proceed first, who merited the warmest patch of sunshine or the preferred bench on which to nap.

The village cats had established in Jolly's alley, as well, a center for feline messages, a handy post office where, through scents left on flowerpot and doorway, one could learn which cats were with kitten or had had their kittens, which ladies were feeling amorous, or if there was a new cat in the village.

Only in the hierarchy of the supper plate did the
biggest and strongest prevail—but George Jolly did not tolerate fights.

Such social commerce pleased Joe and Dulcie despite the void that separated them from normal cats. After all, every cat was unique. The lack of human language didn't make the other cats imperceptive or unwise; each could enjoy the world in his own way. And, Joe thought, how many cats would
want
to read the newspaper or use the phone?

But tonight they had the alley to themselves, the little brick-paved retreat was their own small corner of civilized ambiance, softly lit by the wrought-iron lamps at either end of the lane, perfumed by the jasmine vine that concealed Jolly's garbage cans.

The two waiters had disappeared inside, but George Jolly must have been watching for visitors, because as the cats flopped down to roll on the warm bricks, the back door opened and the old man was there, his white apron extending wide over his ample stomach as he knelt to place a paper plate before them, a little snack of smoked salmon and chopped egg and Beluga caviar.

They approached the offering purring, Dulcie waving her tail, and George Jolly stood smiling and nodding. Jolly loved providing these little repasts—he took a deep delight in the cats' pleasure.

Kneeling for a moment to stroke them, he soon rose again and turned away to his kitchen like any good chef, allowing his guests privacy in which to enjoy their meal. They were crouched over the plate nibbling at the caviar when, above them, a dark shadow leaped across the sky from roof to roof, and the black tom paced the shingles looking down at them—observing the loaded deli plate.

Dropping to an awning and then to the bricks, he
swaggered toward them snarling a challenge deep in his throat, a growl of greed and dominance.

Dulcie screamed at him and crouched to slash; Joe flew at him, raking. At the same moment, the back door flew open and George Jolly ran out swinging a saucepan.

“No fighting! You cats don't fight here! You cats behave in my alley!”

Joe and Dulcie backed away glancing at each other, but Azrael stood his ground, snarling and spitting at Jolly.

“Stop that, you black beast. Don't you challenge me!” Jolly hefted the pan. “You eat nice or I don't feed you. I take the plate away.” He looked hard at the three of them. “I don't put out my best imported for you to act like street rabble—you are Molena Point cats, not alley bums.

“Except you,” Jolly said, glaring at Azrael. “I don't know you, you black monster. Well, wherever you come from, you snarl again, you get a smack in the muzzle.”

George Jolly could never have guessed the true effect of his words. He had no idea that the three cats understood him, he knew only that his tone would frighten and perhaps shame them. He glared hard at Azrael—Azrael blazed back at him, his amber eyes sparking rage, and he began to stalk the old man, crouching as if he would spring straight into Jolly's face.