Cat People (7 page)

"Easy, boy, easy. Don't hurt yourself."

The cat gazed up at him. As though it understood that further efforts to escape were useless, it took out its fury on the room, ripping the bed to ribbons, splintering the chair and bureau, gouging ragged furrows in the plaster walls. Gradually the cat's rage subsided. It sank into a sitting position. The yellow eyes clouded as the beast looked up at Oliver through the shattered window. It bared its fangs in a last show of defiance, then toppled over and lay panting on its side.

Oliver watched for a moment longer, then clambered down the ladder to where a small crowd waited for him in the alley.

"Did you get him?" asked Sergeant Brant.

"I got him," Oliver said, "but I'm not sure how long that dose is going to keep this one down." He signaled to Alice and Joe. "Let's get him into the cage in a hurry. I want to be sure this baby is secure when he wakes up."

Irena sat up suddenly in bed, her throat constricted, her heart beating wildly. She was gripped by the terror of not knowing where she was or how she got there. It was several seconds before time and place came into synchronization in her mind.

She was in the old Gallier house in New Orleans, in the bedroom given to her by her brother, Paul. She breathed deeply as the terror slowly drained away.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains over the wide window. Outside, over the iron balcony railing, a heavy tree branch bobbed gently up and down. The open window reminded Irena of her dream, in which something that was not quite human had crouched out there, watching her.

She got out of bed and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor to the window. She held the curtain aside and looked out. There was nothing out there but the empty balcony.

Irena let the curtains fall back into place with an exasperated sigh. What had ahe expected to find, anyway? A bloody footprint or something?

She dismissed the notion and set about unpacking her suitcase. She took out her clothes, a piece at a time, and shook out the travel wrinkles. The smaller things she refolded and placed in the bureau drawers, the larger she hung in the wardrobe chest. When everything was put away to her satisfaction she picked up her little cosmetics bag and stepped out into the hall.

The big house was silent. Irena glanced up and down the hall, saw that all the other doors were closed. She walked to the bathroom, tapped lightly on the door, and when there was no answer she went in.

There were modern fixtures that had obviously been added after the house was built. The smaller bathroom downstairs must have been the original one.

She took a long, luxurious shower and dried herself with one of the fluffy towels hanging on a rod. Her hair was short enough that she would not have to worry about it. It would dry in a few minutes by itself and fall naturally into place.

After wiping down the tub with a sponge, Irena pulled her nightie back on and went back to her room. There was still no one else stirring in the house. What time, she wondered, did people get up here? She took her wrist watch from the bedside table, wound it, and saw that it was nine o'clock. Curious, she pulled on a light nylon robe and went back into the hall. There was still no sound from any other part of the house.

She walked down the hall to Paul's room and rapped lightly on the door.

"Paul?"

She rapped again, more loudly. Still there was no response from inside.

She tried the knob, feeling like a sneak thief. But that was silly, she told herself. Paul was her brother. The knob turned easily in her hand, and the door swung inward.

The big bed, its tall headboard flush against the wall, dominated the room. The bedspread was stretched smoothly across it, the pillows rolled and tucked under. If anyone had slept in the bed last night, he had done a careful job of making it this morning.

Irena stepped tentatively into the bedroom. There was a tang of man's cologne in the air. She walked to the open window and looked out. It gave on the same long balcony that ran outside her room. The trees sighed and whispered in the wind.

Feeling a sudden chill, Irena turned away from the window. She half-expected someone to be standing behind her, but the room was still empty. It was almost bare of furnishings. The only picture on the wall was one of their parents in costume. Each of them was smiling, with an arm extended, palm up, the traditional circus salute to the crowd.

The few personal items in the room—hairbrush, manicure kit, deodorant, talc—were set out on the bureau with geometrical precision. Feeling more than ever like an intruder, Irena backed out of her brother's room, closed the door, and returned to her own.

She dressed quickly, feeling uncomfortably alone in the big house. She was a little annoyed with Paul for not being here when she awoke. He had seemed so warm and glad to see her the day before.

When she went back into the hall she caught the welcome aroma of coffee brewing downstairs. At least she hadn't been completely deserted. Eager for the sound of another human voice, she hurried down.

The kitchen was the warmest, brightest room in the Gallier house. The sun spilled in through a wide window over the sink. Merry pink and red geraniums grew just outside in a window box. One entire wall was hung with well-used pots and pans and cutting implements. Jars, bottles, and cannisters holding mysterious condiments ranged along the counter. The smell of coffee and bacon frying was heavenly.

Femolly stood before a big gas range, tending to a black frying pan. An old-fashioned percolator bubbled gently on a side burner.

"Good morning," Irena said.

"What you want for breakfast?" the dark woman asked. "Eggs or pancakes?"

"Eggs will be fine."

"Good thing. I got no pancakes." Femolly turned from the stove with a smile, to show that this was a favorite joke. "All the same, I like to give people a choice."

Irena smiled back at her. She liked this woman, and she liked this room. At the far end of the kitchen was a sturdy round table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth. On it were a sugar bowl, cream pitcher, and a heavy pair of salt and pepper shakers. Irena started toward it.

"May I set the table?" she asked.

"'Course not. You don't eat in here, child." Femolly jerked a thumb toward the door leading to the dining room. "You eat out there."

"But this is so much more cheerful."

"You eat out there," Femolly said with finality. "You're not help, you're family. Go 'long now, and I'll bring your breakfast out when it's ready."

Irena sighed and walked out to the dining room. She flicked up the wall switch, but even the lights from the ornate chandelier over the table could not brighten the room's dark woodwork and somber wallpaper. It had been gloomy enough the night before, but today it was even more depressing in comparison with the cheery kitchen.

Irena sat down at the place that had been set for her with Wedgewood china and old polished silver. A crisp linen napkin was folded neatly beside the plate. Hers was the only place set at the table.

Femolly came out of the kitchen carrying the percolator. She poured fragrant chicory coffee into Irena's cup.

"Eggs be ready in a minute."

"Isn't Paul here?" Irena asked.

"Nope."

"I looked into his room. His bed looked as though it hadn't been slept in."

"That so?"

Femolly retreated through the swinging door to the kitchen without further comment. Irena decided that asking direct questions was not the way to get information around here.

The tall woman came back in with a platter of fluffy scrambled eggs and strips of lean bacon. She served a generous portion onto Irena's plate.

"It looks like a pretty day outside," Irena remarked.

"Mm-hmm."

"I was hoping Paul could show me around the city today."

"Shoot, child, you want to see New Orleans, you don't need your brother to drag you around. Every corner got somebody selling a guidebook to the tourists. Down in the Quarter you can't step off the curb without a sightseeing bus running over you. You want to see Uptown, our own St. Charles streetcar as good a way as any."

"I thought Paul might be able to show me some out-of-the-way places."

"Maybe, but if you're willing to spend a few dollars, any taxi driver will take you places even the mayor don't know about. There's hot toast coming."

Femolly barged out through the swinging door again and returned a moment later with a covered plate of toasted sourdough bread and a dish of creamy butter.

"I guess that's what I'll do, then," Irena said, "ride down to the French Quarter and take a sightseeing bus from there."

Femolly's tone softened. "You'll have a good time. People in New Orleans are friendly and always ready to help you out if you got a question."

"Yes, I'm sure I'll find my way around," Irena said. "I'm a little disappointed, that's all."

"Don't let your brother's comin's and goin's bother you, child. His preacher work is a lot like doctorin'. Sometimes he gets a call in the middle of the night and he's got to go rushin' off someplace or other. People call up a doctor to heal the body, and somebody like your brother to heal the soul."

Femolly relaxed into a smile. "Only thing is, you have to look a long time today before you find a doctor who come out in the middle of the night to see you."

"I hope he doesn't have to stay away too long," Irena said. "We haven't really had a chance to talk yet, and there's so much to say."

"You never can tell how long he's gonna be gone," Femolly said. "Sometimes it's two, three days. Other times he's back in a couple hours."

"I suppose I'll just have to make the best of it," Irena said.

"That's the smartest thing to do. You want some more coffee?"

"Not yet, thanks."

"You just holler when you do. I always keep it hot on the stove."

Femolly walked back through the door to the kitchen. Irena admired the woman's regal bearing, her shoulders squared, legs straight and strong under the long skirt. I would like to sketch her, Irena thought.

The idea of sketching cheered her up. She ate the bacon and eggs with more appetite than she believed possible, and drank two more cups of Femolly's coffee.

When she finished breakfast Irena went upstairs and took her sketchbook from the drawer where she had put it. She sharpened half a dozen soft-lead pencils and put them in her tote bag. The sun outside was bright and inviting, the breeze fresh through her window.

She looked into the kitchen to say goodbye to Femolly, then set off to see New Orleans.

The first stop Irena made was at the Visitor Information Center on Royal Street. There an enthusiastic lady loaded her down with maps, guidebooks, pamphlets, directories and even offered a free cup of New Orleans coffee, which Irena politely declined.

She sat down on a bench to look over the many sightseeing plans available. Finally she chose a fifty-mile bus tour of the entire city, which seemed very reasonable at twelve dollars.

The bus left from the corner of Royal and St. Ann streets. Irena bought a ticket and settled into her seat, aware of a growing sense of depression. Of all the passengers on her bus, happy tourists of all ages, Irena found she was the only one riding alone. There were families, with all their noisy interplay. There were young couples more interested in themselves than the sights of the city. There were middle-aged couples happy to be spending time together without the kids, and older couples who could communicate totally with each other by a touch or a look. Only Irena had no one.

She wondered if ever she would find the special man, the one who was right for her. A man she could do things with, like take this tour of New Orleans. A man she could share with. Share. What a lovely word, even if it was overused these days by pop psychologists. It was a magical word. A process whereby you gave away part of yourself, only to become more of a person than you were before.

The bus started up, and Irena put the lonely thoughts out of her mind to concentrate on the sights of New Orleans.

They rolled up quiet Esplanade Avenue, then turned down Rampart Street, where old walls had connected the three forts on the northern border of the original city. The driver called their attention to Congo Square, now officially called Beauregard Square, where the slaves were allowed to gather and blow off steam on Saturday nights. They passed the Theatre of the Performing Arts, famous for Mardi Gras balls, and cruised along legendary Basin Street.

The City of the Dead, New Orleans' above-the-ground cemetery, gave Irena a chill. She took more interest in the Quadroon Quarters, where Creole gentlemen had maintained small cottages for their mixed-blood mistresses.

They left the French Quarter then and cruised out Esplanade to the banks of Bayou St. John, then west along the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. On the way back they drove through the Garden District, where Irena marveled at the lovely old homes. These houses, much larger and more lavish than the Gallier house, had been built by the "Uptown" Americans who were determined to outdo the French aristocrats who lived south of Canal Street. The air here was sweet with the floral perfume of the many gardens that gave the district its name.

The last section of New Orleans they saw was the one Irena liked least. Called "Fat City," it provided an alternative to the historic charms of the French Quarter, with modern discotheques, expensive shops, and new restaurants surrounded by steel-and-glass high-rise apartment buildings.

When she alighted from the bus back on Royal Street, Irena felt unsatisfied. Everything had gone by too fast. She decided the only way to truly absorb the feeling of the city would be to walk along the narrow old streets and take the time to really look at things. Listen to the special music of New Orleans, inhale the smells, feel its textures. She set out on her own, studying the people, trying to pick up the rhythm of the city.

She came to Jackson Square, at the heart of the French Quarter, and stopped. A dozen artists of varying talent had set up their easels and were brushing on their impressions of the St. Louis Cathedral and the delicately balanced equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson, his feet firmly planted in the stirrups, hat raised triumphantly aloft.