The Catswold Portal (18 page)

He looked at her and said nothing. She had the same empathy for animals that Alice had had, a deep, intimate fellowship that he had never really felt and found hard to understand. After a long time she said, “I guess she isn't going to come near the food while we're here. Poor little thing. I wonder where she came from, where she belongs.”

“She's just a stray cat, Mor.”

She gave him a hard look. “There's no such thing as just a stray cat.” Then she grinned at him. “Are you just a stray person?” She rose and stood looking into the black woods.

“The wind makes her all the more frightened. Maybe if I put out food tomorrow when it's calm, she'll come to me.” She took his hand and they started down through the woods heading for his place.

 

The calico stalked the meat, but not until Braden and Morian had been gone for some time did she come near enough to gulp it. She ate all the hamburger, then drank from the spring, stopping several times to stare in the direction of the garden.

She was both drawn to the garden and afraid. She approached and shied away five times before she had worked her way down to the portal. Shivering, she smelled Vrech's scent in the door and leaped away again, but she did not head back to the woods. She bolted down the hill toward the brick veranda, sensing safety there.

She avoided the lighted portion of the veranda where yellow squares from the windows angled across the brick, and took cover in the bushes at the far end. Safe in the familiar shelter, she washed, circled deep in the dry leaves and curled down, tucking her nose under her tail. With her white parts hidden, even in the invading washes of moonlight she looked like part of the dry leaves, her mottled coat the same color as the leaves.

Her dreams were filled with fear. She mewled sometimes, and her paws twitched and ran. But then as she slept more deeply the dreams became unclear to her cat nature. Meaningless dramas were played out, voices and scenes touched her which only the conscious Melissa would have understood.

B
raden was pulled out of a deep sleep, fighting to get his bearings. A sound had woken him—a scratching, clawing noise. Coming awake, he tried to figure out why he was sleeping on the model's couch. Then he remembered, and reached for Morian. The next moment he came fully awake and saw that she had gone—her clothes were gone. He could smell coffee; she had made coffee. The scratching sound was like fingernails on glass. He stared toward the window wall.

There was a cat out there, rearing up, scratching at the glass. It was the cat from last night; the cat they'd sat up half the night trying to catch. The one he'd bruised his fist for. What was it doing here? He didn't believe it was trying to get in through his door.

 

The cat had woken before daylight. The wind was gone. The garden was littered with broken branches, and birds flitted across them, searching for insects. She had started out from the bushes to hunt when a sound from the house made her draw back.

A figure had come out, her white dress rustling. She had crossed the veranda and headed up the hill, her scent on the
still air familiar and comforting. The little cat rose to follow her, but then she glanced again toward the studio and settled down, yawning and stretching. She was dozing when a sparrow flew onto the veranda.

It took her some time to maneuver the sparrow into position. Skillfully she pounced, bit it behind the head, carried it into the bushes, and ate it. This morsel stirred her hunger, and she began to watch the studio. There was food there—she had gotten food there. Her green eyes blazed as she slipped out of the bushes onto the veranda and peered in through the glass door. She pressed against the door, and when no one came to let her in, she began to claw at it.

The door didn't open. Nothing moved inside. She clawed harder. Soon a figure moved on the couch.

The man stretched, and the cat backed away. But the next minute she pressed at the glass again, looking in sideways, her whiskers flattened in white lines across her cheek. She had received food in that room; she had known warmth and shelter in there, and love. Layers of her nature surfaced, layers of Melissa's childhood, but to the cat, she simply needed to be in there.

When the man didn't come to let her in, she raked again impatiently. She saw him swing his feet to the floor.

 

He couldn't believe this. The cat was staring in, raking its claws insolently down the glass. Why wasn't it still afraid? Why had it come down here? A chill touched him. What the hell did it want? As it reared up, its belly shone white against the glass. Its mottled and white face seemed curiously intent, its green eyes demanding. He snatched up a museum catalog and threw it hard at the glass. The cat stopped clawing. But it didn't run; it looked angry, almost looked incensed.

Maybe it smelled Morian, maybe had followed her because she fed it, maybe it thought she was in here. He pulled on his shorts, got a cup of coffee, sucking in the first sip, and went to shower and shave. The cat would be gone when he came out. He slammed the bathroom door on the sound of its claws.

When he came out the cat was still there. But it wasn't scratching now, it was mewling. He rushed at the door shouting, flung it open, and chased the cat into the bushes.

He put the canvas of
Natalie at Summer
on the easel, poured out turpentine and oil, got a fresh cup of coffee, and stood back to study the painting. Then, squeezing half a dozen tubes onto the palette, he got to work; softening Natalie's face and the purple shadow across her forehead, working in Indian Red, toning down the umbrella and its shadow across her shoulder. At some point the cat came back and began yowling stridently and clawing again. He wanted to throw the easel at it.

He worked steadily, ignoring the sound until his stomach began to growl either from frustration at the noise or from hunger. He refilled his coffee cop and stood in the hall looking at the painting. It was coming to life—there was warmth now. This was the one he'd wanted most to make right, the one Morian had looked at longest last night, though she had said nothing.

The cat was suddenly so quiet he looked up, hoping it was gone. It stared back at him, its green eyes huge and demanding. Christ, he and Morian had spent half the night waiting in the woods for the damned cat. It wouldn't come then, so why was it down here now, trying to get in? He went into the kitchen, started some bacon, and broke four eggs into a bowl. When he turned the skillet down he could hear the cat yowling.

Why the hell didn't it go to Morian's? She was the one who wanted to feed it and mother it. He went out to chase it off, but this time it didn't run. When he shouted it stood at the edge of the terrace looking so determined he almost laughed. For a little thing, it had a hell of a nerve.

Alice said cats went to the people who disliked them, that they found that amusing. He smelled the bacon burning, made a dash for the kitchen and flipped it onto a plate, swearing. He washed the skillet and started over, then turned the bacon low and went to phone Morian.

“That cat's down here.”

“What cat?”

“The one last night.”

“Don't be silly, Brade. It wouldn't come there, it was too frightened.”

“The same cat. Clawing my door.”

“It can't be. Are you sure? Calico with white paws and—”

“The same cat.”

“I'll be down.” She hung up, and in a minute she came down the garden dressed to go to work in a sleek
café au lait
suit. Before she reached the veranda the cat fled for the bushes. Morian stood looking after it as Braden opened the door.

“It's the same cat,” she said, frowning. She approached the bushes and tried to coax it out, kneeling awkwardly in her high heels, talking softly. They could see the cat peering but it wouldn't come out.

Morian left at last, instructing Braden to feed it. “I'll come for her tonight—my class is in an hour. Please, Brade—she's just a young little thing, and frightened.”

“She wasn't frightened while tearing up my door. And she looks old enough to hunt for her breakfast.”

“Feed her, Brade.” She cupped his chin in her hand, brushed his lips with hers, and left him.

He scrambled the eggs, put the burned bacon on a paper towel for the cat, and took his breakfast to the veranda. The sun rising at the back of the house left the terrace in shadow but washed golden light across the upper garden. The whole garden was torn and tangled from the wind, scattered with broken limbs. He put the burnt bacon by the bush, and his own plate on the table at the other end of the terrace.

He had eaten only a few bites when the cat came out. She sniffed the bacon but didn't eat it. She sat down, staring the length of the terrace directly at him. Directly into his eyes. He looked back at her for some time, strangely caught by her clear, green gaze. She blinked, and blinked again, then bent her head and began to eat the burnt bacon.

When she finished the bacon she looked up as if she
wanted more. He set his plate down at his feet, knowing she wouldn't have the nerve to come for it.

She approached the plate slowly, her body tensed to run. Her green stare didn't leave him. She was as dark as mink in the shadow of the terrace, her white markings sharply defined. She stalked the plate and watched him, seeming to hold both Braden and the plate in her wide gaze.

And, crouched at his feet, she licked up his scrambled eggs and bacon then got to work on the half piece of toast, holding it down with one white paw, tearing off small, neat bites, glancing up at him with a complacent warmth.

When she had cleaned his plate she gave him a slow shuttered look and flopped over at his feet to lie sprawled totally unprotected and trusting. Upside down, she began to wash her paws and face, glancing coyly up at him.

Amazed, he sat still, watching her. He guessed he didn't know much about cats. He would never have thought one so frightened would so quickly turn bold. Amused by her, he studied the painterly mixture of russet and black that patterned her thick coat with intricate swirls almost like batik.

Her four feet were white like small white gloves, and the bottoms of her paws were pink. Where the fur parted at her white throat, the skin was pink, making her look frail and vulnerable. Her mouth and triangular nose were pale pink, her ears so thin the light shone through.

When he moved to get up she fled to the bushes.

He scrambled four more eggs and ate them in the kitchen, put his plate in the sink, made more coffee, and got back to work. Working, he glanced occasionally through the glass at the cat, who lay trustingly asleep on the terrace.

Satisfied with
Natalie,
he tackled
Lady with a Yellow Buggy.
Garcheff wasn't having his gallery date. They were good friends; Garcheff would say he never dreamed of such a thing, unless of course Braden wanted to get off the hook. He was working steadily now, with a calm, sure sense. All he'd needed was Morian in his bed. He glazed gold into the shadows, worked life into the woman's face where before it had been stark, wove light into her figure and into the tree-
tossed background until the painting began to glow. The old sure, elated feeling lifted him. When he looked up the door was ajar.

The cat was asleep on the model's couch, stretched across a piece of vermilion silk. He moved to grab her by the back of the neck and dump her out, but he thought she might scratch.

If she got behind the stacked canvases he'd never get her out. He bent and took her up carefully, sliding his hands under her warm, relaxed body. She hardly woke, she lay limp and trusting in his hands, raising her gaze full on him, her eyes languid.

He stood looking down at her, holding her. Her warmth radiated through his hands. At last he put her back down on the couch, on the warm indentation she had made in the silk.

This way, he'd know where to find her when Morian got home.

 

It was evening, almost six, when he finished
Lady with a Yellow Buggy.
Drained, he avoided looking at the work, had looked too long, the colors burned into his mind so he couldn't see anything clearly. But he knew the work had life now, resonance. Somewhere he had gone heavy-handed with this series, working as if with dead people. Still, maybe this was a false high, maybe he'd hate the stuff tomorrow. The cat was awake, staring up at him all languid ease and long emerald eyes, her mouth curved as if she were smiling. She jumped off the couch with a soft thud and came to him, wound around his bare ankles. The sensation was so strange he stepped away. Where the hell was Morian?

When the cat rolled onto her back, her white belly and throat exposed, he thought he could have crushed her throat with one kick. Before he knew it he was kneeling, stroking her.

She really was thin, all bones beneath the soft fur. Tiny little bones; he hadn't realized cats were so delicate. He must have known that once, because Alice was always petting cats on the street and he must have petted them to please her.
When he stopped stroking her, the cat touched his hand with a soft white paw, wanting him to keep on. Irritated, he turned from her to look up the garden, wondering if Morian was home. He saw Anne Hollingsworth pull in, leaving her car in the drive. When he rose to make himself a drink, the cat followed him to the kitchen.

“I'm not feeding you again—forget it. Morian can feed you. Cats stay where they're fed.” The cat sat down in the middle of the kitchen and looked up at him demandingly. He turned away, relieved at the knock on the door. Morian could get the damned beast out of here.

It wasn't Morian, it was Anne—disheveled, red-faced from crying, her brown hair half damp and unknotted, her eyes swollen. Even her tailored suit looked limp.

“I'm sorry, Brade, but I can't—I wouldn't come barging in but…” She shivered and dug in her purse for a handkerchief. He put his arm around her and led her in, and handed her a clean paint rag. She blew her nose on it, then leaned bawling against him. He held her close, amazed; he'd never seen Anne cry. He'd never seen her messy and unkempt. She was the essence of the perfect professional woman.

Finally she got herself under control. Gulping back the last spasms, she stared up at him. Her face was blotched; she looked terrible. Damp hair clung to her forehead. She straightened her blouse, picked up his drink from the work table, and took a long, calming swallow.

“I'll make myself another, come on.” He guided her toward the kitchen, like directing a small child. “Can you talk about it?”

“It's Tom.” She leaned against the cupboard where he put her. “He's worse. Not—not sicker. Just…I don't know…His temperature's gone. Two weeks of flu has left him pale and he's lost a lot of weight. But it's not any of that, it's—the
way
he is.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a fear that made him stare. “He looks at me like a stranger, Brade. As if he hates me. He…” She finished her drink and accepted the refill he had ready. He had made it weak—she wasn't a heavy drinker.

“He doesn't look at me the same. He doesn't speak to me the same. I could be the scrub woman. He's…totally unresponsive. I don't know how to describe it.” She shook her head. “Braden, I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid of my own child.”

He didn't understand what she was saying; she wasn't making sense. “Let me run it by you. Tom doesn't look at you the same way. He doesn't speak to you the same, and you're afraid of him.”

She nodded.

“How long have you felt this way?”

“It's not the way I
feel!
It's the way he is!”

“I'm sorry, Anne. How long has he been this way?” She made him uneasy; he kept wanting to move around. He propelled her toward the studio.

She sat down, cradling her drink.

“How long?”

“This is going to sound insane. As if—as if I'm going on about nothing.”