The Familiar (6 page)

As Cassie stands there looking in to her grandmother's chamber of libidinous, she begins to cry, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks. When her nose starts to run, she moves on to the room at the end of the hall that was always hers when she stayed with us.

She sits on the edge of the bed, opening her purse and pulling out a small packet of tissues, which she uses to blow her nose delicately. Afterward, she dries her eyes with a long sweep along her sleeve.

"Well, Cat, it seems there's no place for me to be now that isn't full of sadness. I don't want to live in Boston any more, but I don't want this house without Granny in it, either. Moving to Giles and taking over the shop is what she wanted for me, but it doesn't feel right. I half-expected her to be here, playing some awful joke on me."

The suggestion alarms me, but I push away the fear. Cat was primed to have Eunice for dinner. Even she couldn't be that good at faking dead.

Cassie flops back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, completely still except for the tears that flow into her hair as she starts crying again. I jump up on the bed and crawl between her small, soft breasts. She lays a hand across my back and pets me gently, talking quietly.

"In just one week, I've lost three people I love. Not just Granny, but Dan—I thought I'd be with him forever. And Charlie, my best friend, too. When I asked her how she could have gone to bed with Dan, she said they'd never even been attracted to each other! But she suddenly just wanted to see him, and when Dan opened the door, they fell into each other's arms without even speaking—I can't believe my best friend and the man I love would do that."

Ha! There's a clue to what Eunice meant when she'd said it was sorted. She must have worked a spell on Cassie's loved ones to get what she wanted. Too bad for Eunice she'd catapulted into the great beyond instead of being here to greet Cassie when she arrived.

I frisk away to the window, then come back to her and do a little leap / twirl combo, then run back to the window, pushing my nose into the seam where the fresh air comes in, repeating the attempt to get her attention until even cat tires of it. She's not going to catch on and open the window so that I can get out to hunt. In fact, I don't think she knows I'm in the room. I leave the girl to continue her staring contest with the ceiling fan while I prowl the shadows for the rest of the night.

Just before the sun rises, I make my way back to the bedroom and jump up on the bed to settle in for my morning nap. She's still lying there, staring at the ceiling, wearing the same clothes.

We're quite a pair: a cat and a catatonic. At least Eunice left Cassie her humanity when she destroyed her life.

Cassie finally turns on her side and her breathing slows to the regular rhythm that marks sleep. Her hair splays out and cascades off the side of the bed. I go off the bed behind it to bat lazily at the silky dark brown strands where they lay loose and inviting.

Then, a glint of light flashes off the buckle of her suitcase as the rising sun peeks through the window, and I make a leap to capture it. I catch it, then lift my paw, but the glint is gone. I withdraw and try to figure out where the silver went, and it's back again. I pounce, lift my paw, and again, it's gone. I withdraw and try to figure out where the silver went.

I finally stop myself after ten or so repeat performances. I'm beginning to think like a cat full time. I have to shift human soon if I'm going to save myself and be a man again. I hope it works if I get Cassie to say the words. Even though she doesn't know she's practiced magic, she's a witch the same as her grandmother. Eunice secretly had her working spells to test her abilities. Cassie never caught on that the "calming chants" and "sending warm thoughts rituals" were actually incantations Eunice had her combine with the shop's ingredients.

I know it's a stretch, but Eunice was careful to never call me by my real name in front of others, and if she slipped, she'd immediately remark on me being a "tomcat" to cover it up. There are only two possible reasons she'd have kept my name a secret: she worried that someone would guess what happened to Tom Sanders, or another person who knew my name could reveal me with the same combination of words. I'm hoping for the latter.

I pad through the house, focusing Cat as much as I can, while I take inventory of objects that might be useful.

There's a ball point pen under the couch, but I lack the ability to manipulate it. I once spent two days trying to write Gilly a note by holding a pen in my mouth. It didn't work. No matter how hard I tried, I could only make random marks that didn't approach penmanship. Eunice eventually found my hidden stack of paper and had a good laugh.

I also know from experience that no matter how adept I think I am at shaping words from meows, no one understands a single one but me. What else is there?

The Ouija boards! If Cassie suddenly gets the urge to avail herself of the Ouija boards from the shop to talk to granny one more time, I could push a planchette to spell a message. But she's always been a sensible girl, unlikely to turn to the occult for solace. And the heavy wooden spirit boards are stacked on top of each other on an upper shelf in the corner of the shop. Eunice moved them off the counter years ago to a place I couldn't reach. She was always a step ahead of me.

There must be something. Anything. How can I give Cassie a message if I can't talk and I don't have the dexterity for writing? What can I use, if I can't use the Ouija?

I peruse my paws where they meet the linoleum and it hits me. Oh, how simple. Why not use the floor? It's a perfect writing surface if a cat is clever, and I'm the cleverest cat in this town, hands down. But what can I use for ink? If I start breaking jars, I'll get caught before I'm done. So that's out. Wait—I have the perfect idea.

Behind the counter, the trash can beckons. I leap to the rim and hang there for a moment before it topples over onto me. I twist away, scrambling out from underneath to view the result. The plastic can didn't make much noise when it bounced against the linoleum. I think I've gone undetected.

I go to work: a banana peel goes here, crumpled receipts there, a used tissue below them, and a yogurt cup there. I run out of trash when it just says "goo.” No good.

I think again, reviewing my resources. Then, I systematically raid the bins, pushing packets of herbs into rows to continue forming letters. It's not enough, though. I've got "good t" but that won't do it. I raid higher up the shelves and bring back tapered candles one by one in my mouth. My teeth and claws are covered with wax by the time I'm done. But it's there: good tom. Every letter. I jump up on the counter and admire my handiwork. When she walks into the room, she'll read it and say it, and I'll be freed. I jump off the counter and go to the far side of the message so that she has to see it when she finds me.

Time for my nap. My last one as a cat?

"Cat, are you hungry?" Cassie calls from the kitchenette.

Yes! Yes! Yes! I spring awake and am off like a shot until I remember—no, she has to come find me. She has to come find
them
, the words, the magical words. I sit in front of the shop door, surveying my handiwork again and finding it good. I face the doorway she's got to come through and start bleating so she'll know where to find me.

Minutes pass. "Cat? Are you coming?"

No, no I'm not. You come to me. I bleat louder.

"Cat, stop that terrible noise and come get your num-nums."

Num-nums? Really? At least she's moving now. In a minute, she'll see what I've done, read the words out, and then I'll be bursting out of my cat body, triumphant.

Maybe. At least I'll know whether the words work for someone other than Eunice. If I had fingers, every single one of them would be crossed.

I wait for it. I wait for it. I wait for it. And there she is, stepping through the doorway and around the counter, eyes meeting mine, ready to look down, see the words, say the words. But before she does, her foot slides as she puts it down on one of the extra candles I'd abandoned when I didn't need it. It slips beneath her foot, taking her leg out at an awkward angle and puts her off balance.

She bobbles backward and flings her arms out to steady herself. She manages to push off from the counter before she knocks her head against it and ends up moving too swiftly in the other direction, falling forward now with arms outstretched.

She lands helter-skelter in the center of my hard work, her splayed limbs shoving the carefully placed objects out of their spots until it's just a pile of trash again with no meaning.

She sits up, rubbing her elbow, then her knee, surveying the mess. She seems okay. Nothing broken.

"Cat? What the?"

I slink to the kitchenette.

No point in lingering at the place of my defeat.

Cassie's moved the tidy stack of journals off the table and onto the counter. I'd throw them away if it was me. It's not like Eunice is going to come along and scold her for getting rid of them. And my bowl doesn't belong on the floor, either. I'm not used to eating alone. Cassie knows I've always eaten at the table. She needs to learn the drill.

As Cassie walks into the kitchenette, still rubbing an elbow and grimacing, I jump up onto the table where she's laid out her own plate and silverware. I turn my gaze toward the bowl on the ground below and then back to her again.

"Bad Cat! What's gotten into you? It's going to take me forever to clean up the mess in the shop. And you've ruined most of the candles." She picks me up and sets me on the floor next to the bowl. I jump up onto the table again, and once again, she says, "Bad Cat!" and moves me to the floor.

I jump back up on the table, and before she has time to react, I leap to the floor, where I look up for her response. She's smiling.

"Oh, good Cat!"

Hmmm…okay, new plan. Maybe a more subtle form of manipulation will set me free.

I've always thought that the power of the curse resides in my collar. Then again, what do I know? I was only playing at being a warlock—Gillian was the witch in the family. I've had around forty-five years now to try to scrape it off, slip out of it, cut through it, and...nothing.

But I discovered early on in my captivity that my name is written on the inside. The lettering is faint and written in Eunice's tidy script. The rusty color of the ink makes me think it might be blood. Mine, even. Although the collar won't turn fully inside out, it twists on its side with enough space between my neck and the leather that someone looking for it might make the writing out clearly. If I can find a way to make Cassie read it, then maybe I can get her to start calling me by my name. After that, I just have to be very, very, very good.

All day long, I scratch and dig at the collar whenever Cassie glances at me. My neck is sore from the extra attention. It's does me no good. She doesn't catch on. You'd almost think I'm not the focus of her universe. Eunice would have noticed.

I watch her go through her day, sometimes weepy, sometimes wearing a sappy, nostalgic expression as she clears out a drawer and finds an old photo or a playbill for a local summer theater.

I've never seen grief like this before. Eunice didn't shed a tear for any of the supposed friends she lost through her many years. The only time I ever saw her cry was when her first gray hair appeared.

Cassie is different. She's soft and kind like Gillian. No wonder I always thought she was dull—she has the same qualities of niceness and forgiveness that made me believe it would be okay to sneak around on Gillian for a splash of excitement. I used to think womanizing was just part of being a man. I know now it wasn't. If I could choose again, I'd take loving and kind over excitement any day. No one knows better than I do where too much excitement lands you.

She places a batch of papers on the desk, and I jump up to plant myself firmly in the middle of the stack. I start worrying the collar with a paw, but she ignores me after she pushes me off to the side and continues reading. In a few minutes, I creep toward her stack of papers again, but she picks me up almost roughly, saying, "I've had enough of that! You're going to need to learn how to behave," and marches with me to my cage, where she plops me unceremoniously inside and then walks back up the stairs to the study, leaving me alone.

I have to say, that came from left field. Not at all what I was expecting.

At dinner time, she lets me out, and I follow her into the kitchenette, chastened by my time alone. As she's setting my bowl down, I give one more half-hearted scratch at the collar, and she finally gets a clue.

"You've been picking at that collar all day, Cat. Is there something poking you? Is it too tight?" There, that's what I was expecting from such a sweet and well-behaved girl who has always been concerned with the welfare of others. She picks me up and holds me in her lap, running her fingers around the inside of the collar. "It feels loose enough, and there's nothing sharp on the inside." She examines it more closely, trying to undo the buckle, which I know from experience can't be undone. "That buckle is frozen in place, isn't it? It's like it's fused. It's not coming off that way."