A Curious Affair (26 page)

The phone began ringing two days after Wilkes’s disappearance became generally known, which is to say that it was reported in the newspaper. It was my neighbors calling in with requests for cats—companion cats, playmate cats, mousers for barns and stables and basements. I knew right away that I had Crystal to thank for this. She had probably sat everyone down for a little one-on-one over tea and told them about Irv’s strays and the missing nephew who would never help with his uncle’s pets and then browbeat them into admitting that the cats were a neighborhood problem that Cal’s widow “shouldn’t have to deal with alone.” And, as they always had done before, the neighbors came through. I think they were even glad to finally have a way to aid and comfort Cal’s reclusive widow.

I live with some of the best people in the world.

Tyler was oddly accepting of my story about the talking cats. It turns out that he had a cousin who married a Sioux in South Dakota who actually is a horse whisperer. He said that he also knew I had some strong
affinity with the animals after our run-in with the mountain lion. His only comment was that he was relieved that I spoke to the cats in English and didn’t meow at them.

Crystal’s birthday was coming up that next week, and she would be having a party just as she did every year. Many of her parties are fun because she doesn’t mark the usual holidays. She has drummings at the solstices and equinoxes. She celebrates the butterflies’ return from San Juan Capistrano, and every year on Ground Hog Day she has a bonfire and we all eat potatoes and corn on the cob roasted in the embers. Most fun of all, every June thirtieth she has an End of the Ice Age skinny-dipping and scotch-tasting party at the family’s hot springs in Nevada City. I’ve attended most of these events, but Crystal knows that I don’t usually do birthday parties anymore. I’ve always felt that when one has reached an age where you are lighting enough candles to set the frosting on fire it is probably time to stop playing with matches and accept the inevitable with some dignity. Also, nobody looks good in a party hat. If you think that you do, well…you’re wrong.

Nevertheless, Crystal was having a party and she would expect me to be present at it. And it wouldn’t be entirely horrible. There would be a piñata and some kind of stupid hats that would make my elderly and more stately neighbors look silly. Last year the theme was pirates, the year before tiaras, and the year before that cowboy hats—and everyone wore them. Gender did not get one excused from donning the party regalia. This year, the invitations had had a vaguely tropical feel, so I was hoping for maybe something simple like a flower to tuck behind our ears, but it was far more likely that we would be made to wearing Balinese headdresses or something with rubber fish.

“I think I’ll ask Tyler to come this year. It’ll be his
trial by fire,” I said to Atherton, with a grin that wasn’t very nice. “It would be good to expose him to some of Irish Camp’s older traditions. Anyway, we can’t keep things quiet too much longer. Everyone on the hill probably already knows that we’re dating.”

Sheep man will like this. Tiny Bubbles says the cats are
coming too. Bird lady is making us our own piñata with
catnip
.

“Crystal would. She’s very thoughtful,” I added, thinking that I would not only bring Crystal her birthday present—a bootleg recording of Elvis Presley at a rehearsal session in Atlanta—but that I would denude the hillside of every daffodil and narcissus and take Crystal the largest, yellowest bouquet the town had ever seen. It would be a thank-you gift from the cats and me. Without her, we wouldn’t have had as happy an ending.

Still smiling, I went to the phone to call Tyler.

So that’s my story. Believe it or not as you choose.

If I am not yet completely happy in my secret life with cats, at least I am hopeful that someday I’ll be used to it. In fact, I know that I prefer having the gift than not.

It isn’t too surprising that Tyler eventually asked for a demonstration of Atherton’s skills. Reluctant, but willing to make the effort, I sat Atherton down and asked him to tell me some office gossip from Hula and Sleepy. Atherton had glanced once at Tyler and then said:
meow
.

“Atherton?” I had asked aloud, and also silently. He never said
meow
. “Come on, Atherton.”

But the cat had just looked at me and meowed again.

“What’s wrong?” Tyler asked.

“He’s not talking.” This alarmed me. I suddenly wondered if all my bitching had finally been heard by the gods and if they had taken my gift away. Just when I was getting really upset at the idea Atherton grinned at me.

Got you, Jillian!

“What’s he doing? What’s that noise?” Tyler demanded.

“The cat’s laughing,” I said, feeling very relieved. “Felines have a strange sense of humor.”

“Oh.” Tyler thought about it. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I’ve never heard a cat make a noise like that.”

I hugged him and then turned and scratched a still chuckling Atherton under the chin.

So…I survived each day after Cal died, but I didn’t know why. Now I do. As it says in Ecclesiastes there is a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance. The wheel has turned and the season of grief has passed. I am Lazarus resurrected from an emotional grave. Like Lazarus, I suspect I will always be aware of the grave, but still I say, let the dance of life go on. I am certain that Cal wants me to be happy in this new existence, however strange it may be. Certainly, if he were here and I were gone, I would want the same for him.

I also know that he and Tyler would have liked each other. They are two of a kind, and I am fortunate beyond all reason to have had two such wonderful men in my life. Who says there isn’t a God?

I am not the only one embarked on a new life. All of Irv’s cats have first-rate homes now. Atherton stays with me and seems happy, so my home is good, too.

Tyler has set me an excellent example of how to deal with my human family, and I think that maybe this summer I’ll ask my niece and nephew to visit. It would be a fine thing to get to know them, since they and my brother are probably all the blood kin I’ll ever have. Besides, I’ll have a cat and a sheriff to entertain them if they get bored gold panning with their eccentric aunt.

And I
will
be panning this summer. What Irv could find once I can find again, and I think that Irv would like it if I did. He’d have used the money from the gold to help stray cats, and so will I.

So, this is the end of the story and we must part company.
Be well, gentle reader. Visit the Gold Country if you can—just stay away from the lightning, you hear? And be kind to the feral cats you find in the campgrounds and parks.
Hoc facite in meam commemorationem
—Do this in Irv’s memory.

Dear Reader:

Gentlemen of seventeenth-century France had a social code that, roughly translated, went something like “
Inflict no pain, put everyone at ease and make them feel at
home
.” I try as an author to adopt this code and do nothing painful to my readers. Characters are another matter of course. They—and I—must suffer a bit or there isn’t much of a story.

However, the pain of this book ended up hitting a bit closer to home than I ever planned or wanted. Last November, on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, I had just finished spell-checking chapter five of this story and started dinner when I got word that my husband had had a heart attack. Suddenly, there I was, smelling turkey-curry soup burn on the stove while shouting questions over the phone to an EMT on a rescue helicopter, and facing the real possibility that I might be widowed before I could reach the hospital and say good-bye to my husband of twenty-eight years. Fortunately, all turned out well—a million thanks to the EMTs who were with
my husband at the gym when the attack happened, and to the top-flight surgical team at Doctors Hospital in Modesto.

Still, I had a hard time coming back to this book, whose story about a widow was a little too near my own situation. Finishing it was an act of faith; all would be well for Jillian, and for me, too. Say some prayers for us, won’t you? We could use them.

Every book must have a point of view. In this case, it’s the less usual first person, the most intimate POV. It is sometimes fun to turn the world on its ear, to make people see things in a different way—hence the first-person narrative and the talking cat, Atherton.

There is a lot of me in this story, but I have never been hit by lightning. I do talk to cats. All the time. Atherton is one of them. We met at the Tuolumne County animal shelter and struck up an instant friendship. I went daily to visit, but all too soon he was adopted by a discerning family and I haven’t seen him since. He has stayed with me in spirit, though, and I find myself watching for him from the corner of my eye when I am writing. He’s my imaginary friend.

My own cat is aware of this spirit intruder, and she is at times both indignant and jealous. Sound too humanistic for an animal? I think not. As proof of this very human reaction, I offer the fact that it is only since I began writing about Atherton that Snowy has taken to slipping behind my desk and turning off the power strip that feeds electricity to my computer monitor. It’s petty revenge—a very human thing to do, and she does it because she knows it annoys me.

Unlike Atherton and my own beloved kitty, Irish Camp is a made-up place, a romanticized composite of several gold-rush towns with a few extra things thrown in for good measure. There is no Viper’s Hill and no Three-Legged Mule Saloon, and though we have many
wonderful music festivals, none are held on the Saturday before Easter. If you would like to know more about the music scene visit
www.fireonthemountain.com
.

Likewise, the people in this story are also fictitious creations, and exist only in my imagination, though all of my real neighbors are as wonderful and kind as any I could imagine. The cats, however, are all quite genuine. You can visit them at the Tuolumne County Humane Society at 10040 Victoria Way in Jamestown, CA. Perhaps I’ll see you there one day. I go every week so they can whisper in my ears while I gaze into the yellow, green and blue eyes that are windows into the feline soul.

By the way, they have some great dogs at the shelter, too. Alsfo and Branco and Sandy—and everyone—are all good dogs and are looking for loving homes. They send slobbery kisses your way. If you would like to see any of our cats or dogs, please visit us online at
http://www.petfinder.com/shelters/CA71.html
.

“The Kiss” appears courtesy of the author, Brian Jackson, and I am very grateful that he has allowed me to use it here.

Happy Reading, and you can always write to me at
[email protected]
or PO Box 574 Sonora, CA 95370-0574, or visit my Web site
www.melaniejackson.com
.

If you would like to visit Atherton, he keeps a blog at My Space. The URL is
www.myspace.com/athertoncat

Be well, my dears, and hug your loved ones—on two legs and four.

Melanie

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