Cat on the Edge (14 page)

The bubble bath was scented with vetiver. The water was deliciously warm, easing every muscle. Kate lay back in the tub, letting her body relax, absorbing the welcome heat and sipping her cold beer, listening contentedly to the comforting sounds from the kitchen, where Clyde was cooking spaghetti for her.

What other man would rise from sleep at midnight, get dressed and in the car, pick her up and bring her home, then draw a bath for her and cook her supper? Above the herbal scent of the bubbles, she could smell the wonderful aroma of the rich sauce and garlic bread.

She had already consumed a plate of cheese and crackers, which he had set beside the tub with her beer. What a nice man he was, what an absolutely comforting and comfortable and caring man.

On the phone, when she called him from Binnie's, he hadn't asked one question. He hadn't even asked why she didn't just walk down to the house from Binnie's, it wasn't more than ten blocks. He had just come to get her, had walked her out and had sat in the car gently holding her, letting her cry.

Clyde might not have a lot of polish, he might make rude remarks, and belch with good-natured humor, but he was a veritable paragon among men.

He had not only drawn a bath for her and waited on her, he had cleared out the spare room as if she were royalty, had put fresh sheets on the guest bed, had hauled away stacks of tool catalogs and a pile of folded sweatshirts, had shoved the heavy, movable parts of his weight equipment out of her way, under the bed.

He had, while picking up his sweatshirts from the desk, quietly slipped a small spiral notebook and a thin briefcase in between two shirts, and carried them away.

Something obviously private; maybe something belonging to one of his girlfriends. She imagined that the vetiver bubble bath would belong to dark-haired Caroline Waith. Or maybe the little redhead—she couldn't keep them all straight.

She finished her beer, and lay back. She had remembered what it was about Dr. Firreti doing something with cats. It was, after all, nothing alarming. Quite the opposite. He collected stray cats from somewhere, very likely the thin cats under the wharf. Firreti neutered the cats, gave them shots, and turned them loose where they had been found. She grinned. That was what she had smelled in the damp sand, the metallic scent of a trap, mixed with human smell, probably Firreti's scent. Though it seemed more like that of a young boy.

She stepped out of the tub and toweled off, enjoying the thick, huge towel Clyde had provided.
Looking in the mirror, she studied with distaste the purple smudges across her body, like the marks of giant fingers. Ugly souvenirs of the bashing Wark had given her small cat self.

She resisted putting on Clyde's robe, though he had left it folded on the counter. She dressed in her jeans and shirt, and used his dryer on the edges of her hair. Then, limp and sleepy and content, she padded barefoot out to the kitchen.

Clyde turned from the sink. He was dressed in cutoffs and sandals and a faded purple T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. He had set the kitchen table and was pouring her another beer. The fresh glass was white with frost from the freezer. She sat down at the table and petted the two old dogs who crowded against her knees.

But the three cats made no move to greet her. They sat in the center of the kitchen watching her intently, and not in a friendly way. She looked back at them uneasily.

She'd known these cats for years. They always ran right to her. All their lives she had held them and stroked them as they napped beside her or on her lap. She had played games with them, and had lain on the floor with all the cats asleep across her stomach.

But now, in those three pairs of eyes, was a look that chilled her. She daren't put out her hand and try to touch them.

Clyde seemed not to notice their wary behavior. Draining the spaghetti and pouring on sauce, he set the heaping plate before her. It looked so good she
wanted to push her face in, slurping. He brought a bowl of salad and a basket of garlic bread, then found the grated cheese and a bottle of salad dressing.

He sat down across from her, toying with his beer and with a piece of garlic bread. She couldn't help gobbling. She couldn't take time to wind her spaghetti, she hardly cut it before she raked it in; she was almost panicked with hunger. Clyde busied himself with his bread and beer.

He not only ignored her unusual bad manners, but waited patiently, without questions, for her to explain her seeming abandonment to the streets without money or her purse, without her car.

When, halfway through her meal the first emptiness was satisfied, when the good hot spaghetti began to give back to her some warmth, she settled back and slowed that flying fork. Sipping her cold beer, she told the story slowly. She told him how she had found herself in the alley behind that old office building, standing barefoot among garbage, her clothes and hands filthy, and with no memory of going there, no idea of where she had been, no memory of leaving the house. She told him how, when she left the alley, Wark had chased her. She told him what happened when Wark's foreign, rhythmic words touched her. She told him how it felt to be suddenly small and four-footed, how nice her soft fur had felt, how nice it felt to run so swiftly and to lash her tail. When he didn't laugh, she described all the sensations she had encountered. She was telling him what she could remember about living under the wharf, when he came to life suddenly.

“Stop it, Kate! For Christ sake, stop it!”

She stared at him.

“Why, Kate? Why would you make fun of me? And how did you know?”

She wasn't tracking, she'd lost something here. What was he talking about? “How did I know what? I'm not making fun of you.” She stared at him, perplexed.

“How did you find out what happened? No one would…Did Wilma tell you?” He stared hard at her. “That couldn't have been you on the phone.” His look bored in, then he shook his head. “No, not that voice.”

She didn't know what this was about. He was so angry the look on his face made her cringe. She rose and went around the table, clutched his shoulders. “What's the matter? What's happened? I don't understand.” She could read nothing from his expression.

They were silent for a long time, looking at each other, each of them trying to fill in the blanks. A little heat of excitement shivered through her. She said, “Clyde, where is Joe?”

“He's gone, of course.”

“What do you mean, of course?” Her pulse began to race.

“He disappeared a few days ago. I'm sure you know all about it. You know he hasn't been home. That he…” He stopped speaking.

“That he what?”

“That he's…That he's been in touch,” Clyde said tightly.

“How do you mean, in touch?”

“Look, Kate, why go through all this? Why bother? You know all about this. Why hand me that long involved story about wharves and about Lee Wark chasing you. Why not just…”

“Been in touch how, Clyde?”

“The phone, damn it! You knew that.”

It took her a while to work it out. She stared at Clyde and stared at the phone. She studied him again, then gulped back a laugh.

Joe Grey had phoned him.

Joe Cat was like herself. And he had figured out how to use the phone.

She collapsed in a fit of merriment that weakened her. Joe Grey had phoned him, had talked to Clyde. Joe Grey was more than a cat, he was like her. And the nervy little beast had had the balls to phone Clyde.

She could not get control of herself. She rocked with laughter. She was giddy, delirious with the knowledge that she was not alone. That she was not the only creature with these bizarre talents, that there was another like herself in the world.

Clyde's face was a mix of rage and confusion. “What the hell's wrong with you! After the story you just told about turning into a cat, where do you get off laughing?”

She stopped laughing and watched him quietly. “You don't believe what I told you.”

“For Christ sake, Kate.”

She played it back to him. “You truly believe that Joe Grey phoned you. But you don't believe what happened to me.”

He just looked at her.

“I wasn't lying,” she said softly. Clyde was the only person in the world she could talk to—it was shattering that he put her off like this. “I wasn't lying, I'll show you.”

And she did the only thing she could do. She used the only rebuttal that he would understand. She said the words, felt the room twist and warp. She let him see her do it, she forced him to witness the whole fascinating transformation. She was suddenly small, standing on the linoleum looking up at him mewling, lifting a paw to touch his leg.

Clyde's face was white. He stared at her, then rose, pushing back his chair, and backed away from her toward the hall door.

She followed him, and wound around his ankles. She felt him shiver. She brushed her whiskers against his bare, hairy leg, and heard him groan with fear. She pressed closer to him, rubbing her face against his leg. She was terrifying him. How delicious. It served him right.

He backed away, snatched up his beer, fled away from her down the hall. She heard the bedroom door close.

The three cats had run into the laundry and leaped to their high bunk. Even the dogs were wary, pressing against the back door, their ears and tails down as if they'd been whipped. She hissed at them all, flicked her tail, and trotted away down the hall.

She sat down in front of Clyde's closed door and licked her paws, listening.

She heard him rustling some papers, and mutter
ing. She heard him set down his beer glass, heard the springs squeak as if he had sat down on the bed. She began to feel sorry that she'd scared him.

Well what had she expected? That he'd be thrilled?

One thing sure, she wasn't going to get anywhere with him, as a cat. She said the words again, and returned to the Kate he knew. She knocked.

“Can I come in?”

“Go away. You can stay the night if you want, in the guest room, or you can go sleep in a tree.”

“Please, Clyde.”

When he didn't answer, she pushed the door open.

He was sitting on the bed holding a sheaf of papers. When she opened the door he'd been staring sickly at the threshold, expecting the cat. He stared up into her face, shocked, then watched her warily.

“Come on, Clyde, I'm still Kate. The cat is gone. What's to be upset about?” She sat down on the bed beside him. He winced and moved away.

“Hey, I don't have rabies. I'm just Kate. How else was I going to convince you?”

He remained mute.

“I really need you. I really need to talk.” She moved away from him to the foot of the bed, and pulled her legs up under her. She stared at him until he looked back.

“I have something to tell you, something else, that hasn't anything to do with—with what I just did.”

She looked at him pleadingly. “I've left Jimmie. Or, I am leaving him. I'll have to get my things.”

He didn't seem surprised.

She gave him a cool, controlled look. “It's Sheril Beckwhite. Jimmie and Sheril Beckwhite. So damned shabby.”

It was hard to talk when he just sat looking at her. She told him how cold Jimmie was in bed, how decorous and boring; how, if she could get Jimmie drunk enough he would make wild, delicious love to her but that didn't happen often, and the next morning he wouldn't look at her; for days he would be cold and silent, as if he was ashamed, as if she shouldn't have such feelings.

How ironic, she said, that he'd gone to Sheril Beckwhite.

“And once when we were out drinking and walked the village streets for hours laughing, looking in the shop windows, acting silly, he said, ‘You love the night, Kate. You love the night better than the day,' and he looked at me so strangely. As if he knew something,” she said uneasily. “As if he knew, a long time before I did.”

Clyde set his beer down carefully on the night table. He looked at her and kept looking.

“What?” she said, watching him, puzzled. And then a shock of anger hit her. “You knew about them.”

“I knew. I've known for months. I didn't…”

“You knew, and you didn't tell me.” She stood up, holding herself tight. “I thought you were my friend. I just finished baring my whole damned life
to you, I just told you the most intimate secrets of my life. I just
performed
the most intimate, shocking, personal act for you, and you…You knew all the time about Jimmie and that woman and you didn't tell me.”

“Christ, Kate, how could I tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I thought…I thought I might make things worse. Men don't run to the wives of their friends with that kind of…Jimmie and I go clear back to grammar school.”

“You and Jimmie are not friends, you don't even like Jimmie. You let me suffer, when I was trying to make things work, trying to overlook the painful things Jimmie said and did, when I thought it was all my fault. And all along he was fucking Sheril Beckwhite and you knew it.”

She had been going to tell him about finding the foreign bank books. She had wanted to ask his advice, try to figure out together what Jimmie was into. She had been so sure she could trust Clyde, that they were friends and totally open with each other.

And, she thought, if he hadn't told her about Jimmie and Sheril, what else was he keeping to himself?

Could Clyde be part of whatever illegal business Jimmie was into? Was Clyde a part of that?

Was that why he'd kept quiet about Sheril? Because of secrets, because of what he and Jimmie were doing?

She turned away and left the room. She went into the guest room and shut the door. In a childish
gesture she pushed the lock and propped the desk chair against the door. She stripped off her clothes and got into bed, lay curled with her arms around the pillow, lost and angry and alone.