Cat on the Edge (5 page)

He set off at a gallop down the hills. Streaking down through tangled yards and across narrow little streets, he swarmed away from several roaming dogs, and narrowly avoided colliding with a delivery truck. He soon hit Ocean Avenue.

The sidewalk was wet from the fog, the air sharp with the scent of eucalyptus from the long double row of big trees marching down the grassy, parklike center between the eastbound and westbound lanes. Trotting down the sidewalk, he wondered if he could handle a phone, if he could manage to punch in the numbers.

The doors of the shops were just being unlocked, the shopkeepers looking out through the glass, jangling their keys. A young man in jeans ran past as if he were late for work. And Joe hurried along himself, watching warily for the killer. And watching for Clyde. Just his luck if Clyde decided to have breakfast in the village and saw him.

He could never explain why he couldn't come home. Clyde would snatch him up and carry him
home forcefully, or try to. And while the thought of home was more than appealing, he was convinced that home was now a death trap.

In front of the little market, the greengrocer was arranging apples in a bin, the scent of apples sharp and sweet, mixed with the smell of celery. The scent from the fish market was sweeter. But he didn't go near; he headed straight for the pharmacy.

Approaching the doorway, he dodged a departing woman, who pounded along in a pair of red high heels. He could see the druggist way at the back, behind a glass partition, filling orders. The shop was empty, no customers now. And he knew from listening to Clyde that old Sid worked alone, that the old druggist had solitary ways.

He could see the telephone up on the soda fountain, near the door. He trotted on in and slipped behind the counter, stood concealed within the dim space. Glancing down its length, he could still see white-haired Sid back there, intent on his little bottles. He was filling them from big bottles, sending a stream of pills rattling through a funnel. The old man was short, thick-limbed, and Joe knew that his hearing wasn't keen. There were village jokes about Sid's fanciful translations of what he thought he had heard. The doctors of Molena Point never ordered a prescription by phone; always their messages were written, committed illegibly to little white slips of paper.

On a shelf beneath the counter, wedged between a box of bills and a pair of Sid's white oxfords, he found the telephone book. He clawed it out, broke
its fall with his shoulder to dull the sound, and let it slide to the floor.

It took him a long time to fork the pages open to the D's, then to find the right page for Damen. He felt stupid because he didn't know the alphabet. But at last he found Clyde Damen, and, with the number firmly in mind, he jumped up onto the counter.

Gripping the cord in his teeth, he lifted the receiver off the hook and laid it silently on the pale marble surface. The phone's push buttons were a cinch, once he figured out how to squinch his paw real small. Crouching with his ear to the receiver he listened to the phone ring.

It rang a long time. This was Saturday, Clyde always slept late on Saturdays. Or maybe he was in the shower. Or maybe he had a sleepover date. When a woman spent the night, Clyde made Joe endure the indignity of sleeping in the kitchen.

On the twelfth ring, when Clyde answered, panic hit him. What was he going to say? He couldn't do this, this was insane. He didn't know what to say.

“Hello?” Clyde shouted again. “Who is this? Speak up!”

Joe couldn't speak, couldn't even croak, his throat was dry as feathers.

“Who is this?” Clyde yelled. “Say something or hang up, it's too early for games!”

“It's me,” Joe said, swallowing. “It's Joe Grey.”

He was certain that the minute he spoke, the pharmacist would hear him, but at the back of the store the old man didn't look up. He could hear Clyde breathing.

“It's me. It's Joe—it's really me. I thought I'd better tell you why I left, yesterday morning.”

No response.

“I thought you'd want to know I'm all right. I thought maybe you'd be worried, looking for me.”

Clyde shouted so loud that Joe hissed and backed up, his ear ringing. “What kind of sick joke is this! Who the hell is this? What the hell have you done to my cat!”

“I
am
your cat,” Joe said softly. “It's me. It's Joe. The tomcat who put three permanent scars on Rube's nose and tore a patch of hair out of Barney's muzzle that grew in black instead of brown. It's me, Bedtime Buddy. Rakish Ruckster,” he said, repeating Clyde's stupid pet names. “Favorite Feline.”

Through the receiver, he heard Clyde swallow. This was a blast. “Listen,” Joe said, “do you remember yesterday morning when I was wiggling around under the covers, then I got down and I was sort of mumbling to myself? Do you remember what you said?”

Clyde's breathing was clearly audible.

“You said, ‘For Christ sake, Joe, stop it! It's too damned early to be horny!' Then you went back to sleep, and the window shades were getting light.”

There was a very long silence. Joe watched the pharmacist. The old man had heard nothing. His gray hair caught the light as he bent over his work wiping up the counters. At the other end of the phone, Clyde seemed to revive himself. “How—how did you know…Who the hell is this! How did you…?” Then, after another very long silence Clyde said, “What—what is your favorite breakfast?”

“Cream and Wheaties with chopped liver,” Joe said, grinning. “No one,” he said, “no one could know that but me, buddy.”

“Who was—who was my date two weeks ago Friday?”

“Eleanor Hoffman,” Joe said. “Blond. Blue eyes. Little gold lace dress short enough to show her underpants, and a giggle like a steam train. I don't need to tell you, Clyde, I don't like that woman. She woke me up at three in the morning singing her insipid songs. It sickens me to watch you in the shower washing her back.”

The silence threatened to stretch into Monday. Then Clyde said, “If it's really you, where the hell are you? I'll come get you.”

Joe licked a bit of rat fur off his lip.

“Well, where? And why the hell did you leave! How come you can use the phone and you never told me?
How come you can talk? How come you never told me you can talk?
” There was another silence, then, “Christ. This can't be happening. And isn't this house good enough for you? Just because you can talk, you think you're some kind of celebrity?”

“I can't come home. Someone is following me.”

“What? What do you mean, following you? Who would be following you? What's going on? Where the hell are you?”

“I—Trust me,” Joe said. “When I get this sorted out, I'll be home.”

He licked his paw. “I want to come home,” he said in an uncharacteristic moment of sentimentality. “I guess I miss you.”

A movement caught his eye. The pharmacist had started up the aisle beside the candy counter. “Gotta go,” Joe hissed. “I'm okay—be in touch.” He leaped from the counter leaving the receiver off the hook and fled through the open door. Old Sid saw him and shouted. “Scat! Scat! Get out of here!”

He sped across the street directly into the path of a pickup full of firewood. He managed to dodge it, feeling the heat of its wheels. He gained the curb, panting. Leaping across the sidewalk to the grass, he turned east, moving fast up the tree-shaded median.

Within minutes of talking with Clyde he was out of the village again, headed up into the hills, still tense with fear but grinning with amusement.

Dulcie raced along the top of the cliff nearly swept off by the wind, wind pushed and shoved at her pressing her toward the fifty-foot drop. Far below her the sea heaved and crashed; and the man running behind her drew closer, forcing her toward the edge. In another instant he'd reach her and kick her over, down the jagged rocks. She was blinded by flashes of sunlight and by the swift shadows of racing clouds. Along the cliff's ragged edge, she couldn't be sure where the land fell away beneath her flying paws. The man was nearly on her; suddenly he kicked out at her.

She dodged, twisting away, leaped over his foot, and dived into a tangle of heavy weeds.

Crouching within the frail shelter, she stared out between the brittle stems.

But as he lunged at her she spun away again, fleeing away through the grass forest, heading for the street. Heading back toward houses and sidewalks where there might be people, where she might find shelter. Leaping across the sidewalk into the street, she didn't see the car. Brakes screamed, a horn
blared. She dodged into the path of a truck coming in the other direction, and felt its heat as she skinned to the far curb.

The man had careened away to dodge the truck. She flashed across a lawn toward a line of bushes beside a tall yellow house. Diving into the shrubbery, she felt her heart pounding like the heart of a terrified mouse when she caught it, fast, too fast.

And again the man was on her as she plunged into the bushes; he snatched her by the tail, jerking her painfully off her feet. She flipped over yowling and dug in her claws, raking and biting his arm.

He dropped her, swearing. She twisted away tasting his blood. Racing along the perimeter of the house beside a row of basement windows, she stopped and doubled back.

One window was ajar a few inches. She flung herself at the glass. The hinged pane gave. She leaped into black, empty space.

She dropped half a story, landing hard on a concrete floor. The fall jarred her legs and shoulders and bruised her tender paws. Crouching, she turned to stare up at the window.

He knelt above her, peering in. She fled into the cellar's black depths, into the farthest corner, and hunched down, panting as he reached through.

His pale hand groped. He pushed the window wide, and swung his legs through. As he prepared to jump down, she ran blindly; and rammed her shoulder into a sharp corner.

Pain took her breath and made her eyes water. Dizzied, sucking in air, she saw that the corner
belonged to a stairway. As he landed on the concrete behind her, she leaped away up the steps.

High above her, the basement door stood ajar. She careened up and through as he hit the stairs, her frantic paws slipping on the bare wood.

She stood in a hall. To her left, sunlight blazed through the glass of the front door. But the entry was too light, too open. As she swung away toward the next flight, the basement door slammed behind her. He had blocked her retreat. Running, she hit the next flight of stairs.

The pale tweed carpet was thick, and gave good traction. Her claws dug in, sent her flying up two flights, then three. The stairs slowed him. She could hear his labored breathing.

At the top of the third flight a door barred her way. The stairs ended. A high little window in the door was filled with blue sky.

She leaped at the knob, grabbed it in scrabbling paws, but it wouldn't turn. She swung and kicked, but thought it was locked. He was on the flight below her. She jumped higher, against the glass, and could see a flat roof stretching away.

He exploded up the last flight and lunged for her. She flew at his face raking and biting, kicking, clawing. He grabbed her trying to pull her loose. She bit him harder and jumped free, fled past him as he clutched at his face.

She hit the steps halfway down, flew down the treads hardly touching them. Down and down, with the man crashing down behind her, the thud of his weight as he hit each step seemed to shake the
whole house. At the bottom she swerved past the closed basement door into the bright entry.

A parlor opened on her left, and she glimpsed wicker funiture, splashes of green. To her right, tall double doors were closed. She could hear kitchen sounds beyond, could hear pots and dishes rattling.

The front door had no knob, but a latch one would press, and a long brass handle below it. She was crouched to leap for the latch when she heard children laughing, pounding up onto the porch. The door flung open.

She careened out between their legs amidst surprised shouting, felt little hands on her back, then she was through, diving into sunlight, then into shadow beneath a parked car.

She heard him shout at the children, heard him running, watched his feet approach the car. She ran again, doubling back between the yellow house and a white one, and scrambled over a fence.

She dropped from the fence into a tiny yard full of scattered toys abandoned among the rough grass. Behind her, he came over the top of the fence sucking for breath. She glimpsed his eyes, pale brown and glistening with rage. His face was red with his efforts, and bleeding. She streaked away over a second fence and through another yard, taking heart from the wounds she had inflicted. On she ran through uncounted fenced yards, not looking back. She heard him for a while running, and then silence.

She slipped under a porch and looked out.

She thought he was gone. She heard nothing. The yard before her remained empty, its deep flower
beds and neat lawn tranquil and blessedly vacant beneath the warm sun. She was nearly done for, panting and heaving. Cats were made for short spurts, for the quick chase. Long endurance was a dog's style. When she was sure she had lost him, when he did not appear from around the side of the green frame house, she trotted quickly away toward home. Longing for home, for the safety of home, her ears turning back to catch any small sound behind her.

Soon she was on her own street—she could see her own house, its pale gray stone rising so welcoming and solid from Wilma's lush English garden. Once she was inside those walls, nothing could reach her. She fled the last block mewling, passed the front porch, and flew up the back steps and in through her cat door.

Wilma was in the kitchen. She stared down at Dulcie, and grabbed her up, holding her close, stroking her. Dulcie trembled so hard she couldn't even purr, could only shiver against the thin old woman.

Frowning, Wilma stepped to the window and stood looking out at the street.

“There's nothing out there,” she said, staring down at Dulcie, puzzled. “Was it a dog? Did a dog chase you? I've never seen you so afraid.” She set Dulcie on the kitchen table and examined her, feeling along her body and her legs looking for wounds. When Wilma's probing fingers touched bruises, Dulcie winced. She examined each hurt more carefully, gently feeling for broken bones.

“I don't think anything's broken.” She said at last. She looked at the dried blood on Dulcie's paws, then pressed so Dulcie's claws were bared. She grinned at the amount of blood. “Looks like you got in some licks of your own, my dear.”

She carried Dulcie into the living room, to the couch, and wrapped the blue afghan around her, cuddling and stroking her.

Under Wilma's tender ministrations, Dulcie began to relax. This was so nice, so safe and comforting. She was home. Wilma loved her. She nosed into Wilma's warm hand, and a purr started deep inside her, the same deep, reverberating thunder she'd experienced as a kitten when she was totally protected and loved.

Purring, curling down wrapped in the soft wool, she didn't stir as Wilma left her and returned to the kitchen. She heard Wilma open the refrigerator, and soon she could smell milk warming.

Wilma brought the bowl to the couch and held it as Dulcie lapped. She'd been terribly thirsty. She gulped the milk down, nearly choking. The afghan was so warm around her, the milk so heartening.

When the bowl was empty she closed her eyes. Her paws and tail felt heavy but her body seemed weightless, as if she were floating.

She slept.

 

For some time after the little cat slept, Wilma sat beside her puzzling over what might have happened. She had found no open wound, no bite mark, no
real indication of a cat fight. She didn't understand what those strange, hurt places were on Dulcie's body, little areas tender as bruises.

Whatever had happened, Dulcie had certainly bloodied something. She hoped she did a good job on the creature.

The little cat was no slouch in a fight. Dulcie could hold her own with most dogs. And she wasn't always on the defensive, either. She had been known to provoke other female cats unmercifully.

This little tabby was tough. Beneath that sweet smile, Dulcie was tough as army boots. Before she was a year old she had established in her six-block territory a realm of personal safety where no dog or cat dared challenge her. No, whatever chased her today must have been a stranger to the neighborhood.

When she was convinced that Dulcie was all right, Wilma left the little cat sleeping and went to get dressed. This was concert night. Tickets for the short season of the village concert were sold out months ahead, and tonight was a special appearance of the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra presenting Schoenberg. She chose a full, flowered skirt and a hand-knit top, the first dress-up clothes she'd had on in weeks. As she opened her jewelry box and selected a cloisonné clip to hold back her gray hair, she half expected Dulcie to hear the small squeak of the lid opening, and come trotting in. The little cat loved to paw through her collection of barrettes; bright jewelry fascinated her as much as did pretty, soft clothes.

She heard no sound from the living room, and
when she looked in, Dulcie was deeply asleep, out like a light. As she left the house, she thought of locking the cat door, of keeping Dulcie inside. But the idea of a gas leak or of fire, with Dulcie shut inside, sickened her.

If whatever had chased her was still out there, Dulcie would know it. She'd stay in. Or she would go only onto the back porch, where she could see the street but slip quickly away, back into the house.

She drew the draperies in the living room and dining room, and in the kichen she pulled the curtains, wondering why she was taking such care. Whatever had been after Dulcie wasn't going to be looking in the windows. Half the time she left the curtains open at night, as did her neighbors. She'd gotten spoiled, living in Molena Point. Spoiled and soft. In the other towns where she had lived, she had always covered the windows at night.

She opened a can of salmon, Dulcie's favorite, and emptied it into Dulcie's clean blue bowl. But she didn't leave it in the kitchen; she hated to smell up the house with fish. She set it out on the porch, just outside Dulcie's cat door, where she would find it when she woke.

She went on out the back door, locking it behind her, and along a little stone patch to the attached carport.

Backing out of the drive she looked carefully around the yard and along the street for strange animals. Heading down the hill toward the village, she watched the sidewalks, but she saw nothing unusual, no strange dogs. Only one man out walking, a
thin, stooped figure walking away from her. She didn't recognize him, at least not from the back, but the village was full of tourists.

 

Dulcie woke three hours after Wilma left. She knew at once that the house was empty by the quality of total silence, the air congealed into absolute stillness, a dead response to her seeking senses which occurred only in an empty house.

She prowled the rooms for a while, looking up warily at the windows. Wilma had drawn the draperies before she left. Usually she forgot. Twice Dulcie leaped up under the draperies, crouching on the sill to look out.

Each time she looked, beyond the cold glass the dark street was empty. And within the shadows of Wilma's front garden, no one was standing half-hidden. No one standing against the dark trunks of the oak trees; and the flower beds and stone walks were undisturbed by any intruder.

Of the houses across the street, three were dark, and five had lights on. At the Ramirez house the porch light burned as if the young couple was expecting company. The Ramirez's were one of her favorite families. Nancy Ramirez wore the prettiest silk nighties; and usually she left the back door unlocked.

She jumped down from beneath the draperies and warily approached her cat door.

The carport light shone in through the plastic. She sniffed the cold evening air that seeped in
around the free-swinging door. She couldn't smell the man, but she did smell salmon. Wilma had left her a nice bowl of salmon. Ravenous, she pushed out onto the porch.

She studied the yard and street briefly, then dived for a bite of the nice red fish.

A rank smell stopped her. She stared at the dark, rich salmon, and backed away. It smelled bitter.

The salmon smelled of death. Of poison. Her nice supper had been poisoned. She stood staring around the dark yard, sick with anger.

She knew about poison. The neighbor's collie died last summer after eating a dead rat. Dulcie had approached the body of the unmoving dog where it lay sprawled across the lawn of the neighbor's house. The time was dawn, the sky was hardly light. She was the first one to find the dog; it would be another hour before the family rose and discovered him there.

She had stood beside the rigid beast, shocked. She had never seen a big animal dead, only birds and mice. He was so still, his body so unlike the dog she had known. Empty. Horrifyingly still and empty.

She had liked that collie; he was always kind, he never chased her. Shivering, she had crept closer to the unmoving beast. She didn't have to stretch forward to touch him, to know that he was dead, to know the hard, stiff, dry condition of what remained.

His spirit was gone. His tan-and-white body was nothing but a heap of fur. The sweet spirit of the collie had fled.

She had crept closer at last, and smelled the collie's face, sniffed at his mouth.

He smelled bitter. A foreign, metallic bitterness.