The Cat Between Page 3

  “Only been empty twenty years or so,” Cathy supplied.

  Blaise put down his cup and asked, “What do you think happened to Graymalkin, Gerry?”

  She swallowed again and replied nervously, “Well, there are tracks out there of other animals but no evidence that anything was wounded or…or eaten.” Blaise sucked in a breath in consternation. Cathy patted one of his hands.

  Gerry stood up. “I better close the attic door and put away your ladder, Blaise. Then we’ll decide what next to do.”

  As she left the room, she heard Blaise say, “People put up posters, don’t they? When they lose a pet? And I’ll offer a reward.” Cathy’s reply was indistinguishable, her tones comforting as Gerry mounted the first flight of stairs. She felt a lump in her throat as she realized how anguished Blaise must be feeling.

  It was when she was halfway up the second flight that she thought she heard something. She ran to the ladder positioned beneath the attic trap door. Yes! She’d heard a mew! Forgetting political correctness, she called, “Stupid! Stupid! Where are you?” and climbed the ladder.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she heard another mew. It reminded her of the little mews kittens make. She looked around wildly. The pile of lumber? She looked all around it, pushing aside a piece of wood with her toe. Something lay there, very still. She stood over it. “Oh, my God!”

  It was Stupid. But what had done this to him? Gerry put out a tentative hand. She and Stupid had history from when he’d been just another one of the cats inherited from Aunt Maggie. He’d been defiantly unaffectionate, had scratched her several times before she’d given up on him. It had been a relief when Blaise took him off her hands.

  “Stupid,” she said softly and knelt in the dust. “Graymalkin, I know we don’t like each other, but your Blaise can’t come up here to get you and you need help.” She laid a hand softly on his head. Again he made the pathetic little mew. Encouraged, Gerry slid her left hand under his shoulders and her right under his hips before slowly dragging him towards her.

  She felt sick. His blood had soaked the floor where he’d lain. In one motion, trying to keep her hands as steady as possible, she lifted him to her chest and stood. “Okay. Okay now.” She backed toward the opening in the floor and knelt; slid her left arm to completely support him and felt for the opening with her right hand. “Okay, Gray. I’m almost organized here.” She folded him to her chest and felt him go limp. Slowly, she kicked out with her right foot until she found the plastic top of the stepladder, remembering the warning printed on it: THIS IS NOT A STEP. “Well, today it is,” she mumbled, “and I don’t weigh very much.”

  With relief, she reached the first real step with her left foot and continued down, encouraging the cat softly as she went. Once off the ladder, she looked at his face. His eyes were closed and he was panting, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Shock, she thought. Down on the second level she found the bathroom, spread a big towel on the floor and wrapped the cat in it. She went down to the entranceway and thought quickly. “Cathy,” she called quietly. Cathy came into the hall, her face changing from curiosity to concern. “Can you drive us to the vet? He’s very bad.”

  “Yes, yes, but—” she jerked her head toward the kitchen.

  “Tell him it’s an emergency and we have to move fast.”

  But Blaise had appeared in the kitchen door. “Oh, you found him, Gerry! Thank you! Thank you!”

  “He’s very ill, Blaise. Cathy and I are going to speed to the vet. We’ll call you from there. I’m going now.” She didn’t want him to see all the blood, and fumbled the front door open. “Meet you at my car, Cathy.” She called over her shoulder, “Grab my coat, would you?”

  Cathy caught up to her halfway to The Maples. She draped Gerry’s coat around her shoulders. Gerry said, with a catch in her throat, “He’s almost cut in two, Cathy. I didn’t want Blaise to see him like this.”

  Cathy, who loved her own pet dog intensely, stifled a groan and scurried ahead to open Gerry’s car, then got behind the wheel. “Oh, cripes! Manual shift. All right. I drove my dad’s sports car when I was young. Here goes.” She backed the Mini out of the driveway and drove towards Lovering. “We’ll go to Dr. Morin. She’s closest and she’s very good.” Gerry, who hadn’t yet needed a vet for any of her numerous felines, said nothing.

  Gray was still breathing, but barely. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” she said quietly as they arrived at the vet’s. Cathy opened Gerry’s door and they quickly entered the vet’s.

  “Emergency,” Gerry gasped. The receptionist took one look at the unconscious cat and blood-soaked towel and buzzed for the vet.

  An elegant white-coated woman with nicely arranged hair and polished nails joined them. She had a technician dressed in dark blue scrubs with her. “Take him through, Sophie,” she told her assistant. “If he lives long enough, he’ll need a transfusion,” she said to Gerry. “Expensive.”

  Gerry gulped. “Yes, yes, anything. But I’m not the owner.” The vet disappeared after Gray and the technician. The receptionist took over. “Would you like to call the owner?” she asked sympathetically. “Ask their permission? There might be an operation.” She handed Gerry a portable phone. Gerry, beginning to shake, handed it to Cathy and pulled her jacket around her more closely.

  She became aware of Cathy speaking to Blaise on the phone and of the other clients in the waiting room watching and listening. The receptionist made a short announcement. “I’m so sorry. Dr. Morin is now in surgery. I’ve called Dr. Perry and he should be here shortly to look after your pets. Or, if someone can’t wait, I will reschedule their appointment.” There was a bit of murmuring, but the owners of the more or less healthy dogs and cats were probably so thankful it wasn’t their cat going for surgery, they settled down.

  “I can’t believe I missed him the first time I checked. If he hadn’t mewed…”

  “But you did find him. He must have been unconscious the first time. And it was probably dark up there.”

  Gerry nodded. “He crawled under the planks to die, I suppose. Reminds me of when…what time is it?”

  Cathy consulted her wristwatch. “A quarter to eleven. Reminds you of when Marigold died?”

  Gerry relaxed and nodded. The cat in question, Aunt Maggie’s favourite, had recently died of old age and had crawled into a cupboard before Gerry found her. “Okay. I can wait here until noon, drive you home and still make my art class.”

  “Why do that? It’s going to be a while. Blaise is terribly upset. Drive me home now. I’ll make him some lunch and you can arrive with lots of time to spare.”

  Gerry stood up. “All right.” They told the receptionist what was happening, Gerry went to wash the blood off her hands and they left. Gerry dropped Cathy at Blaise’s and continued to a fast-food restaurant drive-through. “Comfort me,” she muttered, as she ordered a burger and large fries. She drove to the college and ate in the car.

  As she rushed to the Fine Arts building, a large luxury car driven by a sour-faced man almost cut her off at a crosswalk. One passenger stared at her without blinking—the boy from yesterday’s tour. Two girls sat in the back seat.

  She gave the boy a polite smile and the driver a steely-eyed glare as she walked in front of the car. She stuffed her fast-food garbage hurriedly into a bin outside the entrance. The boy got out of the car and brushed past her. She managed a brief hello, which went unacknowledged, then caught sight of the driver glaring at her before he drove away. She shrugged and went to her class.

  The room was already full. As she took off her coat and turned to face the students, she heard a collective gasp followed by some snickering and much murmuring. They were all looking at her chest. She looked down. She was covered in blood.

  Back in her car after the class, she would have laughed if she hadn’t been so worried about the cat.

  She’d briefly explained how the
blood got on her sweater. She’d peeled off the sweater only to find blood had soaked through onto her white turtleneck. She’d made the best of it, turning off the lights for a visual overview of the course made by the instructor she was replacing.

  “How,” she’d asked, “did we get from this”—she’d clicked on the image of a romantic Renoir—“to this?” and clicked again to a Picasso nude. She’d told them how the course would unfold over the semester as they discussed historical context and the development of painting techniques, and what she would expect from them. There were groans when she delineated the required reading and number of papers and presentations. And when she wrapped it up ten minutes early, there were sighs of relief.

  She leaned back in the car. All in all, not too bad. As she turned the key, she wondered if her clothes were salvageable.

  On the drive home, she let her mind relax. She took the river road instead of the highway whenever she wasn’t in a rush, and enjoyed its gorgeous views of the Lake of Two Mountains, part of the Ottawa River, as well as the both modest and fabulous homes along the way.

  Huts meant to shelter ice fishermen dotted the frozen surface of the lake but no one was out there today. The thaw had made the ice too dangerous. A chain across the access road barred cars from entering.

  The view changed as the road left the shore to meander between riverside properties and farmlands. She passed the ferry entrance. Another chain indicated that the operators had closed the ice road. When it freezes hard again, I should drive over, she thought. I seem to remember there’s a good french-fry stand on the other side.

  She passed Blaise’s house and pulled into her own driveway with relief. A long day, not yet over. Cats, she remembered, and entered her house.

  Cathy called with an update. “And the vet said it might be days before she brings him back to consciousness—if he makes it. She can’t operate to close the wound until she’s sure it’s not infected—as it was probably a wild animal attack. The poor cat is sedated; he’s got a drain or something in the wound. Oh, and the wound’s not all the way around like you thought, but on one side, from spine to belly.”

  Gerry took a deep breath. “At least he’s still alive. I’m relieved. How’s Blaise?”

  Cathy’s voice changed tone and she spoke cautiously. “He seems all right but I know he’s very upset. I’m taking him to see the cat tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s good of you.”

  “Well, I imagine how I’d feel if it were Charles who was hurt.” Charles was Prince Charles, Cathy’s beloved basset cross. Crossed with something with wavy hair, he was a delightful dog—if you liked them overweight and sleepy. Which Cathy obviously did, as Charles was her treasure.

  “How is Charles?” Gerry asked, humouring her friend.

  “He’s fine. He’d like to wear that fine red coat you got him for Christmas but it’s been too mild. Strange weather, eh?” She didn’t wait for Gerry to reply. “How was your first class?”

  “Oh, all right. They paid pretty good attention, considering I looked like I’d just murdered someone.”

  “What? Oh, no! Cat blood on your clothes. I never noticed because you put your coat on at the vet and then—oh dear. Did you clean them yet? Soak them in cold water overnight, Gerry, then scrub them tomorrow.”

  “Mm.” Gerry thought of the sweater and top, already in the garbage. “Cathy, I’ve got to go. I’m exhausted. And my cats need some attention.”

  “Of course they do. I’ll keep you informed about Graymalkin.” She rang off.

  Gerry trudged upstairs and ran a bath. She added some fragrant salts she’d received from Cathy at Christmas and luxuriated in the silky water. A scratch at the door disturbed her relaxation. She groaned and heaved herself out of the bath, opened the door. Bob and the miniature version of him, Jay the kitten, sat there. “Oh, come in, if you’re going to. All the lovely steam is leaving the room.”

  She resettled in the hot water. Bob easily jumped onto the edge of the tub. Scrabbling sounds told her Jay was unable. She reached over the side and picked the kitten up. It stood uncertainly on the tub’s slick surface. Gerry wrung out her washcloth and set the kitten on it. Bob had already made himself comfortable, lying along the length of the porcelain.

  “Sorry, Bob, no bubbles to play with.” He blinked. The kitten’s bright eyes took it all in. Gerry dozed.

  Splash! Gerry opened her eyes as Jay clawed at her leg. She clasped the kitten and reached for a towel. As she rose, wrapped the soaking cat and stepped out of the bath, she burst into tears. “Poor Stupid,” she crooned, holding Jay. “Poor cat.”

  After that she felt better, went downstairs and made her supper: mac’n’cheese from a box with salad from a bag to make her feel virtuous. She looked at the various piles of work on the table as she ate. Damn it! She’d already worked today. She went to one of the bookcases, looked through her aunt’s collection and pulled out The Pictorial Encyclopedia of the Animal Kingdom by V. J. Stanek.

  It thunked down on the table. Heavy. She scraped the rest of the macaroni out of the pot and onto her plate. She was ashamed to admit she could eat the entire box in one meal. Her mother had used to serve the treat with hot dogs but Gerry didn’t have any. Anyway, that would have meant dirtying another pot. As a cook, she liked to think of herself as a minimalist. She added a bit more salad to make up for the carbs and opened the book at its index.

  Nothing under “fisher.” She flipped through the book. Photography had certainly improved in the forty or so years since it had been published. It was a textbook, really, or the material had been presented in textbook style.

  Almost all the pictures were in black and white. The author had begun with simple creatures—all the -zoa Gerry remembered from high school biology: corals, sea creatures, insects (Gerry flinched at the spiders) and fish. From there through reptiles and birds before arriving at the furry creatures—some cute, some not so cute. When she got to the weasel family, she stopped. Wolverine.

  “Listen to this, cats. ‘Though it is said it prefers fawns, it is said that it can kill fully grown elks or reindeer by leaping on their backs and biting them in the jugular veins.’” She raised her head from the book. “Holy cow. I don’t think a cat would have any chance against one of those.” Judging by the cats’ demeanours, their self-confidence seemed undiminished. She turned the page.

  Several relatives of the wolverine seemed too small to take on a cat. She passed over skunks and badgers before stopping at a photo of a small creature with a wicked expression, the pine marten. “‘During the day it sleeps in hollow trees, at night it hunts small vertebrates, being even more at home in the trees than the squirrel, which is one of its favourite victims.’ Huh. If it can catch a squirrel, it could certainly catch a cat. Maybe a marten is like a fisher. Oh, well.” She closed and put away the book. “Something hurt Gray and if it could hurt him, it could hurt you guys. I’ll have to think about this before I let you out in the spring. Or just keep you inside at night?”

  She made a fire. More cats joined those already in the living room. It was interesting to see how the cats formed little social groups within the greater tribe. Harley and Kitty-Cat, her two enormous white and black “cow” cats, sat side by side, their paws tucked underneath their substantial chests.

  The honour guard, made up of the cats that used to share Aunt Maggie’s bed and still slept there—Blackie, Whitey, Mouse and Runt—were a female pride. They clustered to one side of the hearth.

  Mother and Jay sat close together, while Bob, the three grey tigers called Winnie, Frank and Joe, and Ronald, a little cat—white except for a thin black moustache—formed a male pride and occupied the central position in front of the fire.

  The other five—Min-Min, Cocoon, Max, Jinx and Monkey—were a loose association, sometimes mingling with other groups and tonight were dotted around the room. Only Lightning, an individual whose past severe p
hysical trauma had warped her personality—she had suffered burns, it was thought, and was missing most of her tail as well as the fur of her hind legs—kept to herself. Gerry made a special effort with her, and the cat did sleep on her bed. But she didn’t enjoy being petted—much—and seemed to avoid intimacy. She crouched under the table.

  Gerry spoke aloud. “You know, in a way, this is ridiculous!” Nineteen little faces either turned to her or remained impassive. “I mean—look at us. A woman sitting by a fire with nineteen cats. Who does that?”

  There were no comments from the felines, just a hissing from the fire when a bit of oozing maple sap collected on the end of a log, then dropped into hot coals. Through the ancient walls of The Maples, a wind could be heard rising then falling, rising then falling. The temperature outside began to drop.

  4

  Gerry had slept in. Well, if you call 8:30 sleeping in. Cat stomachs began rumbling around eight, but they were usually patient enough to give her that extra half hour.

  Bob flicked a paw amongst the long red tangles that lay on the pale green pillowcase. He was behind her head in the space between her pillow and the wall. She tensed, then rolled, grabbing him. He pretended to struggle, then relaxed. Lightning, alert for any trouble even in her sleep, had zoomed off the matching quilted pale green bedcover and out of the room as soon as Gerry had made her move.

  She pulled on robe and slippers and went downstairs. “It’s sunny!” she said delightedly, seeing how the light was pouring into the back of the house. “How lovely!” A blue jay screeched and landed on a windowsill. A cardinal fluttered up into a bare shrub. In the kitchen she checked the thermometer mounted outside one window. “Brr. We’re back in winter, cats.” She went through the morning routine of feeding, cleaning litter boxes and making a fire, then took her coffee to her workstation at the living room table, still in her robe.

  First, she gave Mug the Bug some attention. After all, he was her biggest earner. Then she reviewed the content for the next day’s art history lesson. “Time to get particular and detailed,” she muttered. The cats, familiar with this behaviour, their stomachs full, ignored her and dispersed. Some stayed by the warming hearth while others were more comfortable sleeping elsewhere.