The Cat Among Us Read online

  “Not Mother.”

  “No, not Mother. But Mother was always too busy mothering her latest to bother much with humans. I’ll get the dessert.”

  After a first and second helping of Cathy’s strawberry shortcake — freshly baked biscuits, split, stuffed with cream and luscious local strawberries, the top half rakishly atilt with a topping of more cream, a single perfect berry and a mint leaf — Gerry staggered home, checked the cats and cat boxes and went to sleep.

  She must have taken a tad too much wine, because she slept through till just before nine, was still in her sleeping shorts and T, drinking her first coffee when Prudence arrived. “I’m going to go through Aunt’s clothes today, Prudence. Is that something you could help me with?”

  Prudence nodded. “Before or after my regular work?”

  “Oh, after. I have some work I need to do.” Gerry poured herself another coffee and wandered into her studio, the bamboo room, as she always thought of the summer living room. A drop cloth covered half of the floor. Her art table was set up in the west-facing window and was littered with brushes, paints, crayons, computer. She studied her work.

  Her bread and butter was her comic strip that had been running for about two years. Mug the Bug was a success, in one national and a few provincial papers. She hoped someday to collect the strips in a book. For now she was committed to five a week. She’d found the easiest way to generate material was to construct a narrative and follow it along rather than trying for resolution every day.

  Mug was just a dot on the page. It was in his context that Gerry got to show off her illustrative skills. For some reason Mug had been in the desert recently, so she had been having fun with cacti and distant mesas. But it was time to move on. She imagined him out of the desert and onto the deck of an ocean liner. Perhaps the ocean liner would lose power and descend into a chaos of unwashed and underfed guests for a few days. Gerry had never liked the idea of a cruise: stuck out there with hundreds of strangers. She drew.

  A slight scratching noise outside the door made her pause. It stopped. She went back to work. The scratching resumed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She threw down her pencil and opened the door. Her voice softened. “Oh, hello, sweetie. How are you?” Marigold, thinner than Gerry would have believed she could have become in only a month, came noiselessly into the room. On impulse, Gerry picked her up and was surprised when she felt the cat relax against her. She went over to the banquette and sat down. Marigold turned a bit, mewing, then settled, attempting a weak purr.

  Gerry stroked her. “Poor thing,” she murmured. “Poor thing.” As the cat slept, Gerry relaxed against the back of the banquette, let her gaze range around the room. She leaned to reach the bookcase to her right, pulled out a book at random. Small, slender, blue, printed in 1934: The De Coverley Papers from The Spectator. She had read a few chapters when she got to the first illustration. Now she was really interested. She looked at the pen and ink drawing of Sir Roger being greeted by four of his old and faithful servants and an old dog not unlike Cathy’s Prince Charles, and marvelled at the subtle facial expressions. Muttering “line, line,” she rose, put the cat down on a cushion and went to her desk. She spent the next two hours trying to emulate an artist dead before she was born.

  She felt fur against her ankle and realized she was hungry. She knew the cat was. Prudence had subsequently revealed that while nineteen of the cats were content with the twice daily meat-feed and subsequent kibble-grazing, Madame Marigold’s condition meant she was fed, or at least offered food, five or six times a day.

  Gerry could hear Prudence vacuuming above their heads as she poked in the refrigerator. She offered the cat a plate of chopped chicken and made herself a sandwich of the same. The vacuum cleaner stopped and Gerry yelled, “Prudence, do you want lunch?” When Prudence declined the offer, Gerry took her sandwich, a banana and lemonade, and went to sit on the screened back porch. “I’ll never take this for granted,” she muttered to herself, settling on a rickety metal chair at a rickety metal and glass table facing the lake.

  By now, the Virginia creeper had climbed up the walls to the porch’s roof, enclosing the room in green. Small birds cloaked themselves in the creeper’s thick privacy. Gerry looked at the lake.

  “I’m finished,” Prudence said, joining her with her own lunch.

  “Prudence, who’s been clipping the creeper? Come to that, who’s been weeding the garden? And cutting the lawn? It can’t be you.”

  “Now, when would I have time to do that?” Prudence replied, biting into the peanut butter and pickle sandwich with potato chips that was her inevitable meal. She swallowed, drank some lemonade. “He’s a private guy, at least with his family. It’s your Cousin Margaret’s husband, ex-husband, I mean, Doug. He liked to do it for Maggie and she’d give him money from time to time.”

  “Money to get drunk on?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes. But otherwise, money for art supplies. He’s an artist like you.”

  Gerry sat back, open-mouthed. “Nobody told me. Another artist in the family. I’d like to meet him.” She gestured at her backyard. “I must owe him a big pile of money by now. Will you tell him I’d like to pay him?”

  “Tell him yourself,” said Prudence, placidly chewing and nodding down toward the shore where a man had just beached a canoe. He was of medium height and build, looked to be in his early forties.

  Gerry stood up and gestured. “Hey, Douglas. Doug. Come have a drink,” and stopped, appalled at what she’d just said. “Prudence, I didn’t mean — I mean — ”

  Prudence kept eating. “Just get him a lemonade.” Gerry rushed to the kitchen and back and found Doug sitting and chatting with Prudence. A shy smile filled his pleasant face and he stuck out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Gerry. Again, that is, now you’re all grown up. Thanks.” He drank the lemonade in one draft. “Well, this is nice.”

  They fell silent.

  “How are the — ” “How are you — ” “The tomatoes are —” All three stopped and laughed. Doug said, “I can guess what Prudence was going to say. ‘The tomatoes are really coming along.’ Right?”

  Prudence nodded.

  “And I was going to say ‘How are you settling in?’ But I can see you’re settling in just fine.”

  “I am. I love it. I was going to ask how the boys are?” Gerry added hastily, “And Margaret, of course.”

  Doug replied easily. “I don’t see much of Margaret. The boys I meet at the yacht club. I work on refitting boats for owners — scraping, painting, maintenance.”

  Gerry wondered where he lived. “So how are they?”

  He grinned. “Getting into the usual trouble boys get into. Cars, boats, motorcycles. And girls. And beer.” Knowing his history, Gerry didn’t know where to look. “I’m clean, Gerry. I go to AA at the church hall. Maggie knew. She was great. Always my friend.”

  Gerry replied softly, “I’m so glad, Doug.” Then, jumping up, “What do I owe you for all the work on the lawn and garden?”

  As she went into the house to get her purse, she heard Prudence and Doug explode with laughter. Nice to have people in the house, she thought. And another part of her plan, for the room that formerly housed her aunt’s ceramics, fell into place.

  4

  It had taken two hours, but Gerry and Prudence had turned out every drawer, as well as the wardrobe, in Maggie’s room. Blackie, Whitey, Mouse and Runt had sat on the bed while Marigold supervised from Aunt Maggie’s pillow. Of the three piles — throw away, give away, and keep — the middle one was by far the largest. Maggie had kept her clothing in good shape, and Gerry made it clear to Prudence that she was to have first pick of the giveaways.

  Gerry herself was gaga over the collection of vintage purses, though she couldn’t see herself ever wearing the Victorian ones. Meant to be hung at one’s waist, they were balloon-shaped or pendulous sacks, their embroidery or beadwork
in now-unfashionable and faded colours, with heavy metal clasps and gold tassels. “These belong in a museum.”

  Prudence responded primly, “They belonged to the family.”

  Gerry rewrapped them and turned with delight to those of the early twentieth century. She sat on the bed near Marigold and exhibited the purses one by one. “What do you think of this, Princess?” The cat seemed to accept the title, though possibly thought it a trifle junior, as her eyes blinked at the shiny objects. “This is Art Nouveau and French. And this. And this.” Gerry looked at the delicate silver and gold purses on her lap. “These are art,” she added, in an awestruck tone.

  “Well, get some use out of them,” urged Prudence. “No point in keeping them wrapped up out of sight.” She picked up a suede concoction with a striking serpent clasp. “This is interesting.”

  “That,” announced Gerry, taking the purse and reverently laying it down, “is Lalique.” She picked up two more: a black beaded clutch she estimated to be from the 1950s, and one from the 1920s, flat, silver and gold glass-beaded, with a chain handle. “I might use these. They seem to be in good shape.”

  She helped Prudence take the bags of garbage or donations down to the front hallway. “I’ll drop the donations at the rummage sale,” said Gerry. Prudence had a few things for herself in one bag. “Can I give you a lift, Prudence?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Gerry followed as Prudence carried her bag to where her baby carriage waited at the side door, next to the little red Mini Gerry had bought — her first car.

  “Don’t forget, you haven’t even looked in the garage yet.”

  Gerry moaned. “This’ll take forever.” Then she cheered up, remembered she was going out to dinner with Andrew that night. No cooking. “I’ll just take a quick look, get an idea of what’s in there.”

  Prudence slung the bag into the carriage and set off toward home.

  When she turned back toward the house, Gerry almost tripped over Bob, who’d gaily dashed between her feet, then flopped on the driveway, presenting his tummy. She rubbed it and the cat gently closed four paws and his open mouth on her hand. “Oh, Bob, you’re so much fun!” Gerry looked up to see Marigold’s pinched little face before the cat disappeared under the hydrangeas. “Oh dear. Oh dear, Bob. Jealousy.”

  She fetched the key for the garage from the board hung in the little side porch off the kitchen. Many of the keys were untagged. She shrugged. Probably Prudence would know their various uses. Or Doug.

  This key was clearly marked “garage” on a bit of masking tape stuck to it, so Gerry confidently approached the padlock on the long low shed-like building’s wide doors. She pushed back the hasp and opened both of them up as far as they could go.

  She’d been allowed to explore in it when she was little, and it hadn’t much changed. Old garden implements hung from the walls. A canoe was suspended in the roof, resting on two rafters. Maybe she could get Doug to help her bring it down.

  Bob had followed her into the garage and was sniffing around. “Hey, Bob, wanna go canoeing with me?” The cat sneezed and began grooming. “Dusty, eh?” Gerry sneezed too and the cat paused to give her a look before resuming its licking.

  Gerry pushed between old scratched bureaus and lamps without shades to the other side of the building. One whole wall was taken up by a big piece of plywood resting on the floor. She peeked behind it and her eyes lit up.

  She walked the wood outside, reversed it, and, as it was beginning to rain, quickly carried it back inside and leaned it against the wall. She stood back a little to get a better look.

  It was a family tree. Someone had first printed in pencil, then painted over, to record members of the Coneybear family for generations, beginning in the early nineteenth century. It must have been done some time ago, as none of the more recent deaths — those of her mother, father, grandmother, Aunt Maggie — were filled in.

  She was reminded that her grandmother’s maiden name was Catford. “Cat ford, Bob. Get it? The place where cats cross water. You found one the other day when you fell in the pool.”

  But Bob was fixed on a point across the lawn and his tail was twitching. Gerry assumed he was tracking a bird and turned back to her genealogy. “Let’s see. We have Coneybears, obviously, and Petherbridge, Shapland. Oh look, a Parsley. I didn’t know I was related to the restaurant. Oh, rats! I better get ready. Bob — ”

  There was a snarl and Bob was across the lawn as Stupid dropped from the largest maple. Grey fur and black tangled together, then Stupid drew back, ears flat and one paw raised.

  “Bob!” shrieked Gerry, not wanting to lose her favourite — or see him hideously disfigured.

  Stupid obviously hadn’t known she was there, and slunk away. Bob sat at the foot of the maple and groomed. When she went over to check, he seemed intact. “Oh, you guys,” she said, chucking him under the chin.

  Upstairs in her room, she pondered her reflection in the full-length mirror. In the front of the house, the room hadn’t proven noisy. She lived on a quiet road, even though, twice a day, people left Lovering and returned to it, for work or for appointments elsewhere.

  The room was square with a high wooden bed and matching wardrobe. She’d cleared away the ancient bedding and the lace mats on the bedside table and vanity, and replaced them with her own simple pale green sheets and coverlet, leaving the tabletops bare. She’d also gotten rid of the ratty old carpet. She liked looking at the wood floors, painted a dull brown.

  The mirror was painted the same colour. She considered painting it white, then concentrated on her appearance. Little black dress. Check. Wedge-heeled black sandals. Check. Vintage gold-beaded purse with fringe. Keys, money. Check, check, check.

  She smiled at the little redhead in the mirror. Good enough, she thought cheerfully. Away I go.

  She drove to the Parsley Inn and Restaurant. The last time she’d been there had been for Aunt Maggie’s wake. She’d had the fish and resolved to be more adventurous this time.

  A bored teenaged boy waved her into the parking lot. It was nearly full. She was impressed. She pulled in next to Andrew’s car. He must have arrived just ahead of her.

  It’s nice of him to invite me out, she thought, but maybe I’ll pay for myself, just to keep things simple. Or I could offer to pay for him next time.

  Another teenager, a girl, slightly more gracious, welcomed her at reception. “I’m meeting Mr. Petherbridge.” The teenager nodded and gestured toward the dining room door to Gerry’s right. As she turned, she looked to the left, where noisy laughter indicated the pub section of the inn, and saw Doug Shapland, wearing a plaid shirt and shorts, throw his head back and join in the fun. There was a drink on the table in front of him. As Gerry looked away, he caught sight of her and half rose, but she’d entered the dining room.

  Feeling worried — had he fallen off the wagon? — surely a pub wasn’t a good place for a recovering alcoholic — she stepped into a whole other ambiance.

  A guitar was being strummed quietly in one corner while a large tank full of gold fish burbled. Hushed conversations were being conducted by nicely dressed customers who cast furtive glances in her direction.

  The inevitable teenager approached. At least there were jobs for these kids locally. Gerry spied Andrew, half-rising from his chair. “There’s my table,” she told the girl and breezed over.

  He’d managed to snag a window table, which was nice, but less nice was the fact that his sister Margaret and her three sons were already seated there.

  Stifling a sigh, Gerry put on a smile and made the rounds, kissing Margaret and Andrew, and shaking hands with the boys: James, twenty; Geoff, eighteen, and named for his grandfather; and David, seventeen. She caught James looking down her dress front as she leaned over to seat herself. She stifled another sigh and turned to Andrew. “So, Andrew, how nice you invited some of your family.” She smiled a sharkli
ke smile at him. He looked slightly apologetic.

  “Your family, too, Gerry,” Margaret tartly responded.

  “Of course you are, Margaret. Are Aunt Mary and Uncle Geoff joining us as well?” Gerry craned her neck, wondering if her aunt and uncle were about to appear.

  Andrew smiled. “No, no. Mother and Dad have a function elsewhere. And I thought, as Margaret was on her own, that it might be a nice chance for you to get to know each other better.” His voice trailed away as he looked from woman to woman, one glaring, one forcing a smile.

  They were saved by their waitress bringing the menus, filling water glasses. The adults ordered drinks. To Gerry’s surprise the two eldest boys ordered beer. She’d forgotten Quebec’s drinking age was eighteen. She felt sorry for David, sitting with a soft drink while his brothers sneered.

  She thought of their father in the pub side of the inn and was surprised again that their mother allowed them to drink in her presence. She must be put off by the whole idea. But no, Margaret enjoyed her martini, swiftly dispatching it and ordering another.

  Gerry studied the menu. “A Caesar salad to start please, and then I’ll have the steak and kidney pie.” Margaret ordered the fish. Gerry thought about warning her how bland it was, then reconsidered. She probably eats here all the time, she reasoned. Andrew ordered a burger and so did each of the boys. They sat back to wait.

  Margaret eyed Gerry over her martini glass. “How are you enjoying The Maples?”

  Gerry spoke slowly. “It’s very nice. To be out of the city. It’s the first time I’ve lived in the country.” She grinned at Andrew. “But the neighbours are terrible.”

  Margaret quickly leaned forward. “Which ones? That Cathy?” Andrew laughed and Margaret sat up straight. “Oh, it was a joke. Ha ha.”

  David rolled his eyes. I thought only girls did that, Gerry mused. “Oh, Mum, lighten up.” His mother shot him a vicious look. David quailed just as Doug strolled over. “Dad!” He looked happy to see his father.