The Cat Between Page 7

  He smiled his shy smile and her heart warmed. “Life is good. The boys are getting used to having me around again. The kitten you gave us is fun to play with. But her name changed from Dee to Didi. She’s taken to David in a big way so we put the litter box downstairs next to his room and she sleeps with him.”

  “Aw. I’m glad. You curling? I mean—” She stopped, remembering his team had lost two of its five players. One of the men had died; the other was awaiting trial.

  A shadow covered his face. “Yeah. We found replacements all right. Are you busy drawing your cartoons?”

  “Mm hm. And teaching. Just one course. At Ross Davidson. Will I see David there?”

  “You should. Geoff Jr. goes there too. Second year. I’m just not sure how much actual studying and how much goofing off playing cards goes on.” They both laughed.

  “Oh, Doug, you’d know this. What causes witch’s broom on trees? I saw some on the pines up in the woods. You know, the plantation Uncle Geoff put in.”

  “It happens when the plant is stressed. The way the pines are crowded together—monoculture—with no other different species growing near them—is highly stressful. They’re vulnerable to disease, to pests, to fungus. The brooms on the pines are caused by a rust fungus, I think. The tree thinks it’s dying so grows a miniature version of itself on a branch.”

  “I knew you’d know. You’re a walking horticultural encyclopaedia.”

  Cathy arrived, bearing blueberries, and kissed Doug on both cheeks. Oh, I should have done that, Gerry realized. But the memory of their more romantic kissing one night in Gerry’s car after Christmas, followed by Doug’s present seeming lack of interest, had held her back.

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

  “Bye, Doug,” both women replied.

  “He’s so nice now he’s not drinking,” Cathy said. “Gerry, I need to go back to the dairy section for whipped cream. You go line up.”

  Gerry dropped Cathy off at her house and returned home. She felt drowsy, so she fed the cats early and went for a nap. She dreamt that the cat Graymalkin was back living in her house but that now, instead of being solitary and unaffectionate, he was the most loving of companions, following her from room to room. She realized that the rooms were those of the upstairs of the empty house next door, and Gray wasn’t following her but leading the way.

  In one room he jumped up onto the windowsill and everywhere he stepped, a tiny witch’s broom sprouted and grew.

  She woke with a snort. “The wine, Bob, the wine. I’m not used to drinking at lunch.” Well, not anymore, she thought, remembering plenty of wine-soaked afternoons spent with friends as an art student. “I used to be.” Bob, sprawled splendidly on her bedside rug, blinked, as if to say, “Ah, youth.”

  Coffee was indicated. She put on a robe and went downstairs. Only five o’clock but dark outside. She inhaled the coffee’s hazelnut vanilla aroma as she heated and frothed some milk. Bliss was a well-made cup of coffee taken at the appropriate moment. With some of the shortbread cookies she’d purchased. She made a fire and, as the cats gathered, drew the manuscript of The Cake-Jumping Cats of Dibble to her.

  “Many responses to the posters, Tess?” asked Max.

  She handed him a napkin for his treacly whiskers and replied, “A few.”

  “How many?” demanded the Queen.

  “Six, Your Majesty.”

  “I will see them now.” This was said haughtily. Atholfass sat up.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Tess ran out the kitchen door and returned with a little group of cats, mostly kittens, all very much awed by being in the presence of their Queen.

  “Give them some cake,” said Atholfass majestically, slowly looking them over. “They seem fit enough. You, boy, can you jump?”

  The ginger-striped shorthair proved it, nervously reacting to the Queen’s attention by going straight up. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he squeaked. “We have good jumpers in our family.”

  “Good. Good. And what about you?” She turned suddenly to come nose-to-nose with a grey-striped female version of the first cat. The little thing dropped its piece of cake on the floor where Max made quick work of it. The kitten burst into tears.

  “There, there,” cooed Languida. “You oughtn’t to be so mean to them,” she scolded the Queen. “They’re just babies.”

  “You forget yourself, Miss Fatiguée.” And with that, the Queen stalked from the kitchen, tail high.

  The three little drawings Gerry made for this bit of text showed first, Queen Atholfass inspecting the troops; second, the ginger cat up in the air; and third, the grey cat sprawled on its bum, weeping while Max gulped its chunk of cake.

  As usual, she worked past hunger and, while the cauliflower she’d purchased languished in the fridge, settled for baked beans and toast and a cup of tea for her supper around eight. She switched to working on Mug the Bug and managed two strips. At one in the morning, she yawned and went to bed.

  Saturday dawned dull but warmer. It began to snow and Gerry, chores done and caught up with her various projects, contemplated taking a day off. Should she drive across the ice bridge in search of the perfect french fry? But it had only been really cold again for a day or so. Maybe the ice wasn’t quite hard enough yet. Besides, she could use some exercise.

  After lunch—ham and cheese on a croissant liberally smeared with mayonnaise and hot mustard—she stepped outside, strapped on her snowshoes and crossed the road, passing along the lane between Andrew’s and Cathy’s two houses and so into the woods.

  The fresh snow was fluffy and she soon settled into a rhythm. She turned onto the railway tracks until she came to the golf course and was trying to decide whether to go left and climb its slope or right to where more level fields beckoned, when she felt a blow to the centre of her back. She half fell forward. “What the—?” The blow was repeated on one of her arms, she rolled onto her back and saw her assailant.

  8

  “Harriet! You scared me! What are you doing out here? Where’s Jean-Louis?” The big husky, unable to answer any of her questions, but joyful in her ignorance, danced around Gerry. “You know what? I bought dog cookies yesterday but I didn’t know I was going to meet you. My pockets are empty.”

  Harriet forgave her, kissing her on the lips.

  “Ech!” said Gerry and hastily got up. “No, but seriously, Harriet, where is Jean-Louis?” Gerry scanned the landscape in all directions. The dog certainly seemed alone.

  And then he appeared, silently, on cross-country skies. In contrast to the first time they’d met when Harriet was in Gerry’s backyard, he was wearing the dullest of colours—greys and creams—as if he wanted to blend in with his surroundings. “I see Harriet found you,” he said quietly.

  Mischievously, Gerry asked, “I hope you remembered your moisturizer today.”

  “What?” He looked blank for a moment, then said, “Ah, yes. I remember. We were discussing our skin care regimes at Cathy’s house.”

  “Your regime. I don’t have one.”

  “Wait until your thirties,” he replied wisely. “But look at you—snowshoeing around the woods alone.”

  Gerry didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt slightly, ever so slightly, menaced. “Don’t you think it’s safe?”

  He shrugged. “Like most places, that depends. It is safe and it is not safe depending on who else is around.” He smiled. “Today, with the brave Harriet bounding through the snow, I think it is safe.”

  “No snowmobiles, either,” she commented.

  “It’s Saturday,” he said. “They’ll be along.”

  “You’re probably right. I think I’ll head home before they arrive. Goodbye, Jean-Louis. Goodbye, Harriet.” And with a wave for one and a pat for the other, Gerry carefully reversed and went home the way she’d come. Now why did I retreat like that? she wondered.

  She placed he
r snowshoes in her side porch and walked to Blaise’s house. He answered her knock with tears running down his cheeks. “Oh, Blaise,” she wailed. “Is it the cat? Is he—?”

  He said yes, then shook his head and laughed. “Oh, Gerry. He’s all right. It’s just I miss him. The house is so empty.”

  “Let’s have a cup of tea, Blaise, and you can tell me all about it.” They went to the back of the house and Gerry made tea while Blaise sat in his recliner and talked.

  The cat had had its surgery but was still sedated, as the less he moved, the better. Blaise had been to see him that day. The poor thing would raise his head briefly, then fall back into a doze. It would be quite some time before he’d be coming home, but the vet was hopeful.

  They drank their tea and Gerry described being surprised by Harriet on the tracks, and her lunch with Cathy in the new restaurant the day before. Her friend fell asleep and Gerry let herself out.

  Her own beasts flocked around her, mewing loudly when she entered the house. “Oh, come on now. I’m only fifteen minutes late.” It was a quarter past four. She fed them, then went to change for supper.

  On her way into Lovering, she stopped at the convenience store for a few purchases, then arrived at Bea and Cece’s front door at a little after six.

  “It’s a good thing you’re late, Gerry.” Cece greeted her, holding a black and white kitten similar to Jay. It was struggling. “She wants to get out. Quick, close the door. Stop it, Cecilia.”

  He dropped the kitten and took Gerry’s coat. “Bea had a bit of a disaster with her cake and we’re running late.”

  “It’s all right. I brought ice cream,” Gerry replied.

  “Don’t look!” a voice cried from the kitchen. “It’s just sad.” Gerry went through. Bea covered her face with her apron and mock wept. Gerry looked at the cake, half of it upside down on a rack on the counter, half still in the pan, the centre mushy and underdone. The kitten ran in and jumped onto Bea’s lap, rebounded off and dashed out of sight.

  “What kind is it?” Gerry asked, interested in the cake’s rich golden-brown colour, its spicy smell.

  “It’s supposed to be gingerbread.”

  “Oh, good. I brought French vanilla ice cream. We can eat around the raw bits.” She bent to kiss Bea who lowered the apron, beamed and said, “What a good friend you are.”

  Cece appeared with a bottle of sherry. “Drink?”

  “We-ell,” Bea drawled like a southern belle, “how verah civahlahzed. Ah thank you, sah.” She fluttered her eyelashes at her husband.

  Gerry snickered. Cece took it all in stride. “What’s new, Gerry?” They sat at the table. Bea wheeled over to the fridge and rummaged for snacks.

  “Oh, you know. Became a college professor, Blaise’s cat almost eaten by a wild animal, a dead body next door. Just another typical week at The Maples.”

  A thudding sound was heard coming down the stairs. The kitten, Cee, one of Gerry’s, and sister to Jay and Dee, appeared. Unlike Jay, she couldn’t really be considered a tuxedo cat, as her white patches were most of her underbelly and she had white stockings right up to her hips. Bea crooned, “Cecilia, darling, where have you been?”

  The little cat mewed pitifully. Because of her habit of mewing loudly for no apparent reason, she’d been named Cecilia for an opera singer Bea was fond of. Or so Bea said. But was it a coincidence that Bea’s husband’s name was Cecil? “Probably just had to use her litter box,” Cece remarked. “It’s upstairs.” Cecilia trotted over to Bea and jumped up.

  “I’m her favourite because I’m usually sitting down,” Bea laughed.

  Gerry felt a slight shadow pass over the evening. Her friend’s MS kept her in her wheelchair most days, with rare exceptions. Cecilia turned repeatedly and prodded Bea’s lap with her little pin-like claws. “I’m afraid you’ll have to serve, darling. I’ve been suborned.”

  Later, when the plate of roast chicken and mixed vegetables smothered in golden gravy was but a happy memory, Gerry went into detail about her week.

  “I knew Nolan Shrike was dead, just not that you were involved,” Cece said thoughtfully. “You say you pulled on the plywood but didn’t smash the glass.”

  She nodded.

  “So not exactly breaking but certainly entering. I don’t see that you did any damage.” As Gerry’s lawyer as well as friend, he was thinking aloud. “Except for trespass. Which doesn’t mean much these days.”

  Gerry, her mouth full of fragrant cake and ice cream, opened her eyes wide and swallowed. “Do you think I’m in trouble?”

  “Nonsense,” Bea reassured. “You were looking for a cat for an elderly neighbour. Besides, you’re a citizen in good standing and that still counts for something.” She was feeding Cecilia bits of chicken from her plate.

  “A citizen in good standing,” Gerry murmured. “That makes me feel so old!”

  “Well, you very nearly are old. I mean—twenty six!” Bea, cruising through her fifties, sampling all the delights life in Lovering could offer, teased her friend.

  “Not for a few more weeks,” Gerry replied defiantly. “When does youth end, exactly?”

  Cece jerked his head towards his wife, who was letting the kitten in her lap lick melted ice cream off her plate. “For some of us, never.” He served the coffee.

  Bea beamed. “What a nice well-trained husband I’ve got. Don’t you agree, Gerry?”

  Gerry grinned. These two were one of the few advertisements in favour of marriage in her little circle. Everybody else was either divorced or seemed to bitterly resent their partner. And the singletons like her, like Cathy, like Prudence, appeared genuinely more content. Just—alone.

  “Cathy tells me,” Bea began archly, “that you seemed to get along quite well with the handsome Mr. Thibeault at her place the other night.”

  “He is handsome,” Gerry agreed.

  “But a ski instructor,” Cece scoffed. “I mean, come on.”

  “I know, right?” Gerry agreed. “And he’s in his thirties. Though he seems very intelligent. How can he earn a living just by teaching skiing? I mean: what about in summer? He says he works as a trainer but how much can you earn doing that?”

  “Maybe his family is rich,” Bea suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe. But apart from that, there’s something not quite right. About him or his situation. I don’t know.”

  “He does live directly across from the empty house,” Bea contributed.

  “And I live next door to it but I’m not involved in the death!”

  Bea sighed. “Okay, okay. You’re defending him but he’s not quite right. You’re not in love.”

  “Well, but, I am,” Gerry said, with a glint in her eye.

  Both Cece and Bea reacted. “What!?”

  “With his dog!” They laughed. “She’s this gorgeous blond husky named Harriet. Lovely, friendly. What if it turns out I’m more of a dog person? And here I am stuck with nineteen cats!”

  Cece, the lawyer, offered consolation. “Your Aunt Maggie’s will stipulated you only had to keep the cats for five years. She gave you a way out.”

  Gerry considered the cats: their attachment to their home; their little funny faces. “Oh, like I’d just kick them all out,” she muttered.

  “No, but, you could be more strict about not adopting any more in the future.” Cece coughed. “A natural attrition will occur.”

  “I gave away the kittens!” Gerry protested.

  “All of them?” Cece eyed her coolly.

  “Well, no. You got one, and Doug, and my student Judith Parsley. And I gave one to Betty Parsley’s kids.” (Betty Parsley had been murdered around Christmas time, leaving four teenage children.) “I kept Jay because she reminds me of Bob and, well, Mother, the big marmalade, needs someone to mother. She’s the one that brought the kittens home in the first place.”

  “How m
any of the cats are elderly, Gerry?” Bea asked.

  Gerry considered. “Ah, Min Min, Harley and Kitty-Cat are over fifteen. That’s elderly for a cat, isn’t it? And Cocoon is, I think, fourteen. Oh, but I don’t want anybody to die!”

  “Nobody wants anybody to die,” Bea said briskly. “It just happens. And dogs don’t even live as long as cats. Ten, twelve years and that’s it.”

  “I’m going to have quite a pet cemetery at The Maples before I’m done,” Gerry commented drily. A wave of sleepiness washed over her. “Listen, I’ve been pushing hard with work and snowshoeing, which I’m not used to. I’m going to have an early night.”

  “Good idea,” her hostess agreed, following her to the door, Cecilia clinging to her mistress’s lap. Gerry laughed at the sight.

  “You guys,” she said affectionately as she stooped to kiss Bea and stretched up to kiss Cece.

  He asked, “Have you thought any more about making a will, Gerry?”

  She started. “Oh. No, actually. I don’t know who I should leave the house to.”

  “Well, when you’re ready, let me know.”

  She nodded and stepped out into the cold night. That, and Cece’s query, woke her up, as did scraping the car’s windows while the heater defrosted its frozen interior.

  Who could she leave The Maples and all Aunt Maggie’s cats to? Prudence? Prudence seemed happy with her own little cottage and didn’t own any pets. Andrew? He’d doubtless enjoy doing up The Maples, bringing to it his interior designer’s expertise. Andrew was a possibility. Certainly not Margaret, who was dangerous, or Aunt Mary, who was cruel. Gerry shuddered, thinking what Aunt Mary would do about the cats. At least she could trust Andrew to be compassionate.

  The temperature must have briefly risen that day, then dropped again at night. A thin layer of ice coating the road made her drive carefully. She was glad of her snow tires. Everyone had advised her to invest in good ones. It’s a whole other way of life out here, she thought, contrasting how, in Toronto after a late night with friends, a cab would be called. Anyway, in Toronto, winter didn’t seem to make much of an appearance, probably due to the warming influence of vast Lake Ontario.