The Cat Vanishes

by Louise Carson

  “Well, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, in spite of all your troubles,” Jane said in a firm tone.

  Why, thought Gerry, Aunt Mary’s lonely! Of course! She’s lost her husband and Margaret, not just her daughter, but probably her only friend. She has only herself to blame for that friendlessness, a little voice said inside Gerry’s head. “Aunt Mary,” she began, but Mary seemed not to hear, turned and left the store.

  Jane and Gerry’s eyes locked briefly in mutual embarrassment. Jane cleared her throat. “I was just saying to your — to Mrs. Petherbridge — that today is the last day we’re open until after New Year’s, so everything is half price. If you want a few things to tide you over.”

  Gerry’s heart sank. Prudence had warned her of this; that businesses tended to shut down over the holidays, some even not reopening until spring! “Well, thank you, Jane, I believe I will take a few things. Can I have the scones? And will you sell me some of the delicious clotted cream that goes with them? I have jam at home.”

  Jane made up a box for Gerry, similar to the one Aunt Mary had left with. Lonely women, Gerry thought drearily as she left, but at least Mary has her son and her three grandsons. What have I got?

  “Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, as she brushed snow off her car. “Bob’s outside!”

  2

  When she got home, she scanned the yard for her missing cat. Then she checked the back porch. Then she looked up. “There you are,” she said with relief. Bob, looking every inch the panther, yawned and stretched, high up in one of the backyard maples. “Come down!” Gerry urged.

  He seemed to think that a good idea and, like a lumberjack, clasped the trunk of the tree and made his way, tail first, back to earth.

  He let Gerry pick him up and she cuddled him as she walked back to the house.

  He was her favourite, she had to admit it. How could he not be? Playful, yet careful to sheathe his claws with her, full of joie de vivre and energy. Friendly, yet his own man.

  She opened the side porch door, kicked off her boots and dropped Bob inside. He made for the tub of kibble. It wasn’t feeding time, but Gerry walked around the house checking who was where and making sure everyone was accounted for. She herself was still full of cheesecake. She returned to the kitchen and looked at the calendar on the fridge. Something…

  “Oh, I’ve got to check Cathy’s. Oh well. Got my coat on. May as well get it over with.” She let herself out again and walked through the semi-circular driveway in front of her house. Prudence had been right to press her to hire the Hudsons to remove her snow. It was worth the money as they’d already had quite a few dramatic snowfalls.

  “And three or four months to go,” she grumbled. She straightened her shoulders as she began walking along the side of the road, facing traffic, as she’d been taught. “Forget about it. Enjoy it. No mosquitoes.”

  She passed Mr. Parminter’s. She’d asked him if he wanted her to check his house but he’d declined. “You know,” he’d said, “since I had the house reinsulated, I’m not afraid of pipes freezing anymore. I’ll only be gone a few days. No, you needn’t bother.”

  She was almost at Fieldcrest when she crossed the road. Cathy’s driveway was so long, she had to pay someone to plow it. “I used to have a snow blower when I was younger,” her friend had mentioned, “but it’s too much for me now. It’s so nice to hear the Hudsons removing the snow early in the morning and then turn over in bed and go back to sleep.”

  Cathy’s house had not been recently insulated, a fact Gerry was fully aware of when she let herself in the wide front door. Brrr. She kept her coat on.

  She knew Cathy left one upstairs bathroom faucet running a little all winter, with a notice affixed to the wall, begging her guests not to turn it off. But, inevitably, one did, and Cathy had to open the cupboard where she’d removed a section of drywall to insert a handheld hair dryer and let it blow. That faucet was one of the things Gerry had to check.

  Her footsteps echoed off the creaky wooden floors in the empty house. She peered into the beautiful, if shabby, living room, then crossed the hall to check the dining room. She felt a bit funny, examining the house, but, after all, Cathy had asked her to keep an eye on the place, checking it every couple of days.

  It sure wasn’t homey with Cathy and Prince Charles away. No B&B guests. No happy humming and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. No canine toenails clicking on the flooring as Charles wended his weary way from one comfy sleeping area to another.

  The red kitchen clock ticked sedately; the fridge went on with a click and a whir. Gerry tested the back door. Locked.

  She looked doubtfully at the door leading into the basement. Should she check down there as well? From below she heard the familiar bang as Cathy’s furnace switched on. Her eyes came to rest on a red tin on the kitchen counter; a tiny yellow Post-it note, stuck onto its lid, read “Dear Gerry, Eat! Thanks. C.” The tin was crammed with crescent-shaped cookies, dusted with icing sugar. Gerry bit into one. It snapped crisply. Bliss! It tasted of ground walnuts, or were they almonds?

  She put the lid back on the tin and, retracing her steps, placed the tin on the bench by the front door. No fear of forgetting those!

  Still crunching, she went upstairs to check the bedrooms. The steps complained audibly. Why hadn’t she turned on the antique wall sconce halfway up the dark staircase at the downstairs switch? Because your hands were full of cookies, she admitted silently. She licked, then wiped her sugary fingers on her pants leg, and grasped the handrail.

  When she got to the top, she flicked the upstairs switch. No response. Huh? Quickly she entered the nearest bedroom and pressed the wall switch.

  The room flooded with soft light. She increased the dimmer to maximum, sighing with relief. Probably not a burnt-out fuse; just a bulb. No need to venture into Cathy’s basement, try to investigate the house’s electric box. It could wait for Cathy’s return.

  This was the room where Gerry had slept when she’d come for Aunt Maggie’s funeral last spring. She walked to the window. The light outside was fading. Through frosted windows and leafless trees she saw the frozen lake, the dark pines on the other shore. She shivered, an all-over-her-body kind of shiver. She hurriedly peeked into the other bedrooms, ran down the stairs, picked up the red tin and bolted for home.

  Now it was cat feeding time and Gerry coffee time. She made up the fire and subsided into her rocker with a cat on her lap and a good book.

  The alarm switched on and Christmas music softly played. Gerry made a little sound in her throat and turned to face the window. She opened one reluctant eye. The blind was white cloth and though it preserved her privacy, it still admitted light; in this instance, the dull white light of another sunless day. It might even be snowing.

  Bob, at the head of her bed, attacked her through the pale green coverlet. She sat up and they had a quick game of bite-the-hand-that’s-poking-you before she swung her feet onto the bedside rug. Lightning, the emotionally and physically damaged calico cat with whom Gerry had a love-hate relationship, was long gone from her place at Gerry’s feet.

  The alarm had been set because it was a Prudence day and Gerry refused to let her walk to work along the narrow river road in winter. Prudence had never learned to drive, but now, thanks to the legacy left her from Aunt Maggie, she hoped to buy a car and Gerry had become her driving instructor. She quickly dressed, fed the cats, and started the car, before coming back inside to make an instant coffee in her travel mug. Lots of brown sugar, lots of cream. “Ahhh,” she said after the first sip.

  Bob bounded outside as she closed the door. She caught him and thrust him back inside. “No, Bob. Maybe later, when I can supervise you.” She slowly backed the car out onto the road and, sipping her coffee, made the short trip to Prudence’s, past Fieldcrest, past the tennis club, past the Parsley Inn (scene of many delicious lunches and suppers), up the big hill with the view across t
he lake, and down the other side, then turned right before the ferry, and rumbled over the railway tracks.

  The little white cottage with its single gable and lacy wooden trim was modestly decorated for Christmas with pine branches and cones stuck into the window boxes either side of the porch and, on the door, a homemade wreath made of grapevine, to which Prudence had affixed little bells hung with red ribbon. The whole concoction tinkled charmingly when she opened her door.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” she said rather grimly into Gerry’s open window. Gerry slid over into the passenger seat as Prudence got behind the wheel.

  “Okay,” said Gerry, “remember to slowly trade positions with your feet. Brake pedal down. Clutch pedal down. Brake up and a little gas while lifting the clutch foot —”

  The car juddered once and stalled, and Gerry regretted once again purchasing the standard option for her little red Mini. Just because she’d learned on a manual shift, and enjoyed the zip of changing gears, didn’t mean it was for everyone.

  “Okay. That’s okay. We’ll just start her up again.” This time they jerked halfway onto the street before they stalled. “The trick is to not fully take your foot off the clutch, Prudence. It’s called riding the clutch and is supposed to be bad, but really, it’s the only way to back up with any control. Just let them go around us.”

  As it was so close to the holiday, there were fewer cars than normal, but enough people still had work or errands that cars had backed up in both directions as Prudence advanced and retreated, trying to back out of her driveway. The other drivers glared as they inched around the little red car. “You know, of course,” Prudence said sarcastically, “that I’ll be looking for a car with a shift. Just. Like. This. One.” With each word, she hit the shift’s leather covered knob with her open hand.

  “Now, now. I’ll tell you what my father told me. ‘If you learn how to drive shift you’ll be able to drive anything — even a truck.’” Gerry sipped her coffee as Prudence managed to get the car into first. “Shift into second right away, Prudence. First is just for parking.”

  Prudence shifted into fourth and stalled.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Gerry had seen a delivery van in her side view mirror, rolled down her window and waved him on. “Look at the stick. Memorize where the numbers are. Press down on the clutch and practise shifting the different positions. Okay. Turn her back on.” She patted the dash. “Good little car, good little car. You’re doing well too, Prudence.”

  They lurched to the foot of Prudence’s street. “Oh, no, the stop sign!” said Prudence.

  “It’s all right if you stall, just stop. Stop!” Gerry put out a hand to steady herself as the car slid halfway into the intersection. “All righty then,” a by-now-grim Gerry said between clenched teeth. “We’re halfway there.”

  Once they got going again, they were at Gerry’s in a couple of minutes. Both women climbed out rather shakily. Prudence took her purse and a plastic bag out of the back seat.

  “What’s in there?” Gerry asked. “We’re not baking today, are we?”

  “Why not? We always bake on Wednesdays.”

  They walked around to the side entrance, where Gerry fumbled with the key. “But the students aren’t coming. Why do we —”

  “Gerry, look.” Gerry turned. Prudence was looking across the snowy backyard and across the lake — icy at its edges, still grey water at its heart — to the dense pine forest on the far shore.

  It was snowing, thick wet clumps of flakes that stood out on their dark coats. No cars passed on the road and the stillness was intense. “It’s Christmas Eve,” Prudence whispered.

  Gerry felt a twinge of delight. She unlocked the door. “Hello, cats!” More cheerfully than she had in weeks, she thought, let the day begin.

  Gerry worked at the big table in the formal dining room, which had become her winter studio, the poorly insulated bamboo room she preferred having to be abandoned in late November. She was aware of Prudence passing to and fro as she washed cat dishes, cleaned litter boxes, put fresh towels on any upholstered surface, did laundry, vacuumed, and brought in wood for the fire.

  Gerry tried to keep at least two weeks ahead of schedule with her comic strip. That way, if she needed a break or got sick, it wasn’t the end of the world. She was only a week ahead, so was pleased to finish two instalments that morning. Mug the Bug managed to win the dogsled race, though he’d almost drowned when a talking snowflake landed on him and melted. Then he somehow found himself wrapped inside a Christmas gift that was lost for a week in the mail.

  The strip was very silly, but kids and some adults enjoyed it enough that several North American newspapers ran it daily. It paid the bills, or almost paid them, Gerry reflected ruefully. The private art class she taught at the house was in temporary abeyance. The three older women students — Christine, Doris and Gladys — were all going south for different periods of time while the sole male member, Ben Lymbery, though he didn’t migrate, confessed to fearing winter driving so much, he tended to go out as little as possible.

  The other student, Judith Parsley, a young girl just out of school, was around, as she worked at the Lovering Herald with her father, Bill. Gerry wondered if she should advertise in late February, see if she couldn’t get a few more students. Maybe enough for another class. “Thursdays. I’d teach them on Thursdays. No. Maybe Tuesdays.”

  “What?” asked a frazzled Prudence, dragging the vacuum cleaner through the room.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of teaching two art classes a week. If I can get enough students. Come March.”

  “You should let the art department at the local college know you’re around. Maybe you could be a substitute teacher or something.”

  “What a good idea, Prudence. Do you think they’d hire someone as young as me?”

  “Twenty-five isn’t that young, you know.” Some of the cats had fled at the sight of the vacuum, but others were curiously sniffing around it, now it was silent, while one, young Ronald, barely out of kittenhood, attacked the hose. “No, Ronald! You’ll puncture it!” Prudence cried.

  “And then you’ll just add some more duct tape, won’t you?” said Gerry, removing the skinny white cat with the thin black moustache from the battle-worn hose.

  “I suppose so,” said Prudence grumpily.

  “What’s eating you? Come on. It’s lunchtime, anyway. Tell me about it.”

  Prudence retrieved from the fridge the pickle and peanut butter sandwich she’d brought with her while Gerry made herself ham and cheese, and they sat at the living room table facing the lake, the freshly built-up fire at their backs.

  “It’s the driving school. It costs a fortune, you only get about one lesson per month and they keep showing these films during class where people with dash-cams scream just before they die. It’s frightening and depressing. Sometimes I feel sick after watching them.”

  Gerry swallowed, thinking. “I guess they’re trying to scare you into being careful. Are you the only — ah — mature person in the class?”

  “The only one with grey hairs, you mean? Yes. The others are teenagers.”

  “That’s why, Prudence. Those kids think they’re immortal. You know you’re not. Anyway, I didn’t learn to drive at driving school either. My dad taught me. Like I’m teaching you.”

  “I’ll never get it,” Prudence said despairingly.

  “Of course you will. You just have to practise. If you drive my car six times a week times four — that’s twenty-four little lessons per month! I guarantee, you’ll be a good driver by spring.”

  “If my nerves hold up,” Prudence muttered.

  “Your nerves!” Gerry teased.

  Prudence laughed. “You’re very patient. Thank you. Now, let’s bake a cake.”

  In the kitchen she laid out the ingredients. “So, it’s like the dark fruitcake we made in No
vember but this is a white or golden fruitcake. It’s nice to serve some of either on a plate.”

  “Who am I serving cake to again, Prudence? All my friends, the students — everybody’s away.”

  “They’ll be back,” Prudence said calmly. “And fruitcake keeps. You have all winter to eat it. We’ll double the recipe. It also makes a nice gift.”

  “That reminds me.” Gerry offered the red tin from Cathy’s house. “Do you make these?”

  Prudence took one. “Viennese crescents. Yes. But mine are different. Not ground nuts but toasted breadcrumbs. Poor person’s version.”

  Gerry studied the fruitcake recipe. “Oh. I get it. Golden raisins, chopped apricots, and dried pineapple instead of the brown raisins, currants, dates and cherries we put in the dark fruitcake. And white sugar instead of brown sugar and molasses. White fruitcake.”

  “You get cracking. I’m going to dust upstairs.”

  Gerry happily cracked the eggs, softened the butter in the top of a double boiler, and added in the sugar. Then she sifted the flour and other dry ingredients, remembering to set a half cup aside to toss with the dried fruits and nuts, Prudence’s trick so the heavy ingredients didn’t all migrate to the bottom as the cake baked. Gerry sliced the blanched Brazil nuts and crushed the blanched almonds. Then, instead of brandy to moisten the mix, it called for fruit juice. She added in orange juice and mixed. And mixed. The batter was so stiff it supported the wooden spoon standing straight up in the middle of the bowl.

  Prudence returned and took a look. “Is this right?” Gerry asked. When Prudence nodded, they buttered four loaf pans, lined them with brown paper, buttered that too, then added the batter, smoothing it into the corners of the pans with knives. Gerry knew the cake would bake for a long time in a low oven. She set the timer and sighed with satisfaction. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, I think. I need a pick-me-up.” They took their coffees and Cathy’s tin of cookies to the rocking chairs by the fire. Cats appeared to wait for crumbs. Bob jumped on Gerry while Ronald took possession of Prudence’s lap. Both women exhaled at the same time, then laughed.