Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “You’re early,” I greeted them in a soft, defeated voice.

  “We got lucky,” Nick’s father, Henry, said heartily. “Hardly hit any traffic.” He stiffened, as if he’d just realized that maybe they hadn’t been lucky at all. That maybe if they’d delayed their arrival by even a few minutes, things would have turned out differently.

  I turned to say something to Nick’s mother, hopefully something that would sound much more welcoming. As if on cue, Mitzi began barking her head off.

  “Poor Mitzi!” she cooed. “I know, Mitzi-Bitzi, it’s so upsetting, isn’t it? To come all this way just to have our favorite skirt ruined.”

  She paused to take a deep breath, as if she’d suddenly remembered who she was. She stood up straighter, extended her hand, and said, “You must be Jessica.”

  I just nodded.

  She looked me up and down. “You’re certainly not what I expected.”

  “I don’t usually wear this much orange,” I returned, smiling. And hoping my future mother-in-law would do the same.

  No such luck.

  “Is Nicky here?” she asked, her voice strangely high-pitched and tinged with desperation.

  I knew I was about to let her down even further by announcing that for the moment she was stuck with me.

  “He should be home any minute,” I replied, hoping that just saying the words would make them come true. “Why don’t you come inside and get settled?”

  It was only then that I remembered what “inside” looked like. But I couldn’t very well leave my future in-laws standing in the driveway, no matter how tempting that proposition might be.

  “I loved this skirt,” Dorothy moaned as she and Mitzi-Bitzi followed me inside.

  Henry, who’d been left behind to deal with every single piece of luggage, said, “But, Dottie! You were just saying in the car that you thought it made you look ten pounds heavier!”

  “I said no such thing,” she snapped. “I would never own a garment that didn’t show off my figure to its best advantage!”

  As soon as she strutted inside with her little white dog still in her arms, she froze, causing me to bump into her and transfer orange paint from my clothes onto hers. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Heavens!” she cried. “Your house has been vandalized!”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “The dogs got a little rambunctious today, that’s all.”

  She turned around and studied me for what seemed like a very long time. “I thought dogs were your business.”

  “Yes, but…” I didn’t see any point in trying to explain. Instead, I swept as many of the feathers and toilet paper garlands off the couch as I could and said, “Why don’t you sit down? What can I get you? Coffee? A cold drink? Wine?”

  I must admit, I was kind of hoping for the wine option.

  “Coffee would be fabulous,” Dorothy replied, settling into one corner of the couch with Mitzi in her lap. “In fact, I need some liquid refreshment before I can muster up the energy required to unpack and put on some clean clothes. I take my coffee light but not too light, about two-thirds half-and-half and the rest one percent milk. One and a half packets of Equal. And stir it really well.”

  She thinks she’s in Starbucks, I thought scornfully, translating her order as coffee with milk and sugar. I glanced over at Henry, who had collapsed in the toilet paper–strewn upholstered chair, no doubt exhausted from hauling in a good portion of the suitcases. I wondered if it was simply coincidence that he’d sat as far away as a person could get from Dorothy without leaving the room. “What about you, Henry? Milk? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  I was starting to like this man.

  “Dottie,” I heard him say as I retreated to the kitchen, “I don’t suppose you brought any antihistamines. If I didn’t know better, I’d think there were cats in this house…. Ah-ah-ah-choo!”

  I froze in the doorway. “Don’t tell me you’re allergic to cats,” I said weakly.

  “Deathly allergic,” Dorothy snapped. “He can’t tolerate being around them. Most people think it’s the fur that’s the problem, but it’s actually the dander. Those are teensy-weensy flakes of dried saliva on their skin—”

  “I know what cat dander is,” I muttered.

  “But you don’t have any, do you?” she asked anxiously. “Cats, I mean?”

  “I have two,” I admitted.

  “Don’t worry, Jessica,” Henry said. “If I can just take something for my allergies, I’ll be—ah-choo! Ahchoo! Ah-cho-o-o-o!”

  “I think I have some Benadryl,” I said. “Will that help?”

  “Definitely,” Dorothy replied.

  “It does tend to make me a little tired,” Henry added.

  “Take it,” his wife ordered. “I can’t stand to listen to all that annoying sneezing.”

  First I went to the bathroom and got the Benadryl, along with a glass of water. Then I grabbed poor Cat and Tinkerbell and jailed them in the bedroom. I knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference, since the cottage was covered with cat hairs, but at least it would look like I was trying to do something constructive. Next I went into the kitchen to get Mr. Coffee going. Once that was done, I got serious about cleaning as much orange paint off my dogs as I could without putting them through the gentle cycle of a washing machine.

  I also scrounged around in the freezer and found some chocolate chip cookies the size of saucers. I couldn’t remember how they’d gotten there, but they were going to have to fill in for the freshly baked brownies. I considered microwaving them but decided that Dorothy wasn’t likely to eat them anyway since she was so concerned with keeping her girlish figure. As for Henry, before long he’d be too drugged to notice.

  “Here you are, Henry,” I said as I came out of the kitchen a few minutes later, bearing a tray. “And, Dottie, this mug is yours—”

  She stiffened. “Only my husband calls me Dottie,” she said crisply. “Everyone else calls me Dorothy.”

  “Sorry,” I said. Nick, where are you? I thought mournfully.

  Just then Max picked up his beloved pink poodle in his jaws and tottered over to Mitzi, who was still curled up in her owner’s lap. He glanced up at her hopefully, as if he was asking, Wanna play?

  I heard a low growl, which quickly escalated into a sharp, high-pitched bark.

  “Aarf!” Mitzi complained. “Aarf! Aarf!”

  “Get that horrid animal out of here!” Dorothy shrieked. “It’s clearly upsetting poor Mitzi!”

  “I can see that,” I returned, nearly tripping over poor confused Lou as I leaped across the room to retrieve Max.

  But my feisty little terrier had ideas of his own. He wasn’t about to let some interloper call the shots, something that clearly violated terrier code. Instead, he started barking too, making it clear he was ready to go mano a mano—or paw to paw—with the cranky white lapdog.

  His challenge only escalated Mitzi’s fury. “Aarf! Aarf, aarf!” her deafening bark continued.

  The more she barked, the tighter Dorothy held on to her. “Go away!” she cried, waving her hand at my sweet little doggy as if he were a cockroach. “Get away from here, you vile beast!”

  Nick! a voice inside my head shrieked, sounding as desperate as Stanley Kowalski wailing for his wife, Stella, in A Streetcar Named Desire.

  I tried to soothe Max, meanwhile carrying him to the bedroom—which at this point was starting to get crowded. “You’re better off in here, hiding under the bed,” I muttered. “In fact, save a place for me.”

  As I shut the door firmly, I tried to compose a calm, logical way of explaining to Nick that this arrangement simply was not going to work. Maybe I was so miserable that he actually heard my thoughts, because just then I heard a car door slam right outside.

  “It’s Nick!” I cried breathlessly, charging toward the front door. Never in my entire life had I been so happy to see him.

  “Mom? Dad?” he cried as he stepped inside.

  “Here’s our boy!�
� Dorothy announced gleefully. She seemed to be having a religious experience. Her face lit up with joy and she ran toward him with open arms. “Oh, Nicky, it’s so wonderful to see you!” She was so glad, in fact, that she actually released Mitzi, dumping her unceremoniously in poor Henry’s lap.

  “It’s great to see you too, Mom.” He gave her a big hug, then went over to his father, who was looking very relaxed and was in fact listing to one side, Mitzi and all. The Benadryl was clearly starting to kick in. “Dad, good to see you too.” Nick leaned over and gave him a hug. Henry just looked at him with glazed eyes and blinked.

  “Well,” Nick said, glancing at what looked to the unenlightened eye like a pleasant afternoon tea party, “I see you’ve had a chance to make yourselves at home.” Glancing at me and frowning, he said, “Don’t you think you should shower and change? And what’s with the feathers? And the toilet paper?”

  “The dogs,” I replied.

  “Speaking of the dogs, why is Lou so…so orange?”

  “I was just as surprised as you are to find that Jessica has so little control over her own pets,” Dorothy observed, grabbing Mitzi out of her husband’s arms and regally lowering herself back onto the couch. “Especially since she’s in the dog grooming business.”

  “That’s not what I do,” I said in a strangely high-pitched voice.

  “Don’t you? I thought your job was cutting poodles’ fur into those horrid little poofs.”

  I bit my lip. “I’m not a dog groomer,” I replied, sounding so polite even I was impressed. “I’m an animal doctor. I’m sure Mitzi has a veterinarian you bring her to regularly.”

  Dorothy sighed tiredly, as if this topic of conversation was so boring it was exhausting her. “I’ve never been a pet person. Aside from Mitzi, of course. But she’s not a dog, is she? You’re my little girl, aren’t you, Mitzi-Bitzi? Aren’t you?”

  I opened my mouth to speak. But before I had a chance to give my future mother-in-law a piece of my mind, Nick reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “Getting into vet school is even more competitive than getting into medical school,” he said calmly.

  “Animals always seem so dirty to me.” Dorothy cast poor Lou such a scathing look that he dropped his head and slunk away. “Not my Mitzi, of course,” she continued. “But she thinks she’s a person, don’t you, Mitzi-Bitzi? And that’s because we’ve always treated you like a member of our family. You’re the sister Nick never had, aren’t you?” Pointedly she added, “And she’s as clean as any other little girl.”

  Perhaps the cleanliness standards at the local Holiday Inn would be more to your liking, I thought, feeling my blood heat up from simmer to boil. Or we could always set up a tent outside.

  In fact, I was just about to suggest that alternative housing might be a good idea when the room suddenly exploded with a deafening “AH-CHOO!”

  We all looked over at Henry, who had rallied from his stupor just in time to grab a dish towel–size handkerchief out of his pocket and thrust it against his face with alarming ferocity.

  “Ahchoo! Ahchoo! Ah-ah-ah-choo!”

  “Are you okay, Dad?” Nick asked anxiously.

  “It’s my allergies,” Henry replied. “I’m sure the antihistamine effects of the Benadryl will kick in soon, but sometimes it takes a while—ah-choo!”

  “What are you allergic to?” Nick asked. He glanced at me accusingly, as if I’d gone out of my way to spray pollen throughout the house or something.

  “Cats,” Henry and I said in unison. He’d barely gotten the word out before he broke out into another string of sneezes.

  I cast Nick a look of total desperation. One that was designed to communicate, Plan A is not working. It’s time to come up with a Plan B.

  But he didn’t seem to be able to read my expression. Either that or he chose not to.

  You can still back out of this, I told myself. Getting engaged is not like getting a tattoo. It can easily be undone.

  A more mature voice reminded me that it wasn’t Nick’s parents I was planning to marry; it was Nick. And I liked Nick. I loved Nick.

  Still, I thought grimly, in-laws, like diamonds, are forever.

  “Nicky,” Dorothy cooed, after she’d drunk two cups of coffee that she begrudgingly admitted tasted just fine and downed no fewer than four oversize chocolate chip cookies, “would you bring in the rest of my luggage? Henry and I might as well start making ourselves at home—as much as that’s possible, of course.”

  “I’ll help,” I volunteered, jumping out of my seat. Anything to avoid being left alone with Dorothy and Henry.

  “Nick,” I said breathlessly as soon as we were outside and out of earshot, “I don’t think this is going to work. It’s just too crowded.”

  My attempt at diplomacy didn’t work. “She’s not as bad as she seems,” Nick said with a pleading look in his eyes.

  No, I thought grimly. She’s actually a heck of a lot worse. If this is Dorothy Burby on day one, while she’s still on her best behavior, I don’t dare imagine day three.

  “Just wait until she gets to know you better,” he added. “I’m sure that the two of you will become the best of friends.”

  “It’s probably just as well that I’ll be out this evening,” I said, resigned. I hauled a duffel bag out of the trunk. It was so heavy I decided the Burbys must have brought along their favorite bowling balls. “That’ll give your parents some time to get used to our place without me getting in their way.”

  “‘Out’?” Nick repeated, blinking. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a rehearsal. For the musical Betty roped me into, remember?”

  “But what about my parents?”

  “The three of you can spend the evening catching up,” I said cheerfully. “It’s obvious that you’re the light of your mother’s life, and I’m sure she’d like nothing better than having you all to yourself. You can tell her all about law school and…and you can show her the photos from our trip to Hawaii!”

  Nick grumbled something I didn’t actually hear, since he’d stuck his head into the backseat to retrieve one more suitcase. I figured it was probably just as well.

  Having a rehearsal to go to practically every night of the week was starting to seem like a real stroke of luck. Compared to feeling like one of the characters in No Exit, the Sartre play in which three people who hate one another are trapped together in a room for eternity, an evening of acting and singing and, yes, even dancing, suddenly didn’t sound half bad. Even if it was likely I’d end up making a complete fool of myself.

  Chapter 6

  “A dog is the only thing on this earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”

  —Josh Billings

  I hope you’re not nervous, Jessica,” Betty said later that evening as I drove the two of us to Port Townsend for my first rehearsal with the Port Players.

  Actually, I’d been on the verge of saying something along those exact same lines. Ever since she’d gotten into my VW, I could sense her anxiety. But I suspected it had nothing to do with whether she’d mastered all her dance moves. Instead, what was undoubtedly responsible was the fact that she was still upset about the tension in her household, as well as the possibility that someone in her theater group was a cold-blooded killer.

  I decided to do my best to distract her.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I told her. “But maybe you can take my mind off the butterflies in my stomach by telling me about Amelia Earhart. I don’t really know that much about her, aside from the fact that she’s one of the world’s most famous aviators—and probably the best-known female aviator of all time.”

  “You’re right on both counts,” Betty said. “She racked up quite a long list of achievements. In 1932, she became the first woman to make a solo transatlantic flight. She was also the first person to fly solo from Hawaii to the American mainland, which made her the first person to fly solo anywhere in the Pacific and the first person to solo both the Atlantic and the Pacifi
c Oceans.” Her voice was becoming more animated, a sign that my ploy was working. “On top of all that, she held several transcontinental speed records and a women’s altitude world record.

  “To me,” Betty continued, “she’s a symbol of adventure, a spirited role model who proved that women can do anything men can do.”

  “Then I guess Simon Wainwright had a real brainstorm when he came up with the idea of writing a musical about her,” I observed.

  “Definitely. Have you read through his fabulous script yet?”

  “So far, all I’ve had a chance to look at is the scene with my speaking part.” I cleared my throat and, in my strongest, most self-assured voice, boomed, “Come on, Amelia. Let’s show these men the stuff we’re made of!”

  “That’s very good, Jessica!” Betty exclaimed.

  “Thanks. I’ve only said it about eight thousand times in the last twelve hours,” I admitted. “All day I kept muttering it under my breath as I drove from one house call to another.”

  “At least you’ll get your scene out of the way early on,” Betty said. “Anita Snook gives Amelia her first flying lesson in scene four, I believe. You see, the play starts with George Putnam—he’s Amelia’s husband—narrating. He announces that Amelia Earhart is about to embark on a historic flight that will make her the first woman to fly around the world. Onstage behind him, the ensemble is bustling around, reading newspapers and talking about her groundbreaking flight. You and I are both in that scene.

  “But then the play goes back in time, to Amelia’s childhood. She was only ten when she saw her first plane at the Iowa State Fair. A darling little girl named Wendy plays Amelia as a child. Then we see Amelia at twenty—that’s Elena’s first scene. She’s at a stunt-flying exhibition, and the pilot of a small plane deliberately heads toward her to give her a scare. But she stands her ground, not even flinching. There’s a famous quote about the experience, something like, ‘I didn’t understand at the time, but I believe that little red airplane said something to me as it swished by.’”

  “So that’s where her passion for flying began,” I commented.