I continued this new train of thought sloshing through puddles up to my ankles and almost broke out in a dance like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain.
The movements of the kitten in my jacket distracted me, and I wondered what I was going to do with it when I got back to the car.
Well, I reminded myself, I couldn’t just leave it back there to drown.
That settled, I removed the keys from my bag, pressed the beeper to unlock the doors and slipped into its dry, comparative warmth.
This classic ‘57 Chevy convertible was my pride and joy, the last extravagant gift from my father shortly before his death. It contained a rebuilt engine, in addition to all the latest gewgaws offered in newer automobiles. Dad had outbid everyone at a vintage car auction for this stellar rarity still wearing the original white and turquoise paint job. He gave it to me for my thirty-first birthday, a reward for surviving a rotten marriage and a bitter divorce. I never knew what the price tag was, but the insurance premiums alone are enough to keep me working until I’m around ninety-seven.
The kitten stopped moving, and I panicked.
This is all I need, I shuddered, a deceased kitten in my jacket to complete an already ghastly day.
However, it rubbed up against my hand, and I could feel the fleece lining had dried it off. Then it popped its head out to stare at me with that “now-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-so-I’m-your-responsibility” look. It was a little unsettling.
“Well, I see you're okay, little guy, but what am I going to do with you?” I challenged, trying not to look it in the eye. Seized with an idea, I thought of my friend who was a vet and would probably take the kitten in, warm-hearted chump that she was. I checked the time. Six-thirty. She would still be at the clinic. “Let's take you to see your new mommy,” I cooed. I started the car and drove down the Embarcadero now black, wet and abandoned in the storm. I felt as if I were in a film noir; there didn’t seem to be a soul out besides this wet feline and me.
After the earthquake of ‘89, nearly everyone in San Francisco had prayed the freeway would come down, and the beauty of the bay would be revealed again. When the cement structure was razed, it revitalized a previously neglected area of the city, and man oh, man, do I wish I had been an investor in some of that waterfront property. Everybody who was anybody wanted to be in this area: living, working, shopping, walking, jogging, or running along the Bay, all the while talking or texting on cellphones. That was the latest form of multi-tasking.
The amazing part was they were willing to pay through the nose for the privilege of being crowded into this strip of territory along with a never-ending stream of tourists. Even with the foggy summers, it’s probably worth more per square inch than any other place in the states.
I only drove for a couple of blocks when I began to have the gnawing feeling I had some unfinished business. I decided to check and see if Wyler’s car was still around or if he had given me the slip. Ever since I started trailing him, I’d noticed he’d always left the car about three blocks away from the warehouse on a side street instead of parking right in front of
it. That, in itself, I found very suspicious. He didn’t strike me as a man who was into exercise for exercise’s sake.
Turning on my brights, I hung a U-turn and drove back to where he parked earlier. I spotted the lone black Mercedes, a solitary car on the block. Noting the time, I hesitated to drive away. Something told me I should return to the warehouse and search for him even if Lila had given me direct orders not to make contact. I turned off the motor shivering in my wet clothes and listened to the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of my car, while I chewed at my lower lip for a time.
Oh, well, I thought as I started the engine, this won’t be the first time I haven’t paid any attention to what Lila said. Or the last, either.
I turned the car around and drove back to the warehouse. At this point, I didn’t care if I blew my cover or not. I needed to know.
As far as I could see, which wasn’t much, the parking lot was deserted. The lot was around one hundred and twenty feet deep stopping at the thick and ineffectual four-foot high cement wall on the Bay. A narrow walkway leading to piers directly behind each warehouse ran alongside the cement wall. Amber-colored, low-watt lampposts lit the air above the walkway between the two warehouses and the parking lot and served more as symbols than actual illumination. About five feet inside the perimeter, telephone poles lay on their sides to keep vehicles from hitting the warehouses or the seawall.
Given my vision was nada even with the headlights on, I relied on my memory and hoped nothing had changed within the last half hour. I aimed the car towards what I calculated was the warehouse door and waited for the feel of the wheels hitting the pole. When I felt the resistance, I stopped the car, turned off the engine, but left the lights on.
Pulling some Kleenex and a headscarf out of the glove compartment, I wiped my face with the former and tied the latter over my head to contain my dripping curls. Underneath the passenger’s seat, I found a flashlight, small but powerful, and a not too dirty hand towel. With all this movement, the kitten began to wiggle inside the jacket. I hauled the critter out and wrapped it in the towel. All the while, I spoke in what I hoped was a good version of the reassuring tone of voice was used on The Crocodile Hunter the one time I had watched it in mute horror. Of course, this wasn’t a crocodile, but the same theory should apply.
“You stay here for just a couple of minutes, little guy. I’ll be right back.” I placed the mummy-wrapped cat on the seat, opened the door and slid back out into the downpour. I aimed the flashlight at what I hoped was the entrance to the warehouse and was rewarded by the glint of the metal door. I ran to it, found the handle and pulled with all my might. Major locked. Rivulets of water streamed down my face, as I searched for another way to get into the building.
A far off flash of lightning struck, and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something on the ground in the walkway near the water’s edge. It was hard to tell by the three-watt bulb of the lamppost, so I trotted towards it, aiming the flashlight ahead of me. The closer I got, the faster I ran, because it looked like a shoe, toe pointing upwards.
Breathing hard, I rounded the corner to see what connected to the shoe. It was Portor Wyler. He lay flat on his back, arms opened wide, unseeing eyes staring up into the falling rain. The front of his once white shirt had turned a pinkish hue, blood diluted by the downpour. Three small reddish holes formed a “v” in the center of his chest.
I know I screamed, but a clap of thunder must have drowned me out. I felt the shriek reverberate inside me but never heard it. I also must have been backing up, because I tripped over one of those damned horizontal telephone poles and fell backward, flinging the flashlight up in the air. It landed near my head with a sobering, clunking sound. I retrieved it, got up, and leaned against the building fighting for control.
When I could move, I stumbled back to the car and grabbed my cellphone off the front seat. The first two times I punched in 911, nothing happened. After banging the phone against the steering wheel, I finally got a connection. My teeth chattered from shock, cold, and fear, but I gave a lucid enough report to the dispatcher before the phone went dead again, as dead as Portor Wyler. Frustrated, I threw it into the back seat as hard as I could. I turned back to face a kitten that had managed to get out of his shroud in my absence and was staring up at me, wide-eyed. I reached a shaking hand out, and it rubbed its body against my fingers. This small bit of friendship overwhelmed me, and I bit back tears.
I couldn’t get the picture of Portor Wyler’s face out of my mind. His mouth had been frozen open in an “oh,” as if he’d been as surprised as me that he was dead. Funny what you notice when you see death for the first time.
~
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Heather Haven, writer
San Jose, California 95135
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The Wives of Bath Press
The Wife of Bath was a woman of a certain age, with opinions, who’s on a journey. Heather Haven and Baird Nuckolls are modern day Wives of Bath.
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The Chocolate Kiss-Off Page 22