by Ingrid Lee
The girl hooted. “God moved out of here a long time ago. Now the city’s in charge. And the mayor wants to give this chapel a makeover. Your cat’s only got a few weeks at most to hide out before that happens.” She sat down on the crate and picked up her charcoal.
Billy watched the burnt stick scrape across the paper. “A few weeks is all I need,” he said. “I’ll figure out something else by then.”
“Humph!” grunted the girl.
Conga let them argue. She finished inspecting her nursery and began to nose the perimeter of the loft. The dust in the corners made her sneeze. When she came to the stairway, she padded down to the main floor. Her claws clicked over the tiles of the altar platform. It was a good while before she came back up to her nest and burrowed into Billy’s bathrobe.
Billy went over to her. He rubbed a pink ear. “Conga,” he whispered. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back in the morning — as soon as I can.”
Conga closed her eyes. Her kittens needed the rest.
“Fine friend you are,” the girl sniffed. “Ditching your cat in a strange place in the middle of the night.”
Billy got up and turned to face the girl. “My folks get up early and I need to be there for breakfast,” he said. He thought for a minute, wondering whether to say what was on his mind. “I know you. Your name is Salome. You work at the pet supply store. Maybe you can stay and watch my cat.”
Her stick of charcoal snapped in two. “I can’t help you, kiddo!” Salome scowled. “I need to check in with the law before six in the morning, from my grandma’s phone. Otherwise, I’ll be a jailbird.”
Billy edged closer to look at Salome’s sketch. She had drawn the chapel colony. In the picture, the cats bent their heads to the food dishes, their tails tucked close. The tom chewed blissfully, his eyes closed. Scat squatted alone in one bowl with a full mouth. Above them all, the stained-glass window of the chapel hung like a morning sun.
“The lady next door to my folks says that cats are a sign of the devil,” Billy said. “She says that the cat is so evil, it isn’t even in the Bible. You make them look like saints.”
“Not a saint or a sinner,” Salome scoffed. “But part of God’s glory.” She switched off her light. “Let’s get out of here. Your cat needs some peace.”
The two of them left as the sun came up for air. By the time the light broke free of the horizon, Billy was pulling up the covers to his bed. And Salome was climbing through a window of her grandmother’s house.
In the choir loft, Conga yowled.
Her kittens were done. They wanted out.
SIXTEEN
The birthing took an hour.
Conga shifted Billy’s robe into a backrest. She squatted against the folds and strained. Her gut contracted. She pushed. She pushed again. Finally a steaming mess of mucus and muck plopped out. Life squirmed inside the silvery sac.
Conga knew what was needed. She cleaned her new kitten front and back. She swiped at the sticky bits with her rough tongue. The young one was nothing but a scrawny scrap of syrup shaking in the dawn air — nothing but a clammy hairball. Still, it mewled for milk as if it was made of noise. Conga nudged it close and pushed again.
Another hot handful of slop landed between the folds. Again Conga licked swiftly at the closed eyes and a bit of pink nose. When she was done, the lump gleamed like wet coal. She strained some more.
This time she anchored her claws to Billy’s shirt and screeched. She arched her back. The bundle that came out was wrapped tighter than the others. It smelled sour. The little bundle twisted once before it caught the color of dust and was quiet. Conga let it be.
One final time, she heaved. A last wobbly bit of jelly hit the folds of the bathrobe. Conga gave it some quick licks. As soon as it whimpered, she lay back. Her body cramped, but there was nothing left worth pushing for. She was finished.
And she had three live bundles to show for all the hard work.
After a while her body settled down. She scooped her babies close and offered her teats. Moments later she felt the tugs. The soft sounds of sucking competed with her ragged pant.
At nine o’clock in the morning, Billy rushed through the loft door.
Conga regarded him contentedly. Well, her eyes said. It’s about time. She lay back to let the boy admire her babies stuck to their milk straws.
“Conga,” Billy breathed. He ran out of words. The wonder of it put a cork in his throat. He hurried to set out fresh food and water. He scooped up the dead kitten and took it to rest in the quiet of a hollow under the old stable. Then he went back to watch the kittens. They sprawled over each other in a heap, nuzzled close to their mother. One of them had fallen asleep with a high five in the air.
Billy let them be. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, too, propped up on his elbow. The light streaming through the Main Street window painted a rainbow over his face.
Conga got up and had a drink of water. Hungrily, she downed the can of food. On the way back to her bed, she rubbed her cheek along Billy’s hair.
Then she crawled in the nest and cradled her kittens.
SEVENTEEN
Billy never tired of watching the kittens. One was black, one was gray, and one was just like Conga. For the first few days they rolled around blindly. But one day when he walked through the loft door, the little ones looked back at Billy with their eyes wide open.
They were blue eyes.
Billy sat down and put out his hands. “Welcome to the world,” he said.
Salome came to the chapel most nights. Most times she left behind a new sketch. One night she even wrote a note.
That gray kitten will soon be roaming.
Put a board across the stairs.
Billy told Luke about the kittens. The first time Luke climbed to the loft, he stared at the drawings.
“Salome Davies drew those pictures,” said Billy. “You know her. She works at Joxie’s pet store. She’s the girl who ducks behind the fish tanks whenever you walk through the door.”
Luke turned red when Billy said that.
“I could introduce you,” Billy offered.
“I’ve got no time for girlfriends,” Luke grunted. But he couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice when he said, “She’s got a way with a stick of charcoal.”
When Billy had to be home, and Salome was at the store, Luke offered his help. He checked Conga’s water dish and changed her litter. “Never counted on being a nursemaid,” he grumbled. But Billy knew he didn’t mind the extra work.
By now Billy was a regular at Corky’s. His bottle trade was making him money. All of it went to cat food and litter. Joxie shook her head. “Between you and Luke, I’ll be able to retire early.”
“Conga’s eating for four,” Billy told her. He was proud of his cat. Conga never lost patience with her brood — not that her kittens appreciated it. Even when she wanted to have a stretch, they hung on for dear life. They sucked and sucked as if any minute the well would run dry. Sometimes they flopped sideways trying to latch on to a teat. Or they stuck their noses into each other instead of their mom. It seemed as if they could never get enough. Conga let them wriggle and squirm and mewl. She licked off the sweet milk that soaked their bibs and filled their noses. And if they rolled away, she fetched them back.
“She’s a good mom,” Billy told Joxie.
Joxie nodded. “You’re lucky, then. Some mothers don’t seem to bother much with their little ones. They can’t tolerate the burden. They need to be out and about. They still want to be single ladies.”
The chapel had mice. Every once in a while, a foolish one darted across the wooden floor. Conga became a huntress. One night as she was drowsing, the strong smell of rat filled the loft. The hairy brute slithered alongside the boards, and nibbled on the stack of paper cats. Its red eyes stared into Conga’s amber ones.
Conga swelled bigger than a cushion stuck full of pins. The claws on her soft paws snuck out of their sheaths. She sucked in a growl.
T
he rat kept coming. It sidled forward boldly, hugging the wood, scraping the floor with its oily tail, baring its yellow teeth. It had taken on a cat before and won. A meal of new kittens was worth the risk.
Conga didn’t wait for it. She sprang through the air, her nails ready. The rat met her thrust with a savage lunge of his own. Fur flew. A scream tore through the dark loft.
In the morning when Billy arrived, the kittens were nursing. Conga surveyed the boy placidly. The red nick on her ear glistened. As soon as he saw the blood, Billy took a careful look over the chapel, upstairs and down. He found the big rat laid open on the altar. “Conga,” he said after he had buried the body, “I guess you’ve got some jungle left in you.”
Later, Billy told Luke about the rat. And Luke found some talk of his own.
“Snowflake is getting big,” he confided. “Her babies are due soon. When the time comes, Joxie’s going to advertise. If I’m lucky, she’ll find homes for the kittens. Then I’ll have that cat fixed, stop her from having any more.”
They were both quiet for a while before Luke spoke up again. “I’ll help you with your kittens, too. If and when you want. I mean” — he said the last bit in an offhand way — “I mean, we’re friends.”
Billy nodded. He’d think on things for a bit. Soon August would be over. School would start. So far everything was working out.
Course he didn’t reckon on a smokin’ gun.
EIGHTEEN
Johnny Close on Haven Street pulled the gun from the cabinet. His folks were out for the day, and he had a friend to impress. It was an air gun, decked out in army greens. The trigger was made of shiny chrome.
“I got it for Christmas,” he bragged. “It came with cans of air. The air’s already pumped up, so the gun packs real muscle.”
His friend Paul Lacy picked it up. “Wow! You’re lucky. My folks won’t buy me a gun.” He put the weapon up to his eye and pretended to shoot at a poster. “Bam. Bam!” he shouted. “You ever get anything with it?”
Johnny took the gun back. “Nah. But I’ve been down to Lucky’s Shooting Range over in Culversome. I bet I could knock out a squirrel easy.”
The two of them talked about guns for a while. They talked about hunting. Finally Paul said, “Your folks are out. Let’s go find us some game.”
Johnny wasn’t so sure about that. His mother would be hopping mad if she discovered that he’d taken the gun from the cabinet. He shook his head. “The guy in the next house has already picked off the squirrels around here.”
His friend didn’t let up. “I never figured you for a ‘fraidy-cat. Maybe you don’t know how to shoot. You probably never took that gun out. It’s probably not even yours.” He made for the door.
“It’s mine, all right,” Johnny said. “And I can shoot just fine. What have you got in mind?”
Paul turned around. “My dad’s a contractor,” he said. He sounded eager. “The city has hired him to clean up the yard behind that dumpy little church on Main Street. There’s a cat colony out the back of it. His bulldozer is gonna flatten all those cats. My dad says that the city will round them up soon anyway. Let’s pick off a few of the strays right now. It’ll save my dad some trouble.”
Johnny hesitated. “People will see us.”
“Nah,” Paul snorted. “I live over that way. There’s a high fence around the place. The junk shop next door is closed on Mondays. And the folks behind the chapel are ancient. The two of them are deaf as doorknobs. Their backyard is full of trees. Nobody will know.”
Johnny couldn’t make up his mind.
That riled Paul and he started to leave again. “I don’t have all day to stand around while you wuss around. I guess you don’t have any ammo anyway. No way your folks trust you that much.”
Bingo! Johnny got mad. His friend was right. His parents kept the pellets tucked away. But he knew where they were.
“Course I know where they are,” he bragged.
“Well, come on, then,” Paul urged. “You said that your folks were out all day. Stick the gun in your duffel bag and let’s get some cat.”
The more Johnny thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. He put a shirt around his gun and shoved it in a bag. Then he showed his friend where the pellets were hidden. “Don’t take too many,” he warned. “My mom will notice.”
They headed out with the bag. Anybody walking down Main Street would think they were just going to shoot hoops.
Billy was coming along from the other direction. When he got closer, he recognized the boys. They were in his class at school. “Hi,” he said.
Johnny pretended to be confused. “Hey, you know this guy?” he said to his friend.
“Nah,” Paul snorted again. “He looks a bit like our old buddy Billy. You probably don’t remember him. He’s too busy to hang out with his friends anymore. I guess he stays home with his mommy instead.” He turned around and called after Billy. “Hey, if you see Billy, tell him I left a Coke bottle down by the supermarket dumpsters. He’d better hurry on over there before someone else gets it.”
Billy kept on walking. He never looked back.
“Loser!” Johnny jeered.
“Shut up,” Paul said. “He’s all right. His dad and mine are friends.”
When the boys got to the chapel yard, they thought there was some mistake. They didn’t see any cats. They didn’t see the ears or tails. They didn’t see an eye staring through a knothole. It looked more like a split blue glass in a gray storm.
Those two wouldn’t notice a cat waving a red flag.
“Someone piled up the crates by that old stable,” Paul said after a while. “There’s even a bit of rope. Let’s climb up on the chapel roof and look around. We’ll see better from up there.”
They clambered over the stable roof and used Billy’s bathrobe belt to get up to the little balcony. From there, they peered through the branches of the mulberry tree. Nothing in the yard moved.
Johnny was nervous. Once his folks got home, it wouldn’t take them long to spot the space in the gun cabinet. “We’re wasting our time,” he said. “There aren’t any cats down there.”
Paul turned around and tried the doorknob. “Hey,” he said. “This door’s not locked. Let’s go in and look around.” He pushed open the door and squinted into the dim interior of the chapel. Something by the far wall shied away from the light.
Johnny grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him from the doorway. “Look!” he cried. He fumbled in his duffel bag and pulled out the air gun. “There is a cat down there — a white one. It’s by that little house thing.”
It was Snowflake. She had come out of her home in the plant pot to drink some water. Her body cramped. The kittens were on their way. As soon as she heard the boys, she saw her mistake and whipped around.
She didn’t stand a chance.
The shot sounded like a dull thud. Snowflake felt the pellet cut into her flank, tunnel deep through the taut string of muscle. Her leg stopped working but she kept moving. She limped back toward her pot, dragging the dead weight.
“My turn!” yelled Paul. He snatched the gun and fired. The pellet went wide.
Snowflake kept going. She made the shade. She had just a short way to go — ten feet — five….
Johnny grabbed back the gun. “You shoot like a girl,” he laughed.
The pellet landed squarely in Snowflake’s ear just as she reached her little house. Snowflake crawled inside. The day was growing cold.
Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded.
The wail spooked the boys. “Gimme the bag!” Johnny cried. He dumped the gun inside. “Let’s get out of here!”
The two boys scrambled down from the balcony and raced up the chapel alley. As soon as they hit the street, they slowed down. They acted as if they were out for a walk. When they got to the corner store, they went in to buy a drink.
“Johnny,” bragged his friend, “next time we take that gun, I’ll blow one of those cats right out of its hide.”
Johnny shook his head. “Aw,” he scoffed. “You’d better stick to darts.”
Snowflake bled. All her being drained out of the hole in her ear and the hole in her side. She could feel herself leaving. Still, she pushed. She pushed until one white kitten in a sac of light hit the straw. Snowflake couldn’t see her baby, but she searched with her nose. She found the warmth. She licked it clean, her tongue working even as her life seeped away.
Then the world went black.
There was no more time to birth the others. Snowflake and her kittens had to go.
They left the white one behind to do the living.
NINETEEN
Conga flinched from the pop of the gun. As soon as the two boys disappeared, she walked through the loft door and looked over the edge of her world. A long time ago she had faced a hailstorm of gravel in a dead-end alley. The stone-thrower had promised he would get her good.
Now he had found her again. Now he was keeping his word.
She had to save her babies.
Conga grabbed a kitten by the scruff of the neck. The jump to the stable roof was easy. She crawled down the crates and crossed the chapel yard. The colony cats kept to their hidey-holes while she wound between the old barrels and boards. When she reached the fence, she put all her weight on her back haunches and sprang for the rim. The kitten swung lightly from her jaws as she went up and over. She sprinted for the one place in the town where she knew that she could hide her kittens — the coal cellar.
It was under the house behind the chapel.
Once upon a time that house belonged to the chapel. A preacher lived there, crammed in with his wife and six children. For a few coins and a wagon of coal, the preacher led the prayers in the chapel. The money went into the mouths of his children, and the coal went into a little room dug behind the house. A steep tin chute helped the coal fall down. On bitter winter nights, the preacher crept to his basement, opened a door, and shoveled the black rock into a bucket to burn in the kitchen stove. But there was never enough. Gradually the preacher’s heart grew as black and bitter as the coal. One night he packed up his family and disappeared.