The Cat Among Us

by Louise Carson

  “Someone of poisoning her. You think Marigold tipped over the teacup to show you there was something dangerous inside. Like the wasp.”

  Marigold had finished grooming, delicately picked her way between the sodden paper towels and cups over to Gerry, hopped down off the table into her lap, kneaded a bit, curled and closed her eyes. Both women stared at her, their mouths open.

  “Tell no one about this,” cautioned Prudence. “They’ll think I’m senile and you’re a crazy cat lady.”

  Gerry nodded, her brain fizzing with possibilities. The kitchen timer buzzed and they both jumped before Prudence went to check the blondies. Gerry sat and finished her tea, gazing blankly at nothing. Somewhere, a wasp buzzed.

  Gerry added a little black to the white pigment and played with it until she got the desired grey. Once again, she was working at the puzzle of how to paint white. The flower, a perfect example of Datura suaveolens, or Angel’s Trumpet, rested in a vase on a small table in the bamboo room. She wanted the demarcation between the gold bamboo of the wall below and the pale green painted wall above to be exactly two-thirds of the way up the finished composition.

  She was absorbed in her task. The house was silent. A little blue now, she thought, and reached for the tube, when — beep, beep, beep, beep — there was the sound of wood cracking, a shouted “Stop!” She heard men’s voices murmuring and an idling motor.

  “What the — ?” She put down the paint and peered out the front window, but the ivy got in the way. All she could see was part of a large yellow object. “Oh, my God, there’s been an accident!” She rushed out the front door of the house.

  Her white wooden fence was gone, under the backhoe, which partially blocked the road. Two giant men, one middle-aged, one young, stood looking at her sheepishly. A pickup truck was parked on the shoulder across the road, further impeding traffic. Cars inched through the narrow gap along the centre line, their drivers glaring.

  “Hoo-boy,” she said. “Hudsons, I presume?”

  They nodded. The younger one mounted the backhoe and began to reverse while his elder halted traffic. Gerry couldn’t bear to watch. She hoped they had insurance, because they owed her a fence. Grimly, she went inside.

  She spent the day counting cats. She blocked the cat flap, trying to keep them inside. Lightning, the mostly black calico with the blaze running down her savage-looking nose, was particularly incensed. Suspecting a trap, she put her ears back and hissed at Gerry and the other cats alike. Finally, Gerry chased her with a broom into the little kitchen and stood looking down at the demented creature. “Right!” she bellowed. “I’ve had enough of you. We’re going to sort this out right now, or by God, I’m going to throw you under the backhoe!”

  Appalled at herself, Gerry stopped yelling and dropped the broom. The backhoe sounded as if it was next going to come through a wall of the house. Gerry crouched and took a good look at the beast, backed into a corner. “So, you’re a calico like the Princess out there, which means you probably need to be Top Cat, but she’s already it, so you’re frustrated. I can understand that. What did Aunt Maggie see when she looked at you?”

  Gerry looked into the cat’s eyes and penetrated past the anger, the wildness, to a sad and lonely place. “Oh, kitten, I’m sorry. Here, have some of Marigold’s chicken.” She put a bit on a plate and pushed it toward the cat. It ate, growling the whole time, and she got a good look at its tail.

  There wasn’t much more than a flap of fur covering deep scars that ran down from the base of her spine to her back feet. The scars were white and the fur hadn’t grown back. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry for you. You had a bad injury once, I see that. I promise I’ll be more patient.” Gerry opened the kitchen door and the cat scooted back into the living room.

  “Wow! I’m glad nobody witnessed that. I almost killed one of the cats, fulfilling part of Margaret’s rumour.” She made herself lunch and automatically went to the back porch to eat it.

  The work of ripping up a quarter of her lawn had ceased, and the Hudsons were peering into the hole. What now? Gerry thought, and walked around to where they were looking. The older Hudson croaked, “A tiny hand,” and Gerry felt her heart jolt. Had they found a dead baby buried in her garden? She looked fearfully down in the hole.

  “Where?” she said tremulously. Hudson Sr. pointed and she followed the direction. There, as if waving from an earthen grave, was a ceramic hand, about a half inch long. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Gerry, “Just dig it out. It broke and someone threw it away.”

  Hudson Jr. jumped into the hole and stuck one enormous hand into the muck under the ceramic. He lifted, and through the ooze they could see the lady was intact. They hosed her off and then, and only then, Gerry picked her up. It was Royal Doulton — a Highland lassie in a cream dress, with a green tartan plaid flung over one shoulder. “Well, I’ll be,” said Gerry.

  The men got back to work while Gerry walked slowly back to her uneaten lunch, turning the figurine over and over. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone bury a perfectly good object?

  Back in her studio, she put the lady on the mantel and tried to concentrate on her painting. She was already thinking ahead to a spring show when she’d have more work for sale. Flower portraits were one of the things she thought might sell. People might like them for their bedrooms, even a bathroom. Which reminded her.

  Outside again, she waved at Hudson Sr. and he came over. “When will you be finished?”

  “What?” He cupped his ear.

  “Finished. When?” she shouted.

  “Oh. Drop the tank tomorrow, cover it up. Three, four o’clock tomorrow?”

  Gerry smiled at him through gritted teeth. “Thank you.” Of course. The backhoe would be grinding tomorrow afternoon all during her first art class.

  She went inside and removed a blondie from a tin. Damn, these were good!

  The gods of the arts must have taken pity on her because she woke at seven the next morning to the beep, beep, beep, beep of something large being backed onto her property. She leaned out of her bedroom’s front window. A big flatbed holding a weird giant container was jackknifed, as its driver attempted his manoeuvre. The Hudsons were directing him, while traffic was stopped both ways.

  Gerry quickly withdrew her head. “Nothing to do with me,” she said to the cats. “Let them get on with it.” She’d finished the cat chores when Prudence arrived.

  “Good thing I walk, otherwise I’d be waiting down by the church hall, traffic’s so backed up!” She got the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard under the servants’ stairs and set to.

  Gerry took her coffee into her studio and did a final tidy, all the while assessing the noise level happening a few feet beyond the room’s wall, mostly men shouting and the hum of the flatbed’s motor. Caught between that and the vacuum cleaner’s drone, and unable to go outside, the cats were jumpy. “One more day, guys, I promise, then things should be back to normal.”

  She decided to offer her students several objects to sketch. She hoped Marigold would honour the class with her presence but that was out of her control. She arranged the Royal Doulton lady, the vase of datura, a pile of old books, and a pair of candlesticks on the room’s mantel, and placed six chairs in a semi-circle facing that. She, too, would sketch, rising from time to time to observe and comment.

  The sound of the vacuum cleaner had stopped and she heard — nothing but the birds and insects outside her window. She went for a cautious look.

  The Hudsons’ early start had paid off. The tank was in, the soil had been backfilled around it, and they were gone. Prudence joined her and they ruefully looked at the ruined half of the yard. What was left of the fence was stacked in one corner. Part of the perennial garden was gone and the ground, though flattish, was uneven, sandy in some spots, packed clay in others. “The cats are going to track all that into the house,” Prudence observed grimly.


  “Keep them in for the rest of today. After the class is over, it doesn’t matter. Meanwhile, I’m going to call Doug. I’ve got to get this fixed up quick.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Prudence, “you have one hour to eat and change and then you’re teaching. I’ll call Doug. We need topsoil and turf and a new fence. Right?”

  “Right,” said Gerry, and dashed away, pausing only to flush the downstairs toilet and yell “Yay!” before rushing upstairs to shower. She grabbed a sandwich and was sweeping construction mud and gravel off the front driveway when the first student arrived. “Hellooo,” she said graciously and showed them where to park.

  Judy Parsley she knew, of course, but the others were strangers. Christine Carder, a tall old lady with a stiff neck and white hair beautifully piled on her head, introduced herself as having known Aunt Maggie quite well and wasn’t it a shame she’d died so young. Fifty-five is maybe still middle age, thought Gerry, but it’s certainly not young!

  The next two arrived together, a pair of late middle-aged ladies with nicely dyed hairdos and immaculate makeup. Gerry vaguely recognized them from around the village. They were friends: Doris Pirrie and Gladys Knill.

  She was just shepherding them in the front door when a smart car drove up and out jumped a short thin man, balding, with glasses. “Sorry, sorry. Almost late. Ben Lymbery. Ben Lymbery. Ben Lymbery.” He repeated his name to each person with whom he shook hands, and when he got to Gerry the second time, she called a halt.

  “If you’d like to go through, we’re just to the right.”

  There were “oos” and “ahs” of pleasure and admiration as they filed into the majestic, dark entranceway and then the cool, bright studio and took their seats. Gerry stood in front of the fireplace. “I’m Gerry Coneybear and I’m really happy to welcome you to your first art lesson — with me, that is. I know Judy has taken art before. Anyone else?” The ladies shook their heads. “Mr. Lymbery?”

  “I took an evening class at the junior college a few years back but didn’t enjoy the night driving.”

  Gerry paused, waiting to hear if he had anything further to say that was pertinent to art. He didn’t. “Well,” she continued brightly, “no night driving here. Everyone got their sketch pads and pencils?” They held them up. “Perfect.” She stepped to one side, revealing the massed objects behind her. “Let’s begin.”

  An hour and a half later there was a gentle tap at the door. Gerry clapped her hands. “If you would like some refreshments for, say, fifteen minutes, please follow me.” They moved back into the foyer, past the downstairs bathroom and through the screen door onto the porch. More gasps of pleasure ensued when they saw the back garden, the lake, the far shore. “At a future lesson, I’d like us to sit on the lawn and sketch this view,” she said, quickly taking two blondies and a cup of tea.

  “How marvellous,” said Christine, “that you’re continuing the tradition of Coneybears at The Maples.”

  “Oh, there’s no shortage of Coneybears,” mumbled Gerry, her mouth full of blondie.

  “But living here, keeping such a big old house going — it’s a great undertaking.” Christine looked worried.

  “I understand that, Christine, and I’ll do my best.” Christine seemed satisfied and took a cookie.

  “Did you bake these?” asked Doris. “They’re really good.”

  Gerry nodded. Ben piped up, “A woman of many talents.” Gerry smiled graciously. It was really going very well.

  At the end of the class, she knew what she had. Judy and Christine had some innate talent; the other three would have to be coaxed along. They seemed happy enough and it was a triumphant Gerry who helped Prudence feed the cats at the end of the day. “You were right about the baking, Prudence. They loved it. What shall we make next week?”

  Prudence smiled. “Cake.”

  PART 3

  HORTICULTURE

  First Cat woke slowly, hearing a familiar voice. She uncurled from her position next to the young woman’s chest and stretched. She looked past a sleeping Second Cat to the bedroom doorway. The other woman, the first woman, stood there smiling and beckoning.

  First Cat jumped off the bed and followed her downstairs and through the dining room. A few of the sleeping cats stirred, the fur rising on their backs, but when they saw who it was, they relaxed.

  The cat pushed through the cat flap and into the garden as the woman melted through the wall. A heavy dew was on the lawn and the woman laughed silently to see the little cat lift and shake each wet paw fastidiously.

  They walked up and down the various paths through the perennial garden. The woman paused to inspect where fresh sod had been laid over the broken ground. A sprinkler flicked water, keeping the grass alive.

  She seemed perplexed by the slight reconfiguration of the perennial beds and paused, searching. First Cat sat on a flagstone near the sundial and watched.

  The woman made her decision, stood, or floated rather, by one particular plant, one of the ones First Cat had sniffed at earlier that summer. The woman pointed and made first digging, then pulling motions with her hands.

  First Cat began to dig around the plant. It was tall with violet-blue flowers that looked as misty and insubstantial as the woman. Her illness made her weak and she had to stop and rest several times, though the woman urged her on.

  Finally, she felt the roots give, and the plant slowly toppled over.

  The woman seemed satisfied, made stroking motions with her hands, her mouth smiling and appearing to say the cat’s name. The little cat arched her thin back, hoping to feel the familiar caress, but the woman walked away down the lawn, drifted above the rocky shore and onto the water, where she became just another ripple on the surface of the lake.

  The cat, covered in mud, sat by the plant and howled.

  10

  Somehow Doug had wangled a load of topsoil to be delivered the day after the art class, and he and Gerry had spent the afternoon spreading it as evenly as possible while Bob, the boys, and assorted cats zoomed in and out of the mess, stimulated by the sudden change in the topography. The more cautious cats sniffed around the edges of the work area. The day after that the sod arrived, and they’d worked hard again unrolling it and pushing one strip tight up against the other. Gerry, who saw money evaporating before her eyes, begged Doug to tell her how to repair the part of the garden that was wrecked, and he explained about lifting perennials, splitting the roots and shifting the plants around.

  “See, all these day lilies, all these purple cone flowers — big plants — can be divided into four or five new plants. The phlox too. It’s not difficult, just hard work.”

  “I’ll do it this weekend,” sighed Gerry, enjoying an iced tea while sitting sprawled on the lawn. Her clothes and rubber boots too filthy to allow her in the house, she’d left drinks and snacks on the kitchen porch.

  “Just remember to water the hole before you plant, and then water the plants every day for about a week. The days are cooler now, so they should be fine.”

  “Okay. Thank goodness the art show is still two weeks off. Maybe the landscape will be relatively restored by then. I was meaning to ask you, would you like to exhibit a piece of your art outside? I think it would be neat to look out the windows at night and see neon on the lawn.”

  Doug frowned. “I have some small pieces ready, prototypes, but nothing large.”

  “We could put them on pedestals, say, the sundial, or on rocks by the water’s edge.”

  “I’ll think about it, and thank you for asking. I’d better get going.”

  “Thanks for all your help. I hope this is the end of my string of house disasters.”

  He laughed. “Old house, new house. There’s always something. Bye, Gerry.” He got into his canoe and paddled away.

  She rose and surveyed all their hard work. She’d enjoyed it, mostly, but especially enjoyed the thought of the hot
bath that was to be her reward. She shed most of her clothes outside the backyard screened porch and padded in bare feet, shirt and underpants into the house and upstairs. As she soaked, her mind returned to thinking about the teacups Marigold had knocked over. It was like pressing on a sore tooth with her tongue; whenever she wasn’t distracted, she found her thoughts going there.

  Marigold was not a whimsical cat. If it had been Bob tipping teacups, Gerry would have put it down to his sense of humour and switched to using only mugs.

  But Marigold was a serious cat, undistracted by catnip mice, crumpled aluminum foil balls, or even the moths and crickets that the other cats batted at or chased. If she tipped two teacups, she had a reason, possibly two reasons.

  Both times, she had been trying to show Prudence something. And Prudence had noticed, but it had only had real meaning after Marigold tipped the second cup.

  Both women had agreed that it might mean there was something wrong with Maggie’s last cup of tea. But what?

  Gerry sighed. They didn’t have enough information and really no idea as to what to do next. They’d agreed to wait and think, but not to forget.

  She spent Saturday in gardening clothes, thinking about colours as she shifted the yellows, purples, creams and whites around. It was soothing, creative and unbelievably time-consuming, as well as tiring, but she finished late afternoon, and called Cathy to see if there was room for one more at her dinner table.

  Cathy sounded harassed. “I’m sorry, Gerry. I’m doing a candlelight supper for two, for a couple who are staying here, and my cheese and spinach soufflé just collapsed.”

  “Oh, I understand, Cathy. Sorry to bother you.” Gerry stood with the phone in her hand, looking across the road. Andrew’s car was parked there, so he was probably at home. She hesitated.

  She hadn’t felt good about Andrew since the horrible BBQ. He’d left her alone with his female relations, despite her expressing doubts about them. He must really loathe his mother; though, judging by the fact that he’d invited Margaret out to eat, he must still be trying with her. Who was she to judge? She had no siblings. She rehung the phone on its receiver and rooted in the fridge. A sandwich, a few cookies. And there was always the pile of papers waiting upstairs in the office.