The Cat Among Us

by Louise Carson

  Affectionately,

  Geoff Petherbridge

  “Oh, poor Uncle Geoff!” Gerry moaned, leaning her forehead on one hand.

  She left her tea unfinished, pushed both letters back into their envelope, and rushed to the bank, passing the funeral home once more, where the Petherbridges were still holding the visitation. With shaking hands she placed the envelope into her safety deposit box.

  It was only when she got home again and examined the rest of her mail that she found the confirmation of what else she’d suspected.

  Andrew had closed the store for the week, so Gerry knew he’d most likely be free when she invited him over Thursday afternoon. She made a pot of coffee and a fire in the living room and they sat in the rockers by the hearth.

  “Are the funeral arrangements done?”

  He nodded. “It’s Saturday afternoon. Be there?”

  “Of course.” They rocked for a bit. Marigold sat on Gerry while Ronald, to her surprise of all the cats, had climbed onto Andrew. “It’s my mother’s birthday today,” Gerry said in a pensive voice. “She’d be fifty-five.”

  “How old was she when she died?”

  “Forty-four. It’s been eleven years. I can’t believe it.” She stroked Marigold and the little cat shivered.

  “Cats are very therapeutic,” Andrew remarked. Ronald began a robust purr that seemed at odds with his thin frame.

  “Unless they’re hungry and you want to sleep in. Or if they’re barfing hair balls all over the rugs.” Gerry smiled. “No. I agree. Therapeutic. Andrew, I wanted to ask you, will your family be okay financially? What if the life insurance doesn’t pay out?”

  He replied grimly, “Mother will just have to sell her big house and take an apartment somewhere.”

  “But the business, the store — they’re all right?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of selling the store, closing the shop, that is. We only employ old Mrs. Wilson and she’s ready to retire. I’d like to start a design business, source furniture and accessories for people.”

  “That sounds like fun.” Gerry broached the next topic carefully, keeping her voice neutral. “And Margaret?”

  His face became serious. “I think Margaret will be going away. Dad left me a letter — ” he choked up a bit — “in which he expressed how he thought she might be a danger to herself, the boys. And she’s certainly shown signs of that the last few days before Dad died, according to Mother and the boys; either ranting about Aunt Maggie and you, or curling up into a ball. She’s gone into herself since…since the accident. She won’t speak, just stares at nothing. Mother and I agree we’ll have to place Margaret in a residence. Nearby, so we can visit. The boys can’t care for her. Doug will move in with them for a while. After all, it’s his house too, or used to be.”

  Gerry leaned forward and took one of Andrew’s hands. “Andrew, it’s very important you pay attention to what your father thought about Margaret. He also told me he thought she should be put away.” Then she added in a faraway voice. “It’s all very sad. I got a letter, too, yesterday, Andrew, from an independent art appraiser.” She grew pensive as she mused, “I think Margaret knew…” then she brightened. “You’ll never guess what.”

  The funeral was held in the large church near Geoff and Mary’s home. Gerry and Prudence sat among the numerous cousins of the Petherbridge and Coneybear families.

  Afterwards, the church ladies outdid themselves. A magnificent tea was held in the adjacent hall: crustless sandwiches and an endless variety of mouth-watering squares and miniature tarts, rivalling even Prudence’s wonderful caramel treats, were set out on long tables.

  Gerry tried not to overindulge, but smiling ladies kept circulating with trays, urging her to take just one more.

  Margaret did not attend. Gossip was that she’d completely broken down under the strain of losing her father. Gerry listened and nodded, offered nothing in the way of information to any of the gently curious. Perhaps Margaret had always been a trouble to her family, she thought.

  She drove Mr. Parminter and Prudence home and collapsed, completely exhausted, only to see it was time to feed the cats. All were present except Marigold.

  She checked the house. No cat. Then she went outside. Marigold was sitting under the apple tree, looking up into its bare branches. “Hello, sweetheart,” Gerry said, relieved, and reached to pick her up. Marigold evaded her and walked into the garden.

  The cat sat on a flagstone and surveyed her domain. Late purple asters still bloomed and she touched her nose to a few that drooped over the path. She looked beautiful in the autumn garden, her bright white, reddish brown and black providing a focal spot among the perennials dying back to beiges and greys. She circled the sundial, then walked down towards Yalta. Gerry followed.

  Marigold crouched by the ivy-covered fence and looked at the now empty pool, where a few leaves blew, then settled.

  She walked slowly through the gate back onto the lawn and sat again, as if she were trying to make up her mind. Then, ignoring the hydrangea bush, now just a shock of brittle sticks topped with lacy bronze flower heads, she moved towards the wasteland behind the shed and began to creep into a thicket.

  “No, you don’t,” said Gerry, pulling her out. “I’d never get you out of there. Want your supper?”

  When they got back to the kitchen, the hungry horde had finished, but Marigold did not eat. Worried, Gerry kept an eye on her for the rest of the evening, carried her up to bed. Marigold couldn’t settle, jumped off the bed and left Gerry’s room.

  “Fine,” said a weary Gerry to Bob, rolling at her feet. “We’re fine as we are, right, Bob?” He stared at her with his round yellow eyes, gave another mock bite on her feet and went to sleep.

  When she woke, Gerry’s first thought was the cat. Not there, next to her, a warmth nestled into the curve of her belly. Not anywhere downstairs. Must be outside again, she thought, feeding the others, but, when she looked, she couldn’t find her, not even in the thicket between The Maples and the abandoned house next door.

  “That’s funny,” she said to herself, picking burrs off her pants and sweater. She went inside and made coffee, and was going to sit in the living room when she saw the door to the cupboard under the stairs was a bit ajar. “Marigold?” she called as she swung it wide. “Oh, God.”

  She knelt by the little thing, flat as a rag, a small damp patch on the floor under her rear end. She was breathing harshly and her jaw was fixed in a rictus, stiff, lips curled back from the exposed teeth. Her eyes were half-closed.

  Gerry felt a pang of sorrow and guilt and rushed for a towel, scooped Marigold up carefully, wrapped her and cuddled her close. People — and cats — shouldn’t have to die alone, she thought. The cat’s head hung loosely over her arm.

  She got her coffee and a box of tissues and sat in a rocker in the living room talking and crying, telling Marigold what a good cat she was and how much Gerry loved her and how she knew Aunt Maggie had loved her. She leaned over when she said this, so the other cats wouldn’t hear her add two words — “the best.”

  They must have sat there all morning. Around noon, the sun came out and shone into the room and Gerry, having to pee, laid Marigold down on the rug, opening the towel so she could feel the sun on her body. When she got back from the bathroom, it was over.

  She knelt on the rug with her hand on Marigold, checking for another breath; lowered her head to listen for the heart beating; marvelled at death, how it extinguished personality so utterly, leaving only memory; and realized the cat had probably only lived through the morning because of feeling the warmth of her lap, hearing the sound of her voice.

  The other cats had kept their eyes on things, passing through the room while Marigold still breathed, and now, sniffed at her corpse before moving on.

  Gerry made herself another coffee. She wrapped Marigold in the towel but left her o
n the rug and sat in the rocking chair again. There was no rush. She had all afternoon.

  19

  “Buried her under the hydrangea. Put a big stone so nobody digs her up by accident.”

  Prudence wiped her eyes on a tea towel. “Well, I’m very sorry to hear it. Poor little Madame. She was with Maggie for sixteen years. Was probably with her when she died. It’s the end of an era. You won’t need to cook extra chicken anymore.”

  Gerry blew her nose into a tissue. “No. And Lightning looks like she’s making a move to become top cat. There’ve been a lot of hissings and threats uttered. And she almost made it through my bedroom door last night.”

  “Give it time. Give it time. Speaking of which, I think it’s time those cat boxes were emptied and scrubbed. You go buy some cat litter and we’ll get that done today, plus I’ll give that downstairs bathroom a good scrubbing.”

  Gerry saluted and headed off on her mission.

  Lovering was pretty quiet Monday mornings, but she ran into a few people as she went about her errands. They all had a kind word to say about her uncle and she took comfort from that.

  It was in a mellow if sad mood that she climbed the bank steps. Doug was just coming out and held the door for her. “Thank you, Doug. How are you?”

  He appeared awkward. They both stepped aside as an elderly man entered the bank. “I’m staying with the boys, now, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Uh, the cat, Marigold, she died yesterday. I buried her under the hydrangea, you know the one? Her favourite spot.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Listen, Gerry, I’m going to be busy with the boys for a while, so — ” he paused, looking unhappy.

  “Oh, I understand, Doug. You won’t have so much time to work around my house. I get it.” But do I, Gerry wondered? “Doug, I was meaning to ask you, did you leave the perennials uncut on purpose or — ?”

  He nodded. “Maggie liked how it looked with snow on it. Said it was picturesque. There’s a bigger cleanup to do in spring but it’s worth it, she said.”

  “So I’ll see you there in the spring?”

  He looked relieved. “Yeah, yeah. In the spring.”

  So that’s that, she thought a bit sadly, as she entered the bank. When she got home, she unwrapped the paper and string parcel she’d retrieved from her safety deposit box and hung the painting over the sofa in her studio. Then she unloaded the cat litter and piled it outside the bathroom where Prudence laboured. “Prudence, have you got a minute?”

  Prudence appeared. “It’s not going to clean itself, you know!”

  “I know. This way, please.” A mystified Prudence stripped off her rubber gloves and followed her back into the studio. Gerry dragged two chairs to face the sofa. “That black and white chunky-looking painting. Look at it.”

  Prudence looked. “So?”

  “It’s by Paul-Émile Borduas and I have recently been told that it might fetch a half million dollars at auction.”

  Prudence was silent. “That one?” she asked incredulously.

  “He’s a very important French-Canadian artist. Very important.”

  Prudence stood up. “If you say so. Now can I get back to work?”

  “Sit down, Prudence,” said an exasperated Gerry. “Don’t you see what this means? I can give you and Doug raises. I can insulate the house. I could even — ” and here Gerry’s self-employed soul disbelieved for a moment. “I could even take a vacation,” she concluded in an awestruck tone.

  “Good. And I guess it means you can afford to keep those kittens I see Mother carrying across the lawn.”

  “What?” Gerry rushed to the window. There was Mother, proudly bringing a mewling bundle of black and white up to the cat flap. “But I thought she was fixed!” hollered Gerry, running out of the room.

  “Don’t ask me how she does it,” said Prudence, following. “But she finds them. Aw, aren’t they cute?”

  “You can keep one,” said Gerry, shaking her finger at Mother, proudly licking first one and then another of her five new kittens.

  First Cat couldn’t settle. No matter how often she ate, she was always terribly hungry. And the last couple of days, nothing she ate stayed down.

  Her heart beat uncomfortably fast as she circled next to the young woman. She’d tried to leave earlier that day, leave to do what was necessary, but the woman had brought her back.

  Something was happening to her, something important. If only she could get away.

  She jumped off the bed. The woman said something to Second Cat, rolled over and went to sleep.

  Second Cat looked at First Cat steadily. He knew. She left the room on unsteady legs, passing that other calico outside the bedroom door. She knew too, but First Cat couldn’t be bothered with her.

  She hopped down the wide staircase, pausing on each step. She hurt all over. Too tired to go outside, she looked for a place.

  She passed from room to room, aware of the other cats, prowling or watching. They all knew. They looked away as she passed.

  Someone had left the cupboard door open. She went in with a feeling of relief. It was dark. It —

  She felt something soft, then felt herself being lifted up. Presently warm liquid dropped on her fur. There was some sound but mostly there was the sound of her own breathing, harsh and slow.

  Then she felt the warmth and sound withdraw and she was put on something hard. She felt air on her body and the sun and then —

  “Oh, Marigold, you pretty girl. Have you come to be with me?” Familiar arms scooped her up and she felt herself being pressed close to a familiar form. “I’ve been waiting for you. You did very well. So helpful. Such a good cat. You always were the best. You know that, don’t you?”

  And with similar endearments and a purr of pure joy, woman and cat passed on.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE RECIPES

  All the recipes are closely guarded family secrets. Prudence only shared them with Gerry because they’re cousins. But I’m sure, with a little research, you’ll be able to find them yourselves.

  Chocolate chip cookies, blondies

  Cathy’s hors d’oeuvres

  Hot milk cake

  Carrot cake with cream cheese icing

  Apple pie and doo-dads

  Prudence’s wonderful shortbread caramel chocolate squares

  A NOTE ABOUT THE PLANTS

  The quote near the end of chapter 12 about the aconite is from Rodale’s Illustrated Encyclopedia of Herbs, Claire Kowalchuck and William H. Hylton, Editors. Rodale Press, Emmaus, Penn., USA, 1987.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Montreal and raised in Hudson, Quebec, Louise Carson studied music in Montreal and Toronto, played jazz piano and sang in the chorus of the Canadian Opera Company. Carson has published four books: Rope, a blend of poetry and prose set in eighteenth-century Scotland; Mermaid Road, a lyrical novella; A Clearing, a collection of poetry; and Executor, a mystery set in China and Toronto. The Cat Among Us is her second mystery.

  Her poems appear in literary magazines, chapbooks and anthologies from coast to coast, including The Best Canadian Poetry 2013. She’s been short-listed in FreeFall magazine’s annual contest three times, and won a Manitoba Magazine Award. She has presented her work in many public forums, including Hudson’s Storyfest 2015, and in Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, Saskatoon, Kingston and New York City.

  She lives in St-Lazare, Quebec, where she writes, teaches music and gardens.

 

 

 
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