Cat on a Blue Monday

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  Not him. Not anymore. And he had made none of the traditional missteps, had nothing sinful to hide. Perhaps that was his biggest failing. He had been too successfully inhuman.

  Matt shut his eyes in the bright room. He knew his own history like a long-term shrink. He knew the whens, the whats, the whys. The only thing he didn't know was how to escape it, overcome it, resolve it, integrate--in psychobabble jargon--the past with present and future.

  His sexual future was the least of his worries, and now Temple had confronted that in her own inimitable way. He was surprised to find himself smiling in the middle of his sober thoughts. He knew no one--no woman--who could have confronted the issue in that innovative, intuitive way and pulled it off.

  She had literally taken him back in time to a point from which he could now consider a different path. And she'd done it with such a brilliant, whimsical and determined piece of role-playing that to disappoint her and not play along would be like taking a Baby Ruth bar from Shirley Temple. Despite her small size, her youth, her fey good looks that she always felt held her back, Temple was implacably supportive and a very wise old soul in her way.

  For the first time, Matt's eternal, invisible force field of restraint, of distance, of sexual repression, had cracked all at the same instant, and the breakthrough had seemed so natural, so innocent for the fractured seconds of the high-school kiss.

  After Eden came the flaming sword. He winced as he metaphorically peered into the closet in his soul and the emotions Temple had triggered that night peeked out. Some surprised him. Fear, and pride. Fear of acting like a fool, of being bad at something any man his age knew inside and out. Fondness and begrudging gratitude. But no guilt. It was a Perfect Prom for him, too, like the music she had provided that was neither too fast nor too slow, too little or too much, too cold or too hot--a swift trip to the past, with no more pressure than he could handle at the moment.

  Emotions he could control; he had been doing it all hislife. Where emotion and instinct and hormones intersect, though, is a true battleground. He still had hormones, Matt was discovering now that he was alone, despite his long and mostly successful attempts to disown them. The instant they raised their imperative heads, he summoned conscience to beat them back.

  Temple had recently been deserted by a man who had meant a great deal to her, he reminded himself. She was vulnerable; perhaps she was attracted to him precisely because he was certain not to rush her into more than she could handle now. And there was the challenge: women couldn't resist the kind of challenge he represented. And the more they tested him, the more he resisted, as if his life depended on remaining unmanipulated, uncontrolled.

  And then there was that teenage self of his, who longed for love and understanding, who had sacrificed sex in order to be something better than he thought he was and who now, disillusioned to his sensitive, randy soul, was perfectly capable of being just what Temple wanted, because the closet door could burst open now that Father Matt was no longer there to guard it and so much time had been lost, and she was a sweet, mostly safe human being and he could think about taking advantage of her, using her to ease his own way into the real world he had never been part of.

  That realization made him understand the priests who had failed, made him understand that he could still very easily become one of them, despite having left the priesthood.

  Matt opened his eyes to the empty, dazzling-white walls, then went to the bathroom. He knew what he should do now: the seminary cold-shower trick that they all had joked about. "The needles of death.''

  He stripped off his clothes quickly, as if disowning them, but he was not quick enough to avoid glimpsing his bare body in the long slit of mirror on the bathroom door. He avoided seeing himself in mirrors, dressed or undressed. Being a stranger to himself was part of being a mentor to everybody else. But for a split second, he saw himself as someone else, a true stranger, and he glimpsed for the first time what others might find attractive in his face and body, what a woman might be drawn to.

  The insight scalded him with unwanted intimacy with himself. He was used to thinking of himself as the edited outline of a man, like the male figure sent into space by NASA, genitals diplomatically erased like evidence of an unfortunate malformation, as in so many images of modern men. Today's vaunted sexual frankness built its bawdyhouse on the same foundation of nineteenth-century prudery and shame upon which the church had erected its sexual orthodoxy.

  He stepped into the deep white bathtub and reached for the shower knob, an old-fashioned porcelain ship's-wheel shape with the word "COLD" printed at its center--cold water like a dash of reality, shriveling, almost painful. But he wasn't in the seminary anymore. He reached instead for the knob marked "HOT" and turned it slowly.

  It came out cold at first anyway. As it warmed, he fed in some cold until hot, flaming swords of water flogged him and steam rose and hissed all around him, fogging the long mirror on the door and the square mirror on the medicine chest.

  When he picked up the bar of soap from the built-in holder, he could have sworn that for a moment he smelled gardenias.

  Chapter 40

  Louie Dines on Crow

  At last I have the old place to myself again, and can look forward to having my delightful roommate to myself, too. A gentleman needs the presence of a person of the female persuasion, especially if she is unrelated to him.

  Miss Temple Barr has been gadding about a bit of late with Mr. Matt Devine, and although I am pleased at the absence of the troublesome Caviar, I am more than somewhat miffed when Miss Temple Barr comes home wearing a particularly sumptuous gown, whose full skirt would make a most pleasing bed, and rushes right past me without a word.

  She does not even check the Free-to-be-Feline bowl, and I have been gracious enough to show my approval of my exclusive residency by actually gumming a few of the pellets down!

  I repair to the bedroom to find her sitting on the bed. I would leap joyfully into that inviting lap, but Miss Temple Barr has her hands on her lap, which normally would not stop me--she can move them--but they are holding some sort of hair collar and affixed to it are two pale floral blooms that broadcast the most revolting odor I have ever encountered.

  Miss Temple Barr shows no inclination to change her position or throw away the reeking growths. In fact, her olfactory faculties must have hit a down day, for she sits there smiling and actually raises the abominations to her nose.

  I do understand that persons of her species are sadly lacking in nasal abilities, but this is ridiculous. To further add to my impression that she has become completely unhinged, she then gets up and goes into the kitchen.

  I follow quickly, expecting some tender treat from the meat drawer in the refrigerator.

  Apparently her eyes have also been affected by this strange malady, for she opens the refrigerator and puts the foul flowers inside. Then she closes it without selecting a tidbit for me.

  I have not witnessed such irresponsible behavior in years. I am forced to express myself, at which she looks down at me with a fond smile.

  "Louie," she says, as if seeing me for the first time, as if I have not always been there but jumped out of the refrigerator or something. "Are you happy now with Caviar gone?"

  I would be happier with some caviar in front of me.

  Miss Temple moves to the opposite counter and fusses with something. My hopes perk up.

  She turns while emptying a thermos container into a tumbler. A dark, bloodlike liquid crests in the glass before she stops. Then she picks up the small box that plays music and returns to the bedroom--all the while without feeding me anything.

  After a slow, shocked start, I race after her.

  Miss Temple Barr is bending over the bedroom stereo machine, which she has not used since my arrival, although I see a dusty stack of Vangelis cassettes piled beside it that I suspect are among the last traces of the vanished Mystifying Max.

  Instantly a blast of loud, rhythmic so-called music is pouring into the
room. I am not against music, but I lean to improvisational jazz in an outdoor setting; indoors, I prefer something smooth and classic that aids the digestion, like harp solos.

  This is not either. How is a dude to sleep with such a racket going on?

  I can see that this is not Miss Temple Barr's worry. She is busy removing her garments, without bothering to remove herself from my presence, which is once again forgotten.

  I turn my back, which courtesy she overlooks.

  When I next see her, she is not wearing the usual Garfield T-shirt, which I abhor (that could be my kisser on every chest in America!). Perhaps she wishes to make amends, and I must say that this filmy garment will go far to accomplishing exactly that, and I am not of the same species even.

  Miss Temple Barr sings along to the tape while she performs her evening ablutions in the bathroom. I never like to witness humans at the act of cleaning themselves. They make such a mess of it and use so many unnecessary implements when a good, long lick would do as well and is always available in every circumstance.

  On occasion I attempt to demonstrate my methods to Miss Temple Barr, but she mistakes my grooming lesson for affection.

  She turns off the lights and occupies the bed.

  Under the cover of darkness, I leap up and decide to investigate what might have driven her slightly mad. Cautiously, I sniff along her arm and discern the lingering scent of the awful flowers.

  I am not against greenery, being a connoisseur of the catnip variety, but these stinky pale flowers are dangerous.

  I had hoped to hear a word or two dropped about the case, but will obviously hear no more than these lovesick wailings on the stereo. I am beginning to think that my, er, purported relative is right in the belief that a simple operation can remove many of the compulsions of the single life.

  So I am left to muse on my own affairs, which recently included a visit and report to the landlady's companion, Karma.

  I tell Her Sacredness that her predictions do not have much relevance. When I tell her the name and profession of the criminal, she interrupts me with an imperious mew.

  "A lawyer, you say? It was in the Tarot."

  "You mentioned all sorts of high-toned occupations: Empress, and this here Hierophant, but no lawyers."

  "But I told you that Libra was a key. Do you not see? Libra's symbol is the scales."

  "I like fish myself."

  "No, that is Pisces, you fool."

  "I thought the Fool was one of your fancy cards."

  "It is. The scales that represent Libra is that metal instrument used to weigh goods--"

  "Aw, why did you not say so in the first place? I have seen the like in several meat shops."

  "And," she adds with a triumphant little tail shake that I do not find at all alluring, but

  then, she is not my type, which is unusual as I am a pretty liberal dude usually in such matters. "And . . . the scales are used as the symbol of justice. So there is your lawyer predicted by the cards, if you were intelligent enough to see it."

  "Your cards always predict what has already happened," I grumble. "What else do you claim?"

  "Your account is full of Father Hernandez. I told you the Hierophant would be a key figure."

  "He did not do that much, except hide out a lot and indulge in unpriestly behaviors, like drinking."

  "Also the card of Temperance showed up. It is astonishing how much the cards tried to tell. They cannot be blamed if the recipient is deficient. Or simply deaf to the spiritual."

  "The Tarot cards did not mention anything about me being bagged by a dude who wanted to turn me into a decorative wall hanging."

  "The cards spoke. You did not listen."

  Apparently, Karma is not too strong in the listening department, either.

  I shake my head and slink off. I must admit, however, that I have been instrumental in resolving the fate of dozens of cats, as duly predicted. Had I not been sniffing around Mr. Matt Devine and the Tyler house, had I not been nabbed, who is to say that the murderer of Miss Tyler might have gone undetected and the money might not have finally come to its rightful inheritors--cats and Catholics?

  As I work my way down two floors to my own abode, where I anticipate a fond reunion with Miss Temple Barr, I reflect on some disturbing words from my departing, er, alleged offspring.

  Although I am much relieved to see the industrious Miss Electra Lark gathering Caviar's belongings into a pile preparatory to moving out the whole kit and kaboodle, my joy is short-lived.

  Just before she is swooped up by Miss Electra Lark and borne elsewhere, I care not where, she manages to whisper a parting phrase in my shell-like inner ear.

  "It is a good thing," she says, "that I left a message about your whereabouts for Miss Temple Barr while you were being detained by a burlap bag."

  "You? You left a message? How?"

  "Some sleight of paw with a newspaper and the Free-to-be- Feline. You really should eat that stuff. Not only is it excellent nutritionally speaking, but it literally saved your hide."

  "Naw," I say. "You have not got the street smarts to start manipulating people in this shameless manner. It takes years to develop the skill."

  "Maybe," she says in an ignorantly cruel parting shot, "it runs in the feline family."

  Happy as I am to see the last of her tail, I am equally morose to remain alone to await Miss Temple, while I contemplate the fact that the lady sometimes known as Midnight Louise may be righter than she knows. She might indeed be kin.

  Even now as I lie on my own bed and relive my humiliating recent conversations of the cat kind, I am jerked out of my reverie when Miss Temple Barr rolls over on me like a petite ton of bricks. She is exceedingly restless tonight.

  Her hand clutches my belly fur, then tickles me.

  "Perfect," she murmurs in a sleepy, sappy voice.

  At least she has finally given me my due. I am at last able to slip off to Lullabye Land, where it is no surprise to find myself dreaming of carp, caviar, catnip and crime.

  Tailpiece

  Midnight Louie Objects

  I am nit one to complane, since I am well aware that this iz knot a becoming posture. But I have knot been treeted in a flattering manner in this pease of outwright fixshun.

  Number one, I waz left languizhing in the literal bag at the clymaxx, when I actually had

  the situashun well under control and waz about to spring a surprize exit on the perpatraitor and leed a lejion of catz to Miss Temple's resque. If she had not taken matterz into her own pretty little feet and made like Nansi Ninja, I cud have performed my custamary rezcue operashun with my usual elan, instead of being depicted as gooffy and foggy and in kneed of artifishial oxygen. This iz the true fixshun!

  Franklee, I have been ill-treeted by the females of all speeshees in this book.

  First, Miss Temple Barr showz unpressadented indifferens to my wants, kneeds and even my whereabowts until the very end. I do not thing that her obsesshun with Mr. Matt Devine bodes well for eether of them, or for my well-being.

  Second, I am subjeckted to the metafizzical mewlings of the know-it-a!! (espesheally after eventz have unwownd) Karma, Miss Electra Lark's undercover psykkic lady Birman.

  Third, I am confronted with the pateete but hostil Caviar, aka Midnight Louise, tresspessing on my own turff and on my own name, which has a sertin cashay in thiz town and a sertin fame (well-dezerved) far beyond it.

  Besidez espousing some noxsheous notions, this Midnight Louise individual showz dizturbing signz of hanging arownd. Do I sniff spin-off here? I can only hope that she will distrackt Mr. Matt Devine long enuff to keep him aweigh from Miss Temple, or vice versa, but I am not sangwine (espesialee after my forced blood-doner duty).

  Even my blue-ribban performance at the cat show has been made lite of!

  I am az mad az he!! and I will not fa'ke' take it anymore.

  Midnight Louie, his mark

  (not made in ink this time! You figure it out}

  Carole N
elson

  Douglas Rejects

  Louie, Louie, Louie ....

  Often, in the heat of finishing a book, I inadvertently leave the computer on overnight.

  When I do, I return in the morning expecting the pleasure of printing out my full opus, only to find that Midnight Louie has lived up to his name and has left what an acerbic friend of mine calls a ''love note."

  It pains me to reveal that Louie uses a somewhat heavy paw when tripping over the keyboard. I usually "clean up" his typographical errors, not to mention his many misspellings.

  Despite his innate intelligence and formidable vocabulary (even his grammatical airs, I could say), his education was strictly on the street. This time, given the nature of his complaints, I have reproduced his endeavors uncensored.

  You can see why I am named as sole author of these exercises: printed unedited, Louie's portions would be incomprehensible except to fanatical cipher-solvers.

  As for the throng of his complaints, only one deserves comment: at one time--in fact, at most times in the history of the world--the male of every species won applause for propagational performance. But times have changed. Not only are modern minds aware of the horrors of overpopulation, but modern female minds are all too aware that their assigned role in this scheme of things was exploitive of them.

  The mathematical chances of a gentleman of the old school--like Louie--encountering one of his many unacknowledged offspring are staggering, as are the numbers of offspring one tomcat can sire in even a short lifetime. We are talking thousands here.