by Clea Simon
Perhaps I doze, the rocking motion of her stride as lulling as a mother’s tongue. Perhaps that marvelous aroma serves to confuse my senses. Perhaps I am simply old. All I know is that I wake with a start when the girl halts, frozen outside her door. She has crossed the city and climbed the stairs, all without my knowledge. Now, every hair alert, I poke my head up, the better to take in the sounds and smells around me. The hall is dark, the building quiet. But it should not have taken the girl’s sudden stop to alert me to the truth: the door to our office is ever so slightly ajar. Someone waits inside.
THREE
‘Who’s there?’ Before I can scramble down, the girl has made her move. I wince as I hit the floor, less from my sore leg than from her voice. Better to find out what one can before announcing one’s presence, I would tell her. But she is no longer my pupil, not in any way that matters. And she has not my natural aptitude for analyzing the world around us.
‘I know you’re in there.’ I sniff, mouth open, sampling the air. And as she readies to kick the door, I slink past her, tail held high. ‘Blackie?’ I hear her whisper, confused but not – I am glad to see – for long. Following my lead, she pushes the door gently. It has been broken, like so much of this building, and does not latch securely. Still, it swings open quietly enough. Quietly enough to not wake the ragged figure sleeping on the couch.
‘Tick?’ She barely breathes the name.
The figure on the sofa stirs and mutters, still caught up in a dream. But that suffices, and all caution gone, the girl rushes forward to embrace the slight figure.
‘What?’ He jerks awake, flipping as he does to face us. His face is white beneath its grime, his eyes wide with horror and with fright. ‘Care.’ He sees her, and relaxes, collapsing back into repose.
‘Tick, where have you been?’ She squeezes in beside him, as he pulls his feet up, staring as if she would feast upon his face. ‘It’s been – a while.’
Days, she could have said. Weeks, perhaps, as these two measure time. Only I can hear the tension in her voice. She is holding back, restraining herself as one does with a wild creature, so as not to scare it off.
‘Don’t, Care.’ He sits up and rubs his eyes. He does not see how she bites her lip, as if such an act could contain her words. ‘You know I’m working now. It’s easier if I stay near the plant – with the other guys.’
She nods in sad acknowledgment. She would not have him labor at the factory, so young and slight. Still, she knows he does so willingly, which is more than many in this world can say. And that he is paid, though little enough, and takes some pride in earning.
‘I’m just – something’s brewing, Tick. I don’t know what, but I’m not easy.’
‘Care—’ he starts to interrupt.
‘No, listen, Tick. I had a job.’ She tells him, then, the rough outline of the night before. I study him as he listens. He’s not surprised, this boy, though his face lights up as she describes the burning plank.
‘Must have been something,’ he says, the sound of wonder in his voice. He has missed – or ignored – the concerns she has outlined about the doings on the waterfront. About the activity she has seen. She looks deflated at his response, though I do not understand why she would have hoped for more.
‘Have you eaten?’ She shakes off her disappointment, and her mood lifts as his face lights up. Before he can respond, she is already rummaging through her sack, pulling out the foodstuffs.
‘I can pay you back,’ he says. She smiles, keeping her mouth closed. Again, a point of pride. She is learning, this girl, how in this straitened city, the spirit may be sustained by self-esteem. And as he tucks his feet beneath him, I leap to my accustomed post on the sofa’s high back. From here I watch as they eat in what becomes a companionable silence, the shared refreshment salving the wounds of desertion and distrust.
‘So, can you stay?’ She has begun to clean up, the question tendered only as she looks away and begins to wrap the remainder of the cheese.
‘Just for tonight.’ He knows that he has hurt her. That she worries. There is shame in his voice, which sinks low. ‘I wanted to see you, Care.’
She turns, partly. She can hear in his voice as well as I that he has left this sentence hanging. I do not believe she perceives the other signs of his recent activity. Or if she does notice the change in wear of his threadbare pants, the nature of the dirt on his feet and beneath his nails, she refrains from comment. This boy’s condition has evolved since last she saw him. If he labors still in the factory, the garment workshop where cheap goods are made for export, then his duties have altered. It is a riddle I do not know how to read, and so I wait too to hear what this boy will say.
‘To let you know.’ He’s waiting, and she can sense that. Putting the cheese high up in the cabinet – unaware, as she does, that it is not her caution that keeps our stores safe from gnawing teeth – she returns to sit beside him, her eyes on the eager face turned up towards her. ‘I’ve been promoted,’ he says, the pride apparent in his voice. And something more, as well. ‘I’m not a runner. I mean, I’m off the floor. No more switching bobbins and spools anymore.’
She nods and smiles, acknowledging his growth.
‘They trust me. Now.’ His voice fails, but no further words are needed. It was Care, in truth, who exposed his former boss. Revealed his treachery and brought him down. But the boy was instrumental as well, and also kept his quiet – held his tongue – in the flurry of investigation that followed. The fact that he remained, a willing worker, says a lot and speaks, I believe, more to the values taught by the girl than to any ingrained character of his own. Still, it has paid off, apparently, in a position of increased responsibility.
‘I go on errands,’ he explains. ‘I’m fast and I know my way around. You’re right that there’s things going on now. They need to keep in touch.’ That he’ll come back is the unspoken trait they likely prize most. ‘And, Care, I see things for myself. Hear them, too.’
She bites her lip again, and I can smell the blood. She is waiting, as am I, for the substance of his message. For confirmation …
‘AD is back,’ he says, at last, the words tumbling forth. ‘I saw him. I didn’t believe it, but it’s true. He got away, and he’s asking questions. He’s looking for you, Care. AD is looking for you, and I’m scared.’
On the last words, his voice falls away. The eyes that look up, dark and large, blink back tears. And finally, he is once again the boy Care knows and loves. Too young for such problems and to survive such a life.
‘Oh, Tick.’ She says no more, whether out of circumspection or circumstance, I cannot tell. For with those simple syllables, she opens up her arms, and he goes to her. One sob is all he lets loose, the habit of fear and silence quieting him as much as the comfort of her embrace. Still, she holds him, until his breathing slows and lengthens and once more he sleeps, reclining in her arms. Only then does she release him, to lay him gently back on the sofa. Only then does she cover him with the old coat that serves as her blanket. She pauses then to take in his face, grown soft in slumber, before returning to the desk – her desk, my desk – and to the papers that she studies to explain her fate.
She has been trained, this girl, in what to notice. With discretion unusual in one so young, she marks down what she sees and what she hears, noting not only what is told her, for her consumption, but also what she perceives of other, hidden motives. Of such elements is her tradecraft built, a discipline she carries on despite the loss of her onetime mentor, of her friend, for though he – I – watches over her still, she knows it not. It was that mentor who taught her the value of information, which mayhap explains her reticence with the boy. It was this mentor who taught her the importance of what is missing – the words not said, the questions not asked – in the search for accuracy. That is, I believe, what she does now, although I, in this feline form, can only imagine what she sees.
‘They’re building.’ Her voice is soft, her words meant for no other’
s ears. But they wake me, and suddenly, all is clear. It is not AD who concerns her now, not even with the boy’s warning. No, it was the raw board, broken and discarded, that fed the fire which has occupied her mind. The steady pounding in the enclosure. I, for all my acuity, missed the obvious, this city having fallen into such decrepitude as to make any such construction rare. Or no, I catch myself. The fault is mine, having been too long removed from the ways of men, I did not piece together the lumber and the noise with any sight the girl may have spied in her brief glimpse inside the enclosure walls.
Building. I mull the term, so foreign to me now. And if the word is not as unfamiliar to these children, the concept must be. Shelter being what we find. Beside me, on the sofa, the boy sleeps, his side rises and falls beneath the wool of the long coat. We need no more. But it is not only the denotation of these words, but the pressure beneath them. The question. Jumping lightly to the floor, I approach the desk, the girl, and brush my silky fur against her leg.
She is intelligent, this girl. Bright, if not yet wise, and I would encourage her in her deliberations. Would will her to pursue any query that would lead her to forget her former leader. If what the boy has said has any merit, the scrawny man may yet be a danger, and I would have her evade him and the shadowy one he once worked for, at least until he reveals himself – or I can uncover his latest machinations.
But can I? I lean in, deep in thought, musing on methods and memories. Without looking, she lifts me up, and in my distraction I let her. My cogitation continues, as she holds me in her arms, even as her fingers begin a familiar motion. Soon she is rubbing the base of one ear, absently, as she reads. I feel the purr once more growing in me, a sense of contentment at odds with the reality I grapple with and that I would have her understand.
‘Curious,’ she says, her voice soft and low. It relaxes me, even as her hand continues its gentle pressure, and my eyes begin to close. I should not let them, I remind myself, not while such strange occurrences demand deliberation. I should ponder, at least, how to communicate my concerns to her. Her hand is warm upon my fur, my back. The motion soft and soothing.
I should not rest, not yet. I should resist this kind caress. I should … No matter. Such thoughts are futile, for tonight we are safe. We have fed and we are warm. When the girl pushes her chair back with a sigh, I leap again to the floor and wait, while she makes her ablutions. And when she has tucked herself into the other end of the sofa, her feet lying alongside those of the boy, I join them. I will be up before dawn to hunt again and to surveil. For now, I add my warmth to theirs, and closing my eyes once again, I sleep.
FOUR
Instinct, perhaps, is recompense enough for what is lost. For when I wake from evil dreams to hunt under the fading moon, I find the city as I left it: cold, certainly, and hard, but no more threatening than in nights prior. I do not smell that ragged man, AD, nearby. And as I proceed to sate my hunger, I tell myself that he has done the same – though our appetites surely differ in their substance. No matter. There is no trace of him or of that bitter drug nearby. My nightmare is just that.
Dismissing the remnants of my fear as unbecoming to a beast, I bathe. Dawn is breaking as I return, refreshed, to the building where the girl and her sometime charge slumber still. I can hear their breathing, even and untroubled, as I pass through the alley, a bolster to my uneasy calm. The window from which I descended is still open to the waning night, and I pause to take in their scent in the damp air, as warm and peaceful as their sound. Even as I peer up at my egress, I know I have to avail myself of a more conventional approach. Despite my glossy coat, my bright green eyes, I am not young. For me, this morning, a door and stairway, such as lesser creatures use.
The front entry is ajar, the door held open by a slab of brick. I can still recall when this breach would have worried me; back in my reckless days when I put my trust in locks and catches. Despite my own facility with manipulating such works, I valued them. I chose this building, the office where the girl now sleeps, for other reasons. At one point, this was a busy street, full of commerce of the sort to draw both high and low. I established my practice here, the trade the girl now carries on, offering my services in finding and unraveling. I did not think I would be so undone, though as the world declined and the city fell to ruin, I had inklings of what might come. Trade, I knew, would continue, and so in my pride I thought I too would persevere and for a time I did, as new powers took up the reins of business and of rule. That my arrogance would lead me too close to these dangerous men, I did not foresee. Now, in this form, I have learned a belated caution. I sniff the air before I enter. I tilt my ears. I wait.
The drunk beneath the stairs snorts and turns, his sleep made restless by the rotgut he imbibes. His funk befouls the air, covering over other, less obvious leavings. I slip inside the opened door and cross the foyer, alert to every movement.
That’s when I hear it, the sound that makes me freeze in place and every hair along my spine rise instantly alert. I have been a fool. A heedless animal. Another, not asleep, is above me on the stairs. Light footsteps creep carefully along the edge, where the treads are not yet worn through. I hear the deliberate footstep, the cautious breathing. But animal still, I possess strengths that I once lacked. In the growing dark, I will seem invisible, even as my pupils widen, taking in the unlit stairwell to view who ascends before me.
A bulky figure, clad in grey, is leaning on the banister. She moves slowly and with caution. But not, I revise my initial supposition, for purposes of secrecy. No, the dim light breaking outside has not reached this far into the building, and the figure steps with care for other reasons, watchful for the broken places, for the smooth spots in the treads. I realize as I watch the measured steps, this one – a woman – is aged or unwell. Despite her size, she is not strong and hoards her energy for another purpose. She is making for the girl.
I have no such issues. For although I am aged, too, for my kind, I am more vigorous than she. More stealthy, as well, and it is the work of moments for me to dash up the far side of the stairwell to the landing. From here I can better judge this intruder, this woman, and plan my next move.
She pauses, as I do, and turns her face toward me. She cannot see me in this shadow, but she must have spied some motion in the murk and thus holds back. Not from fear, I think, but caution, the reasonable hesitation of one who would muster her resources, weighing present need against those upcoming. There is something in her eyes …
‘Hello?’ she calls into the dark. Her voice, though tentative, is firm and low. ‘Is someone there?’
I step forward, and sit in a patch of scuffed linoleum that now glows faintly, with the rising sun. The beam that has breached some begrimed window gives little of warmth or brightness but should serve to illumine me, at the top of the stairs, and so let her take in the sight of a domestic animal, glossy and still.
‘Well, well.’ Her face is old, older even than I’d thought, lined and craggy beneath the softening halo of grey-white hair. Despite the pain, the wear I spy, a slight smile begins. Her eyes recede into the crags even as her face lights up, but I can feel her gaze upon me, upon my own green eyes. My one torn ear, the blue light reflecting off my fur.
‘Hello there, sir.’
My ears prick up. This is not the usual appellation for one of my kind. And although I once would have expected such courtesy, I find myself caught off guard. Surprised and curious, both. She has stopped, a mere three steps from the landing, and reaches out. Her hand does not quite extend as far as where I sit, and so I rise and stretch torward her, the better to read her scent, to gauge her past and thus to judge what she intends.
A chuckle, low and throaty. Almost, it comes to me, as if it were a purr. But enough – I close my eyes and let my jaws part slightly. The smells of earth and sweat, the common odors of those who live and eat and labor. And something more – spicy, rather than sweet. A deep perfume that brings me back to another time. I am clad not in this scarred hide, bu
t in wool and linen. I do not sniff the hand extended toward me, I make to grasp it, and—
‘Whoa!’ I jerk back, as does she, holding to the banister for balance. It is my paw that has provoked her. Claws bared, I have reached for her, for her hand, if only to draw it closer, to read it more thoroughly. And yet …
‘Perhaps I can do without the introduction,’ she says, righting herself. She does not offer me her hand again, but smiles, her mouth closed and not without warmth, as she attains the landing and then, with a deep breath, approaches the office door.
‘Find what is lost, right the wrongs.’ Care is reciting her litany of services for the woman, who eases herself onto the aged couch. ‘When a child has gone missing, I will find him. When a friend is taken, I endeavor to discover where. I will ask the questions, until I find the truth.’
It’s a good patter, personalized as the cases add to her expertise, and she delivers it well, speaking softly but with gravity from her seat at the scarred wood desk. She was seated there when the woman knocked. I heard her steps as she walked to the door and ushered her visitor in. As she did, the boy took off, ducking out as the big woman entered and wearing, I was quick to note, the girl’s knit cap against the chill. They eyed each other with curiosity, but I saw no recognition in either face, and the boy did not linger, sidestepping me in his rush down the stairs.
I hesitate, for I would know more of what he knows. But by then the woman has settled back, and so I slip inside the door. Care has resumed her seat, behind her desk, her face a mask of calm acceptance. Only I, who know her well, picked up the girl’s surprise and, yes, dismay at the sight of the new arrival. No, I correct myself, as I slink through the door before it closes. Dismay at the interruption. For although I catch the girl’s glance, her quick smile, as I dart past on my way to the sill, she is not pleased, even with the promise of new custom. The papers on her desk – her notes – enthrall her still, and she would return to them, if she could.