As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘Care,’ he says at last. He speaks her name as if he knows her. ‘These pages …’ He pauses and looks down at them. He shakes his head. He will not ask. ‘This is what those men were looking for. The night they wrecked my place.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  I am not a reader, of papers or of minds. And so I cannot attest as to what happens next in that low room, with these two humans. I do know that the girl hesitates, not out of doubt of the man, but of the circumstance. I hear the question in her voice as she starts to ask, and the answer as she stops herself. She trusts this man, or at least his veracity in this one area. Instead, she looks at the papers once more, her eyes roaming the pages as her teeth worry her bottom lip.

  For the length of several breaths, she stands, her brow furrowed in thought. The man waits, as well, studying her with a face that reflects his pain and an inner dialogue of his own. Finally, she nods once, as if a decision has been made. She holds the papers out to the man once more.

  ‘If you will, I’d still like you to keep these for me,’ she says. ‘If you’ll undertake the risk.’

  ‘The risk isn’t on me,’ he says, his voice soft. There is an understanding between these two, an agreement that I do not fully understand. ‘He’s looking for these. You know that.’

  ‘I do.’ Her lips draw back in a toothy grin. It’s an odd look for her, a gesture more of my realm than of hers, conveying more threat than pleasure, and he knows it, starting back ever so slightly. ‘And it explains a lot.’

  He takes them, then, and places them on his desk. ‘I’ll keep these,’ he says, in formal agreement to the request she has made.

  They do not shake hands. They do not speak of terms or security, or when she may return to reclaim the documents she leaves. Instead, with one more nod, Care turns to go.

  ‘Wait!’ He calls to her as she reaches for that heavy, ineffectual door. He rises from his seat as she pauses, as she turns. ‘I have – just … wait.’

  She does, the certitude of moments appearing to crumble as her brows knit in confusion. He sidles over to the wall, which under his hands reveals itself to be not as solid as it had appeared. Care’s gasp reveals that she has been taken unawares by this rudimentary ruse, the false front of the brick, although my ears could have told her of the scrabblings in that wall, of the faint whistle as the wind was filtered through.

  But it is not surprise that causes her to turn, to face the still closed door rather than the monkish man who has removed the hollowed brick. And it is my turn to be schooled, as my own preconceptions crumble. She has not been caught out by the man’s ruse, but by his confidence. A keeper has little but his secrets, and this man has paid dearly to retain them. Now he shares them freely and without fear. Her turning away is more than a courtesy then. It is a sign of respect, a means of indicating that she will honor the trust he now so freely gives.

  I have no such compunction and observe with interest the doings of the little man. He removes a pouch from within the wall. Canvas or some other heavy cloth, its dun surface shiny and pliant with frequent handling. Holding it close, he turns to peer over his shoulder. Reflex, I believe, as a slight flush creeps into his face. Embarrassment at doubting the girl after he has breached the space between them. He blinks, the trace of tears bright in his weak eyes, and pulls out the documents within. These are folded and as he moves them, they give out whiffs of their origins – the sweat of different hands. Of ink and oil. Of blood. Some of these, their dust suggests, are of great vintage, a trust held even as their purpose was abandoned or their owner gone. I smell no mold. The keeper knows his trade.

  Finally, he removes two pages. On one, I see the scrawl of a pen, the ink cheap and faded even more than the age of the paper merits. The other appears to be of better quality, and yet it is not this one he lingers over. In fact, after what seems a tortured moment, he shoves the second back into the sack and hurriedly replaces them both in the wall. It is a moment’s work to fit the hollowed brick back in its niche, a light touch of his fingers resettles the dust on the ancient mortar, the source of that faintly earthy smell.

  ‘Here,’ he calls to her, his signal for her to turn. She does, and he extends his hand, offering the remaining, faded page. ‘Please,’ he says. ‘You should have this.’

  She steps forward, the question in her eyes.

  ‘It was entrusted to me,’ he says. ‘By your father.’

  ‘My—’ She chokes on the word. She shakes her head.

  ‘I told you I knew him,’ says the scribe. ‘I could not help him, I’m afraid. But I did hold onto this.’ He nods toward the page, which she reaches for as gingerly as if it were a small, live thing. ‘I believe I’ve been holding it for you.’

  THIRTY

  I do not understand this girl. I have never seen her act like this. She is tough, she is resourceful. But when she leaves the basement office, she dashes for the corner, with no regard to who may see, and stands there, in the full sun, as she pores over the paper in her hand.

  It has importance. I understand, and she must gather what meaning she can from it before she folds it once more and tucks it in her bag. But it acts on her like poison, like a drug. Or, no, an infected wound, that she will worry at even as it sickens and unsettles her. For after staring at it, she wanders like a day-blind mole, crossing streets and alleys with no more care than any panicked creature, seeking a hideaway. Seeking safety.

  I follow, of course, keeping her in sight. My hearing and every guard hair on my body alert for the inevitable predator such aimless wandering will draw. The day has grown bright, those early clouds have burned off and the mud of these lots, of these gutters, is fragrant with the heat. There are few creatures out at this hour, a bright and unforgiving time, and those drying pools have left even weaker prey than she stranded and defenseless. Still, I do not like this inattentive wandering, the soft sounds of sorrow that she makes no effort to conceal. I do not like them, and I am powerless to prevent them, and so I follow, on my guard.

  I am not surprised when she returns to the office. Like any wounded beast, she seeks the comfort of her lair. And as I slip in behind her, waiting until the outer door has nearly swung shut before I dash inside, I am gratified to see her glance my way. To see the flash of recognition, through her grief.

  I do not like how she drags herself up the stairs, unconcerned with who might hear the scraping of her shoes on the worn steps. My superior senses have already told me we are alone – the fragrant occupant of the building’s foyer has taken advantage of the day’s warmth to seek nourishment or, more likely, oblivion from the charity of a passerby. But her lack of caution, her disregard for all her training concerns me, as much as the soft mewling noises she makes as she throws herself upon the torn and battered couch.

  ‘Dad,’ I hear her say, her face buried in a cushion that has surrendered most of its plush stuffing. ‘Daddy.’

  I sniff at her, trying to discern the source of her pain. With my forepaws on the sofa, I can reach up to where she lies curled, back toward me. Her shoulders heave as she weeps into the battered upholstery, and I take in her sweat and her dismay from the arc of her backbone, from the way her thin sides rise and tremble. I have never experienced a bout like this. Not with this girl. Not, I believe, ever, and it disturbs me in ways I cannot explain. Some of it is the vulnerability, that thin back left unguarded in this unlocked and insecure room. Some of it is the raw nature of the emotion, unrestrained by thought or caution. And some, I slowly realize as I leap soundlessly to take my place beside the crying girl, is something deeper. More ephemeral and yet no less real.

  I love this girl, this Care, and she is crying. And so I stretch my long furred body beside hers, leaning in to comfort her with softness and warmth. She does not acknowledge me, although I know she must feel my presence. Feel the heat and texture of my fur. She does not speak, nor turn. Not even as the sobbing fades and gives way to quieter sounds, the exhalations of slumber, of exhaustion and despair. And still I lie b
eside her, unwilling to seek refreshment or relief. I am giving her nothing that she needs. Not my wisdom. Not any of the skills or aptitudes that I would have her learn. Not anything of value, beyond my animal warmth. I lay beside her and listen to her breathe. I have never felt so helpless or alone.

  There are three of them, these men. They stand tall above me, in the sun. The light behind their backs obscures their faces, but I know their expressions to be cruel. They stand like bars before the sun, like monoliths. Like death, and even as I peer up at them, I know this is the end. They will kill me, as they have killed others. I have no recourse, but still I watch them, recording what I can of their posture. Of their clothing. Scent is not yet so vital to me that I can capture their essence this way. Instead, I peer up at them, desperate to see them. To see once more their faces.

  ‘Blackie.’ A soft voice wakes me to shadows grown long. In the fading light, the girl’s green eyes are nearly obscured by swollen, reddened flesh. ‘Good boy,’ she says, and strokes my fur.

  I am unaccountably gratified, and accept the caress with a purr. Her hand is warm against my body. It makes a welcome change from the memory of that dream. I was awaiting less gentle hands then. I was awaiting death.

  ‘You’re getting quite domesticated,’ she says, the lilt in her voice indicating amusement, though her face remains sad. Well, let it be. If I may lighten her burden by the sacrifice of my dignity, I am willing. But even as she rises and I follow, to arch my back and stretch, I wonder at the chronology of that dream, its sequence of events. Those men – that memory – were cruel by force of habit and profession. I was not their only victim, nor was I theirs by accident. They had laid a trap for me, much as others would for any small creature in the pursuit of meat or fur. I had meddled in their affairs, pursuing the profession to which I had introduced the girl, and they had responded to protect their interests. Although the details remain murky, of this I am sure. They laid a trap and executed it. And as the girl pulls that paper from inside her shirt, I am forced to consider the nature of such traps and such cruelty, to consider what such men could do to one thin and lonely girl.

  As much as I dislike the strange lassitude that has taken over the girl, I approve less of what she does next. Not that she washes her face and hands. Despite her pleasing natural scent, I do not feel like this girl – like any human – keeps to the standards of cleanliness that I embrace. Nor that she goes through her meager store of clothes, donning an old shirt above her thin one. It is when she shrugs her way into that old overcoat, pulling up the torn sleeve to cover her arm, when she piles the few remaining apples, the rest of that dry cheese and the few crackers she has left into her bag, that I know we are heading out for the night, if not for good.

  I watch her preparations with growing unease, an emotion I attempt to communicate by twining around her ankles. If I could only stop her for a moment, if we could only converse … Rarely have I felt so hindered by this mute and bestial form.

  ‘What is it, Blackie?’ Her voice interrupts me. I have begun to bathe, a default and useless reaction to my overwhelming frustration. ‘You know something’s going on, don’t you?’

  I stare up at her, willing her to see beyond the reflective surface of my eyes. To see my concern, to see my soul. I open my mouth. I would speak to her. I would speak.

  ‘Meh,’ I say, one small syllable that slips by my fangs like a frightened mouse. ‘Meh,’ I say again. To intend so much, and to have control over so little …

  She smiles, and for that I am grateful. It is the first time since we left the scribe’s basement that I have seen anything other than tears or fierce concentration on her face, so young and so pale. To my confusion, she reaches down, her hands closing around my sides, and lifts me, retreating to the sofa, where she deposits me on her lap.

  ‘I don’t know what it is with you, Blackie,’ she says. Her voice has gone soft, her mind on something other than her words, as she stares down at me, one hand smoothing my somewhat ruffled fur. ‘Maybe it’s just that you pick up on my mood. I mean, you can’t …’

  She pauses, then reaches into her bag, retrieving the document that has caused her so much pain. ‘It’s from my father, Blackie. He was a good man no matter what anybody says.’

  I reach up to sniff the letter she holds, and she lets me, holding it still as the black leather of my nose runs along its edge. She says nothing as I work my way along it, my eyes closing as I concentrate on its rich offerings. First, there is her hand. Her sweat and tears both stained this page, softening the old paper further. Warming it, as well, which has released some older scents. The brick dust of the keeper’s safe, dry and crumbling: an earthy aroma that recalls its long-ago origins in mud and clay. The hand of the keeper, stained with ink and with the powdery smell of age. And is there something more?

  I open my mouth slightly, seeking the faintest traces. A breath of someone older still and dear to this girl, this Care. The scent of someone gone. A trace of that other paper, the one the mole man chose to replace. I lean in, taking in the air. Hoping to taste.

  ‘No!’ My eyes open as the girl jerks back, nearly unsettling me. She is examining the page, where, I see, two small holes now mar the corner. I have bitten it, in my reverie. I did not mean it harm. No matter, the damage has been done. As the girl folds the page back up, I see her eyes well up once more. I stare at her, mouth open. Dumb as any beast. Surely, she must see my contrition. Surely, she must forgive.

  ‘Oh, Blackie.’ She speaks as if she does, only the words serve to distance us. They illustrate the gulf I cannot cross. ‘You can’t help it, can you? As much as I might wish otherwise, you’re just a cat.’

  I turn away. It is too much, and so I jump to the floor to nurse my disappointment and despair. To await her judgment. Her dismissal. I belong down here, another useless beast.

  But her voice is soft and even, once the sniffling has stopped. It speaks not of my incompetence but of something other. Something older. She is reading to me, it dawns on me. Sharing that which I could not take in on my own.

  I close my eyes to better grasp the substance of what she says and, more, the voice I hear behind hers,

  We live in evil times, Care begins.

  When I was placed here, to serve out my time sorting and filing records, I thought myself lucky. Here, I believed, I would finally be able to trace the misstatements and errors that led to us losing our home and I my livelihood. What I found was worse by far. Our lives had not been ruined by a mistake, but by a pernicious system devoted to disowning small shareholders like me, devoted, instead, to imprisoning us for our labor and our land. The system was bigger than my small family, bigger than me.

  I should have stopped there. I realize that now. As a father, I should have considered how my actions could hurt my family. But, as a father, I also felt a moral imperative to behave as I have tried to teach my daughter to. At any rate, I fear it is too late now and that my questions have made me a target of retribution. I have one play left, however, and on it may rest my fate, as well as the fate of countless other poor souls. If all goes well, I will be in touch. If not, please look after Martha and our dear Carrie. I cannot thank you enough, Q. It helps to know that although this city seems particularly cold right now, those I love most have friends who will care for them. Friends who will see them right.

  She is quiet after this, as contemplative as a cat, if only she knew it. And I, too, am at peace. She does not seem to hold my sins against me. This is likely due to her charity, to my being deemed a low creature, incapable of reason. Perhaps she has even forgotten my trespass, as she rouses and resumes her preparations. As she approaches the door, she turns as if to wait for me. As if, perhaps, to consult.

  ‘I don’t know if you want to come with me,’ she says, a half smile playing on her lips. ‘I understand you’re loyal. But this – well, this might be dangerous.’

  I stand, tail erect, to signify my readiness, and I believe she recognizes this, as with a nod she tur
ns and sets out down the hall. I do not require her consent. I am an adult, older far than she, and would follow whether she would or not. But there is something pleasant in trotting by her side, even as I consider where we may be headed. For I do not trust this mood of hers, this current easy mirth. It follows too closely on her sadness and is underlain by something darker – a sense of danger or of fatalism. One advantage of my current state is that I can more easily detect the undercurrents in her voice. For all its lightness, and for all her easy smiles, there is tension working on her now. She is not afraid, and that may be what scares me most. Instead, she is determined. Along with the fruit and cheese, she has packed her knife.

  She does not hesitate once we hit the street and leads a swift pace in the growing dark. And as we leave our failing commercial district for other, more benighted streets, I recognize our path. It is as I’ve feared. She heads once more to that place of records and of death. The Dunstan, as she’s called it. Where more than paper has been laid to rest.

  To her credit, she moves with stealth. Any concern I may have had earlier about her concentration is dispelled. The dusk has not yet settled on the city, but she finds the shadows. She moves between them, treading as soundlessly as one of her kind can. When we pass a uniform on his beat, she eludes him with no effort, her pace undiminished as she mirrors his movements with her own.

  Only once she has reached the hulking brick monstrosity does she pause. She raises her face up to its iron gate, and for a moment, I see what this journey has cost her. Her father – the writer of that letter – spent his last days in here. And though I would rather her be wary of another death, more recent and in closer proximity, I find myself wanting to press against her. To comfort her.

  I hold back. This girl knows I am here, and just as I must let her ponder her plans, so too must I. She will have entrance; that is clear. The challenge before me is how to aid her, and to secure her safe passage, once her errand here is done.