"So I preserved for Padgett what was perhaps hers, and perhaps not hers."
" You didn't. Darren did, by dying."
Michelle turned on her like a furious animal.
"Oh, but I did. I was there, you see. I had come because I had learned he was, had been . . .
with Dana, our nanny. With our daughter's nanny! I knew he was not perfect, but that. . .
frightened me. If he would cross that boundary, were there not others?"
"When were you there? Before Alison came?"
"No, cherie. After."
"But--"
"Yes! I was there when he berated himself. When I unfolded my horror over Dana, he just nodded. The gun was in his hand, in his lap. I had never seen him so passive. He took my anger like rain on dry earth, as if he needed it. When I accused him, revealed my fear that even Padgett might not be safe from him, he had not stomach to defend himself. Now I see why. I knew he loved our daughter, but I knew he could not help himself, could not keep from the sad comfort he got from his endless seductions. And what is child abuse but an unpardonable seduction? Other women I could allow, but our nanny, a girl. . . our daughter, a girl someday.
"He did not shoot the gun. He had it to his head. His temple, the classic target. I could not have stood it had it been in his mouth. But it was at his head, his mind. I touched it to take it from him. He was devastated by what I had said. Now I know why he took it so seriously. If only I had known what she had done then! I intended to stop him. Once my hand had covered his on the weapon, I seemed powerless to withdraw it. Instead I found myself pressing my forefinger over his forefinger, pulling the trigger."
"There's no evidence! Only his fingerprints on the weapon."
Michelle held up long arms thin and pale as flamingo legs. "I wear gloves. It is my fashion trademark. I wear them everywhere when I go outside, because I wear them in my perfume ads.
I destroyed the gloves. Burned them. I cannot excuse myself. Another self pulled the trigger back. It was hard to do. He must have sensed me doing it, but he didn't move. He just waited. In a sense, it felt like a mercy killing."
Her eyes, haunted, met Temple's for the last time.
"What you have told me eases nothing. No wonder he did not fight my accusations! That girl killed him despite herself, through me. What should I do? Whatever I do, Padgett will have to live with it all her life."
"So will you," Temple said. "If only I hadn't come. You wouldn't know, and I wouldn't know I can't say what you should do. I don't know what I should do."
"We could tell, each or both of us."
Temple kept silent.
Michelle eyed her aslant. "It will make for an interesting tension. Wondering if one or the other will tell, and when."
"I would have to think about it for a long time."
"A lifetime, perhaps."
Temple stood. In the other room, Padgett was giggling to herself. The tension was already awful, and it would only get worse.
"Good-bye," Michelle said.
Only she said it in French. 'Au revoir."
Temple left without another word, because no words were sufficient.
Au revoir. She remembered from college French class that it was an uneasy good-bye. The direct translation was closer to "until we meet again."
Temple finally had found a secret too awful to tell another living soul.
Chapter 38
Louie Seeks Solace
I am not one to wash my dirty linen in public, but I am in a quandary.
The A La Cat commercial has been unmentionable ever since my regrettable abduction and alteration.
Miss Savannah Ashleigh and the Divine Yvette left town so suddenly that they may have been abducted themselves by a UFO. (Do not laugh. There is a lot of that around Las Vegas and the nearby Air Force base, the famous Area 51 beloved of alien-intelligence aficionados.) I have had no opportunity to confirm the dread news about the lovely Yvette. Is she indeed soon to become a mother? Perhaps she will lose her kittenish figure and no longer be in demand for television commercials.
I know that Miss Temple Barr has no use for the Divine Yvette's mistress. She is still in a snit about my terrible experience and mutters every now and then about suing the cellulite off Miss Savannah Ashleigh yet. I am certainly being treated like a king around the Circle Ritz, as I should be, but I do miss the action and the limelight.
And one little thing bothers me. Well, maybe two.
While it is true that I am an extremely educated street dude, I have to admit every once and while to a significant gap in my knowledge. In this embarrassing instance, the gap affects a very personal area. After thinking it over for several days, I see no help for it but to apply to Ingram, the Thrill 'n' Quill mystery-bookstore cat. I do hate to go to an inferior for advice, especially in a delicate area, but I get up and go.
By the time I amble over--and I amble a lot these days, apparently there are some thorny things called "stitches" in my abdomen that make Miss Temple giggle, if not me --Ingram is ensconced in his display-window den.
There he sits and snoozes, collar neatly buckled, rabies tags glittering at his throat like they were medals, shirtfront pristine and tiger-stripes licked into place.
I shudder at presenting my problem to such a stuck-up prig, but at times even the best of us must bow and scrape a little, and ignorance is a terrible condition to be in.
I extend a claw to rap on the window.
Ingram opens one yellow eye and wrinkles the stripes on his forehead. I know what he is thinking: he does not wish to disturb himself to leave his sunny snoozing spot and come out in the November chill to talk to me.
Tough. If he does not do so, I will get in and disturb him far worse.
He knows this, so soon he is mewing at the door until Miss Maeveleen Pearl, the proprietor, is cooing at the open door.
"Your little friend has not come to visit for some time, Ingram. Run along now and have fun, but do not wander too far."
Ingram is constitutionally incapable of wandering any farther than the fish market three doors down. Which is where we stroll to.
"You have been getting notorious, Louie," Ingram notes as he puts one white-socked foot in front of the other.
"I presume you refer to my new career in film."
"Huckstering," he says with a sniff. He sits down to rub a grain of the sandman's sleep out of one eye. "What do you want?"
"I have a technical question. Perhaps I should wait to ask it until we are back at the bookshop. You may need to look up something."
"Spit it out. I do not want you around the Thrill 'n' Quill too much. Miss Maeveleen Pearl is very soft-hearted, and she might give some of my belongings to you. I have never forgiven you for being responsible for those odious stuffed representations of Baker and Taylor, the Scottish fold cats coming to the shop. They sit atop the shelves, flattening their ears at me day in and day out, taking up good snoozing space and attracting attention that should be mine. I would like to claw the stuffing out of them."
'Then why not do so?"
"I am not a violent individual, like yourself."
'That gets to my problem. I am not like myself anymore."
"Oh? It does not show."
"It should not show, as it is in a very private area."
Ingram waggles the whiskers over his left eye, an effete gesture he uses to signal skepticism.
"I understand that you have had the neutering procedure."
"Indeed, and I recommend it highly. No muss, no fuss. No howling in the night, no howling in the daytime when Miss Maeveleen Pearl discovers the places you have marked while night-howling. No females to muddle one's brain and distract it from socially redeeming literature, no nasty seepage of a foul nature. Have you become enlightened enough to undergo the socially responsible procedure? You amaze me, Louie. I thought you far too regressed to voluntarily surrender your lower nature."
"Actually, it was not voluntary. And I am confused."
"Why do
you not consult your esteemed pater?"
"My what?"
"Does not your sire reside now at Temple Bar? So I heard on the grapevine."
"Well, this is something I would prefer not to trouble the old man with. He has had an untrammeled life, and does not understand the demands of civilization."
"I could say the same of you." Ingram brushes an immaculate whisker with a pearl-white paw.
I would hate this guy's guts, if he had any.
I swallow and explain my adventure with the plastic surgeon. "Miss Temple Barr keeps using the word 'vasectomy,' and I am afraid I am not acquainted with it. I know I have a few stitches in my tummy, but that does not seem to be what a vasectomy is."
"Yes, I thought your pouch was looking a trifle sleeker. Silly me. I attributed it to a rigorous indoor-exercise program. I should have known better. 'Vasectomy,' you say. That is impossible, my good goon."
I overlook "goon" because the word "impossible" always attracts my attention.
"How so?"
"We of the four-footed kind have a simple, and sometimes brutal, procedure to control our raging hormonal tendencies toward reproduction. Words vary, from 'gelding' for horses to the general 'neutering.' It consists of cutting off the, er, balls is the street word, I believe, and I would never utter it if I did not have the unpleasant task of explaining the facts of life to you at this late date. Are you sure Three O'Clock cannot help you?"
"Quit with the Three O'Clock! And keep talking."
Ingram sighs. I suspect that is another of the many side effects of this neutering he is discussing. But he does go on. And on.
This rather drastic, but quick and inexpensive, method results in an animal that is neither male nor female, but more pro perly an 'it.' It also releases the poor beasts from the tug and pull of natural urges that only serve to overpopulate the planet and cause untold misery for the unwanted young. A neutered male will no longer mark territory with pungent. . . er, urinary liquids. He will no longer fight other un-neutered males for female favor. He will no longer haunt unwilling females to force his attentions--and unwanted offspring--on them. You can see that this procedure is completely beneficial to society, and to said males, if they only realized it. Once it has been done, we are perfectly content, I assure you, and much relieved not to be troubled by urges to roam, fight or mate. It is, in short, cat heaven."
I stare at this dude. I cannot believe him. What a happy, dancing robocat.
"Miss Temple seems to think that this vasectomy is something special."
Ingram yawns. "Not really. By being subjected to this surgery reserved for humans, who have a great many psychological blocks to tampering with their sexuality, you now have the worst of both worlds. You will still hunt, fight and chase females, but you will be unable to sire kittens. All the mess and none of the warm, domestic comforts of family life. You will still live it up like a rogue male, with no evolutio n of your conscience or social responsibility. In other words, you will still be the same, selfish, hedonistic slob you always were, except that you will not bring unwanted young ones into the world."
'The dames I see, they will not get... you know?"
"Spit it out, Louie! No, they will not get pregnant. Your dubious genes will never be passed on again. Hallelujah."
'There is no need to get religious about it."
I am too excited to stick around for any spare fish heads that may come our way. I thank Ingram for his precious time and skedaddle.
My feet barely touch the ground. I am running before I know it. The air smells crisp and alive with the scents of prey, rivals and nubile females who will never be out of action on maternity row if they stick with Midnight Louie.
I now know what a vasectomy is and am proud to be one of the first dudes of my type to have such a rare procedure. I know what it means.
I have just been given a license to thrill.
About two weeks later I am lounging contentedly at home beside my devoted roommate, who is reading some supermarket rag. (She does have a few lapses in reading taste, but I try not to tell.)
Suddenly, she holds the paper at arm's length from her face. Then she rips off her glasses and brings it right up to her nose.
"Well, I never--!" she says in great indignation.
She turns to me. "What do those look like to you, Louie?"
She is jabbing her forefinger at a photograph on the page, and since it features several of my species, I deign to look at it.
My heart flutters when I see the Divine Yvette looking as sweet and delectable as always.
But Miss Temple Barr's forefinger is not aimed at the Divine Yvette. It is not even pointed toward the odious facial image of Miss Savannah Ashleigh, who is also in the picture. (And it seems that Miss Savannah Ashleigh has been stung in the kisser by a mighty big bee, so swollen are her lips. Ugh!)
What Miss Temple Barr is shaking her finger at are some blurry little dust bunnies who--
now that I look closely--are striped kittens. Tiger-striped kittens, three of them, all the color yellow.
Looks like you were falsely accused and assaulted, Louie. Me-thinks Maurice has been doing more stunt work than he was contracted for. Well, wait 'til I call the director. That'll get you out of the doghouse and put Maurice, his trainer and Savannah Ashleigh in there pronto. My poor baby. Innocently railroaded with no trial. Forcibly sterilized. At least I do not have to take you in for a neutering. And it was free. The worst is over, Louie. From now on, it is all gravy, I promise you."
I know, Miss Temple, I know.
"What a big purrer you have become since your ordeal, Louie! Such a loving boy."
I know, I know.
Tailpiece
Midnight Louie: Short, Sweet and His Same Old Self
What can I say?
It was a far, far better thing I did than I meant to do, which is often the case in happy endings. And my end is very happy, I assure you.
Although I did not have much time to assist Miss Temple Barr in her conundrums, I did manage to save my own skin, save the commercials and the Divine Yvette and save my...
precious orbs. All while becoming even more politically correct than I had been before.
Obviously, in future I will have to deal with the murderous and deceptive Maurice, and reconcile with my sorely injured lady friend. In hindsight, I see the symptoms of her unsuspected delicate condition in a few bouts of uncharacteristic temperament. I also remember the poor darling's dislike of Maurice, who no doubt forced himself upon her, thereby soiling her reputation.
I, however, have the smarts to exercise restraint and a civil tongue. I am also now socially responsible beyond the ken of my kind.
I must say that doing the right thing feels absolutely terrific. I cannot wait until circumstance brings me into contact with Midnight Louise a gain.
In fact, I arrange to sashay over to the Crystal Phoenix with not one, but two lady friends in attendance. Midnight Louise, of course, huffs herself up into a wad of static-ridden hair and prepares to hiss and spit.
I cock my tail-tip in her direction.
'Tut, tut, my good girl," I say. "Do not distress yourself. This is an engagement party."
"With two fiancees?" she spits.
'The party is to celebrate my engagement with the world at large, now that I am the accidental beneficiary of a cutting-edge medical technique. I will have you know that I am vasectomized. No female is safe from my amorous attentions, and I must say that they seem happy about that," I add, as my shills (I mean my lovely companions) brush against me to and fro. "But no female will suffer consequences of a parental nature from my advances. You are therefore one of the last of your kind (which is my kind). I hope you appreciate it.
"As for me, I am a new dude, but I expect to be up to all the same old things. No doubt you wish to congratulate me."
She does not.
But the shills sure do.
Very best fishes,
Midnight Louie, Esq.
P
.S. You can reach Midnight Louie on the Internet at:
http: //www. ca twriter/cdouglas
To subscribe to Midnight Louie's Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter, write: P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163
Look for news about Louie's new T-shirt!
--CND
Carole Nelson Douglas
Employs the Kindest Cut of All
Midnight Louie came into my life a tomcat, as a corporeal motel cat in California. He was a hippie in 1973, no doubt about it. Footloose, all for free love, a true gentleman of the road.
The Minnesota cat-lover who saved him from sure euthanasia as a stray found he couldn't adapt to apartment life. She wanted him to have a country home where he could roam --intact, a tomcat still.
In 1973, people were less aware of the horrible price pet overpopulation exacts on strays.
Midnight Louie survived well, but he was (yes) unusually strong, smart and unscarred Louie's and my association in 1973 was brief and professional. When I first translated Midnight Louie into print for a newspaper, his tough, street-smart voice came through loud, clear--and irrevocably male.
As Louie later made the leap to fiction, I felt obligated to remain true to the original personality. In the same way, when I made Irene Adler, the only woman to outwit Sherlock Holmes, the protagonist of her own adventures, I felt obliged to work with the details of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story about her, "A Scandal in Bohemia." This meant working around his error of making an operatic prima donna a contralto instead of the mandated soprano.
Although Midnight Louie's naturally high testosterone quotient satirizes the rogue male model that populates human hard-boiled mystery and other fiction--and sometimes even human society (imagine that!)--I knew that, in real life, unneutered tomcats sire thousands of abandoned, hungry, abused and euthanized kittens, and short-lived, feral stray cats. Yet to conventionally "fix" this fictional tomcat, I would destroy the anthropomorphic blend of human and feline that makes the character his own inimitable self.
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