Pleased with myself, I carry the shaking receptacle into the cottage and contemplate what to do next. I would like to wash the poor beast, cut the burrs from his fur and at least wipe out his infected eyes, but in the animal’s current frenzied state, that seems impossible.
It would be nice if I’d purchased a first-aid kit back in the States with some antibiotic ointment and a few other things like Band-Aids and cortisone cream, but I didn’t think of it and all I have here is a bottle of acetaminophen, some Rolaids and an old package of Dramamine I found in my briefcase.
Not knowing where to start, I decide to feed the poor thing, so I get out a piece of salami. “Here, Kitty,” I say sweetly and shove the meat into the box.
If only there was some way to anesthetize the cat . . . a little barbital or Valium. Then, with a devious smile, I remember the Dramamine in the bottom of my briefcase. I used to carry it for Jessie, who would get carsick when we drove in the mountains, but what interests me is its side effect . . . drowsiness.
The old Dramamine box says each pill is fifty milligrams. I could crush a pill and put it in milk. The trouble is, I have no idea how much a small animal can take. I don’t want to end up the Dr. Kevorkian of cats.
Deciding the small feline can probably handle a quarter of a tablet, I split the tab once and split it again. Then I crush the tiny quarter tab into powder. Just to make it really tempting I warm up the milk, then I slip the milk, in a teacup, into the box.
Meoooooow! goes the cat, and it tries to get out, but the flaps are already down. While I wait the thirty minutes I estimate it will take to sedate the animal, I collect my supplies: shampoo, a bar of soap and a pair of fingernail scissors that I find in a drawer in the bathroom. Having time to kill, I snoop around some more, just to see if I’ve missed anything.
There are four deep drawers and four shallow drawers under the bathroom counter. What I find is a razor, a half bottle of cough syrup, some safety pins and a condom still in its wrapper—some of them useful items. I can use the razor for sure. The hair on my legs is getting absurd. And the cough medicine might be useful someday. But the condom? No use for that!
In exactly thirty minutes, I go sit by the box to see if the cat seems sleepy. There’s no hissing or scratching, not even a peep. I shake the box a little (still nothing). I just hope I haven’t killed the poor thing!
Slowly I open one of the flaps. Slowly I put my one hand inside.
“Kitty? Kitty?” He’s out cold.
SINCE I HAVE no idea how long the cat will be sedated, I have to work fast. First, I submerge the floppy animal in a sink full of warm water, up to his neck. I wash him all over with shampoo. Next, I cut off the burrs and clean his eyes with a soft cloth. Finally I attend to the torn ear, but there’s not much I can do besides cleanse it with the bar of soap and remove the caked blood. Finally, I take the pitiful thing and lay him on a towel on the hearth.
Tiger, that’s his new name, has short striped orange-and-white fur that is now clean and shiny. Except for his thinness and the torn ear, he looks almost normal. While I wait for him to come to, I curl up on the sofa with my dinner (a cheese sandwich, an apple and a glass of milk) and watch to see what will happen.
Within minutes he opens one eye and then closes it. What occurs next is completely unexpected. The woozy cat stands up and wobbles toward the sofa, still somewhat drunk from the Dramamine. I pull my bare feet up, afraid he might claw me, but all the starving thing wants is some food. When I put a small piece of cheese on the knee of my jeans, he jumps up on the sofa and eats it, then he curls up next to me, closes his eyes and purrs.
RICHARD AND I never had pets. Jessie wanted a puppy, and she and I pored over the Petfinder website together, but Richard said dogs were a useless expense and also he was allergic. Now, staring down at the feline, I realize how lonely I’ve been and I softly pet him with one finger. “Are you going to be my buddy?” I say.
Outside the big picture window, a flock of small black birds lands on the highest branches of the still-bare cottonwoods. I strain my head to see them, careful not to disturb Tiger, and make out a slash of red on each wing.
RED-WINGED BLACK BIRD
Male has distinctive red epaulets with yellow margins
Female and young are brownish with pointed bill
The birds are very gregarious, traveling and roosting in large flocks
Most live near waterways
Voice: A loud metallic check or a gurgling o-ka-lay
Range: Canada to Costa Rica
Size: 7–9 inches long
CHAPTER 17
Band of Black
Warmth! Finally! The sky is a pale blue with a row of white cotton-ball clouds along the southern horizon. Seagulls wheel overhead, geese honk, ducks quack and red-wing black birds twitter in their squeaky metallic voices. Today, only patches of snow linger along the breakwall. Even the grass is beginning to green. It’s really spring now! I can feel it and I’ve opened all the windows to let in the air.
Sitting on the upper deck, one side of my face warm from the sun, I hold Tiger in my lap and stroke his soft fur. He’s still a skinny thing and will probably always be small, but I think that I’ve tamed him. I’ve kept him in the house every day since his bath. I even brought up a bucket of sand from the beach and he’s using it in an old dishpan I found in the shed.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting all the sorrow and fear of the last few months flow out of me. I take another breath and another. If I start thinking about Karen or Jessie or the fate of poor Robyn, I drop into despair, but I’m shocked at how content I am the rest of the time, happier than I have been for years, as if I’ve dropped into a secret world of my own, a sanctuary, a place of peace.
When I open my eyes a few moments later, I notice a dark cloud on the horizon, a thin black line. As I watch, it moves closer and the lake becomes agitated. Turquoise water turns gray and soon whitecaps are hurled up on the rocks. Spray even dampens my face. “Holy cow!” I laugh, jumping up and dropping Tiger.
When I glance toward the western horizon again, I see that the line of black is now a band of black and getting closer. “Looks like rain,” I say to myself and decide I should close the windows and bring in some dry wood for the evening.
“Tiger,” I call. “Tiger! Kitty . . . Kitty?” No answer. I just let go of him for a minute, but Tiger has run off under the rocks.
I’M ON MY way back from the woodpile, when the air temperature drops twenty degrees and it starts to snow. What the hell? I just make it up to the front porch as the wind slams the door behind me. The whole house shakes and I run around closing windows. Within minutes I can’t even see outside.
This must be a blizzard, but I’ve never seen anything like it. Snow swirls madly. The sky, the deck and the gazebo are gone. When I go into the kitchen I can’t see the pines out the window. I can’t see the road! We’re cut off from everything. I say we, meaning Tiger and I, but where’s Tiger?
“Tiger!” I call, cracking open the front door. “Tiger!” But my voice can’t penetrate the roar of the storm.
“Tiger!” I call more loudly, going to the deck door. When I pull my head in, my hair is caked with hard snow and already three inches covers everything. If the power goes off, it will really be cold. Maybe I should try to get some more wood . . .
Bundling up in my snowmobile outfit, complete with boots and heavy mittens, I stumble down the steps. This is risky, I know, and I’ve warned myself before not to do anything foolish, but if I can just get the logs onto the porch, I can bring them in one by one later . . . Pushing forward against the raging wind I stumble and fall, rise and fall again. The swirling whiteness is smothering me. The icy particles sting my eyes and the hood of my snowmobile suit blows back off my head.
With hands stretched out, I crawl forward until I finally hit something solid, the corner of Lloyd Nelson’s work shed. A little to the left and I could have wandered into the woods and been lost. I don’t even bother
to bring back the wood. I just crawl through the snow, following my trail, until I get back to the porch, exhausted.
ALL AFTERNOON THE snow comes in sideways and beats on the windows, beats on the doors. The lights flicker and come on again and I find myself wishing Richard were here. Not that I miss him, but he’s so competent and calm. In the Arctic this storm would probably be nothing.
I get out my candles and matches, glad I’d thought to purchase them. I get out my flashlight and extra batteries. By seven P.M. my bean soup is done and it’s time for supper. At eight the lights flicker again and go off. I wait, but eventually conclude the lines have blown down. I can live without light, but can I live without heat?
As the electric baseboards cool and tick more slowly, the cottage grows colder, so I build up the fire but I’m careful not to waste wood. I close my bedroom door and the bathroom door to keep the heat centralized. I hang quilts over the arch that leads to the kitchen and over the big picture window.
Outside the wind shrieks, trying to get in. I think of the birds. Where do the seagulls go in a blizzard? Where are the geese and the red-winged black birds? I peek out the picture window. There’s nothing to see, just white flying everywhere. White. White.
ALL NIGHT IT snows and all the next day. Every few hours I crack the door and call for Tiger, but he never comes in. It’s hard to tell day and night anymore and I have no idea how deep the snow is, but when I go out on the porch for wood, I estimate two feet on the flat with drifts up to three.
IN THE NIGHT the wind sounds like wolves outside my door.
“Mommy!” someone calls. It’s a child and I must get to her through the blizzard. “Mommy! Mom!” It’s Jessie. I know I’m foolish and risking my life, but I bundle up in my snowmobile suit and prepare to go out in the blizzard to find her. In the yard, an army of honking Canada geese bars my way. They flap their wings and peck at me, but I fight through them as they tear my snowsuit to shreds. “I’m coming, Jessie . . .”
The wind is still howling when I jerk myself out of the dream. My covers have come off in the struggle with the geese and I can still hear the voice out in the storm. Mommy! Mommy!
Sun God
In the morning it’s the silence that wakes me. The drift that once separated the upper and lower deck is back. Like a sculpture, the white mound is carved and swirled, but there’s no way I can get the front door open.
Since the power is still off, I put the quilt back up over the big front window and stoke the coals. I hate to use the Nelsons’ nice cooking pot over the open flame because it will be blackened, but I must have something hot to drink. And while the water heats, I put on my winter gear and go out on the porch. Here snow has drifted in too, but only a foot and I’m able to find a few remaining logs.
Everything is so quiet. No wind. No motors in the distance. There’s only the whisper of snow falling from the pines. Then I hear a cheep cheep.
It’s a bright red cardinal sitting on the porch rail that makes me smile. “You survived too, did you?” He cocks his head and looks up at me, asking if I have any food. I bring out some breadcrumbs.
The woodpile is only thirty feet from the porch and I can see it quite clearly now, but the depth of the snow intimidates me. Cautiously, I place my foot down where I think the steps must be and am surprised when I find the snow is as hard as cement. Carefully I move forward, walking across the surface as light as a fox. Only once I break through and I remind myself that a broken leg might be the end of me. In ten minutes I’ve brought in three armloads of logs, all the while keeping an eye on the horizon, afraid the blizzard will be back with a vengeance.
BY NOON THE sun shines in and warms more than the air. It warms my heart. I take down the quilt over the picture window. Lake Erie is calm and the seagulls are back.
Inspired, I stand in front of the glass, bend down to my toes in a yoga pose and then reach up and back in an arch, saluting the sun. I do this three times and when I open my eyes an orange cat is sitting on top of the snowbank, the Sun God himself. I am so happy to see him, I run out on the deck . . . and slip on my butt! Unfortunately, it’s not my butt that I injure. A bruise wouldn’t be so bad. It’s my ankle. I have twisted my ankle!
Damn. Damn. Damn. The whole time I’ve been here I’ve reminded myself that an injury when I’m alone could be fatal. Now, in one moment of inattention, I’ve done it. I grab my cat, grimacing with pain and hobble back inside.
NORTHERN CARDINAL
Distinctive bright red bird with a marked crest
Female is orange-brown
Diet: Seeds
Does not migrate, lives in the eastern and Midwestern US down to Texas and Mexico, and is gradually moving north
Voice: a piercing cheep cheep
Associated with open woodlands
Size: from 4 to 8 inches
CHAPTER 18
Thaw
For two days, I’m in tears. Every time I move my ankle throbs and I have only a few Tylenol left in my purse. I bind up my ankle with strips of old sheets. I use the walking stick for support, but keep my foot elevated and try to move around as little as possible. Under the bandages the ankle is purple, a sure sign of some kind of bleeding. At first I was worried that I’d broken a bone. Now I think it is probably just a bad sprain. I let out a long sigh. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. How could I have been so stupid!
TWO DAYS AFTER the storm, the air is balmy and it’s spring again. Snow is melting everywhere. It drips from the trees. It drips through the cracks in the deck. It pours down the gutter spout, but I am still hobbling around with the support of Lloyd’s walking stick.
My biggest concern is food. I can’t hike to the store or even to Molly Lou’s, and I limp into the kitchen to make an assessment. I have three cans of beans, a can of tomatoes, a liter of milk, two pieces of bread and some cornmeal. Not much, but I guess I won’t starve.
To comfort myself, I pick up my cat and go back to bed. It’s two in the afternoon, but they say, when healing, “rest is best” and within a half hour I’m dreaming again.
IN THE DREAM, Karen is taking care of my ankle. Her soft hands remove the strips of sheeting and she looks at the injury. “Now you can go to the dance,” she says.
“What dance?” I ask.
“The Cinderella Ball,” she tells me. “Bring Jessie.”
“I can’t bring Jessie,” I tell her. “She is lost to me.” And here I’m filled with deep sorrow.
“HELLO!” A MAN’S voice calls from the road. “Hello! Miss Livingston?”
I wake with a jerk, my pillow wet with tears.
Hopping into the kitchen, I peer out the window. It’s Officer Dolman, plodding up the drive on snowshoes and looking like a Canadian Mountie in a red parka, a brown cowboy hat and the shiny sunglasses.
Before he gets to the porch, I throw water on my face at the kitchen sink, hoping I don’t look like the mess I actually am.
“How you doing? Did you make it through the storm?” he asks when I open the door. “I’m calling on everyone who lives alone or seems vulnerable. You come under both categories.”
This ticks me off. First of all, I don’t like him sniffing around like a bloodhound. Second, I don’t want to be seen as vulnerable. “Well, you can remove me from your list in the future,” I respond coldly. “I had candles, a flashlight and plenty of firewood.”
I have no intention of asking the man in, but he takes off his snowshoes and hands me a blue nylon knapsack. “Brought you some provisions, just in case you’re getting low. It will be days before the plows get down here and maybe a week until the hydro company is able to repair the downed lines.”
At this point, I have to ask him in (it would look more suspicious if I didn’t), so to thank the cop for bringing me groceries, I limp over to the stove and make us some tea. Then the policeman carries two kitchen chairs out on the porch, so we can sit in the sunshine listening to the snow melt.
“What did you do to your ankle?” Officer Dolman asks, still wearin
g the intimidating shades, and I realize I’ve never actually seen his eyes. On such a bright snowy day, the glasses are needed, but on a lawman they’re also intimidating. Probably that’s why he wears them.
“I slipped. Just a few more days of rest and I should be fine.”
“Want me to look at it? I’ve taken advanced first aid.”
Now he’s getting on my nerves, all three of them.
“No, I’ll be fine!” To change the subject, I point out a little gray bird, eating the breadcrumbs I’d previously put out for the cardinal. Dolman tells me it’s a junco and that I can get bird feed at the country store.
“You’re more of a social worker than a law enforcement officer, aren’t you?” I ask to keep the conversation away from me and my injury.
“I have my master’s degree in social work. Most people don’t know that.”
“So how did you end up a cop?”
“I was working for social services with inner city youth in Toronto and got recruited to be a detective with a gang unit. Social work is noble, but frustrating as hell.”
“So now you’re a cop on Seagull Island. That’s a switch. I’ve never seen any graffiti here. I doubt there are gangs.”
“No graffiti. No gangs. Not much crime either.”
“So why the turnaround?”
Dolman starts taking the groceries out of the backpack—a liter of milk, some cheese, a box of crackers and a sack of apples. “It’s a long story.” He runs his hands through his short brown hair, which is peppered with gray, and puts on his cowboy hat. “I got to go.”
Abruptly, he slides his feet into the snowshoes, fastens them and tromps away down the drive.
“Wait, Officer Dolman. I should pay you for the supplies,” I yell after him, not wanting to seem unappreciative or get on his bad side. “Thanks for bringing them!” I yell. But he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t answer.
SLATE COLORED JUNCO
Little sparrow that flits about the forest floors
Crisp gray markings
Bright white tail feathers that flash in flight. Often seen in flocks
The Runaway Midwife Page 9