by Clea Simon
‘Oh, my!’ Dulcie walked toward the doors, transfixed. Only as she was reaching for the latch did she feel the soft pat of a paw and look down to see a marmalade tabby kitten sitting to attention at her feet.
‘Hello, darling.’ Dulcie scooped the kitten up and examined her. Young – Dulcie estimated her to be only a few months old – and plump and well socialized, the kitten responded to the attention with a robust purr that set her whole body vibrating. In turn, she examined Dulcie with round blue eyes that seemed to hold a question.
‘Are you looking for your person?’ Dulcie had been in the habit of talking aloud to cats even before Mr Grey’s transformation. It only seemed polite, and besides, who could tell what the thoughtful little beasts understood? ‘She’ll be back in a day or two.’
Maybe it was the wide-eyed nature of that direct stare, but Dulcie felt she was being questioned. ‘She’s been ill,’ she said, hoping to settle any qualms. ‘Or, isn’t that what you’re asking?’
It had to be those eyes, so round and innocent. ‘Alyson? Your person?’
The kitten turned in her hands and began to wash, and Dulcie felt she had hit on the right answer. This was clearly a new pet, so perhaps it made sense that she – he? – hadn’t been sure who Dulcie had been talking about. That would also explain Alyson’s lapse. A long-time pet person would have thought of her cat immediately upon awakening in a hospital, at least Dulcie was pretty sure she would have.
The kitten’s careful bathing, meanwhile, had exposed a pretty blue collar under the white and orange fur, and Dulcie settled the kitten against her chest to reach for its tag. ‘And who might you be, little one?’ But the move unsettled the animal, and with a twist she jumped down to the floor.
‘Have it your way.’ Dulcie couldn’t take offense. Esmé wouldn’t have stood for a stranger holding her at all. Besides, she hadn’t come here to cuddle. And so she followed the kitten’s bouncing rump into the kitchen, which like the rest of the apartment seemed a little too spare and modern. It was, however, roomy, and Dulcie felt a twinge of jealousy as she reached for a brushed nickel pull and opened a cabinet, looking for cans or kibble. The first two were almost empty – leading Dulcie to think the apartment was as new as the kitten. But on the third, she struck gold, finding not only cans but also a cute dish with a graphic of a fish on its side.
‘This has got to be for you, right?’ Dulcie looked down at the feline, who had taken up a post by the granite island. Although the kitten didn’t answer, the intensity of her stare – blue eyes wide – convinced Dulcie she was on the right track. She opened the can and deposited the dish on the hardwood floor. Like the rest of the kitchen, it appeared spotless – barely used. Except …
‘What’s this?’ Under the island’s edge, a balled-up bit of foil caught the light. Dulcie reached for it, drawing back as the kitten looked up from her food. ‘No, we can play when you’ve eaten,’ she told the cat. It was good to see that not everything in this place was high end.
In the meantime, Dulcie made herself useful. She found the litterbox and scooped it, and then wiped a sponge across the island and moved on to the counter. Both were virtually spotless. Dulcie got the impression that Alyson didn’t cook much. The only human food visible was a loaf of what looked like a poppy-seed lemon cake, wrapped loosely in more foil, over by the refrigerator. A scant few crumbs had escaped from that, and so Dulcie brushed them into the sink. She then neatened the end of the loaf, evening it out with a knife she’d found in one of the half-empty drawers, before crimping the foil back into place. Surely, her student wouldn’t begrudge her a little sweet, if she noticed that the loaf now had a cleaner cut at all.
Another slice – very thin – and the foil fit better. After all, there was no point in wrapping the cake up again if it were simply going to go stale. But that was enough. Dulcie washed off the knife and placed it in the rack to dry, then checked the drawers for more foil but found none; no wonder the sheet around the loaf was a tad short.
A soft rattle reminded her of another reason. The kitten had finished her meal and was batting the foil ball across the floor. It bounced with a tantalizing irregularity that had the little cat jumping and scurrying, until it landed by Dulcie’s right shoe.
‘Hang on.’ She bent to throw it, and only then noticed the bit of red ribbon peeking out. ‘This is not good.’
While the kitten cast a quizzical and – Dulcie thought – a rather disappointed look up at her, Dulcie began to unravel the makeshift toy. Foil balls had been a staple at her house, when Esmé was small. Even Mr Grey had been known to bat one around, all traces of his staid maturity disappearing as the crumpled toy careened around her dorm room. But ribbons were just too tempting and too dangerous. Dulcie had heard of kittens needing emergency surgery when they had ingested such temptations. Alyson was clearly a first-time cat owner – the ball was scrunched more tightly than either Esmé or Mr Grey would prefer – and Dulcie would have to have a word with her about feline safety.
‘Mrrrup?’ The kitten reached up as if to grab at the dangling ribbon.
‘I’m sorry, kitty.’ Dulcie had gotten more of the ribbon out finally and pulled, only to find it stuck fast. Carrying it back over to the counter, she opened the foil further – this was getting to be a lot of work for a toy she could have constructed in thirty seconds at home. Once she had the foil flat, however, Dulcie could see the problem. The ribbon had been taped to the foil, along with a bit of paper. ‘Penny,’ the paper said.
‘Is that you, kitty?’ Dulcie pulled the ribbon, tape and all, free and loosely bunched the foil up again. ‘Did she name you Penny because you’re copper colored?’
The kitten only tilted her head and blinked those big blue eyes.
‘Well, there you go, Penny.’ Dulcie tossed the ball and was gratified to see the energetic young beast bound after it. When the kitten collided with an ottoman, tumbling over on her back onto the hardwood floor, Dulcie had a moment’s concern, but the fall didn’t seem to faze the small beast who bounced back on the attack, knocking the foil ball back toward Dulcie as if making an all-star pass.
‘Go for it!’ Dulcie kicked the ball, careful not to catch the little cat with her toe. The kitten obliged and as she ran off, Dulcie heard a rap at the door.
‘Hello?’ Dulcie opened it to see a middle-aged woman with short grey curls. ‘May I help you?’
‘Oh.’ The woman blinked, looking for all the world like the kitten, her eyes round and blue behind her big glasses.
‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie shook her head. ‘I’m a friend of Alyson’s. You must be a neighbor?’
‘Yes, I’m Sara Dodge.’ The woman extended a hand. ‘I heard some noises.’
‘Sorry,’ Dulcie apologized again. ‘I’m sitting her kitten and I guess we got a bit rambunctious. I’ll try to keep things calmer.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ The other woman, Dulcie now noticed, was waving a piece of paper. ‘I was only hoping that someone was home. You see, we’ve got a condo meeting coming up, and I’m trying to get support for some capital improvements.’
‘I see.’ Dulcie nodded, although she didn’t really. She took the flier, however. ‘I’ll leave this for Alyson. Was there any other message?’
‘No.’ The grey curls bobbed as the woman shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Just if Alyson wants to talk before the meeting, she should call me. We’re really hoping either she or her boyfriend can be there.’
‘Well, isn’t she a sly one?’ Dulcie said to the kitten, after the visitor was gone. ‘I didn’t know she had a boyfriend at all. I wonder if this is his condo?’ Dulcie took the flier into the kitchen and, after a little consideration, decided to leave it on the counter. Odds were, she knew, the apartment was a rental – she and Chris had looked at a few condos when they were searching for a place. Although the city had pretty much recovered from the real estate crash, there were always a number of absentee landlords who rented out their places. Graduate students, she’d learned, w
ere usually considered good tenants – if they could afford the sometimes steep fees.
‘A place like this must cost a pretty penny, don’t you think? Though you’re the real pretty Penny, aren’t you?’ But the kitten was no longer listening. Exhausted by the bout of play, she had stretched out on the rug, her blue eyes closed in sleep.
THIRTY-ONE
There was no point in lying to Esmé. From the moment Dulcie walked into the apartment, the round little cat was aware she’d had contact with another feline.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dulcie knelt on the living room rug, holding her hand out to her pet. ‘I had to. Her person is sick.’
‘Huh!’ With a sniff of her mostly pink nose, Esmé turned away, showing Dulcie her smooth black back. Even though she was facing away, Dulcie could hear her thoughts, almost as if the young cat were on her shoulder. ‘And you smell funny, too.’
Sometimes, Dulcie felt with a pang of disloyalty, she wished things would go back to the way they were – that she couldn’t hear what her cat was thinking. Before Mr Grey had died – and then returned to her through his occasional visitations – Dulcie’s relationships with cats were simpler.
For now, however, she was reprieved by the sound of the door opening. It was Chris, carrying a large paper bag.
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want the dumplings again or the noodles, so I got both,’ he said as he carried the fragrant bag into the kitchen. ‘Plus, they were having that duck special, so I got that too. I figured that after last night, you’d be ready for a proper dinner.’
‘Awesome,’ Dulcie replied, with another twinge. Her snacking at Alyson’s had left her without her usual appetite. ‘I’ll set the table.’
Twenty minutes later, the dumplings were gone, as were most of the noodles and a good portion of both the duck and the tofu. Most of that had been consumed by Chris, as was usually the case. Tonight, however, he did pause to look at his girlfriend with concern.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, chopsticks still in hand. ‘You’ve barely touched anything but your rice.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Dulcie put her own down and reached for her glass of water. ‘I guess I’m just trying to figure things out.’
‘Tell.’ Chris grabbed a sliver of dark mushroom and waggled it. ‘I’m all ears.’
It was just as well he was still eating. As Dulcie went through her day, he paused several times. But he was as good as his word and only chewed thoughtfully as she explained about visiting Alyson and then going to her apartment afterward.
‘I thought you were going to stay out of this,’ he said, his voice gentle, once she was done.
‘I was. I am,’ Dulcie corrected herself. ‘I mean, I had to go to the memorial out of respect. Fenderby was on my thesis committee.’ Chris looked like he was about to interrupt, but Dulcie kept talking. ‘And then I realized that I’d never gotten a chance to ask Alyson about what she’d told the police – and what she’d said is having an impact on me.’
Chris put his chopsticks down. ‘Dulcie?’
‘Only now I’m not sure if she’s involved.’ Dulcie was on a tear. ‘I mean, Chris. She’s got a cat.’
The rest of the evening didn’t go well. Dulcie knew that Chris was upset, but she couldn’t simply drop it. Not now. Besides, she had gotten work done.
‘If I’m ever reinstated,’ she’d explained, while they were doing the dishes, ‘I’ve got all my citations in place. That chapter is bulletproof.’
He’d winced, and she’d moved on. ‘Maybe having this extra time is a good thing, you know? Lucy would say everything happens for a reason.’
‘I don’t know, Dulce.’ Chris took the rice bowl from her and began drying it. ‘If you’re quoting your mother, you must be desperate.’
Dulcie couldn’t remember the last time she was grateful for the Red Sox. But Chris had switched the game on, and she relaxed on the sofa beside him, happy not to talk.
‘Hey, Esmé,’ she called softly. The players all seemed to be talking to the pitcher about something. ‘Come join us?’
‘Meh,’ the cat said aloud. She had taken up a post by the television and was staring at Dulcie as she sat there. ‘You still smell funny,’ was all the little tuxedo said as she turned tail and stalked out of the room.
The cramps started sometime after two. At first, Dulcie tried to ignore them, shifting in the bed in her attempt to find a more comfortable position. Esmé had jumped off before she had woken, if she had joined them in bed at all. But Chris was snoring gently, and especially after their touchy evening, Dulcie didn’t want to be the cause of a sleepless night for him.
When a particularly sharp pang made her gasp, she realized this wouldn’t work. Bent over, she made her way to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Surely, in with all the Band-aids and half-finished bottles of cold medicines, they had some antacid.
‘What’s up?’ Chris, rubbing sleep from his eyes, was standing in the doorway. ‘You OK?’
‘No,’ said Dulcie. Another cramp hit and she sat on the floor. ‘My stomach hurts like anything.’
‘Hang on.’ Thanks to his height, Chris was able to check the higher shelves, and in a minute he’d pulled out a bottle of something foul-looking and pink. ‘It’s from 2011, but it should still be good. Let me get a spoon.’
‘Thanks.’ Dulcie knew he wanted to help, but sitting there, looking at the sickly pink bottle, she wasn’t sure this was the answer. In fact, at the idea of swallowing it …
Another cramp, and she found herself retching.
‘Oh, Dulcie!’ Chris was behind her, holding her curls out of her face as she vomited into the toilet. One heave, then another, until finally she collapsed, empty and exhausted. Leaning back against the tub, she let her face rest against the cool porcelain and shut her eyes.
‘Hang on.’ She blinked. Chris was holding a glass of water to her lips, and she summoned the tremendous energy necessary to take a sip. ‘I guess you don’t need that Pepto now.’
‘Guess not,’ Dulcie struggled to answer. She could not recall ever feeling quite so tired. ‘I think it was the color, that horrible pink …’ She waved feebly, indicating the toilet and the dinner she had just lost.
‘Poor dear.’ Chris sat beside her. He’d gotten a damp washcloth at some point and was gently wiping her face. ‘But I’d put my money on it being the duck. Maybe it was on special because it had been sitting around for a while. Though I’ve never known Mary Chung’s to give anyone food poisoning.’
‘I don’t think it did. Besides, you ate most of that.’ It was an effort to speak. Even more to talk, but Chris’s words had sparked the germ of an idea in Dulcie’s mind. ‘Before dinner,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘At Alyson’s. I had cake.’
‘Ah, the truth comes out,’ her boyfriend teased gently. ‘No wonder you weren’t that enthusiastic about the noodles. And I guess we know what happened.’ He paused. She shook her head, as much as she could. He wasn’t getting it. He didn’t understand.
‘Spicy Szechuan on top of cake maybe wasn’t the best idea.’ She could hear the tender chiding in his voice.
‘No,’ she said. It was too much effort to say more. She could barely shake her head. ‘No,’ she repeated.
‘Especially, when maybe you’ve been drinking too much coffee?’ His voice had a smile in it. ‘That stuff is pretty acidic, you know. And the brew they serve at the English department could take the paint off a car—’
She pulled away and lurched toward the toilet. It was hopeless. She was empty. Spent, and after a moment the spasms subsided. An overwhelming wave of fatigue swept over her, but at least the horrible sickness had passed – at least for now – leaving her exhausted, but a little more in charge of herself.
‘It’s not the coffee, Chris,’ she managed to say, her voice weak. ‘I’ve been poisoned.’
THIRTY-TWO
Goblets o’erbrimmed with Blood, the noble Ichor from that Most Ignoble crown … Even i
n her sleep, Dulcie recognized that the quote had been altered. The imagery turned from something mystical into something bloodier and more coarse. That those so Bonded could so Bloody be, that Words once Scripted could be Overwrought …
Still woozy, Dulcie tossed and turned, the image of a bloodied hand writing and crossing out those words recurring through her dreams. Only in the dream, the ink became blood, the page itself bleeding as the words were scratched out, the ‘bloody ichor’ spreading through the paper to obscure the text.
She woke, at last, to find Esmé staring at her, the cat’s green eyes inches from her face. ‘What is it, Esmé?’ Dulcie murmured as she blinked away the dream. ‘Was I talking in my sleep?’
In response, the cat turned and jumped off the bed, leaving Dulcie to assume that the little tuxedo had stayed behind only to watch over her and, perhaps, to safely wake her from her nightmare. But although her pet may have saved her from night terrors, Dulcie couldn’t entirely shake the grisly image from her mind. If anything, the memory only added to her conviction that something much worse than spoiled duck was at work.
‘I don’t know, Dulcie.’ Chris looked somber when she joined him in the kitchen, stating her intentions for the day. When she blanched at his offer of coffee, he renewed his protest. ‘I think you should be in bed.’
She was determined, however, only acceding to his request that he accompany her. ‘I don’t want you passing out on the way in. And if you start feeling sick again,’ he had said, as he helped her into the cab – another of his conditions, ‘I’m taking you to health services.’
‘I’m OK,’ she insisted. In truth, she felt more like the wet washcloth that Chris had used to wipe her face the night before than anything like herself. ‘And this is important.’
She’d given up trying to convince him that Esmé had tried to warn her. Although he, too, could hear when their pet chose to communicate, he’d put the little tuxedo’s apparent rebuke down to a much more selfish reason: Dulcie had held another cat.