Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  “What did you think of the curriculum?” Nancy French put forth. To the young high school grad, everything was an assignment. Home work. Curriculum.

  “You mean the agenda,” Mrs. Fox corrected. “I think that’s the term you’re looking for, Nancy. Or simpler yet, you could call it the schedule of events. This isn’t a school you know.”

  Nancy blushed and pursed her lips. Mrs. Fox, I had discovered in our short hours together, had an answer for everything and no qualms about letting people know when she thought them to be misinformed, which turned out to be most of the time. She had even tried setting Simon straight on a point about the origin of origami, but her intrusion went over like three-day-old cat food, and I noted she didn’t do it again.

  Actually Mrs. Fox seemed nice enough when she wasn’t trying to right the world. One of the volunteer students had forgotten her watercolor block, and after only a short lecture on ways to improve the memory, Mrs. Fox insisted she take one of hers. The stately woman probably thought her amendments were a form of service. Nancy didn’t feel serviced, however. She had turned away, her face dark with that brooding glare only a teen can manifest.

  “I thought it was very good,” I injected, answering Nancy’s question as if nothing had happened. “I especially liked the blind contour session.” Blind drawing, an exercise where you look at something, place pencil on paper, then close your eyes and draw it in one continuous line, was fun and revealing. The end result comes out like a mix between a Picasso and a child’s scribble. Everyone relaxes and laughs at each other’s wonky images, setting the stage for more serious art.

  “I found the Moments of Meditation to be extremely helpful,” said Trace Bellows. The statement that out of all we had done—‌art, crafts, dance—‌the monkish man preferred contemplation came as no surprise.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I was amazed at how freeing the process was. I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages. What about you, George?” I tossed to Mr. Harrison, who in his new flannel shirt buttoned to the neck looked about as relaxed as a statue.

  “Oh, uh, right,” he sputtered, surprised at being addressed. “Very soothing.”

  The conversation waned while the last eaters finished their dinner. I waited but when no one else was forthcoming, I turned to the man on George’s right.

  “What about you, Nathan? What was your favorite part?”

  Nathan’s face lit as he seemed to recall something. A special moment? A cherished recollection? A funny internet video? Who could say—‌his only comment was, “Good times,” before he slipped back into deadpan mode.

  I was about to relinquish my title of conversationalist when Jane Knot took up the baton.

  “Yes, Lynley,” she reflected. “I found it soothing as well, but it was also very stimulating. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I just finished my first term at Portland State, so I’m pretty used to curriculum.” She gave a friendly wink to Nancy, who smiled gratefully at the acknowledgment. “At PSU, I’m running crazy from eight in the morning until sometimes late at night. Art is my outlet, the thing that keeps me sane. Acrylic painting is my favorite, but just about anything that enhances the creative side of the brain from the logical one will work. The whole brain makes a whole person.”

  “Well stated,” commended Mrs. Fox. “Who said that?”

  “I did.”

  “Yes, of course, but it’s a quote. Someone famous came up with it first.”

  Jane stiffened. “Oh? I didn’t realize. I must have heard it and forgotten.”

  “That’s okay, dear. It was a very smart comment, no matter its origin.” Mrs. Fox turned to the person on her right, Marissa Peabody-Jones. “And what about you, Marissa?”

  Marissa lowered her eyes shyly but answered. “I liked everything except the solitary study. I thought it was scary to be by myself like that. I really couldn’t concentrate on my sketch once my mind began wandering to all the things that can happen to a woman alone in the wilds.”

  “But you weren’t really alone. We were all close, just out of sight of each other. The idea is to work without worry of being observed. You could draw anything you wanted and no one would ever see unless you showed it to them later.”

  “I know.” Marissa looked as if she would like to disappear into her soup bowl. “I didn’t like it, that’s all.”

  Suddenly something struck me. “Hey, I thought there were supposed to be ten students. Did someone cancel at the last minute?”

  “Oh, you must mean my friend Crystal,” Mrs. Fox replied. “She’s here but she didn’t make it today. She was ill,” Mrs. Fox added.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” I said.

  “Or contagious,” put in George Harrison, who was turning out to be a bit of a germaphobe.

  “It would be a shame for her to have spent all that money only to stay holed up in her room,” I said. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “No,” Mrs. Fox answered a little too abruptly. “No, she’ll be fine. I’m sure she’ll be joining us tomorrow. In fact she might even feel well enough to make it to the Roundup tonight. I think I’ll check on her and see if I can persuade her.”

  Mrs. Fox pushed up from the table, took her empty plate and tea cup to the sideboard, and headed out.

  “Liquor,” a voice to my left half-whispered.

  I looked over at the athletic woman beside me. Tall, tan, and sculpted in her sports bra and spandex shorts, Sympathy painted the picture of health. I could almost hear the theme from Rocky playing when she flashed her perfect smile.

  “Liquor,” she repeated. “Booze. That’s all that’s wrong with Mrs. Fox’s friend, Crystal. She got pissed as a newt last night and now is paying for it.”

  “Really? How did you know?”

  Sympathy sniffed in derision. “The body is a temple. I personally do not drink, smoke, or eat processed foods, and I refuse to tolerate those practices in others. That said, it’s obvious, once you learn the signs.”

  I couldn’t argue with her there; drunkenness is easy to spot for someone who is familiar with it. I should know, having spent my early life in an alcoholic haze. But where had this drunkenness taken place? And when had Sympathy seen the elusive Crystal to deduce her inebriated state?

  Sympathy, having said her piece, was now directing her conversation to Trace Bellows, something about joining her for a little one-on-one reflection exercise in her cabin after the Roundup. It looked as if sex were not on her list of no-nos.

  A trill of familiar laughter floated through the room preceding Geraldine and her companion, Malto. Malto was a black lab, very old and very sweet. I’m not a dog person, having never spent time around the canine species, but if I were to have one in my household, I’d want him to be just like Malto.

  “Hello, Geraldine. Hello, Malto.” I stretched out my hand and Malto snuffled it gently—‌no tongue, no slime. Perfect!

  “Hello, Lynley,” Geraldine greeted. Tonight she was wearing a green high-waisted dress with turquoise trim, reminiscent of the sixties’ British Mod scene. “Did everyone have a good first day?” she cast around the group.

  Rewarded with noises of satisfaction and assent, she nodded and smiled, then turned back to me.

  “I have something for you.” She dug in a voluminous pocket and came up with a large single key. “There’s nothing wrong with a little privacy.”

  “Oh, yes. Thanks.” I took the key, self-consciously, wondering if I were the only one who felt the need to lock their door.

  “It’s okay,” Geraldine soothed. “You should have got it when you first came, but since Simon brought you—‌well, he’s a man.” She winked. “And a busy one. Mind on other things.” Again addressing the table, she said, “See you all at the Roundup,” before she ambled off like a green-blue penguin.

  Checking the big antique clock over the fireplace, I saw we still had half an hour before the event, ample time for dessert and if last night’s fare was any indication, I didn’t want to miss it. As if on cue, S
un burst from the kitchen with a tray of tiny plates, a chocolate covered bar of some sort. Brownie? Nanaimo? I dropped the single key in my brimming day pack, hoping I’d be able to find it again, and gave a little prayer of thanks for all things sweet and gooey

  * * *

  The Roundup was held in Dovecote, a building I’d only seen from the outside. It was a geodesic dome, bright with triangular openings that gleamed through the night in a patchwork of luminescence. The sun had gone down while we were at dinner and was now only a deep apricot wash on the horizon, reminding me of the watercolor painting we had done earlier in the day.

  Everyone was congregated around the front of the dome, waiting. I must have had luck on my side because just as I approached, the double doors flew open and a group of volunteers began hustling people inside. I didn’t understand their hurry until I was well into the large room, but then it became clear. The place was filled with cats! The sentries were there to make sure that none of them slipped out.

  It was hard not to stop and stare, but with the urging of a friendly but insistent volunteer, I moved on to find a seat. Within moments, there was a cat on my lap. As I stroked the soft tabby fur, I checked the place out.

  Dovecote was essentially one huge room, subtly lit with faux candles and glow globes that cast warm and flickering shadows throughout the half-sphere. The floor was thick with an abundance of throw rugs in various styles—‌Mexican, Indian, Persian, and many that looked hand-made. The seats, lounge-like and randomly disbursed, all faced a low platform with a short couch at one side. On the couch sat Simon and Tulsa Thorpe, heads together in what appeared to be deep discussion.

  I felt a breeze ruffle my hair and looked up. The entire top of the dome was open to the night, and I could see stars pulsing in the indigo heavens. I wondered what happened when it rained and decided I didn’t care, just happy to be able to enjoy it as it was now.

  Glancing around at the folks settled into their comfy chairs, I picked out the art students as well as the three volunteers who were attending some of the classes with us. There were also several people I didn’t know, some wearing volunteer aprons, others, the official staff tee shirts; and a handful of well-dressed well-groomed elders whom I guessed to be board members or consequential donors come to check out their good works. The cat-handlers stood or sat on the floor around the edge of the dome in case a cat-related incident should arise.

  It looked like Mrs. Fox had managed to rouse her friend; at least I assumed that was the identity of the person who sat next to the missus. All I could see was curly reddish hair. Then the woman turned and my heart skipped. I suppose I should have guessed, and it made perfect sense once I thought about it. Drunk? Sick? Either could account for the nasty nature of the rude talker outside my window. For this was certainly she. The grimace of the previous night had been replaced by vacancy, but I instantly recognized the features I had glimpsed in that split second cell phone glow.

  The woman caught my eye and I could feel myself blanch. I smiled and nodded but she just looked away. She didn’t seem happy. A good hangover will do that to you.

  On the platform, Simon stood.

  The event was beginning, and with Simon’s soft yet upbeat commentary purring into my mind, I had no further thoughts of the rude lady with the reddish hair.

  Chapter 8

  Nothing says home quite like a cat curled up on your lap. Unfortunately not all cats are lap-sitters. Some prefer to lounge beside their person or nearby on the back of a couch. A shy cat may only come up on the bed at night when it’s quiet and they feel safe.

  It happened so fast. One moment, we were all in sync, listening to each other do spontaneous poetry recitations on our love of animals; the next, chaos! I had done my poem which of course was about cats—‌my late Fraulein Fluffs to be exact and not bad if I say so myself—‌then it was her turn. Crystal Holt was her name. I watched her stand, stagger, and straighten, then make her rocky way to the staging area, her bloodshot eyes reflecting either fury or fear.

  She wore tight-fitting jeans and a low-cut peasant blouse with a bulky silver pendant on a rat tail chain hanging like a moon between her picture-perfect breasts. Once she had been beautiful, still was if you got past the scowling lips, furrowed brow, and ghostly gray of last night’s overindulgence. Her timeless features made it difficult to guess her age—‌certainly not twenties and most likely not thirties either. A well-preserved forty? Fifty with Botox?

  Crystal sank onto the carpet with a resonant whine. “I can’t do this frigging crap!” she blustered. “‘Oh, pussy, sweet pussy,’” she intoned in affected reverie. “What a bunch of garbage!” She rose again and whirled on Simon. “And you! You just sit there with your holier-than-thou attitude, just because you can talk to the animals or whatever it is you think you do. You’re a fake! A poser! What do you have to say for yourself anyway? What?”

  You could have heard a pin drop. A whisker twitch. A cat yawn.

  Claws clacked across the wooden floor like a series of snapping traps.

  Someone gasped.

  Someone whispered to a neighbor.

  Outside, an owl shrieked. The moment stretched into infinity.

  Simon leaned over and whispered to Tulsa, then stood, turned, and exited the room through a rear door.

  “Curse him!” Crystal swore impotently as she watched him go. She whirled on her audience. “Curse you all!”

  Whether it was Simon’s departure or that last dooming proclamation, everyone began talking at once. Mrs. Fox ran to her friend’s side, took her firmly by the arm, and shuttled her to a nearby seat where Crystal collapsed in tears. Sympathy ducked out with the tranquil Trace Bellows. Others defected as well. The volunteers, noting the disturbance in the Force, reopened the doors, manning them attentively to make sure no felines snuck out among fleeing humans. Tulsa gave a long, cold glare over the confusion, said something to a handy volunteer, and then with a flounce of her gauzy skirts followed Simon’s exit.

  Nancy stopped to ask me if I wanted to leave with her. I looked at the cat, asleep in my lap in priceless oblivion, and told her I’d be along in a minute. She moved on, muttering to a companion about the uncoolness of public displays and how they should not be tolerated in an educational environment. Her voice dwindled, a door closed, and I realized if I didn’t watch it, I’d soon be left alone with a clowder of cats, Mrs. Fox, and the beleaguered Crystal Holt.

  I reassessed my situation with the lap-sitter and decided the volunteers who were now regrouping around the front would take good care of him. Carefully I lifted the recumbent body, stood up, and replaced him on the cushion, still warm. Without turning, I started for the door, but it was too late. I’d been spotted.

  “Lynley!” Mrs. Fox called. “Oh, Lynley, just the person we need.”

  I paused, then turned.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fox? What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” she sighed, “as you can see, it’s Crystal.”

  “What about her?”

  I noted the cries had tapered into a tattoo of uneven snores.

  “It seems that the poor girl has passed out.”

  “Oh dear,” I said noncommittally. “Should we call for a medic?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Lynley. She does it all the time. Well, at least lately.”

  Unconvinced that the frequency of Crystal’s fainting spells made them any more acceptable, I came over and gazed down at the prostrate form. With her arms and legs splayed across the armchair, she resembled a half-chewed cat toy—‌damp and faded and coming apart at the seams.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said quietly, “why is she here? It doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself much.”

  Mrs. Fox slumped. “That’s my doing, I’m afraid. I’d told her about a charity event at the shelter where I volunteer, the Pretty Kitty Pet Rescue in Seattle. It really was a lovely event—‌black tie and formal gowns. They’d called it the Great Catsby!” She laughed.

  “Cut
e,” I commented when she began to wax nostalgic.

  “There was a silent auction and the invitations to the Cloverleaf Art Retreat were among the items. She and I both bid and we both won. Crystal is quite well off, you know. Old money.”

  I again gazed at the slack-jawed Crystal, but no amount of imagination could transform her into a be-gowned heiress in my mind.

  “Though I thought it should have gone to a volunteer,” Mrs. Fox ruminated. “Someone who had worked for the honor. Don’t you agree?”

  I nodded and left it at that. “So what do you propose to do about her?” I gestured toward Crystal who was snoring more evenly now.

  “Do you think you could be so kind as to help me get her to her cabin,” Mrs. Fox invited wistfully, “and to bed?”

  “Why don’t you just wake her up so she can walk on her own?”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Fox said, shaking her head. “When she gets like this, she’s impossible to awaken. I predict she’ll be out for hours.”

  Unfortunately for me, Mrs. Fox’s prediction was wrong.

  * * *

  Crystal came to screaming, hitting, clawing, biting, and whatever other self-defensive measures flowed instinctively from her disturbed and disoriented mind. I couldn’t blame her; no one wants to rise to consciousness only to find oneself being bodily carted against one’s will to places unknown. That said, I didn’t deserve the manic thanks I got for my good deed, and I handled it by relinquishing my well-meaning but clearly unwanted grip. For a moment she hung from the arms of Mrs. Fox, then that lady also let loose, sending Crystal Holt sprawling in the dirt.

  Over the course of my long and eccentric life, I had heard most of the swear words she flung at us, but to have them all rolled up in one nasty bundle and aimed like a verbal cannonball did nothing for my composure.