by Anna Kern
“You don’t have to do that anymore with so many people bringing their stuff to you,” he answered. “However, if you ladies want to get back to the real thing, take a look out the window at the treasures I found at a house they’re tearing down.”
“No doubt to make room for another condominium,” Maggie said.
“Right you are, sweetie,” he said, draping his arm around her shoulders, “and these start at only five hundred thousand.”
“Those cheap ones must be the ones facing the road rather than the ocean,” she answered, shaking her head in disbelief.
The three of them trooped to the front of the store. George grinned at their gleeful reaction to the truckload of architectural items, along with a bathtub and a pedestal sink in pristine condition.
“George, this is perfect for the house Ethan is buying,” said Alyx.
“Thank you, honey,” said Maggie.
“Of course, I intent to make a small profit on this,” he said, winking at Maggie.
“Fair enough, George,” replied Alyx. “Wait until I tell Ethan; I know he’ll be positively thrilled!”
“Do you think he’d be interested in some wood flooring? Most of it’s rotted away, but there’s probably just enough to salvage for a couple of rooms,” said George.
“I’m sure he’ll want it,” said Alyx.
“If he does want it, tell him we need to get it real soon. I’ll help, but we could use one more man.”
“Okay, George,” said Alyx, “I’ll have him call you, and––thank you for thinking of him.”
It was only seven o’clock when we left the store, but it was pitch-dark outside. Alyx closed all the blinds and checked all the locks on the doors again. When we got home, she prepared her tea, and while the tea steeped, she changed into an oversized t-shirt. In my opinion, it was too early to call it a night; conversely, it was not time to go out or start anything new.
Alyx called her brother Tom, told him about the items that George had picked up for Ethan, and how excited Ethan was to start the renovation process on his house.
“I’ve already told Ethan not to hesitate to call me for help if a job gets to be more than he can handle,” said Tom. “I know contractors who will quote him a fair price.”
“Thanks, Tom. I’ll see you and Susan for dinner on Wednesday.”
“Was there something else, Alyx?”
“Well …no, nothing that can’t wait. Good night, Tom.”
She disconnected without mentioning to her brother that someone had followed us home and had almost sideswiped her car when she turned in the driveway. At first, I thought maybe Alyx had made someone mad because she was driving too slowly. However, I started to doubt that that was the case when the phone rang three different times during the night, and there was no one talking on the other end.
Trying to sleep with the phone ringing at all hours of the night was an exercise in futility. I figured someone was obviously harassing Alyx. That sideswipe was a near miss. Who could be stalking Alyx? Was it Althea’s killer or was it someone else? I remembered Alyx’s conversation with David about his ex-wife and considered the probability that she was the culprit.
Someone wanted to scare Alyx––at least, this time. Maybe next time, it would be worse. Either way, Pooky and Misty needed to know. When I told them, they looked at each other in alarm and then back at me. Pooky hoped her presence wasn’t required at Antiques & Designs. I understood her reluctance to go. She’d learned that for superstitious reasons some humans don’t like black cats; some people visibly cringed when they saw her. There wasn’t much I could say about that. Malevolence wasn’t new to her; she’d had some experience with that before. She plopped down with obvious relief when I told her that Misty and I could handle things for the time being.
Pooky and Misty then joined Alyx in her bedroom, and I took a watchful position at the front door where the bare sidelights provided a good view of the front yard and street. I looked carefully up and down the street as far as I could see, and there were no parked cars, moving vehicles or criminals lurking in the bushes.
Misty hadn’t said a word to me since the last time she’d seen me leave the house; her quiet behavior reflected the deep disappointment she must have felt. She’d believed me when I told her I wasn’t going to join Simon. Now she apparently wasn’t sure. She would have been terrified had she known my inner conflict.
“Prowling his own quiet backyard or asleep by the fire, he is still only a whisker away from the wilds.”
––Jean Burden
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Do Civilized Cats Eat Rats?
Simon was late. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I paced across the screened porch, ears forward, alert to his approach. I caught a glimpse of Misty in my peripheral vision and pretended I didn’t see her.
When Simon finally appeared, I jumped through the slit in the screen and we were off, over the picket fence, across the front of the house and down the street to our meeting place. I knew Misty was following us at a discreet distance, ducking behind trees and shrubs. Every now and then, she stopped and looked around to get her bearings. Misty, an indoor cat her whole life had never expressed a desire to run free outside, yet there she was, trudging across manicured lawns, un-kept lawns, natural landscapes, and open areas. If it weren’t for Simon urging me on, I would have marched her back home to safety.
Misty was familiar with most of the nocturnal animals that lived in the area––owls, snapping and gopher turtles, mice, raccoons, armadillos and an occasional opossum––only from a distance. The opossum––on a collision course with her––didn’t “play dead” as I’d once told her they did, and I saw why. The mother opossum, carrying several babies on her back, bared all fifty of her teeth while making some very ugly sounds. Misty wisely gave her a wide berth with only a furtive sidelong glance.
Sounds and smells filled the night. I sensed more than saw something scurry in the tall grass in the open field. I was tempted to pounce on the rat, the primal urge stronger than I’d ever felt, and I wondered––eating a lizard was one thing––but a big rat? Do civilized cats eat rats? Truth is, there was a time when I couldn’t even eat a mouse.
The house where I was born had many cracks where tiny mice made their way inside, especially under the kitchen sink. Although, he had never found any, the man of the house was always concerned about the damage a large mouse could do. On the other hand, I saw the damage he did with his old-fashioned wood traps that tortured the adult mice to death, and the poison pellets that killed them slowly.
A week before I left this home, I was exploring my surroundings and wandered into the kitchen where I found two very small creatures huddled on the floor near the baseboard. I went to inspect and called attention to the weak and vulnerable tiny mice.
In one swoop, the woman of the house grabbed the stronger one first, then the weaker one who tried to make a pitiful getaway. She placed them in a shoebox with a washcloth for comfort, birdseed, and water. She hid the box in the furnace room out of harm’s way when she heard her husband come in. The tiny mice didn’t notice the food or didn’t know what it was, but they did seek warmth under the washcloth. I knew that they were still nursing and too young for solid food.
The woman came back later and tried to feed them milk, using her finger as a dropper. The weaker one didn’t respond. The other one turned on his back and took a drop, then went back under the washcloth. I understood there wasn’t anything I could do, other than let them know, they weren’t alone. The weaker mouse died during the night and the other one died the next day. The woman wrapped the mice together in a piece of cloth and buried them in the pet cemetery, under the bushes by the patio wall.
The way I saw it, the mother of the baby mice probably entered the house to give birth and she lost her life when she went looking for food; there’s no telling how long the babies had been there without food. I believe that when the time was right, she would have led her babies out of the house and taught them
the skills they needed to survive and no one would have died.
As a kitten, every creature I met was my friend, and the death of the little mice taught me that all life deserves respect. As an adult, I’m well fed and I have no need to hunt. However, nature being what it is, I have those urges, but unless it’s a matter of survival, it’s up to me to decide whether to act on them or not.
Now, the trail that Simon and I were following led to a clearing––an empty lot, actually. The only thing on the overgrown property was a decaying shed at the rear of the property. We slipped through an opening in the door and disappeared inside. Another two sleek Siamese cats came through the opening and––following them––an additional two cats.
I hoped Misty had found a good listening spot, and a few minutes later, I saw her half-hidden by a wild grapevine that covered most of the shed. Simon was aware of her presence and wanted to scare her into returning home. However, I assured him that she was no threat. Inside the shed, all the cats formed a circle. I sat next to Simon, and even though I felt uncomfortable, I made no move to leave.
Sometime later, I made my way back to the house with Simon’s last words firmly embedded in my brain. “There are thousands of us roaming the country––the world, in fact. Join us and I will teach you things you never thought possible. Together, you and I can make a difference for the good of all humankind.”
The seduction was subtle, the lure of power intoxicating. As I ambled along, I mulled over the events of the night, my mind flirting with the idea of freely wandering wherever I wished, the possibilities endless. An owl hooted in the distance; a small mammal skittered nearby, filling the space around me with harmony and peace. What Simon proposed was enticing––roaming for the good of all humankind, deciding for ourselves what to do, whom to help. The question was did he mean it? Was he really interested in helping others? I told myself that if I joined him, I would make sure that’s what we did.
I caught up with Misty, who’d left a few minutes before I did, running as fast as her short legs would let her, any sign of clumsiness gone, quite at home in the dark overgrown jungle. I was glad that Misty had overheard our conversation, because it would make it easier on her if I decided to leave. I could only imagine what she was thinking when she realized I was considering it.
Although, Misty had shown a great deal of courage, her sudden, loud scream was alarming. My first thought was will she remember the self-defense maneuvers I’d taught her when I’d attacked her when we were playing? I’d never really hurt her … and I was worried. When I caught up with her, a young female cat with razor sharp claws and battle scars had her up against the fence in the rear of the yard. Misty, her fur puffed out, her pupils huge in her small furry face looked fierce, determined, and fearless as she loudly told the other cat to back off, or she’d be sorry. Pooky arrived at the same time I did, and when the young female saw us all take a stand next to Misty; she knew to look for an escape route. Cat protocol dictated that she back up slowly and, once at a safe distance, she ran, tail low.
Misty was one furious fur-ball as we trotted to the safety of home, all the while asserting that she could have taken care of herself.
“I have noticed that what cats most appreciate in a human being is not the ability to produce food which they take for granted––but his or her entertainment value.”
––Geoffrey Household
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Artist
The practice began with Alyx and Maggie dropping in at the Café for coffee and muffins-to-go before they opened the door to Antiques & Designs. Novie, the owner, told them they were welcome to come in before she opened to the public and stay for as long as they wanted. Later, she extended the invitation to other Ocean Street merchants.
While she waited for her coffee, Georgia Hamilton, owner of The Chandlery joined Alyx at the counter, with money and check in hand.
“Hi, Alyx, running late this morning?”
“Yes, we all have one of those mornings once in a while, don’t we?”
“I have one of those mornings every other day.”
Georgia had one of those infectious laughs that people couldn’t ignore.
“What’s new in your neck of the woods?” Alyx asked.
“Not much happening in my candle world, though I did hear something that might interest you.”
The cashier placed Alyx’s coffee on the counter and Alyx removed a couple of dollars from her wallet to pay for it. She and Georgia waited for their change, and then walked out together with me in tow.
“So what did you hear that I might want to know?” queried Alyx.
“A friend of mine who owns a collectible and antique store in Miami told me that last week an American Indian woman came into her store and asked if she was interested in purchasing some hand-crafted jewelry that she said she’d picked up for half-price from someone who wanted out of the business. When my friend took a close look at the jewelry, she noticed that some of the pieces were exactly alike––not something you see in handmade items.”
“What did your friend do?”
“She told her to come back the following day; of course, she never showed up. In the meantime, my friend looked up information on the Internet and learned that there are a lot of supposedly handmade Indian articles being sold to unsuspecting tourists that are actually mass produced overseas.”
“That’s not a crime, is it?”
“No, as long as the item indicates the country of origin; it’s only a scam when an item is said to be “authentic” Indian made. Then it becomes a federal crime, and the penalty for that can go up to two hundred-fifty thousand dollars in fines, and five years in prison.”
Alyx shook her head in disbelief, “Thanks for the information. That’s something that I haven’t encountered so far.”
“Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that in my business, but it could affect me personally. I’m wondering now, if the Amish quilt I bought for eight hundred dollars was really made by the Amish––or someone in China.”
“If you like it, I don’t think it matters.”
Alyx saw Mary Zenn patiently waiting for her at her shop and took a couple of steps backwards, “Have a good day, Georgia,” she said and hurried to her front door.
Mary fit the clichéd description of an artist with curly blond hair sticking out in all directions, running shoes that looked too big for her feet and wearing the same style (an oversized dress) that she’d worn when Alyx first met her at the Arts Festival on Ocean Street. I remember their meeting then.
Mary’s booth had a simple display of only three framed pieces of artwork on their own homemade easels. The covered card table offered two more samples, and several canvases were casually leaning on either side of the table.
Mary had greeted her with a shy smile and no sales pitch. Alyx had stood back and taken a critical look at the three paintings.
“Your artwork is different than the other abstract art I’ve seen today.”
“In the art world, this is called Abstract Expressionism. The artist expresses his state of mind with the intention of evoking an emotional chord in the viewer.”
“The colors you used reflect such a serene state of mind that I can actually feel myself relaxing as I look at it.”
“You have an artistic eye. These pieces are a kind of Abstract Expressionism called Chromatic Abstraction which focuses on the emotional resonance of color.”
Alyx introduced herself. “My friend Maggie and I own Antiques & Designs, a couple of blocks down the street,” she said, indicating the direction of the store.
“Glad to meet you, Alyx. I’m Mary Zenn. I’ve stopped in your store a couple of times. I really like your retro stuff and the way you display it.”
“I take it you’re from this area, then?”
“Yes, I live in Grand Oaks Apartments.”
“I know the place. I love the large windows, and I imagine you do too.”
“Yes, I do. My apartment faces west; I have a
great view of the marsh, and it’s all very inspiring, especially the sunsets.”
Alyx looked at the scanty display of artwork and asked if she’d been painting long.
“I’ve been painting since I was five years old; this is my first art show.”
“I take it you have more artwork at home?”
“Oh, yes. This being my first time, I wasn’t sure how much to bring with me, and it looks like I was right. I’ve only sold a couple of pieces, and both buyers were from out of state.”
“Mary, I really like your work, and I have an idea that might benefit both of us.”
Mary replied with an enthusiastic nod when Alyx asked her if she wanted to display some of her art at Antiques & Designs.
“Great!” replied Alyx. “Bring it in anytime. I’ll let everyone know to expect you.”
The next day, Mary had arrived with five pieces of her work. Alyx was alone in the store, and they worked together to pick a spot for the display. At first, she had trouble selling anything, but now she was selling one or two pieces a month. Alyx kept encouraging her by saying that not everybody appreciated old things either, yet she was still in business and more successful every day.
We arrived now at the shop and Alyx greeted the young artist as Mary reached down to pat my head. “Hi Mary, I’m glad you’re here. I have a check for you.”
“And I have a painting for you.”
As soon as we entered, Mary’s eyes immediately went to the wall behind the counter to see if anyone had purchased her artwork.
“Who bought it, do you know?” She always asked that because, as she explained, it was important to her to know if members of her community appreciated her art.
“Someone from Palm Beach bought the blue-green piece and two other smaller pieces. He also took your card. Looks like you might get more business from him in the future. Maggie said he was very interested in knowing more about you––the artist.”
“Oh, well, at least it’s a Floridian, if not a Beachsider.”