The Cats that Stopped the Magic

by Karen Anne Golden

Jake darted out of the room.

  Katherine yanked a cozy baby blanket off the bed, then carefully wrapped Abra in it.

  Abra came to, and moaned.

  “Are you okay?” Katherine asked, petting her.

  Abra crossed her blue eyes and smacked her lips like she’d tasted something unpleasant.

  “Na-waugh,” Scout cried sadly.

  Chapter Two

  EARLY MAY 2009

  Olivia Lincoln, a sixty-four-year-old resident of Oyster Bay, Long Island, sat on a Mission-style chair, and looked out her first-floor bedroom window at the gardener. He should have been weeding her iris bed, but instead was chatting up the young, attractive nurse who had been sent by the in-home nursing agency. Olivia slid the window open and yelled, “Hey, I don’t pay you people to dillydally around.”

  The couple outside was so engaged in their conversation, they didn’t hear her, and continued talking.

  In 2007, Olivia had been diagnosed with a rare form of thyroid cancer, which had been treated with radiation and chemotherapy. She’d been cancer-free for two years, but just recently the cancer had reappeared. Roland, her husband of thirty years, was devastated by the news, and spent most of his time surfing the Internet for miracle cures.

  The couple lived in a three-story, Beaux-Arts mansion built in the roaring twenties by Olivia’s grandfather, Preston, who made his fortune in the stock market. When the market crashed, he made even more money by buying up real estate from his fellow bankers, who’d decided selling was a better way to limit their financial losses than jumping out of tall buildings.

  Tragically, in the 1930s, Preston was hit by a car speeding down Broadway in front of Macy’s department store. He died in a hospital several days later. His wife, Bradley, Olivia’s grandmother, raised four children, three girls and one boy. Humphrey, Olivia’s father, inherited the house and married a woman of independent wealth. The couple had one daughter, Olivia.

  Although Olivia was born into money, she didn’t let the inheritance interfere with her ambition. She chose a career in banking. She graduated from Harvard University with an advanced degree in finance. For a number of years, she worked on Wall Street as a financial whiz — an uncommon vocation for a young woman in the early 1980s. She not only increased her personal fortune, but also benefitted a long list of investment bankers she’d worked for. Life had been good to her. She was happy in her job, and happy in her marriage. That was until the cancer appeared.

  Getting even more annoyed with the gardener flirting with the nurse, Olivia screamed out the window. “Jack, shut up and let the nurse come inside.”

  Jack, the gardener, apologized, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  Olivia threw him a dirty look and closed the window.

  The twenty-something nurse rushed in the house, and was shown to Olivia’s bedroom by one of the house maids.

  “I’m so sorry,” the nurse said, bustling in.

  Olivia commented, “You look awfully young to be a registered nurse.”

  The nurse was taken aback by the comment, then answered, “I just graduated from school.”

  “I need my pain pill,” Olivia ordered. “I need it now,” she said, with a strong emphasis on the last word.

  The young woman scanned the room for the logical place medicine would be stored. Not finding it, she said timidly, “Where are they?”

  “Over there, by the door, on the marble-top chest.”

  The nurse walked to the chest and fumbled for the right bottle. Earlier, the agency had given her a list of Olivia’s medicines, but she hadn’t had time to familiarize herself with the dosage and time schedule.

  Roland walked in and noticed his wife’s distressed look and the nurse’s troubled expression. “Hello, I’m Roland, Olivia’s husband,” he introduced. “Are you the new nurse from the agency?”

  The woman nodded, with eyes-wide-open in expectation that she would be fired any second.

  “I need my pain med and this incompetent girl—”

  Roland put his hand up, “Stop! Olivia, we’ve talked about this.” He turned to the nurse. “Could you wait for me outside in the atrium?”

  “What’s an atrium?” she asked, stuttering.

  “Just outside the door. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a minute.”

  The woman nodded and hurried out of the room.

  Roland found the right combination of drugs and placed the pills in his wife’s hand. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her.

  Olivia swallowed the pills, then sheepishly looked up at her husband. “She should’ve been in here earlier, but she chose to flirt with that man you hired for the gardening.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before. The agency said if this nurse didn’t work out, there was a strong possibility we’d have to go to another agency. Do you really want to do that?”

  “I don’t want to be difficult,” Olivia explained. “I’m just frustrated that I’m stuck in this room not able to do the things I’ve always loved to do. You know I never let anyone get near my iris bed. I always did the flower gardens.”

  “I know, darling,” he said gently, sitting down in the chair beside her. He took her hand. “Maybe you need a companion.”

  “I don’t need a companion,” she said indignantly. “I have you.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean since Duchess died, you’ve been depressed, and quite frankly, so irritable sometimes you’re really hard to be around.”

  “That bad?” she asked sadly.

  Roland nodded.

  “Duchess was the sweetest Siamese in the world,” Olivia choked, and brought her hand up to wipe a tear from her eye. “I miss her so much.”

  Roland kissed her hand. “Now, now, dearest, don’t cry. I miss her, too.”

  “I’m still in shock. She was only two. I can’t believe that our precious Siamese died of cancer. Roland, am I a cancer magnet?”

  Roland shook his head, then said, “Why don’t I find you another Siamese? How about a sweet little kitten? Would that make you happy, dear?”

  “I’m not sure a kitten would be a good idea. I’m not long for this world. When I’m gone to the grave, do you really want to be raising a young cat?” she asked gloomily.

  Roland gave a pained, dejected look. “Long for the world,” he repeated sadly. “You don’t know that. The doctors said you need to undergo chemo again.”

  “What? Lose my hair a second time? Forget that,” she answered, then laughed. “I just got my hair to look halfway-decent.”

  Roland leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I think your hair looks wonderful, and your sense of humor will get you through this.”

  “I know it will.”

  “Okay then, I better go out and smooth things over with the new nurse. Be back in a minute.”

  Olivia gave another sheepish look. “She left several minutes ago.”

  “What?” Roland said, getting up and looking out the window.

  “She’s gone. She must have had the car service wait for her. She’s probably calling the agency right now and telling them what a monster I am,” Olivia continued.

  “I better call them,” Roland said, extracting his cell phone from his belt holder. “What was the gal’s name?”

  “I didn’t get to that part.”

  Roland punched in the agency’s number. He started to leave the room.

  “Wait,” Olivia called. “Tell the agency I want a more mature nurse. Not a young whippersnapper just out of nursing school.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s age discrimination.”

  “You’re a master of words. Figure something out.”

  “Why does age matter?” Roland asked.

  “I just feel I have nothing in common with twenty-somethings. The last nurse I interviewed didn’t even know who Alfred Hitchcock was.”

  Roland laughed. “Actually, the age of the nurse doesn’t have anything to do with it. You
just want a movie buff like you.”

  “Yes, that’s it, exactly,” Olivia agreed. “Oh, and Roe, I love your idea about the Siamese, but not a kitten. I want a cat that looks like Duchess.”

  “Duchess might be a hard act to follow, but I’ll certainly give it a try,” Roland smiled, then started speaking into the phone. He stepped outside and quietly shut the door.

  Chapter Three

  LATE MAY 2009

  New York’s Catskills, Four-Star Resort Hotel

  Magic Harry’s Hocus-Pocus Show

  Friday before Rehearsal

  Stagehand Emma Thomas, also known as “the cat wrangler,” walked onto the stage, carrying a large cat carrier. Inside two svelte Siamese cats, littermates, stood tall, looking through the front metal gate. Emma gently set the carrier down and said to the cats, “We’re here.” She pulled a hair-scrunchie from her purse and tied her long, blond hair into a ponytail. “Hello, Roy,” she called to the middle-aged man who was standing nearby.

  Roy, the animal trainer with shoulder-length, brown hair and piercing gray eyes, stood behind a specially designed magician’s box, which had a hinged metal arm at the back, attached to an electric circular saw. “How’s it going?” he asked, walking to the front of the box and rearranging two barstools.

  “I’ll be able to tell you as soon as I get my hearing back,” she complained.

  “What’s wrong with your hearing?”

  “It took me several hours to drive from Nyack, and the Siamese shrieked the entire time.”

  “I warned ya. Siamese are one of the more vocal breeds. But, what are you complaining about? At least you have a car. It takes me two trains and a bus to get to where I’m going on Long Island.”

  “I didn’t sleep very well last night, either,” Emma continued, yawning.

  “Why’s that?”

  “My grandmother lives in this huge Victorian house on the Hudson. She insisted the Siamese be shut up in a room because she didn’t want her precious antiques destroyed.”

  “I bet that didn’t go over well with the cats.”

  “They howled like banshees until my Grammy couldn’t stand it anymore. She let them out, and then the cat version of the steeplechase race began. I swear the Siamese ran for hours.”

  “Good exercise for them,” Roy smiled.

  “This went on for hours.”

  Roy snickered, then said coyly, “You volunteered to take them home with you. The hotel has excellent accommodations for our animals.”

  “Are you kidding? A three-by-three cage is not my idea of ‘excellent accommodations.’ I didn’t want them cooped up in a cage. They’re only two-years-old and still as active as kittens. I love them to death, but—”

  Roy interrupted, “How did you get them to quiet down?”

  “I put them in my bedroom and they slept with me.”

  “Wish I’d been there,” Roy said in a flirty manner.

  “Stop it!” Emma said, throwing Roy a dirty look. “I’m not a fan of your innuendos.”

  “Just kidding,” Roy said, walking over to the carrier. He looked inside. “How are my little girlfriends?” he spoke to the cats in a soft voice.

  “Waugh,” the one cat cried. “Raw,” the other one chimed in.

  Roy took on a serious tone. “Emma, I need to remind you of something.”

  “What?”

  “In our line of business, we don’t get attached to the animals. There will come a day when Harry retires the Siamese and moves on to other cats. Are you going to be able to psychologically handle that?”

  “What, are you a shrink?” Emma asked, rolling her eyes. “I’m not attached to them. It’s just that this gig is driving distance from my Grammy’s, and the cats can take a break from being on the road.”

  “Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Back to business, do you have everything you need? I brought spare clickers. Oh, and I made those tuna cat treats the Siamese love. Anything else you want me to bring before the performance this weekend?”

  “No, Ms. Emma,” he said, looking her up-and-down in a suggestive manner.

  “Cut it out,” she said irritably. “What would your new wife think about you flirting with me?”

  Roy stepped back, “Aren’t you in a mood?”

  “I’m sick of you coming on to me. I don’t date married men.”

  “Who said I’d want to date you,” he squinted, lying. “Besides, it’s not a secret that you’re sweet on Harry.”

  “Enough,” she said indignantly. “Let me start this conversation over,” Emma pronounced, annoyed. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Harry this morning; are the Siamese learning anything new today?”

  “I’ll be teaching the Siamese a scaredy-cat routine.”

  “Why do you want the Siamese to act scared?”

  “Not petrified scared, but a dramatic startle. Harry wants the cats to sway back-and-forth and screech loudly. Then arch their backs and dance around. I’ve got to make this happen lickety-split.”

  “Sounds fun,” Emma said, with a look of wonder. “What part of the show will they be doing this in?”

  “Before Harry saws the woman in two,” Roy chuckled.

  “Ew, Roy. That’s gross.”

  “Well, that’s the illusion.”

  “What are the cats supposed to do?”

  “The Siamese will jump down from their barstools, begin their loud shrieking routine, arch their backs, and hop up-and-down like deranged Halloween cats.”

  “I take it there will be special eerie music for this.”

  “Yes, that’s one of their cues.”

  “Why does Harry want the cats to do this?”

  “To help build suspense. We want the audience to be on the edge of their seats wondering if the new girl will be cut in half.”

  “Wait! Did you just say new girl?”

  “Some showgirl from Las Vegas. Melanie left for another gig.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “The beauty of this trick is that it will be fast and furious.”

  “Why will it be fast?”

  “So, the audience doesn’t figure out that the show gal in the box has tucked her legs out of harm’s way.”

  “Can you walk me through my part in this? No pun intended.”

  “I sent you an email.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I printed it, but didn’t have a chance to read it. Remember, I had two very needy Siamese, who demanded my attention.” Emma reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. Scanning the email, she said, “I’ll be off-stage, left wing with the cat carrier. The showgirl . . . geez, Roy, what’s the woman’s name?”

  “Her stage name is Bardot. Harry will introduce Bardot, who will cross the stage. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, so the audience will go nuts.”

  “I kind of get that by the sound of her name,” Emma said, tongue-in-cheek. “Then what?”

  “Harry will briefly explain the act, then assist Bardot into the box. Once she’s inside, he’ll move to the front and open a door to show the audience that Bardot is lying flat in the box.”

  “Where will the cats be during this?”

  “They’ll be off stage in their carrier. Harry will move behind the box and start the saw, and then he’ll stop and say, ‘But, wait, I can’t do this without my assistants: Abra and Cadabra!’ That’s when you release the cats from their carrier.”

  The Siamese began to rock the carrier.

  “Stop,” Roy demanded.

  The Siamese yowled.

  “Where’s my clicker when I need it,” Roy complained. “Emma hand me those treats.”

  Emma reached in her bag and removed a small plastic container. When she removed the lid, the Siamese began yowling louder.

  Roy clicked his clicker. “Quiet,” he said to the excited felines. When they settled down, he fed each one of them a treat. Then he said to Emma, “Yeah, you’re right. The cats love them.”

  Emma smiled, then continued, “O
kay, I’ll be off-stage, left wing. You’ll be with me, right?”

  “There’s been a little change. I’ll be in the right wing.”

  “This is different. Why the change? Normally, we are together.”

  “I’ll be on the other side, in case the cats screw up and run to the right. I’m banking that won’t happen, but we don’t want them running amok backstage, with the other animals.”

  “What other animals?”

  “I meant the pigeons.”

  “Even if they did get back there, the pigeons are in cages. This pair would never harm the pigeons.”

  “Seriously? Have you forgotten the show in New Orleans? Abra ran off the stage and went directly to the birds. When I chased her down, one of the pigeons was missing and Abra had a feather sticking out of her mouth.”

  “Impossible. These cats like their food from a can.”

  “Don’t forget that gig in Baltimore. The Siamese ran the wrong direction and nearly ran right out of the theater.”

  “That idiot stagehand shouldn’t have propped the door open.”

  “All right, back to the plan. The cats will enter the stage left wing. Let Abra out first.”

  “Thanks for making my job easy,” Emma said sarcastically. “You know both of them will be at the gate vying to get out.”

  “That’s your problem. I want Abra first because she’s the better of the two and rarely messes up. Cadabra will take her lead. Okay, back to the plan, let Abra out. Wait three seconds, then let Cadabra out. The cats will run, hop on their stools, and face the audience.”

  “You know, Roy, when the audience sees our royal pair, they’ll go wild with cooing and aah-ing.”

  “Definitely, but once the house has quieted down, Harry will start the saw and cut the gal in half. Bardot will scream bloody murder.”

  “Won’t her screaming scare the cats?”

  “Don’t think so. We’ll see how they react during rehearsal.”

  “So, when Ms. Bardot screams, what are the Siamese doing?”

  “They’ll jump off their stools and perform their Halloween dance. Harry will come to the front of the box and partially open it. Stage guts and blood will pour out of the box.”

  “Ew,” Emma said again, scrunching up her face in disgust. “Are you sure the audience will want to see that?”