How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Harold gimped around to the truck’s bed and opened a metal storage locker mounted behind the cab’s exterior. He reached inside and pulled out an ice chest packed with an assortment of leaves and a container of chilled crickets.

  Harold then opened the lid to a glass-sided terrarium and splashed in a generous amount of cool water. He selected a couple of leafy fronds from the cooler and scattered them across the bottom of the glass cage, topping them off with a few crickets. As soon as he pushed the terrarium into the truck’s cab, the two frogs hopped eagerly inside.

  After helping the mouse climb into the front chest pocket of his overalls, Harold secured the terrarium’s ventilated lid, wrapped his fingers around the handle, and began the long walk up to the fairground entrance. It was a sunny afternoon, and he was breathing heavily by the time he approached the ticket booth.

  The booth was located inside a white one-story building whose walls were decorated with the painted pictures of several leaping frogs. A row of California Bear Flags mounted onto the building’s roof flapped in the breeze as Harold set the terrarium on the counter.

  The two frogs peered politely through the glass at the ticket agent. Harold lifted the brim of his baseball hat to smooth down his stringy black hair and announced curtly, “We’re here to jump.”

  The woman seated inside the booth stared back, a surprised openmouthed expression on her face as she studied the frogs’ tiny orange mustaches. She’d seen a wide range of jumping contestants that day: enormous bullfrogs, long-legged marsh dwellers, and even a few toads. Not one of the other amphibian entrants had sported facial hair.

  “That’ll be six dollars,” she said, her voice perplexed as she peered into the terrarium.

  A moment later, Harold carried his frogs through the gated entrance and surveyed the scene.

  At the front of the fairgrounds, a local singer warbled a lost-love country music song into a microphone. Behind her, children ran through a grassy field waving sticks wrapped with neon-colored cotton candy. Beyond, an asphalt-covered path led up a hill to a clutch of vendor stalls hawking hot dogs, bratwurst, and fresh-squeezed lemonade.

  In the valley below the concession stands lay a collection of livestock barns, the largest of which was fronted by a stage and several rows of outdoor stadium seating. Harold followed the asphalt path to the livestock area, pausing every so often to read the Mark Twain quotations printed on the placards that lined the route. At the show barn, he joined a line of children waiting with their frogs for a turn on the jumping stage.

  “No serious contenders here that I can see,” Harold whispered hoarsely into the terrarium as the line slowly cleared in front of him.

  At long last, Harold stepped to the front of the queue. A man in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat walked up and shook his hand.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got here,” the announcer said, curiously studying the frogs and their mustaches. “Two contestants?”

  Harold nodded gruffly. “One amateur. One pro.”

  “All right-y then,” the man said with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s have your, uh, amateur, first.”

  The announcer flicked the switch on a wireless microphone as he motioned for Harold to step onto the stage. Frog wranglers holding long poles attached to black nets formed a perimeter around the edge of the area, ready to capture any renegade jumpers contemplating an escape. As the announcer began to speak into the mike, his voice took on a pronounced twang.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a real treat coming up next. Mister, uh . . . ” He looked questioningly at Harold.

  “Wombler,” Harold supplied grumpily.

  “Mr. Wombler has a rather unique pair of frogs for today’s jumping contest. I don’t reckon we’ve ever seen the likes of his amphibians in these here parts. Lean in close and get a good look, folks. These frogs are wearing little costumes!”

  The announcer glanced up from the mustached frogs and whispered to Harold, “Don’t you think that’s a disadvantage? Weighing them down like that?”

  Harold shrugged noncommittally. The announcer paused, temporarily flustered, before ushering Harold to a one-foot circle painted on the center of the stage.

  “They’ll be stylish if nothing else,” he said cheerfully. “Please, Mister, uh, Wombler. Place your first entrant on the circle here.”

  Harold reached inside the terrarium, scooped up the smaller frog, and gently set him on the middle of the stage.

  The little frog looked excitedly up at Harold. The red sliver of his tongue zipped out of his mouth and slapped the tip of his nose above his mustache.

  “Now, sir, what’s the frog’s name?” the announcer asked, his voice booming through the speakers.

  Harold rubbed the stubble on his chin, as if considering.

  “Smiley,” Harold replied curtly. “Jim Smiley.”

  “Smiley the frog,” the announcer proclaimed as the crowd politely applauded. “I understand this is his first professional jump. Let’s see what he can do.”

  The crowd grew quiet as Harold bent over and whispered to the frog. When Harold stepped back from the center, Smiley’s back legs began to twitch. A moment later, he exploded into the air. The crowd erupted into cheers as the tiny frog’s feet landed halfway across the stage. Harold pushed aside the nearest frog wrangler to retrieve Smiley while the announcer measured the distance between the circle and the jump mark.

  “Fourteen feet, two inches!” the announcer gushed. “Best jump of the day!”

  Harold nodded silently, a pleased smile creasing his wrinkled face. He reached back into the terrarium for the larger frog.

  The announcer rushed over with his microphone. “Now, Mr. Wombler, please introduce us to your second entry—the, ah, veteran jumper.”

  “Daniel,” Harold supplied bluntly. “This frog’s name is Daniel.”

  “Well, Daniel,” the announcer said, bending down toward the circle where the frog waited patiently. “Your little friend has set the mark to beat.”

  Daniel wore a serious, pondering expression on his pudgy face as he looked down his nose at the corners of his mustache. The audience edged forward in their seats, watching attentively as Harold nodded a go-ahead sign to the second frog.

  Daniel rocked back and forth, concentrating on a spot several feet ahead. After a moment of intense focus, he launched himself into the air. Despite his heavy bulk, Daniel’s jump was far more measured and graceful than the smaller frog’s, his movements reminiscent of a bird taking flight. He stretched out his legs as he soared above the stage, and a slight breeze whiffled through the feathery hair of his mustache. Then, with a thudding plunk, he landed on the far edge of the platform, a foot or so farther than the previous jump.

  The crowd broke into a raucous applause as Daniel waddled proudly over to Harold, who lowered the terrarium so that he could hop inside. The announcer hurriedly measured the distance to Daniel’s jump mark.

  “Sixteen feet, seven inches!” he exclaimed. “That’s a Calaveras County Fair record!”

  Chapter 14

  BROAD STREET

  A COUPLE OF hours later, the white van finally arrived in Nevada City.

  “Here we are!” Monty proclaimed enthusiastically. “Like I said, right around the corner. I knew we’d get here.”

  Isabella grumbled a sarcastic congratulations from her carrier.

  Rupert still lay on his back in the crate beside her. He yawned sleepily and stretched his front legs up and over his head. He was the only one who had enjoyed the long winding ride through the forest. All the sweeping turns had rocked him like a baby in a cradle. By the time we’d located the far-straighter thoroughfare of Highway 49’s northern route, Rupert had fallen into a deep snoring trance.

  The van entered Nevada City’s downtown area and proceeded slowly up Broad Street. The sidewalks were packed with pedestrians, many decked from head to toe in colorful skintight cycling gear. Mobile vendors worked the street corners hawking all manner of race-related clothing and memorab
ilia. A variety of T-shirts and bumper stickers were on offer, along with a wide range of noisemaking devices designed to provide encouragement to passing riders during the race.

  A painted cowbell rang just outside my window. Even through the glass pane, the metallic clanking jarred my eardrums. I don’t know how the sound affected professional cyclists, but it certainly would have spurred me to pedal faster—if only to get away from the nuisance of its noise.

  The cowbells had a much more positive effect on Monty. His green eyes sparkled as he soaked up the energy of the crowd. He couldn’t wait to join them.

  “Look at all these people,” he enthused. His voice squeaked higher as he pointed to a couple walking their rides through the throng. “Some of them have their bikes!”

  The commotion on the street finally woke Rupert from his slumber. He sat up in his carrier and tried to see out the front windshield as Monty slowly circled the van behind Broad Street to our hotel’s parking lot.

  There were only a few open spaces; much of the lot was occupied by television vans bearing brightly painted logos from state and local media. Gigantic satellite dishes were mounted on the vehicles’ roofs; metal antennae spikes poked out from every angle.

  In between the media vans sat several gleaming stateof-the-art tour buses. The riders spilled out of their homeson-wheels into the busy parking lot where they mingled with media, sponsors, and support staff. With lean muscular bodies, minimal body fat, shaved legs, and shortclipped hairstyles, the professional athletes were easy to pick out.

  We found a shaded space for the van several hundred yards away from the rear of the hotel, and I sent Monty out on his bike to explore. I figured the delicate process of trying to check into our rooms with the cats could wait until later—preferably after dark. In the meantime, I let the cats loose in the van to stretch their legs.

  Rupert shook his head with a short chin-flapping vibration; then he proceeded behind the curtain to the red igloo-shaped litter box. By the time I’d set out the cats’ food and water dishes, he was merrily digging away. I returned to the front passenger seat and rolled down the window, hoping to dissipate some of the smells associated with Rupert’s ruckus in the cargo hold.

  After a lengthy visit to the food and water station, Isabella sauntered to the front of the van and hopped into the driver’s seat. Her tail wrapped tightly around her body as she sat primly looking up at the steering wheel. Her claws flexed, gripping the seat cover’s leather fabric. Slowly, she turned her head toward me, an expression of entitlement on her pert face.

  “I don’t care how long you sit there,” I said with a stern sigh. “You’re not driving the van.”

  Isabella glared back, her blue eyes resolute. “Mreow,” she replied curtly.

  Thoroughly satisfied with his litter box session, Rupert bounced into the front seating area to join us. He climbed happily onto my lap, the feathery poof of his tail sticking straight up in the air. I tried to dodge the inevitable tail whap to my face as Rupert turned around in a circle, kneading my stomach, his typical precursor activity to curling up in my lap.

  “Okay, you two,” I said, scooping up Rupert before he could collapse into his second nap of the day. “Let’s see what kind of bears we can find in Nevada City.”

  WITHIN THE NETWORK of team buses and television trucks, a bevy of mechanics had set up shop on the asphalt, spreading out their bike stands and toolboxes so they could fine-tune the high-end cycles that would be used for the coming race. Wrenches whipped through the air, wheels spun, and tubes of lubricant squirted in every direction.

  In the midst of all this frenetic activity, one man kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the other mechanics. From the hunch of his shoulders, it was difficult to make out the narrow etching of the scar that ran down the left side of his face. Ivan Batrachos knew how to avoid drawing attention to himself.

  No one noticed as he left his pile of tools and followed a woman pushing a large stroller across the parking lot.

  IT TOOK AT least fifteen minutes for me to figure out how to unfold the Cat-mobile, but I finally managed to assemble it into its open configuration. After that struggle, loading the cats into the carriage compartment was a relatively straightforward, if not altogether scratch-free, procedure. Then, I locked up the van and directed the stroller toward the Broad Street end of the congested parking lot.

  Isabella sat upright in the carriage, keenly looking out through the screened netting that covered the passenger compartment. For his part, Rupert began tunneling down into the pile of old towels I’d tucked in with him. He was not one to be dissuaded once he’d decided it was time for a nap. As Isabella’s eyes stretched wide, taking in all the colorful sights, Rupert put his paws over his ears and wound himself into a determined white ball.

  The area where we’d parked the van was mostly level, but the portion of the parking lot that led toward Broad Street was laid out across a steep side slope. Isabella issued a slew of cautionary comments as I maneuvered the stroller down the slick grade. All the while my hands tightly gripped the bar that formed the back handle, fearful of the wild ride the stroller might take if I lost control of it.

  When we reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the parking lot, I stopped to look up and down the street, trying to get my bearings amid the sea of pedestrians.

  On my right, the road dropped down to form an overpass over Highway 49. Broad Street’s historic district spread out across a sloping hill above us to the left.

  “Mrao,” Isabella called out from the carriage.

  “Up it is,” I replied, flexing my leg muscles. I grunted as I began pushing the carriage up the sidewalk’s incline. “It might be time for one of these cats to go on a diet.”

  Rupert wheezed out a loud I’m-ignoring-you snore.

  I continued up the street, pausing every so often to weave around people mingling outside restaurants or perusing racing memorabilia from one of the many mobile vendors. Surprisingly few bystanders noticed the cats in the stroller. Most assumed the carriage compartment contained human passengers and politely jumped out of our way.

  I was immersed in and yet separate from the crowds, a woman pushing a stroller loaded with cats through hoards of cycling-obsessed fans. I tried not to think of how ridiculous I looked as I searched the street for any reference to Oscar’s toy bear or the California state flag it held in its paw. So far, the Bear Flags attached to the lampposts along Broad Street were the only potential clue I’d found, but that seemed reason enough to continue my slow climb up the hill.

  As a small group moved to clear my path, I noticed a line of sandwich boards dotting the sidewalk ahead of us. Due to the heavy pedestrian traffic, I couldn’t read the first advertisement until I was right in front of the placard. Bright green lettering on a white background read:

  ON STAGE TODAY AT THE HISTORIC NEVADA THEATRE:

  A DELIGHTFUL LINEUP OF THRILLING ENTERTAINMENT . . .

  The area was too crowded to see very far up the street, but the theater, I suspected, was just up the hill.

  I glanced down at the stroller. “Hmm,” I said to Isabella. “Let’s give this a look-see.”

  About ten yards farther on, we reached a second placard that pronounced:

  TWO ENORMOUS ELEPHANTS

  WILL NOT BELLY DANCE

  FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!

  The not was in a dramatically smaller print, so that one had to squint to read it.

  Isabella stared at the sandwich board for several seconds; then she issued her instructions.

  “Mrao,” she said sharply.

  “It’s a teaser, Issy,” I replied with a laugh. “They’re just trying to suck you in.”

  “Mrao,” she insisted.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, shaking my head. I waited for an opening in the surrounding foot traffic; then I maneuvered the stroller around the placard.

  Another block up the street, we stopped in front of a third green and white sign propped up against the side of a lamp
post. It offered a similarly misleading enticement:

  A TALENTED TROUP OF

  IMAGINARY HIPPOPOTAMI

  WILL PERFORM THE RUMBA!

  “Hippopotami,” I muttered with a grin, but Isabella was now even more determined.

  “Wraaaow,” she called out persistently.

  “What would happen if I ever stopped taking orders?” I asked with an exasperated sigh, but I moved the stroller forward anyway.

  We found the red brick two-story building that housed the Nevada Theatre at the top of Broad Street’s long hill. Tall arched windows with black-painted shutters faced the sidewalk. A notice board set into the wall denoted it as “California’s oldest original-use theater.” Further details boasted of famous thespians and presenters who had appeared on its stage, including onetime San Francisco newspaper reporter Mark Twain.

  The last piece of information immediately piqued my interest. Mark Twain had been one of my uncle’s favorite writers. The previous summer, I’d found an old photo of Oscar dressed up as Twain—his costume had included the writer’s signature rumpled linen suit and bristly white mustache.

  My pulse began pounding as I pushed the stroller up to the fourth and final billboard, displayed outside the theater’s front entrance. The crudely drawn image of a bear took up the left-hand side of the poster space. Isabella began frantically pawing at the stroller’s top netting as I read the writing next to the animal:

  A WILD CALIFORNIA

  GRIZZLY BEAR

  WILL NOT BE SERVING

  COCKTAILS INSIDE!

  Chapter 15

  CLEM

  THE FRONT DOORS of the theater were propped open, an indication, I assumed, that the show was about to begin. I pushed the stroller over the threshold and paused in the entrance, letting my eyes adjust to the dusky interior.