Walking home, she had paused to look in the window of a sporting goods shop at a beautiful leather coat that she would never buy; she’d rather have a new cement mixer. It was then, turning away, that her glance was drawn to the rooftops by swift movement: Two dark shadows had sailed between the peaks. She had caught only a glimpse. Owls? A pair of large night birds?
But they were gone, the sky was empty.
No, there they were. Two silhouettes, not flying but racing along a peaked ridge, leaping from roof to roof then dropping out of sight.
Cats! They were cats; she had seen a lashing tail against the clouds and sharply peaked ears. Two cats, playing across the rooftops.
And she had to laugh. There was no mistaking Joe Grey’s tailless posterior, and his white paws and white nose. She had stood very still, setting carefully into memory the cats’ swift flight against the pale clouds. They appeared again, and as they fled up another peak and leaped between dark ridges, scorching in and out among the tilting roofs, she had itched for a piece of charcoal, a bit of paper.
As she stood watching them, she heard a young couple laughing somewhere ahead, the woman’s voice soft. Glancing to the street she didn’t see the man and woman, but their conversation was playful, challenging and happy; she couldn’t make out their words. Then silence, as if they had turned up a side street.
And the cats were gone. She had stood alone on the sidewalk, her painter’s mind teeming with the two racing felines, with the joy of their carefree flight.
But now, lying in bed, seeing the leaping cats among the darkly angled rooftops, she felt a sudden chill.
Puzzled, sliding out of bed, she refilled her coffee cup and stood before the easel looking at the quick sketch she had done, from memory, before she went to sleep, the swift lines of charcoal on newsprint, her hasty strokes blocking in jutting roof lines against the sky, and the lithe, swift cats leaping across-and a sense of threat was there, that she had not meant to lend to the scene. Studying the drawing, she shivered.
Last night she had been so charmed by the cats’ grace and freedom, by their wild joy; she had felt only pleasure in the hasty drawing-but she saw now that the drawing did not reflect joy. Its spirit was dark, pensive. Somehow she had infused the composition with foreboding. Its shadowed angles implied a dark threat.
Threattothe cats? Or threatbecauseof the cats?
Perplexed, she turned away. Carrying her coffee, she headed for the shower.
The bathroom was tiny. Setting her coffee cup on the edge of the sink basin, she slid under the hot, steaming water of the shower, her mind fully on the sketch.
What had guided her hand last night? Those two little cats were dear to her; she had gotten to know Dulcie well while she was staying with Wilma. And if not for her drawings of Joe and Dulcie, sketching them for her own pleasure, her work would not have been seen by Sicily Aronson. She would never have been invited to join Sicily’s prestigious group. Without Joe and Dulcie, there would be no exhibit for her tonight at Sicily’s fine gallery.
Letting the hot water pound on her back, reaching out for a sip of coffee, she told herself she had better get her mind on the day’s work. She had building materials to order and three subcontractors to juggle so they didn’t get in each other’s way. Coming out of the shower to dress and make a peanut-butter sandwich, checking over her work list, she forgot the dark drawing.
But then as she opened the front door, carrying her denim work jacket and the paper bag with her lunch, a folded sheet of paper fluttered down against her boot, as if it had been stuffed between the door and the molding. Snatching it up before it blew away, unfolding it, she read the neatly typed message.
Charlie:
You’d be a good tenant, if you didn’t clutter up the yard. You’ve had a week, and two previous warnings, to get your stuff out of the backyard. The other tenants are complaining. They want to lie in the sun back there, not fall over wheelbarrows and shovels. I have no choice. You are in violation of your rental contract. This is a formal notice to vacate the apartment and all premises by tonight. Any item you leave behind, inside the apartment or in the yard-cement mixer, buckets, the entire clutter-will be mine to keep and dispose of.
She set her lunch bag on the porch, dropped her jacket on top, and read the note again. Looking down toward her landlord’s apartment, just below hers, she wanted to snatch up that neat little man and smear him all over his neat little yard.
Swinging back inside, she grabbed her stacked cardboard boxes and began shoving dishes and pots and pans in on top of her folded clothes. Jerking her few hanging garments from the closet, she rolled them into a bundle, snatched her framed drawings off the wall, and carried the first load down to her van. Halfway through her packing, she grabbed up the phone and called Clyde, told him she’d be a bit late. Didn’t tell him why. And within an hour she was out of there, chalking up another defeat.
5 [????????: pic_6.jpg]
THE BRIGHTLYlighted gallery, from the aspect of the two cats, was an obstacle course of human legs and feet. They had to move lively toward the back to avoid being stepped on by spike heels, wedge sandals, and hard, polished oxfords that looked as lethal as sledgehammers. Slinking between silken ankles and well-creased trouser cuffs, they slipped beneath Sicily Aronson’s desk into shadow where they could watch, untrampled, the champagne-fueled festivities.
In Joe’s opinion, the way to attend an art exhibit was from, say, a rooftop several blocks removed. But Dulcie had to be in the middle, listening to the tangle of conversations, sniffing expensive French perfumes and admiring dangling jewelry and elegant hair arrangements. “No one will notice us-they’re all talking at once, trying to impress each other.”
“Right. Of course Sicily won’t notice us. So why is she swooping in this direction like a hungry barn owl?” The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd with her usual exuberance. “On stage,” Joe muttered. “Always on stage.” She was dressed in silver lame evening pajamas that flapped around her ankles, a flowing silver scarf that swung around her thin thighs, and an amazing array of clinking jewelry. Kneeling and laughing, she peered under the desk at them, then scooped Dulcie into her arms. Pulling Joe out, too, she cuddled them like two teddy bears; Joe had to grit his teeth to keep from clawing her, and of course Dulcie gave him thatdon’t-you-darescowl.
“You two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed,” Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. “This is lovely to have you here-after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?”
Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly-she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point’s Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on; she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the piece de resistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuna scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. “You two stay right here-just curl up and look pretty-and I’ll fix a plate for you.” Leaning down, she stared into Joe’s eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. “Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?”
Joe felt himself weakening.