Because the tom had got only the one kitten, Florie Mae thought the white one might have managed to climb out of the box during the night. She'd have to fix the box taller. And how had the tom got in? He might could have pushed his way in around the sheets of plastic in the greenhouse, that joined the back of the store. Or maybe slipped in last night before she locked up? Had the mother cats stood him off all night, before he snatched that kitten?
Well, Florie Mae knew one thing. James wasn't drowning these kittens, not after their mamas fought so hard for them.
James never had liked drowning the kittens. But he said it was better than seeing them go hungry and uncared for, and they couldn't keep 'em all. But this time ... she looked down at her mama cats, stroking them.
It would take all her little stash of pleasurin' money she'd saved, to have them "fixed," but she was going to do that. It made her sad to think there'd be no more of Goldie's babies. Ever' one of those cats had been so strange and different, just like Goldie. But seemed like there were no more homes wanted a little cat, seemed like Greeley had more cats than people.
It was a fact, Goldie's grown kittens was all around Greeley. She'd found good homes for them, too, most with older couples. Clive Garner's cat stayed on his bed the whole two months when Clive had cancer. They had to shut the cat up before they could take Clive away to the hospital for the last time, that cat was so wild to protect him. And Nellie Coombs, when she had that hip replacement? Her yellow cat wouldn't let anyone near her 'cept Nellie's own daughter, the cat was that watchful.
Rubbing Goldie's ears, Florie Mae thought how strange cats were, how much a person didn't know about them.
Cody Creek was flowing fast, from rains north of Greeley up around Simms. The newly released trout seemed content to lie in the eddies facing upstream, their flashing tails keeping them in place as they snatched the occasional bit of commercial fish food that the men dolled out to them. Their life in the trout farm had left them far less wary of the noise and the movement of humans along the creek banks than if they'd been raised wild. They were used to people, used to the noise and hustle, used to the piping of children's voices.
Along the stream on the open green slopes of the mowed pasture, the tiniest toddlers, too young to fish, giggled, and screamed as their mothers pulled them away from the fast water. But the boys and girls who were set on catching fish were silent and businesslike beside their daddies. James had returned around eight that morning, bone weary from their all night search that had got them nothing but near-empty gas tanks. He'd ate a huge breakfast and was ready to go again, as excited as Bobbie Lee. Florie Mae had the truck packed and a blanket and cushions in the back for her and the children. Granny rode beside James, cuddling little Robert.
They'd been at Cody Creek for over two hours, and Bobbie Lee had already caught three trout, when Florie Mae began to wonder why Martha hadn't called. Fetching her cell phone from the picnic basket, where it was stuffed down between the cake box and the sandwiches, she opened it and checked the battery. Its charge was some low, but not clear down. She tried Martha's cell phone number, but got one of those messages that the phone was not in service at that time.
"What you fussin' about? Who you need to call on fishing day? Everyone in town is right here." Granny sat on a blanket sewing on a doll dress while little Robert slept, sprawled on a pillow beside her. Lacie June was off playing with some other toddlers, under the supervision of their mothers, who were happy for a chance to visit. Florie Mae didn't want to explain to Granny about Rebecca's missing cat showing up. The fact that it might have gone clear up to the lake gave her a mighty strange feeling that she wasn't ready to share.
But when Martha said she'd call, you could depend on her. And Idola McPherson was alone up there in that lonely cabin, with Dave gone off to Habersham County and her mama at work. Florie Mae sat absently stroking little Robert's forehead, looking up the mountain toward Goose Lake, feeling guilty already Fishing day was near as exciting for the children as Christmas. She oughtn't leave them, she ought to be here to admire the fish Bobbie Lee caught.
But she was already, in her mind, up the mountain. She might as well go on and go. She'd be gone just for a little while. The McPherson place was just 'round on the back side of the lake, other side of where Cody Creek flowed out of Goose Lake meandering down toward the old quarry. Florie Mae glanced at Granny, and looked down to the stream where James and Bobbie Lee were fishing. They were so happy together. Likely neither would miss her. "Granny, I'll just hop in the truck, run up to the lake. Martha's up there at Idola's. Just while the baby's napping?"
Granny looked back at her, scowling. "Somethin' to do with that tomcat. I'll say, girl, I'm proud you an Martha caught that thing." Granny glanced away, then looked at her sideways. "But what you up to, now?"
"I really need to do this, Gran."
"You oughtn't go by yourself, girl. It's lonely up there."
"It's Saturday, Gran." She didn't tell Granny that Rick McPherson wasn't to home as he usually would be, that Idola was by herself. "You be okay with the children?"
"Ain't I always? Go on, girl. The babies're fine. Lacie June right over there pounding little Willy Damen on the head with her Pokey doll."
Florie Mae didn't think Willy was in much danger from a rag doll. Snatching up the keys, she kissed Granny on the cheek and flew for the truck while James's back was turned, while he was helping Bobbie Lee bait his hook.
Along the road that climbed to the lake, the wild azaleas were finished with their deep pinks and reds. Patches of rhododendron covered the mountain now, paler pink and white, and the dogwood trees showed white clouds of blossom. The flowering trees and bushes softened the harsh roughness of the mountain shacks, of the wire chicken pens and the dog runs and the old rusted cars that were parked in near every yard. The blackberry blooms had fallen, leaving tiny green berries. Florie Mae skirted Goose Lake through thick pine woods, passing an occasional cabin set between the little road and the quiet water. On the backside of the lake she turned off the two-lane gravel road up a steep drive that served the McPherson place and five empty lots on beyond, all facing the lake. This was the narrow side road that had washed out so bad last winter.
The other lots, on beyond McPherson's, out on the point, had never seemed much to build on, dropping down to the water like they did, even steeper than McPherson's. The steps that led down to McPherson's dock made four long zigzags—easy enough going down, but a right smart climb in the heat after a day of lying on the dock soaking up sun, cooling off ever' now and then in the lake, the way she and Idola and Martha and Rebecca had done as kids. Ever' time she thought of Rebecca, that wave of sickness took her. She had a quick flash of the four of them, all tanned and sleek in their bathing suits, Rebecca so golden, Martha's black hair gleaming like a blackbird's wing. Idola's kinky red hair was the butt of teasing, from the boys. The way she'd tie it back real tight with a rubber band to make it seem straight, the way she wanted to dye it black like Martha's, but her mama never would let her. And Florie Mae herself, the plain one with her ordinary brown hair and brown eyes. Most times they'd bring a picnic down, cake and a thermos of tea, potato salad and sandwiches. They'd giggle and gossip all day, come home climbin' up that eighty-foot stairs wore out from pleasurin', and sore with sunburn. Young ones wasting their time, Granny said. Maybe. And maybe not. Those were good memories.
Except that now, all her memories of Rebecca stabbed right through her, hurt like a sore inside herself. She'd hurt painful since they first got the news, it had left her waking at night shaky and sweating.