The War of the Roses

Thurmont had forbidden any discussion of the subject.

'Leave it alone. We blew it,' he had barked into the phone, forestalling any protests on her part by hanging lip abruptly.

The evidence in the trash cans testified to Oliver's wrath. That, too, seemed completely out of character. Oliver had always been cerebral, nonviolent, and rarely had he lost his temper. He was never out of control. It was another trait that she had grown to despise, his cool-headedness.

'Show me an emotion out of control and I'll show you certain defeat.' He had burned that lesson into her and she was trying her best to follow his advice.

She had, she thought, pulled off her first meeting with Ann that morning with expert acting prowess. Not that they had exchanged any more than the most prosaic words about the weather, the weekend. She had begun a long, one-sided account of their trip, as if nothing had occurred between them. Ann had been remarkably cool, although little lip tremors and nervously shifting eyes revealed the tension between them. It was only when Ann went off to school that Barbara's real anger surfaced. The little bitch fucked Oliver under my roof, in the room next to my daughter's bed. She ran up a full steam of rancor, which somehow increased the speed with which she hacked apart the rabbits.

The unusual circumstances had interfered with her morning routine and it wasn't until she put the rabbit livers and the other meat in the grinder that she realized that she hadn't seen or fed Mercedes. Barbara searched in the usual bunks around the kitchen, then poked around the cat's favorite haunts in the garden and the rafters of the garage.

'Mercedes,' she called, offering familiar signals. She gave up in frustration and went back into the kitchen. Perhaps Ann had forgotten about Mercedes, considering how busy the girl had been, Barbara thought with a smirk.

After she had ground the rabbit meat, along with veal and pork, and added the onion and garlic to the mix, she called the animal pound, carefully describing the cat to the attendant.

'Call animal removal. She may have been run over.'

Getting through to them was a bureaucratic nightmare, and when she did finally, it was futile. She was thankful that no dead animals had been reported. But it wasn't like Mercedes to disappear. She had raised her from a kitten; she had rarely strayed in the daytime, sometimes making a pest of herself as she clawed her way about the kitchen shelves. She would have to ask Ann when she returned. After all, Mercedes had been entrusted to her care. The irony disturbed Barbara. She felt more compassion for the missing Mercedes than for Oliver. If only he had disappeared.

She mixed wine, cognac, salt, pepper, thyme, parsley, and oil in a small bowl, then added the mixture to the meat bowl, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator. Cold took the gaminess out of the meat. Before she closed the door, her eyes lingered a moment on the mixture and she thought again of the incident with the meat pastry on Christmas Day. 'Bastard,' she cried.

Opening the garden door, she again called for Mercedes. Oliver had never really liked the cat, and Barbara had always felt he had gotten Benny out of spite. Nor did he understand how it was possible for a woman to have a relationship with a female cat. She was sure Mercedes was the only one of the family who really understood her and it was to Mercedes that she had poured out her secret thoughts. Mercedes was wise and true, more perceptive and sensitive than the others. She could always be counted on for affection.

Once she had jumped on Oliver's bare buttocks while he and Barbara were having sex, drawing blood and pain. He had insisted the cat be declawed, but since Barbara had already yielded on spaying, she refused.

'You can't take away her claws,' she had rebuked. 'She wouldn't have anything to fight back with.'

'Or to attack me with,' Oliver had protested. The irony hit home now. Men just don't understand the female animal, she thought.

But she had suffered with Benny sleeping in their room for years, barking at every rustle or creak of the house, sometimes humping her leg with that ugly, distended red thing. The children showed little interest in caring for either animal and they became his and hers by default.

'Hasn't she come home?' Anne's response to Barbara's inquiry was neither convincing nor encouraging.

'Why else would I have asked?' Barbara said politely, avoiding a confrontation. Besides, Ann had quickly turned away.

Barbara was not, of course, reassured and Mercedes did not come back. Unable to sleep that night, she dressed early and went down to the kitchen to finish her rabbit pate. Again remembering the meat pastry she tasted the mixture to be sure no one had tampered with it. The memory inflamed her and she beat the eggs with uncommon zeal, mixing them into the flour to make a smooth paste. Cooking was surely her therapy, but it did not calm her now. Sometimes, making a dish could absorb her entire concentration. Now she found it difficult to focus her attention. It was a struggle to line the loaf pan with bacon slices, pack in the meat, press down the corners to avoid air holes. She even forgot to top the loaf off with bacon slices, bay leaves, and parsley stems, and had to remove the pan from the oven to finish the chore.

When it was back in the oven, she went out into the streets, searching for Mercedes, sensing it was futile. Was it possible that Oliver had destroyed the innocent Mercedes in retaliation? It was difficult to get herself to believe that he was capable of destroying her helpless pet. Brooding over that possibility unnerved her. Still, she couldn't find Mercedes. She had also lost track of time. It was four hours later when she returned and she could tell by the odor of singed meat that she had forgotten to set the oven and had ruined the pate. That only increased her irritability.

She called Thurmont.

'I think he's destroyed Mercedes,' she blurted into the phone.

'Your car?' 'My cat.' 'Are you sure?'

'I'm getting there. She hasn't come back in two days. That's never happened before. Ann is an anointed martyr and is being noncommittal. But Mercedes was an innocent animal. I can't believe he was capable of doing something so monstrous.' She felt a sob begin in her chest.

'It's only a cat, for crying out loud.'

'You men don't understand what a cat means. There's some strange chemistry, a different kind of love.. .