to the main house, amp; Toby amp; Zillah were crouched in the middle of it taking the morning sun. Suddenly Bwada appeared on the back porch amp; began slinking along the path in our direction, tail swishing from side to side. When she got close to the two little ones she gave a snarl -1 could see her mouth working – amp; they leaped to their feet, bristling, amp; ran off into the grass.
Galled this to the Poroths' attention. They claimed to know all about it. 'She's always been nasty to the kittens,' Deborah said, 'maybe because she never had any of her own.' (I thought she sounded a bit wistful.)
'And besides,' said Sarr, 'she's getting old.'
When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn't think she'd gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I'd unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the chinks in the floorboards.
Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat had been acting a bit odd these days, ever since the accident. It's not just the kittens she fights with; Azariah, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her.
Sarr was more helpful. 'It's sure to pass,' he said. 'We'll see what my mother thinks.'
Mrs Poroth arrived while they were eating lunch. The three of them had been seated at the table, talking about the general store. 'It wasn't always a co-operative,' Sarr was saying. 'Years ago, before my father ran it, it was owned by just two families, the Sturtevants and the van Meers. It did quite well in those days, so I've been told, but then there were several bad years in a row. The rain was poor, some crops around here failed, and the price of corn fell off. 'Twas just a streak of bad luck. Nobody was at fault, and nobody could have predicted it-'
'Some folks could.'
They turned to see the hard, unsmiling woman standing in the doorway to the hall.
'Mother,' said Sarr, rising, 'how did you-'
'I let myself in through the front door,' she said. She walked into the kitchen and looked around. 'The animal's outside?'
'I'll get her,' said Sarr. He walked out to the back porch. They heard him hurry down the steps.
'Mrs Poroth,' said Deborah, 'this is Jeremy Freirs. Jeremy, this is Sarr's mother.'
'Glad to meet you,' said Freirs, standing.
The woman nodded, barely looking at him.
'Jeremy here's from New York City,' added Deborah. 'He's our summer guest.'
'Guest?' The woman eyed him coldly. 'I thought he was a tenant.'
Freirs flinched, but Deborah did not. 'We've come to think of him as a guest,' she said. 'He's been a big help to us. Why, just this morning-'
At that moment Sarr came through the back door carrying Bwada. The cat lay cradled sleepily in his arms, but its eyes were wary as they surveyed the people in the room.
Freirs looked from the cat to Mrs Poroth. He'd been surprised by the woman's behavior – and was just as surprised now to see her regarding the animal with an almost ferocious intensity. She seemed to be staring directly into Bwada's eyes.
At last she shook her head. 'This isn't the kitten I nursed.'
'Well, of course not, Mother,' said Sarr. 'That was ten years ago. You've seen her a hundred times since.'
'That ain't what I mean.' She came toward him, reaching for the cat. 'Give her here.'
The animal seemed to grow limp in Sarr's arms; its eyes closed further, as if it were about to fall asleep. But Freirs thought he heard, from deep within its throat, a low, forbidding growl.
Mrs Poroth's hands closed firmly around the animal. Freirs was sure he heard that growl now – it had grown higher, more menacing – but the woman appeared not to notice, or at least not to care. She picked the cat up and held it in the air before her face.
And suddenly the animal exploded. With a howl of rage it twisted in the woman's grasp and slashed out at her face. Deborah screamed. The woman's hand went to her cheek. The cat dropped to the floor and raced shrieking round and round the kitchen, while Sarr and Deborah jumped back in alarm.
Freirs glanced at Mrs Poroth. To his astonishment the woman appeared to be smiling. There were four bloody lines across her cheek, but she no longer seemed to notice. With a single swift movement she stepped to the screen door and yanked it open. In an instant, like a silver-grey projectile, the cat disappeared through it and down the back steps. Through the window they saw her racing toward the woods.
How impressive Deborah was this afternoon! The way she stood up to that bitch.
After hearing Deborah's description of her early in the summer, I suppose I'd been expecting a sort of backcountry witch, filled with homilies and spells and homespun wisdom. Instead, I got a nasty old hag. Still can't get over how rude she was; she obviously didn't take to me at all. Probably hates New Yorkers. Anti-Semitic, too, I'll bet. I almost have to laugh, now, the way that goddamned cat attacked her. Though at the time it wasn't quite so funny…
They searched for her everywhere. All of them were white-faced and shaken except, oddly, Mrs Poroth herself. She appeared almost calm.
'I've seen what I came to see,' she said to her son. She didn't appear to mind the deep, painful-looking scratches on her face and declined to stay. 'Tis just as I thought. There's a spirit in that animal, something that's against all nature. There's naught I can do, though, for I know you'll not heed what I have to tell you. The animal's yours, and you're the one that must destroy it.'
He didn't say anything until she'd left, but he was obviously troubled. 'No,' he kept saying to himself, 'no, I couldn't do a thing like that. This time she's wrong.'
'Of course she's wrong,' said Deborah, tight-lipped. 'She was just upset about what happened.'
Sarr nodded, but he seemed unconvinced.
They strolled around the property without managing to find the cat. In vain they searched the smokehouse and the barn. 'Sometimes she gets under the front porch and won't come out all day,' Deborah recalled, but the cat was not there. Finally they gave up.
'She's off in the woods,' Sarr said. 'She'll come back when she's ready.'
'In a better temper, I hope,' Deborah added.
Freirs left them, still despondent, at the house and walked back to his room. He noticed, as he approached, that the door on the other side of his outbuilding was slightly ajar. It might easily have been left that way by Deborah or Sarr – because that half of the building was used as a storeroom, the two of them were always bringing things in and out – but he wondered if the cat might have slipped inside. He was tempted to go back up to the farmhouse and tell the Poroths, but he didn't want to seem afraid, especially in front of Deborah. Besides, he'd be embarrassed if they came all the way out here and found nothing. He told himself that he had nothing to fear; it was only a cat, after all. And if he found her he'd be a hero.
Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The room smelled heavily of mildew and mouse droppings. It was piled high with lumber, bottles, old furniture, carefully folded seed bags, and dusty footlockers, some of which obviously predated the Poroths and had, no doubt, been moved down here from the attic in the farmhouse.
Crouching, he peered nervously beneath an old sofa which sagged beneath the weight of four overstuffed valises and a cardboard carton filled with empty jars. From behind him came the buzzing of horseflies as they slammed themselves against the windowpanes; the sills below were Uttered with their bodies.
A dead wasp lay among them, probably one from the swarm in the smokehouse, lying just inches from the tiny space at the bottom of the pane by which it probably had entered. Freirs imagined it battering itself against the glass and wondered if, as it lay dying, it had seen the hole at last and realized the futility of its efforts.
In one corner, almost at eye level atop the slashed and pitted surface of a table, an ancient steamer trunk caught his eye. It was decorated with faded ribbons and appeared to be some remnant of the previous century. Upon it lay several piles of moldy-looking books. He picked them up gingerly, one by one, holding them away from his face lest they be crawling with silverfish and worms. They proved to be religious tracts, and as boring as most of that genre. Heaven's Messengers, he read with distaste. Bible Themes for Busy Workers. The Shepherd and the Sheep. He tossed the books aside and raised the lid.
Inside there were more of them, and some badly folded old clothes. So much for his fantasies of stereoscopes, antique postcards, jewels. .. The clothes, though moth-eaten, might have had a certain value – he noticed a woman's black dress with large cloth-covered buttons down the front, a dress which, though severe,
