Then she and the man had argued, and the girl must have lost. He’d watched her run off, the boy bring her back. Since then, she left early, returned late, tore off into the woods till dark, and seemed to have forgotten all about him.
It was all too much. He shunned the food in his bowls, took to the woods beyond the stone garden, and made for the steepled house to hunt rats.
He slept under the white wooden building, near the larger stone garden there. Sometimes bells rang in the steeple, or people strolled in the garden or gathered in the building overhead, but for several days the place had been quiet. He napped and hunted, hunted and napped.
Hungry now, he stared out at the stones, watched and listened for dart or scurry. He’d stopped thinking the human habit of stone-planting peculiar. He saw the uses in it now. The flat stones were good for sleeping on, cool in summer and toasty in winter when the sun warmed them. The upright ones broke the wind and kept off the rain and snow if he stayed to the lee side. Best of all, the stone garden earth teemed with fat brown rats, his favorite meal.
The strange objects planted in front of the stones puzzled him, though. They had no use that he could find. They looked like flowers, but weren’t flowers. He sniffed them, but they had no smell. He bit them, but they had no taste. They weren’t cold or warm. They didn’t rot or die. They stood mute, stiff, the same in every season, without growth or new blossom. Even the rats, who ate garbage, shunned them.
One afternoon an old woman had caught him peeing on the largest bunch. She chased him into the crawlspace, screeching at him and waving her arms. From his hiding place he saw her pluck the dripping objects out of the ground with her thumb and forefinger, wash off his scent under a nearby spigot, and then replant them, grumbling all the while. After that, he supposed the objects marked territories, something he understood, and he peed on them whenever possible, the old woman’s bunch doubly, though he waited in vain for her to do the same.
Suddenly he heard doors slamming outside, footsteps on the front walk, the whoosh of the entry door, then hushed human voices overhead. The footsteps and voices upstairs grew closer and echoed in the large space. He heard women’s and men’s voices both, one he recognized: the voice of the woman who’d screamed at him, as usual screeching about something.
He’s under there, all right, she said. I saw him go through the vent. He does his business on Harold’s grave and I won’t have it. I say put down poison and be done with him.
Whose cat is he? said a man. Does he belong to someone? The cat knew this voice, too. It belonged to the hobbling, white-haired old man with the cane who stood before the townspeople when they gathered upstairs, speaking to them in earnest tones.
Don’t know, Father, said a second man. He don’t act domesticated, but he’s one heck of a ratter. He’s doing you a favor.
Favor! cried the woman.
It’s the God’s truth, Constance, said the old man. The rats are bad this year. Answer to a prayer, I’d say.
Father, you’re not suggesting that God sent that cat to urinate on my Harold’s grave? asked the woman, incredulous.
The Lord’s ways are mysterious, said the old man. We’re simply saying that the up side might be more important than the down side.
Unless Harold’s fond of rats, said the second man.
I can’t see poisoning God’s creature for the sake of plastic flowers, the old man said. What if he belongs to someone? Dr. Royster’s isn’t far.
Tomcats run in that family, said the woman.
What if Mr. Pendergrass hoses off your flowers once a week, Constance? said the old man, exasperated. Would that do?
For a few moments there was silence.
I suppose, said the woman tightly. For now. But if it doesn’t …
Faith, Constance, and enjoy your organ practice, the old man said.
The men left then. But the woman stayed and stomp-stomp-stomped up the back stairs and across the upper floor, grumbling and sniping. All at once a horrid noise boomed and blared overhead, shaking the walls and thundering through the ductwork as the woman caterwauled along. The cat shot out of the crawlspace into the woods, his head pounding, and wished they would all shut up.
6
The minute I got home from school every day, I headed for the woods, listening and searching for any sign of the white deer and her friend. In two weeks’ time I’d explored the woods to the east, south, and west, finding nothing but trees. North was what remained.
I headed that way on a cool, bright Friday afternoon, figuring if I didn’t find anything by sundown I’d have the weekend to widen my search. It was barely October, but this year’s Indian summer had ended early, and a chill had settled in the air. Winter was coming soon.
I looked for the cat as I went. I hadn’t seen much of him since school started, and the trucks had kept coming and going, delivering Henry’s supplies and taking finished sculptures away. The food in his bowls was nibbled some days, untouched others. I hoped he was okay.
Henry’s property ended near what Fred called the “old growth,” and I thought these northernmost woods were what he meant. The trees were bigger and older here, some as big around as truck tires. That made walking easier, since not much grew in their deep shade. Fallen branches rotted in loose heaps in the leaf litter, but the piles had an
