“Achoo!”
On top of everything else, it appeared that Wickie was allergic to cats.
Sam knew of some cat lovers who kept the animals in the face of the most debilitating allergies, but there had
been no sign of kitty litter, cat food, or water dishes in the cabin. The kitten was, therefore, not Wickie’s. He hadn’t reacted to it before Bethica arrived. Deductive logic led inevitably to the conclusion: The kitten arrived with, and must therefore belong to, Bethica. Sam hoped the kid could get the little beast out and take it with her when she left. He didn’t look forward to sneezing all night.
He made a mental note to tell her not to feed her pet so much. The kitten had the dimensions of a furry butterball. He wiped at his streaming eyes again.
Which reminded him that he’d been in the middle of an errand of mercy when he’d been so rudely interrupted.
Bethica had finished with the sponge and was emptying out a bucket. She took the proffered tissue gratefully. “I knew,” she said abruptly. “I’ve been making plans. I’ll deal with it, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam said helplessly.
Her eyes fell. “You must think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?”
“Not necessarily.” As a matter of fact he wasn’t sure what he did think, except that it was getting rather late for a Saturday evening, and if Rimae showed up, there might well be consequences of a nature better dealt with by, say, Al, who at least had more practice. “I’m not making any judgments. You’ve got to tell Rimae, though.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “She’ll kill me.”
“I don’t think so. She’ll be pretty mad, though. But you can’t put it off much longer.”
Bethica’s lips firmed. “That’s my business, too.”
Sam sighed and gave up. “Okay, fine. If that’s the way you want to play it. Look, I really appreciate the help, but I think you’d better go home now. Let me walk you over, and I’ll finish cleaning up.”
“I don’t need to be walked home.” She was getting angry again. Well, anger was a valid coping mechanism too.
“If you need somebody to talk to—” he offered, unable to stop himself. Her glare did it for him. “Oh, your cat is in the living room,” he said hastily, changing the subject. “I think you’d better take her with you.”
Once again, he’d said the wrong thing. “I don’t have a cat. But I can take a hint.” Pushing past him, she dropped the used Kleenex into the wastebasket and marched through the cabin and out the door.
“Some Leaps you just can’t win,” Sam muttered. He became aware of yellow eyes, huge in the small triangular face, outlined by dark lids and white stripes, observing him steadily from under the sofa. The watcher had two dark vertical strips like exclamation points over her nose. He could probably hold her in one hand, he thought, watching her in return. “Boo!”
The kitten hastily withdrew.
He followed Bethica at a distance to the house at the end of the block, making sure she got home all right. She paused briefly in the porchlight, looking back at him, and he raised one hand, tentatively. She raised one in return. With that much comfort, he went back to the cabin to finish the cleanup.
The next several hours were punctuated with sneezes. He needed more tissue; two boxes weren’t enough. He had to wash down the walls, sweep up more debris, and put bag after overstuffed bag of garbage out the front door. The kitten supervised. After the first hour she decided he was mostly harmless, and crept out from under the sofa to go back into her “you missed a spot” routine again. When Sam didn’t respond—other than to sneeze—the kitten mewed half a mew at him.
“What are you, a cat or a mouse?”
The kitten made an ek-ek sound, and then began to purr, a surprisingly deep rumble for such a small body, and stropped herself against his ankles.
“Ah, shaddup, ach-ch-ch—”
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“—oo. You wouldn’t know where Al is, would you?”
The cat didn’t know either.
It was four-thirty in the morning before Sam finally straightened up, looked around, and decided it would have to do. The kitten had long since given up on him and curled up in the comer of the sofa, which it clearly regarded as its own personal property. Judging by the amount of grey hair already liberally scattered over the rough plaid surface, Sam wasn’t inclined to argue. He’d be happy to let the cat have the sofa, at least for the remainder of the night, as long as he could have the rest of the house. Specifically the bed.
He’d forgotten about house cats and beds, especially when the door had been torn off its hinges and there wasn’t any way to keep them out of the bedroom. Some five minutes after his head hit the pillow, little cat feet began marching up his leg to his hip, kneaded, and settled. He moaned and went back to sleep, acknowledging defeat.
SUNDAY
June 8, 1975
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.
—John Donne, The Undertaking, st. 4
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning he woke to the sound of prerecorded church bells. The cat was gone, much to his relief. Probably off somewhere looking for food. At least the bags of trash on the porch were intact.
He wondered if he should tell Rimae about the cabin getting trashed before she noticed the broken windows. Based on the way she’d reacted about the truck, she probably wasn’t going to be too happy about it. It was a shame, too, considering she seemed to have forgiven him about the keg.
He wondered if he could find a glazier open on a Sunday. Probably not; he’d have to try to get
