Cat's Paw Page 3

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Tulsa shifted back to Simon. “We need to liaise. When will you be available?”

  “After dinner. In about an hour?”

  “Good. See you then. Good to meet you, Lynley.” With a swish of her gauzy frock, she moved out through the crowd and was gone.

  “She really is a wonderful help to me,” Simon sighed, “but sometimes she doesn’t realize that I need my own space.”

  “I guess that’s what happens when you live where you work.”

  “Very true, Lynley. It’s the price I pay for residing in the most wonderful place in the world.”

  A chair scuffed on the board floor beside me and a large woman in a baggy print dress plopped down with a satisfied oof. Her long gray hair was slightly unkempt, and her childlike face was bare of make-up, but she bore herself with confidence and a relaxing informality. “Hi, Simon,” she smiled. “Is this your guest?”

  Simon’s eyes lit up. “Geraldine!” he exclaimed. “You’re here. I thought you would still be in Utah.”

  “Got back last night. The seminar ended yesterday morning. I could have stayed another night but I just wanted to get home to my sanctuary family. You know how it is.”

  Simon nodded. “Geraldine is our events coordinator. She’s been to one of the No More Homeless Pets seminars at the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. Cloverleaf always sends a representative or two.”

  “This was my lucky year,” Geraldine added.

  “Geraldine, this is my college friend, Lynley Cannon.”

  “Happy to know you, Lynley,” Geraldine said, her robust voice sincere. “Welcome to Cloverleaf.”

  “Thank you. I’m excited to be here.”

  “And we’re excited to have you. Simon tells me you volunteer with cats in Portland.”

  “Yes,” I shrugged. “A cat lady for sure.”

  She laughed. “Me too, though I have a dog as well. Spending so much time at Cloverleaf makes it easy to wind up with whoever needs you the most.”

  “I know what you mean. That’s why I have eight kitties in my house.”

  “Wow!” Geraldine commented. “That’s the beginning of a shelter right there.”

  “What did you think of the seminar?” I asked, intrigued. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Oh, you should! There’s something for everyone.”

  “Have you been, Simon?” I began, then paused when I noticed Simon’s attention directed elsewhere. He was glaring across the room, his face screwed into a grimace of distaste so intense I could hardly believe it was the same man.

  “Simon, what is it?” I stared down his line of sight but could see nothing amiss.

  “Huh?” He shook himself, smiled, and the old Simon was back. “Oh, nothing. Just some business I have to attend to.” He stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Geraldine.”

  “Uh, sure. Of course, but...” But I couldn’t think of any ‘buts’. If he had to go, he had to go. I’d be fine; I just wasn’t so sure about him.

  “Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” I said quickly. “You never gave me the key to my cabin.”

  He looked blank for a moment. “Most people don’t use the keys, but Geraldine can get you one from the office. If you don’t feel safe,” he added.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’m sure it’s fine.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you. See you at breakfast. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow so get some rest. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Geraldine and I chorused.

  Simon whirled and crossed the room in long, determined strides like a man with somewhere to go. Of course as a Cloverleaf bigwig, he would have obligations.

  Suddenly I realized I had no idea of Simon’s true position at the sanctuary. I had been under the impression it was important. A supervisor? A director? But he could have just as easily been an employee or even a volunteer for all I truly knew.

  “Geraldine, what exactly does Simon do here?”

  Geraldine gave me a quizzical look but a straight answer. “He’s on the board of directors with special attention to finances. That’s aside from the art part, of course.”

  “And you’re the events coordinator. Is that for the whole shelter?”

  “Yup,” she said proudly.

  “That must be a lot of work.”

  “It’s like everything else around here. We all love our jobs so much, it really doesn’t seem like work at all. It’s true!” she remarked at my skeptical stare. “You’ll see as you get to know us. We are a dedicated bunch here at Cloverleaf.”

  “I met Tulsa Thorpe a little while ago. She certainly seems dedicated.”

  “Ah, yes, our dear Tulsa.”

  “Simon called her his ‘right-hand man’? What does that mean exactly?”

  Geraldine laughed, a hearty yet slightly sad chortle. “Well, you know Simon. It’s a joke of course. He probably wishes she was a man.” She laughed again. “Just kidding. Simon is nothing if not completely professional when it comes to relationships. Why, you know, in all the years I’ve worked with him, I’ve never seen him bring home a date. If it weren’t for his openness about being gay, I wouldn’t have known since he’s never introduced us to anyone special. But maybe that’s just his work persona. Maybe he’s more outgoing with his friends.” She gave me a questioning look.

  “I really don’t know,” I confessed. “Until this summer, I hadn’t seen him since college. And you can guess that was a while ago.”

  We both chuckled at that one, though I’m not sure what’s so hilarious about the incessant passage of time.

  Dinner was winding down. People had bused their dishes to a counter at the back of the hall and left for wherever was next on their agenda: a final dog walk, one last play session with a cat, a book, and bed. The smattering that remained lingered over beverages, coffee and ice tea. A girl in shorts and a teal Cloverleaf tee shirt came by with plates of applesauce cake dribbled with honey and slathered with unsweetened whipped cream. I tucked in to mine while she and Geraldine discussed plans for the following day. I was feeling all warm and fuzzy, the near bliss of not having any responsibilities combined with the lethargy from the trip, a good meal, and heavy cream. Life was good. Tomorrow I would spend time with art and animals. Then life would be even better.

  “Can I have a cat?” I asked suddenly.

  Geraldine and her coworker both looked over at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I guess I’m tireder than I thought. I was just wondering if I could have a cat sleep over in my room. It seems so strange to be there all alone. It’s silly, I know.”

  “Not at all,” said Geraldine. “Not at all. Sun can take you by the cattery to pick one out, can’t you, Sun?” She raised an eyebrow at the girl.

  “Sure,” Sun replied without hesitation. “You finish your cake while I get my things, Lynley.” She bounced away.

  I looked at Geraldine. “She knows who I am?”

  “Oh, honey, everybody here knows who you are,” Geraldine said with a wink.

  “How? I mean, why?”

  “Simon’s been talking about your visit all season. He thinks the world of you.”

  “Really?”

  Her brows knit. “You seem surprised.” For once she didn’t preface it with a laugh.

  “Well, no,” I mused, my mind drifting back a few decades to a time when we were close as musketeers. “I suppose not. I think the world of him too.”

  Chapter 6

  Cats are amazing! I’ve cared for cats with limbs in casts, and aside from the itch factor, which anyone who has worn a cast can relate to, they seem unencumbered by the loss of movement, finding new and novel ways to do what they please and get where they want to go.

  Not much later on I was happily situated in the little bed with my new friend, Emilio. Emilio was a handsome jet-black stray who had come to Cloverleaf from another shelter. He had been relinquished with a badly broken l
eg that the other shelter had neither facilities nor budget to fix. It had taken many weeks in a full leg cast and even more in physical therapy for the big boy to recover, but now he was good as new, having no problem jumping from the bed to his food bowl and back on the bed again. Ad nauseum.

  Even though I wasn’t getting much rest with the continuous rocking of bed springs as Emilio pounced back and forth, I was cherishing his company. I knew he would settle down eventually, and as the jumping grew less and the periods of curling up beside me, longer, I began to drift and dream.

  The screened window was open; I breathed in the fresh night air and listened to quiet sounds of the secluded island, the far-off bass of the strait broken only by the occasional screech of a night bird. Sometimes a dog would bark or whine in the kennels. Once or twice I heard footsteps shuffle down the gravel path, nearing and then retreating as someone made their way home for the night.

  In spite of the exhaustion of the long day, I slept only lightly. It was rare for me to do something new. It didn’t exactly scare me—‌if anything, I was thrilled about the week to come—‌but physically, my body recognized it as a challenge. Without reason, glimmers of doubt flickered through my mind: What if my artwork turns out awful? What if I disappoint Simon? morphed into What if there are bears in the woods? What if there’s a tsunami? The questions got sillier and sillier as my mind spiraled. What if I get appendicitis? What if I can’t find the bathroom? What if everyone laughs at me?

  I could hear them laughing now, loud and malicious and continuing on and on...

  My eyes popped open, and I realized the laughter was very real and had nothing to do with me. Just someone outside, laughing at whatever people laugh at in the middle of the night when other people are trying to get some rest.

  With exasperation, I realized I was wide awake. I turned over, dislodging Emilio from his doze and causing him to think about food again. He plopped to the floor, and I slung a pillow over my head, hoping the person would quit having fun and go to bed like the rest of us.

  No such luck.

  The pillow didn’t do much good because as I lay seething underneath it, my ears tuned in to the conversation in spite of myself. The talker had a grating, slightly raucous voice that must have taken years of bitterness and frustration to perfect. A flatness that said don’t mess with me; inflections pressing home the point that she was always right. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I began to feel sorry for the person on the other end of the line.

  A shriek of sardonic mirth pierced the night. I sat up abruptly, throwing off the sheet and inadvertently causing Emilio to leap away again. When had he got back up? It didn’t matter; we were both on the move now.

  The room was lit only by the faint glow from the half-moon in the velvet sky, but with my dark-adapted sight, I made it to the doll-sized sink in the kitchen wall, found a glass, and drew a drink of water. I didn’t intend to be nosey but I couldn’t help but give a peek out the window to see the individual who was robbing me of my slumber. And there she was, slouching against a tree not ten feet away. Her face was in shadow so I couldn’t tell if it was someone I’d met. Her voice was clearer now, and honestly, I didn’t mean to—‌didn’t want to eavesdrop, but before I knew it, I was listening right along to her sing-song, expletive-punctuated conversation.

  “And on my street,” she was saying, “they could use cats as fricking speed bumps, there’s so many of ’em.”

  I gasped so loudly I was sure she must have heard me but she was too busy chuckling. “Just joking. He’d kick me outta here so fast if he knew I’d said that.” There was a pause, no more laughter now. “No really, baby. I had no idea he’d be here.” A break. “Don’t be jealous. That was over before it’d ever begun.” Another break and a sigh so vast I could see her silhouetted shoulders slump. “Come on, don’t be like that…” Break. “Yeah, I know but...” Break. “Yeah well, to hell with you!”

  The woman pulled the phone from her ear and stabbed at it a few times with an accusing finger. It lit, then went black again. She shoved it in the hip pocket of her tight jeans and lurched away grumbling.

  In that momentary cell phone glow, I had seen her face, up-lit like an urban she-devil.

  * * *

  The next day dawned with the sparkling brilliance that can only be seen on an island. Glittering sunshine radiated from every direction, the smattering of night dew reflecting its radiance like a bazillion nano-diamonds.

  I woke refreshed, as if I had slept right through the night with nary an interruption. Maybe I had. Maybe my fading memory of the obnoxious phone call had been merely a nasty dream. It seemed like one now. I couldn’t imagine why anyone so blasé about a violent act upon an animal would spend hundreds of dollars for the retreat. Nor could I think she was one of the scholarships, volunteers, or staff. More likely a tangled nightmare; too much travel and spicy food; a figment of my overactive imagination.

  I petted Emilio who was still sound asleep, looking like a large round fur pillow. With my touch, his head poked up and he gave a wide yawn, dispelling the pillow image.

  “Good morning, big boy,” I said. “Time for me to go be artsy. You can stay here, you lucky bum, and sleep all day.”

  I clicked on my cell phone and looked at the time. Seven-oh-four. Breakfast was at seven-forty-five so I had just enough time for a shower and a re-group. I could hear morning noises drifting through the open window, voices in quiet conversation, water running. Somewhere music played: a flute, live or recorded I couldn’t tell. Someone was chopping wood. Dogs barked in the distance.

  What I didn’t hear were cars. No honks or vrooms or even that steady hum that grinds on and on throughout city life. Its absence left a well of serenity as clear and refreshing as a drink of cold water.

  Water. My eyes shot to the counter by the kitchen sink. There, on the wooden surface, sat a drinking glass, the one I had used last night.

  When I couldn’t sleep.

  When I had listened to that cruel, rude phone conversation.

  It had been real after all.

  There was a certain relief knowing I hadn’t dreamed it—‌I would like to think my dreams were gentler than that—‌but the idea of such a person here on the island left a bad taste in my mouth. Or maybe it was just time to brush my teeth. I hustled into the bathroom, clearing my mind and putting aside all expectations.

  Chapter 7

  Kittens meow for their mother's attention, but adult cats rarely use their voice to communicate with other cats. If your cats are meowing, they're trying to tell you something. Listen.

  Time flies. I couldn’t believe the first day of the Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary Art Retreat was nearly over. The hours had been filled with creativity and expansion of thought, exercise and relaxation, laughter and nostalgia. Clover Island was the perfect place for such an event. Rising like a miniature mountain out of the sparkling sea, its natural beauty was transcendent. The architects had preserved its pristine character in buildings blended with nature and landscaping that served only to enhance what was already there. Pathways paved with white pebbles wound like ribbons to high scenic vistas and secluded gullies where one could paint or meditate or bring an animal for an outing.

  I was looking forward to exploring some of those magical trails in more depth as the days went by, but that would have to wait. The agenda for the evening was dinner and then a Roundup. I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly; something between an assembly and a soiree was the explanation I’d been given. None of my fellows knew any more than I did, and though I’d been in the presence of Simon Jon Bird for most of the day, it was the official Simon. He treated me no differently from the others, personable but reserved. He was the teacher and I was just another student.

  First came dinner. I was hungry and I wasn’t the only one. The art retreat participants had gravitated to the front table in Wolf Hall where we sat and rehashed the day’s accomplishments. I suppose that our shared experiences had bonded us and we automa
tically stuck together. As I studied the faces, they seemed to reflect a common sense of quietude. Simon’s unique mix of inspiration, art, and activity was working, and it showed.

  Nancy French, the youngest of the team, sat to my right, smiling placidly at her quinoa salad. She was a slight, dark girl in her late teens. Wide-eyed and stoop-shouldered, she had just graduated from high school and was all set to enter college the following term.

  Next to her was Jane Knot who, finished with her meal, sat back in her chair with her eyes closed in contentment. Jane had been quiet in class though not afraid to speak up when she had a question or something to say. Near the same age as Nancy, her solid, earthy look and demeanor was a one-eighty from the other girl’s guileless waifishness.

  Marissa Peabody-Jones was a little older than the two, early twenties I’d guess, though I’m not much good at ages. The plump girl with the curly, barkish hair and black-framed glasses was studying to be a vet tech so that put her at college age.

  Mrs. Fox—‌I had yet to learn her first name or whether she even had one—‌was a formidable woman in her late forties with frizzy black hair that she tortured into a strict bun. Dark, much-plucked eyebrows overshadowed brown eyes and a nose too small for her face. A pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses boasted a Versace logo in diamonds on the earpiece. Her raw silk leisure-wear suit was expensive but comfortably cut. She looked as natural in it as the rest of us in our tee shirts and jeans.

  I hadn’t gleaned much about Sympathy Donnell, a willowy blonde with a figure like a boy, apart from her love of dogs. Every morning back in the city she ran five miles with her rescue Greyhounds, Apollo and Aphrodite, and here at the sanctuary, she had found a set of stand-ins readily available.

  Nor could I guess about the man sitting next to her, Trace Bellows, beyond his wispy, hairless lankiness and soft-spoken simplicity reminiscent of a Buddhist monk.

  There were two other men in the group, George Harrison—‌yes, like the famous musician—‌and Nathan Shore. George, in his fifties, was the oldest of the group aside from me. He was a glum but gifted artist who wasn’t overly good with people but was absolutely wonderful with every animal who crossed his path. Nathan was slightly more enigmatic. He couldn’t have been over thirty, if that. His face, unsullied by age, gave nothing away. His light blue eyes were nearly blank of expression as he considered his coffee cup, his fork, his napkin—‌anything but what was going on around him. Still, in spite of his outward ennui, I had the feeling not much got by him.