Cat on the Edge (8 page)

The twigs and leaves crackled, and a small branch broke as the creature surged forward. Quickly he backed out where he had room to fight. He waited, crouched, his ears flat, his teeth bared in a cold grin.

The dry leaves rustled and shook and were thrust aside, and among the leaves appeared a small, triangular nose. Joe shivered, but now his trembling was not from fear. The green eyes slitted with amusement. He caught her scent now, delectable as sun-warmed clover.

She shouldered aside a branch and slipped out into the sunlight. Her eyes caressed him. Her little pink mouth curved up in a smile. She moved so near to him that he trembled.

She was delicately made, her dark tabby stripes rich as mink, swirled with pale tan and peach, her nose and ears tinted pale peach. She tilted her head, her look intelligent and challenging, filled with a keen curiosity.

Joe touched his nose to hers, breathing in her scent. Her warmth radiated through him like a hearthfire, and he matched his purr to hers. He longed to speak to her and knew that she would run or would swat him. He wanted to whisper love words to her, but dare not frighten her. He could only stare, purring inanely.

Sunlight turned the little cat's ears translucent, as pink and delicate as seashells. Her green eyes laughed. But her look challenged him, too. She stared at him intently, with a deep curiosity. Her gaze turned him weak, made him want to hunt for her, want to bring her exotic and succulent birds. He imagined capturing for her canaries and parakeets and white doves. He promised himself he would remain mute for the rest of his life if she would linger. He would never speak another human word, would do nothing to alarm her if only she would smile upon him.

Above them, clouds cut across the sun, sending shadows racing over them. In the suddenly diminished light the little cat's pupils grew huge and black, the bright green receding to thin jade rings. Then the shadows fled past, and sunlight ran in a river over her rich fur. Her eyes were bright emeralds again, wide and seductive. Her whiskers brushed his cheek, sending a charge through him as violent as the time he bit into the electrical wire.

She was a small cat, delicate and fine-boned. She
did not take her gaze from his, but she lifted one soft, peach-tinted paw. Her gesture imprisoned him. She cocked her head, her eyes questioning him so brightly that he couldn't breathe. Her pink mouth turned up in a smile of secret delight. He wanted to lick her delicate pink ears and nibble them.

But how nervous she was, her ears twitching forward and back at every stir of air, her body turning restlessly toward each innocuous rustle of small lizard or insect. And when a bird burst out of the bushes, she started and crouched ready to bolt away.

“No!” he cried. “Wait…”

He froze, horrified.

He couldn't look at her. He had done the unspeakable. He had given away his terrible affliction. In a second she would run from him. Or she would hiss and strike him, claw him. He turned away, ashamed. He'd blown it. He had irreparably, stupidly blown it.

But she didn't run. And she didn't move away. When he dared to look, her gaze was filled with amazement.

She didn't act like any other cat to whom he had spoken. Her eyes were wide and puzzled; but were bright with excitement, too. Her pink mouth was open. A soft panting trembled her throat. “What are you?” she said softly.

Joe's world reeled. He gaped. His heart seemed to stop beating.

“What are you?” she whispered. “What are we, that you can speak and I can understand?”

He was drowning with pure, insane joy. He pressed so close to her he could feel her heart beating against his heart. She sniffed his shoulder and mewled, her cry so soft it made his skin ripple. “What are we?” she said gently. “What are we, that is like no other?”

Still he couldn't reply. He could only stare at her.

She said, “You were there in the alley that night, you saw that man die. I saw you—you ran from him.” Her green eyes narrowed. “He tried to kill you, he chased you. I wanted to help, but I was afraid. I thought about you—afterward. I prayed you were all right.”

She had thought about him? His world tilted and spun.

“That man,” she said, hissing softly, “that man did not kill for food. He did not kill as a cat kills. Nor did he kill to protect himself. He killed,” she said, “not out of passion. He killed coldly. Not even a snake kills so coldly.”

“You were there. You saw him.”

“Yes, I saw him. And when he turned, he saw me. But he chased you—he couldn't chase us both.” She laid her paw softly on his paw. “How can he know about us? But he must know, why else would he chase us, and follow us?”

“He's chased you? Followed you?”

“Yes. How does he know about us? How can he know that we could tell what we saw? Oh yes, he's followed me. He terrifies me. He almost caught me out on the cliff in the wind. He would have pushed me over. The smell of him makes me retch.

“But,” she said, purring, “now we are not alone. Now, neither of us is alone.

“Now,” she said, laughing, showing sharp white teeth, “now, maybe that man should beware.”

Joe's purr shook him, reverberating uneven and wild. She made him feel as no other cat ever had. She made him feel not so much riven with lust, as turned inside out with joy. She smiled again and nuzzled him, her green eyes caressing him. And delicately she licked his whiskers. Life, all in an instant, had exploded from mere pleasure and excitement into a world of insane delight. Nothing that ever happened, from this instant forward, could mar this one delirious and perfect moment.

Kate Osborne had no memory of entering the dim, smelly alley. She had no idea where she was, she had never seen this place. There were no alleys like this in Molena Point, alleys garbage-strewn and as filthy as some Los Angeles slum.

A dirty brick building walled the alley on three sides. It was built in a U shape to nearly enclose the short, narrow strip of trash-strewn concrete in which she was trapped. At the far end, a solid wood fence blocked the only opening, its gate securely closed. She had no memory of pushing in through that heavy, latched gate though it seemed the only way in; unless she had climbed out into the alley through one of the closed, dirty windows.

None of the first floor windows looked as if it had been opened since the building was erected. The small, dirty, first floor panes were shielded by an assortment of venetian and louvered blinds as might belong to various cheap business offices. The dirty windows above—there were three stories—looked equally immovable. Behind their limp, graying curtains, she guessed would be small, threadbare apartments.

She stood in long shadow, as if the sun were low, but she couldn't tell whether the time was early morning or late afternoon. Around her bare, dirty feet were piled heaps of trash, overflowing from five lidless, dented garbage cans. Smelly food containers, dirty wadded papers, rotting vegetables. The stink was terrible.

She felt disheveled, dirty. Her mouth tasted sour, and she felt as if she had just waked from a terribly deep sleep and from a dream that she did not want to remember.

She was breathing raggedly, as if she had been running. Her poor hands were filthy, and she had two broken nails: filthy nails, black underneath.

A faint scent of ripe fish clung around her, but of course that was from the garbage; the smell made her gag.

She was not in the habit of being filthy. She must look like a tramp. She could work in the garden all day and not get dirty. She prided herself on her neatness, on her clear skin and her well-cut, simple clothes, on the sleek trim of her blond hair. Now when she touched her neat, pale bob it was tangled into a mess.

Her jeans were stained with what looked like rust, and quantities of damp sand clung to them. The long sleeves of her cream silk shirt were smeared with rust, too, and with black mud. She felt so hot and sticky. She never let herself get like this. Never. Even her toenails were black with grime; and her lips were dry and chapped.

Her last memory was of home. Of feeling clean
and well groomed, comfortable. She had been working in the kitchen, canning applesauce in her sunny, pale yellow kitchen, listening to old Dorsey tunes which had been reissued on CD—music recorded long before she was born, but music she loved. The cooking apples had smelled so good, laced with sugar and cinnamon. Their bubbling aroma, and the steam from the sterilizer had filled the kitchen like a warm, delicious fog. It was perhaps an old-fashioned thing to do, to put up applesauce. She and Jimmie had bought a bushel of winesaps up in Santa Cruz, coming back from a weekend in the city. She loved San Francisco. They always had a good time, but she'd been glad to be home again, tending to the simple chore of canning. It made her feel productive and useful, and the domestic endeavor always pleased Jimmie.

She could not remember sealing the lids or setting the jars to cool. She didn't remember anything after standing at the stove stirring the warm, cinnamon-scented apples.

She felt in her pocket for her house key, but found nothing, not even a tissue. She wouldn't have come out without her key even if she left the house unlocked—she had locked herself out too many times. She could not remember leaving the house. Why would she leave, when she was canning?

Somewhere, at the very back of her mind beyond what she could reach—or was willing to reach—a terrifying shadow waited to make itself known. She could feel the thrust of some chilling, unwanted knowledge. Something so shocking she didn't dare
to know. She pushed the presence away, stood frightened and shivering and alone, staring at the dirty brick wall.

Something she dare not remember waited crouched and silent, at the very edge of conscious knowledge.

She studied the building more closely. In a way, it looked familiar. There was a dark brick building like this south of the village, near the old mission, a bit of ugliness left over from Molena Point's less affluent days. The space was rented, she thought, for small business offices. And probably there would be cheap apartments above.

She thought it was called the Davidson Building, but she had never been in it, certainly had never been behind it; she had no reason to come to such a place.

She was not in the habit of wandering into this part of the village. There was nothing down here but the mission, where she and Jimmie took their tourist friends, but it could be reached more easily by using Highway One. Besides the mission there was only a scattering of the uglier establishments necessary to a small town but kept apart, welding or the dry cleaning plant, various repair shops, warehouses, truck storage. The bus station was down here, and the train station. She did not frequent those places. Jimmie would be the first to tell her she had no business in that part of town.

I am Kate Osborne. I am the wife of Jimmie Osborne. Jimmie is the Beckwhite Agency manager and its top salesman. My husband is very well
respected in Molena Point. He is a member of the city council and he has been with Beckwhite's for ten years. We have been married for nine years and three weeks. We live at 27 Kirkman, seven blocks above the village, in a yellow two-bedroom cottage that cost Jimmie $450,000 four years ago during a slack time in the real estate market, and would cost twice that today. We shop for our clothes at Lord & Taylor. Our house is beautifully decorated, just the way I always dreamed I would make my home, and we have a nice circle of friends, all professionals, all excellent contacts
.

All, she thought, but one friend for laughs, one disreputable bachelor who was anything but upwardly mobile.

Clyde had begun as Jimmie's friend, but ended up closer to her. She was more comfortable with Clyde than with any of the couples she and Jimmie cultivated and, strangely, was more comfortable in Clyde's ragtag house than in her own.

She had made their house beautiful for Jimmie. Unwilling to hire a decorator, wanting it to be totally hers, she had hunted a long time for the perfect soft, cream-colored leather couches, for the handwoven fabric on Jimmie's imported lounge chair. She had hunted many galleries and decorator's showrooms to find the five handmade, signed Timmerman rugs for the living room. The sleek Boughman dining room furniture had come straight from the factory. Her signed Kaganoff place settings, arranged perfectly in the pecan china cabinet, had come from the potter himself.

Strange that she could see the bright rooms so clearly, but when she tried to call forth Jimmie's face it was smeared and uncertain, almost like the face of a stranger.

She needed Jimmie. Right now, at this minute. She needed someone to help her. She was so shaky, felt far more disconnected from the world than when she woke sometimes in the small hours disoriented and terrified. As if she had been out of bed, out of the house. But of course she had dreamed that. Waking, she cowered away from Jimmie, frightened that she would wake him, frightened that he would see her so distraught.

Once when she woke up just before dawn, cold with fear for no reason, she had been shocked at the taste of blood in her mouth, so sharp and metallic a taste that she ran into the bathroom gagging—a taste as if she had eaten something unspeakably vile—and had thrown up into the commode.

Her only escape from those nighttime terrors, as well as from her recurring sense of confinement, was to walk the hills high above the village, to wander the steep winding lanes. Buffeted by the wind, standing in the cold, thrusting wind looking out at the sea and sky and the wide sweep of hills falling away below her, she could ease away those vague, invasive moments.

Alone among the hills she would feel peace descend, a quiet calm. Alone on the hills, she could be herself. And sometimes, up there on the hills, a delight filled her so intense it turned her wild—not a sexual wildness, but a longing to run, a strange and
powerful urgency to leap away racing in the wind, free as some animal, wild and primitive, alive.

She could never explain those moments to Jimmie. The two times that she had tried, he was enraged. The second time, he slapped her. Almost as if he feared her joyous feelings, feared her happy, solitary rambles. As if he feared, most of all, her sense of freedom.

Had she been walking the hills when she found her way here into this alley? But why would she come here? There was nothing uplifting or exciting here. And why couldn't she remember?

Hesitantly she approached the gate, trying to avoid broken glass and filth beneath her bare feet.

With cold, clumsy fingers she lifted the latch and pushed the gate open.

The narrow street was flanked by eucalyptus trees; their scent, and the rattle of their leaves in the sea breeze tended, at once, to ease her anxiety.

To her left above the trees, and quite close, rose the tan stucco tower of the old mission. And she could smell bread baking; she turned, and recognized up the street the blue roof of Hoffman's Bakery. Yes, she was south of the village. She was on Valley Street, five blocks from the beach, but clear across the village from home.

She left the alley nervously, afraid she would be seen ragged and filthy. But, burning to get home, soon was running, and to hell with what people thought.

Just before Tarver Street she swerved to avoid a man leaving Mullen's Laundry. He stepped directly
in front of her, and when she tried to go around he blocked her and grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk away; she started to shout for help, then thought she recognized him. He waited expectantly, as if she should know him.

Yes, it was Lee Wark, she knew him from the agency. Wark was a freelance car buyer—he furnished the agency with many of its used foreign cars.

What did he want with her? She tried to back away, but he held her arm tightly. His eyes frightened her. She wanted to cry out, but she couldn't seem to speak. When he didn't loose his grip she went limp, and stood relaxed, watching him, waiting for the moment she could jerk away and run.

He was wearing a tan windbreaker and a tan print shirt. His clothes were respectable enough, but his slouched shoulders dragged wrinkles into the jacket, making it hang like a rag. His long rough hair, and the thick, skin-colored salve he had on his face, made him look dirty. She felt trapped by his eyes, light brown eyes, small and unpleasant, no hint of human warmth. Still he hadn't spoken. She felt so cold, felt strange. She didn't understand what was happening. He had begun to whisper, words she couldn't make out, perhaps a foreign language, maybe his native Welsh. His unintelligable words terrified her; she jerked away, kicking at him. He grabbed her again. She hit him in the face and twisted, broke away and ran.

He shouted, pounding after her. She prayed for a
shop to duck into, but she was beside a tall, solid fence. She bolted for the shops ahead, but Wark grabbed her from behind, spinning her around to face him.

His voice was so low she had to strain to hear. But now she wanted to hear, suddenly she needed to hear, she longed to hear every whispered word. His words made a rhyme, soft and foreign and musical, words flowing all together. Sweet, so sweet, like music. His hands were huge. Immense hands jerking her up, dangling her off the ground. He was a giant swinging her in the air, throwing her soft furry body like a toy. She tried to scream and heard a cat screaming. She dug her claws into Wark's arm and leaped into his face, clawing and biting, wild with rage, hungry for the taste of his blood, relishing the feel of his tender flesh tearing under her claws.

He struck her. She fell twisting, hit the sidewalk on four paws running, dodging pedestrians' feet, running from him. Her vision filled with shoes and pant legs. She skidded past the wheels of parked cars and beneath bushes, then across a street. Huge cars exploded toward her; tires squealed as she fled between them.

The village she sped through was both familiar and totally foreign. She saw streets and buildings she recognized. But mostly she saw the bottoms of windows just above her, the thresholds of doors, saw feet and wheels and skirt bottoms. She dodged between potted trees, seeing little more than the pots, leaped beneath newspaper racks. The smells
from the pavement were sharp, smells of people, of dogs. The sidewalks were so hard under her paws; every crack and pebble telegraphed itself through her body by way of her flying paws. She heard her pursuer pounding behind her. But his footsteps grew fainter.

When she at last reached home, she had lost him. Or he had simply stopped following. She didn't think until later that Wark already knew where she lived, that he had stopped by the house several times on business, once to consult Jimmie about a restored MG that Wark had bought for the agency.

Wark knew where she lived. He could find her any time.

Shivering, she crawled beneath the rhododendron bushes that edged the front lawn, the bushes she had so painstakingly planted, digging the deep holes herself, working in the peat moss and manure. Jimmie hated yard work.

Beneath her flowering bushes she lay licking the pain in her side where Wark had hit her. Slowly her breathing eased. She lifted an exploring paw and touched her long whiskers. What a strange, electrical sensation that made, the charge racing all through her. Her whiskers were little, stiff antennae sending intricate alarm messages through her entire body.

She flexed her claws, liking the feel of that, and she was amused to see Wark's blood on them. Casually she licked it off.

How sharp were the smells in the garden, the
spicy geranium, the bitter scent of the lantana growing along the sidewalk. Her ears flicked forward, then back, catching each hint of sound. She could hear clearly the sharp, bright, tin whistle call of a wren several blocks away. She could hear the loud rustle of a lizard across the yard, one that had got itself trapped in a discarded candy wrapper.