Cat Raise the Dead (10 page)

Or imprisoned. Joe felt his fur rise along his back.

But maybe his sense of entrapment was only a recurrence of his own kittenhood terrors, when he had been trapped by screaming kids in San Francisco's alleys. Thinking of those nasty small boys with bricks, and nowhere to escape, he found himself clinging hard to Dillon's bony shoulder.

He was still clinging to the child when the big front doors opened behind them and a mousy little woman
stood looking in, a pale, thin creature dressed in something faded and too long, and little flat sandals on her thin feet. Behind her, through the open door, on the wide sweep of curved drive, parked just before the door, stood the pearl red Bentley Azure.

And now the driver's door opened and Adelina Prior herself stepped out. This could be no other: a sleek and creamy woman, slim, impeccably dressed in a little flared black suit and shiny black spike heels, her jet hair smoothed into an elegant knot—chignon, Dulcie would call it—which was fastened with a clasp that glittered like diamonds. She carried a black lizardskin briefcase with gold clasps, a small matching handbag.

This was the grand dame of Casa Capri, and she was everything that Clyde had described, her arch look at the gathered Pet-a-Pet group, as she entered, was cold with superiority and distaste.

Allowing her pale companion to hold the door for her, she swept past them, lifting one perfectly groomed eyebrow, her perfume engulfing dogs and cats in a subtle and expensive miasma of heady scent that overrode all the others. Joe supposed that her faded companion, who trailed away after her, was Adelina's sister, Renet. Nor had Renet appeared impressed by their little Pet-a-Pet gathering; she had remained as far from them as she could manage, quickly fading to invisibility beside Adelina's blade-perfect presence.

As the two women moved on down the hall to his right, toward what seemed to be offices, Adelina paused, turned briefly to survey them—as if hoping they had somehow vanished.

From Wilma's shoulder, Dulcie stared back at her, green eyes blazing as if she were reading Adelina's thoughts, and taking in the woman's sleek hair and slim expensive attire, her shapely legs and sheer black stockings, her spike heels sharp enough to puncture a cat's throat.

It was Dulcie who glanced away.

This was the woman who could afford a three-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley Azure but who presumably spent her days among bedpans counting soiled sheets and inspecting medication charts. A woman who had to be driven totally by love for humanity; why else would she do this? The woman who, Clyde had told him, supervised every detail of the retirement villa like an army general. As she disappeared into an office, Joe shivered, and he, too, looked away.

To Joe's right, where Adelina Prior had disappeared, the admitting desk dominated a portion of the villa that was less fancy and smelled strongly of various medicines, of human bodily functions, and of a harsh disinfectant that made his nose burn. A nurse stood before the admitting counter writing on a clipboard, stopping frequently to push back a lock of bleached hair. A wheeled cart loaded with medicine bottles and various pieces of equipment that he didn't recognize and with which he didn't care to become familiar was parked beside the high desk.

The walls were plain and unadorned, the carpet of a dark commercial tweed that looked as durable as concrete. He supposed that on around the corner the hall would lead away between rows of residents' rooms, rather like a hospital on TV. He imagined open doors revealing stark hospital beds and various uncomfortable-looking contrivances constructed of plastic and chrome, and perhaps an occasional closed door behind which a patient was indisposed or sleeping in the middle of the day. From that direction came a tangle of excited television voices, a mix of daytime soaps.

Their group did not approach the admitting desk but headed in the opposite direction, down the hall to the left, where a pair of double doors stood open revealing a shabby sitting room very different from the elegant reception parlor.

In the open double doors, Bonnie Dorriss paused, waiting for them to assemble, the big poodle sitting sedately at her heel in what was beginning to be, in Joe's opinion, an excessive display of overtraining. Did the animal have no mind of his own? But then what could you expect from a dog?

He heard a phone ring behind them, probably at the admitting desk, and in a moment it went silent. He wriggled around on Dillon's shoulder to get a better view of the social room. The decor was early Salvation Army. Mismatched couches and chairs in faded, divergent patterns, a pastiche of varied colors and styles stood about in vague little groups. The multicolored carpeting was of a variety guaranteed to hide any possible stain. Probably only a cat's or a dog's keen nose would detect the spills of cough syrup, oatmeal, and worse embedded in that short, tight weave. Surveying the room, Joe got the impression that when prospective clients were welcomed to Casa Capri to discuss the placement of an elderly relative, these sliding doors were kept closed.

An arrangement of several couches faced an oversize television set, and next to it a weekly TV schedule done up in large print had been taped to the wall. The other seating groups circled scarred coffee tables piled with wrinkled magazines and folded newspapers. There were no fancy potted trees or elegant little touches such as graced the entry and parlor. And the pictures on these walls were dull reproductions of dull photographs of dull landscapes from some incredibly tedious part of the world—the kind of cheap reproductions the local drugstore published for its giveaway Christmas calendar. A pair of lost eyeglasses lay under a coffee table, and a lone slipper peeked out from beneath a couch, implying that the room had not been recently vacuumed.

The few old people who were already in attendance, scattered about in the soft chairs, seemed to have dozed off. They were settled so completely into the faded furniture that occupant and chair might have been
together for decades, growing worn and shabby as one entity.

The focal points of the room, besides the TV, were a set of wide glass doors leading out to the inner patio and, at the opposite side of the room, through an arch, the dining room, its tables laid with white cloths, its wide windows looking out through decorative wrought iron to the drive, the fountain, and the gardens beyond. A pair of swinging doors led to the kitchen, from which wafted the pervasive scent of boiled beef and onions. But it was not the kitchen that drew Joe. He looked away longingly toward the sunny patio, where, it seemed, freedom beckoned.

Off to the left of the patio doors, a second long hall led away. The two long wings, separated by the patio, were joined far at the back by a third line of rooms, completing the enclosure of that garden. Glass doors led from each bedroom into the sunny retreat.

As they entered the social room one of their group, a tiny fluff of dog, whined with eagerness. Immediately the dozing old folks stirred. Rheumy eyes flew open, little cries of pleasure escaped as the residents saw their visitors. A waxen-faced old man grinned widely and hoisted himself up from a deep recline, his faded eyes lighting like a lamp blazing.

Dillon's response was surprising. Squeezing Joe absently, hardly aware of him, her body went rigid as she studied the approaching residents.

As patients rose from the deep chairs, others straggled in from the far hall, some led by nurses, some wheeling their chairs energetically along or hobbling in their walkers, converging toward the Pet-a-Pet group moving in slow motion but as eagerly as if drawn forward by a magnetic force.

The animals' responses were more varied. While the little dogs wiggled and whined, hungering for the lavish attention without which, Joe was convinced, the miniature breeds would wither and die, and while the golden
retriever, grinning and tugging at his lead, plunged ahead toward his geriatric friends, the cats were sensibly restrained, waiting circumspectly for further developments.

Bonnie Dorriss's poodle remained sitting at heel in an attitude of total dullsville. This was why cats were not given obedience lessons—no cat would put up with this smarmy routine.

But suddenly the poodle stiffened. His short tail began to wag as a wheelchair approached bearing a thin, white-haired woman. His mouth opened in a huge laugh. Sitting at heel, he wiggled all over.

Bonnie spoke a single word. The poodle leaped away, straight at the wheelchair, and stood on his hind legs, prancing like a circus dog around it, reaching his nose to lick the woman's face. His front paws didn't touch the chair until the white-haired woman pulled him to her for a hug.

Within minutes, the pair had whisked away out the front door, the dog pulling the wheeled chair along as the woman held his harness, the two of them heading for some private and privileged freedom.

And now their little group began to disperse as each animal was settled with an old person. And the assorted cats surprised Joe, settling in calmly with one patient or another, relaxed and open and loving. Joe watched them with uneasy interest. It appeared that each cat knew why it was there, and each seemed to value the experience. For a moment, the simpler beasts shamed him.

Dulcie had coached him endlessly about his own deportment.
Don't flinch at loud noises, Joe. Don't lay back your ears even if they pinch you, and for heaven's sake don't hiss at anyone. Keep your claws in. Stay limp. Close your eyes and purr. Just play it cool. Don't snarl. Think about how much you're helping some lonely old person. If you don't pass the test, if you fail, think how ashamed you'll be
.

That was her take on the matter. If he didn't pass the test, he'd be out of here, a cause for wild celebration. If
he didn't pass muster, he'd be free, a simple but happy reject.

Bonnie Dorriss had helped with the testing, and that had been all right, but the two women who came down from San Francisco were another matter, two strangers poking and pushing him and talking in loud voices, deliberately goading him. He'd responded, he felt, with admirable restraint, smiling up at them as dull and simple as a stuffed teddy bear.

He'd passed with flying colors.

So I'm capable of equanimity. So big deal. So now here I am lying across this kid's shoulder wishing I was anywhere else because in a minute she's going to plop me down in some old lady's pee-scented lap
. The approaching group of duffers that now converged around them thrilled him about as much as would a gathering of vivisectionists.

An old man in a brown bathrobe toddled right for him, pushing his chrome walker along with all the determination of a speed runner. Watching him, Joe crouched lower on Dillon's shoulder. But then the old boy moved right on past, heading for the black-and-white cat, his sunken, toothless grin filled with delight. “Kittie! Oh, Queen kitty. I thought you'd never get here.”

Joe watched Bonnie Dorriss take the old man gently by the arm and settle him into a soft chair, setting his walker aside. When the cat's owner handed down the black-and-white cat, the old man laughed out loud. The cat, a remarkably equable female, smiled up at him with pleased blue eyes, and curled comfortably across his legs, reverberating so heavily with purrs that her fat stomach trembled.

This was all so cozy it made him retch. He changed position on Dillon's shoulder, turning his back on the gathering. This was not his gig.

He wasn't into this do-good stuff, had no interest in the therapeutic value of cat petting. Absolutely no desire to cheer the lonely elderly. He'd come only because of Dulcie, because of the bargain they'd made.

You mind your manners at Casa Capri, not embarrass me, really try to help the old folks, and you can give Max Harper the make on the cat burglar's blue Honda. Okay
?

He had agreed—with reservations. Now he watched Dulcie, listened to her happy purring as Wilma lifted her down to the lap of a tiny, wheelchair-bound lady. This had to be Mae Rose, and she really did seem no bigger than an oversize doll. Her short frizzy white hair was like a doll's hair, her bright pink rouge rendering her even more doll-like. She sat stroking Dulcie, smiling as hugely as if someone had plugged in the Christmas lights.

He watched Dulcie reach a gentle paw to pat the little woman's pink cheek. Then, curling down in Mae Rose's lap on the pink afghan, Dulcie rolled over, her paws in the air waving limply above her. The little woman's thin, blue-veined hands shook slightly as she stroked Dulcie. What a fragile little human, so thin that Joe thought a hard leap into her lap would break her leg.

He stiffened as Dillon lifted him down from her shoulder. She held him absently, like a bag of groceries, as she stood looking around the room, preoccupied with some private agenda. Irritated, he mewed to get her attention.

She stared down at him, as surprised as if she'd forgotten he was there. Shifting his position, she fixed her sights with purpose on a big lady coming toward them.

She was going to dump him on that woman, he could feel it; all the kid wanted was to get rid of him.

The solid woman approached, leaning on the arm of Bonnie Dorriss, a big square creature clumping along, making straight for the empty overstuffed chair beside Mae Rose's wheelchair. The old woman's face was molded into a scowl. She walked like a rheumy ex-football player, rocking along. Why didn't Dillon move away from her, get him away from her? The kid couldn't dream of dropping him in the lap of that creature. That
lady was not in any way a promising candidate for feline friendship therapy.

As the old lady descended on them he couldn't help the growl that escaped him, it rumbled out of his chest as uncontrolled as an after-the-hunt belch. A growl that made the old woman's eyes open wide and made Bonnie's blue eyes fix on him with surprise.

“Oh,” Dillon said, “I squeezed him too hard….” She petted him furiously as the old woman settled weightily into the easy chair. “It's all right, Joe Cat, I didn't mean to hurt you.” Dillon's face was so close to his that their noses touched. She snuggled her cheek against him, and gently scratched under his chin, whispering almost inaudibly.

“Just play along, Joe Cat. Please just play along?” And she petted him harder. “Just make nice,” Dillon breathed. “I wish you could understand.”

He was trying.

As Dillon approached the woman's chair, the old lady scowled deeper and pulled her maroon woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I don't want a cat. I don't like cats, take it away.” The old girl looked like a hitter. Like someone who would happily pinch a little cat and pull its tail, particularly a stub tail.

But Dillon lifted him down to the old woman's lap and stroked him to make him be still, keeping a tight grip on his shoulder.

The woman glowered and moved her hands away from him as if he carried some unspeakable disease. She smelled of mildew. Her face was thick and lumpy. Her voice was as harsh as tires on gravel. “I want a dog, not a cat. I want one of those fluffy little dogs, but you gave them to everyone else.”

Her angry stare fixed hard on Bonnie, as if all the ugliness in her life might be Bonnie's fault. “That fluffy little French dog, Eloise got it. She always gets the best. Gets the biggest piece of cake and the best cut of roast beef, too. Gets to choose the TV programs because no
one will dare argue with her. No one asked me if I wanted a little dog.” She flapped her hands at Joe as if she were shooing pigeons. “I want that French dog. Take the cat away.” Joe crouched lower, determined not to move.

Bonnie told her, “The last time, Eula, when you held that little fluffy Bichon Frise, you pulled his tail and he snapped at you.” She smoothed Eula's iron gray hair.

“Is that why you gave me a cat without a tail? So I won't pull its tail?” Eula laughed coarsely. “Is this supposed to be one of them fancy breeds, them Manx cats? Looks like an alley cat to me.”

She stared past Bonnie, at Dillon. “Why would you bring a mean old alley cat?” She studied Dillon's faded jeans and T-shirt. “And why can't you wear a skirt to visit? That's all you girls wear, jeans and silly shirts. I see them all in the village when Teddy takes us shopping. Why would you bring this bony cat here? No one would want to pet this mean creature.” She peered up harder at Dillon. “Do I know you, girl? You look familiar, like I know you.”

Two spots of red flamed on Dillon's thin cheeks, but she knelt beside Eula, stroking Joe.

“The creature is going to scratch me. It's just laying to scratch me.”

Joe raised innocent eyes to her, giving her his sweetest face, fighting the powerful urge to nail her with a pawful of sharp ones. He was at a crossroads here. He could show this old woman some teeth and claws and get booted out on his ear—in which case he'd be free to go home. Or he could make nice, stay curled up in her lap, and endure, thus effectively keeping his bargain with Dulcie.