Max rose and headed for the kitchen, but moved on through toward the guest room, wanting that extension where he could hear above the party noise. The minute Joe Grey heard the guest room door close he dropped down from the wall and slipped away through the crowd. Kit, watching them both, hopped off Lucinda’s lap and followed. Pan remained on the wall, stoic and quiet.
Kit, passing the guest room’s closed door, paused to hear Max say, “She gave you this number, and not my cell phone?” His irritation told her he was talking about Evijean. She flew up the stairs as, above her on the desk, Joe Grey eased the phone from its cradle. As she landed beside him, he hugged the headset in his paws and eased it down on the blotter. They hoped Max would hear no small electronic click and no thump on the thinly padded surface. Pressing their ears close, Joe and Kit listened.
There was no break in Max’s voice as if he’d been alerted that an extension had been picked up. Glancing at each other, they tried not to breathe into the speaker; and they watched the stairs warily in case someone started up to the office and studio—why would the two cats have the phone off the hook, crouched over it?
Mice in the speaker? Kit thought, and had to swallow her laugh.
Max’s call was from Georgia, from Sheriff Jimmie Roy Dover. Dover’s drawl was deep and heavy. Kit imagined a portly man who enjoyed his native southern cooking.
“So far, this is the way we’ve put it together,” Dover was saying. “The worst of it is, we’ve got every unit out there looking for wounded, for bodies. And of course evidence is disturbed, stuff flying everywhere.
“Well, when the tornado passed, she must have known Sam’s and Arnold’s bodies were there on the dock, under the fallen roof. Maybe she thinks they’re dead, maybe not. Maybe she runs to help them, maybe not. All we’ve found is a line of muddy footprints where she gets out of her room, where she runs outside—and she doesn’t head their way.
“When she’s clear of the worst of the debris,” Dover said, “she pauses beside the body of a dead woman among the fallen walls. Later, one of our men photographed the body and what may be Tekla’s footprints. The dead woman must still have been clutching her purse. Looks like Tekla—if those are her footprints—grabs the purse, you can see where it was dragged out from under the muddy debris. It took us a while to find this much, with the mess, and with victims needing help.
“We figure Tekla now has the woman’s car keys, fished them out of the purse. She steps on out to the parking strip. The first row of cars was smashed. Tornado sheared through the building neat as a Skilsaw, dumped the fallen walls on that row of vehicles. It missed the more distant cars, she must have bleeped the electronic key until she got a response from one of them, an answering bleep or blinking light. Now she has the right car, she gets in and takes off.”
Max was silent, listening.
“But Tekla’s wounded,” Dover said. “She drives about three miles, then starts swerving, tire marks all over the road. Pretty quick she loses it, runs the car into a tree.”
“You got her.”
“No, we didn’t. She must have sat there for a while, but then you could see where she backed the car up. Apparently didn’t do too much damage, gas line must have been okay, apparently no tires punctured, and she takes off again.”
“Well, hell.”
“Rescue units were on their way to the motel, but in the dark and the hard wind they must have sped right by her, didn’t ever see her.
“We didn’t find the tire marks and the gouge in the tree until the next morning, first light. By that time,” Dover said apologetically, “she was long gone.”
“And Sam and Arnold?”
“Dead,” Dover told him. “Crushed by the fallen roof. GBI has the report. They’ll be calling you.”
Max was quiet for a long while. Joe and Kit felt a surprising twist of pain for Sam and Arnold Bleak. No matter what they had done, no matter whether they’d been a willing part of Tekla’s plan, the two cats didn’t like to think of someone being crushed that way, in that terrible storm—and of Tekla not even trying to save them, just leaving them.
Max gave Dover his cell phone number. As the officers ended the call, Joe used both paws to ease the headset back onto the phone. They waited in the shadows at the top of the stairs until Max left the guest room and moved out to the patio again. Only when he’d gone did they wander casually down the empty stairway—but at the bottom Kit paused, startled, the fur along her back lifting. Joe Grey froze.
A faint ripple of tension ran through those gathered, through not everyone seemed aware of it. A subtle glance across the patio between Ryan and Clyde, between Charlie and Kate and the Greenlaws, a look as meaningful as a whisper—and the Firettis were headed for the front door, John fishing his car keys from his pocket.
“The kittens,” Kit whispered. “Joe, the kittens are coming.” But Joe was gone, racing away, flicking his heels in her face. Clyde bolted across the living room and out of the house, across the yard trying to snatch Joe from the air as the tomcat leaped past John Firetti—and Joe was through the driver’s door into the back of the medical van.
Joe Grey glared out at Clyde. “Leave me alone,” he hissed softly. “They’re my kittens!” Clyde stepped back, returning Joe’s angry stare.
“Let him come,” John said. “Let him be with her.”
“But . . .”
“There’s not much chance of germs, they’re always together. Whatever Joe’s been exposed to, so has she.”
Silently Clyde stepped back. John closed the door and they were gone, roaring away up the street headed for Wilma’s cottage. In the van, Mary reached out to Joe. He crept up between the bucket seats to the front and into her arms. She stroked him but said nothing; the kittens were coming and they were both nervous.
Behind the retreating van Clyde turned back to the house, ignoring questioning stares. Approaching the front door, where Max, Scotty, Mike, and Lindsey stood, he didn’t want to talk and didn’t want to know what they were thinking. Joe’s behavior and his own were too strange. “Cats,” Clyde said with disgust, shouldering past them, coming in the house, putting his arm around Ryan.
Ryan smiled, and before anyone could ask questions, she led Clyde away to set out the desserts and make a fresh pot of coffee.
Lucinda and Pedric had risen and headed for the living room behind the Firettis. Kate followed as, behind them, Clyde said casually to those around him, “John’s off to deliver Dulcie’s kittens. Wilma—Wilma’s been a bit nervous.”
From the mantel, Pan sat watching the action, cutting his eyes at Kit as she leaped up beside him. Kit wanted to be with Dulcie. Her look at Pan said, Shall we? She knew John didn’t want a crowd. Birth was a private business. And he didn’t want other cats’ germs near the kittens. Butwe haven’t been around other cats— Oh! Except the ferals, up in the hills. And John’s ferals at the beach.
But they’ve had their shots. And John always changes his shoes when he gets back in the van, changes his lab coat and cleans his hands.
She thought about Dulcie in labor and hurting. She told herself they’d keep out of the way, that they’d stay outdoors, she just wanted to be there. She looked at Pan, edgy and nervous. The fascination of Dulcie’s miracle made her shiver. Pan frowned back at her but then reluctantly he rose. Together they dropped from the mantel and fled out the open door.
34
Dulcie paced the living room back and forth, past the flickering hearth, past the couch where Wilma was pretending to read. She could feel Wilma watching her and trying not to worry. She moved from room to room, padded into the kitchen, sniffed at the nice custard Wilma had set out, and turned her face away. She drank from her bowl, but only a few laps. There were no pains yet, but her restlessness was intolerable. She wanted to crawl into her new kittening box, and she didn’t want to be confined in there. She wanted to creep into the farthest corner of the house under the darkest bed, but when she did that, she backed out again. She wanted to be near Wilma, but then Wilma’s lap was too warm. She wanted Wilma to come to the kittening box with her, but she didn’t want anyone there at all. This should be a lonely vigil, only her kittens should share the coming moments, she wanted to be alone to bring them into the world, yet she didn’t want to be alone.
The kittening box Wilma had set up in the bedroom, beside her own bed, was sturdy and splendid. It was constructed from a heavy packing carton uncontaminated by grocery store insecticides. Wilma had cut a smooth little door at one corner arranged so a draft wouldn’t blow in. She had made a lid for the top, which could be lifted off to clean the box. A nice thick bed of newspapers lined the bottom. Papers that Dulcie wanted to rip up, that she intended soon to tear apart, she could feel the urge itching in her pads; papers that would be thrown away after the birthing and would be replaced by a warm blanket.
There were clean soft towels stacked outside the box, that John Firetti had asked Wilma to provide. Everything was ready. But as perfect as was her nest, Dulcie couldn’t stop creeping into dark corners, turning around and around and then hurrying out again into space and light—and then returning to her box. She didn’t know what she wanted; she was eager and scared. She felt ravenous, but the sight of food made her ill. She wanted Joe Grey, but she didn’t want him until the ordeal was over. Where was he, why wasn’t he there with her? She returned to the kitchen, longing to race outside, but Wilma, after futile attempts to reason with her, had fetched the electric drill and screwed her cat door closed.
And now suddenly as she paced and fussed, the front doorbell rang. Wilma picked her up to keep her from running out. She opened the door to the Firettis, they stepped in quickly, and Mary deftly shut the door behind them. Even a sentient, speaking cat could behave foolishly when she was about to give birth. The minute Dulcie saw John, she relaxed. The minute Joe Grey wound in behind John’s ankles, Dulcie hissed and spat at him. Why was she behaving like this?
She let John take her from Wilma’s arms; as she laid her head against him, trust in the good doctor filled her. She quit spitting at Joe and she felt easier. It was then that Charlie arrived. Dulcie heard the Blazer pulling up, heard the kitchen door open and close. Charlie came through the house, reached gently to stroke Dulcie, then put her arm around Wilma. “I thought you might like a little more moral support?”
Wilma smiled and hugged her niece. At their feet Joe Grey was quiet, watching their friends gathered around Dulcie. Dulcie didn’t want to spit at him now. And now, for a moment, a brightness filled the room, glowing around them, and she could hear Misto’s whisper, the faintest breath, You will be all right, the babies are strong, they will be just fine. The glow hung a moment, then was gone, Misto’s warm, familiar voice gone. But his love remained.
In Wilma’s bedroom, John lifted Dulcie down into the kittening box. She settled at once, she didn’t fight him, she didn’t try to run away now. She put a paw up, she wanted him near, she didn’t want him to leave her. John waited, sitting on a low bedroom chair beside the box. She felt restless but then lay quiet. Her purr rumbled stronger, a purr of anticipation and of fear waiting for the pains that would come. She heard from the living room a bold scratching at the door, heard the door open, heard Kit’s mewl, Wilma’s voice and then Pan’s, and she was glad they were there: a loving entourage waiting—filled with kindness but leaving her to her privacy.
It was a long time before the first pain hit her, then soon another, and another. Soon they were coming faster than John had told her they would. She murmured once. Another pain and she strained and mewled softly. She cried loudly only once, pushing hard when the pains were sharpest. The rhythm of the contractions carried her as if on a huge wave, soon so close together she thought she couldn’t breathe; this first kitten was eager, was clamoring to get out.
In the living room where Charlie held Joe Grey, he tried to leap away when he heard Dulcie cry, tried to go to her. Charlie grabbed the nape of his neck. “Don’t, Joe. Don’t go in and upset her, let her be, John is with her.” She scowled down at him. “You have to be patient.”
He didn’t feel patient, he wanted to be with Dulcie. He hissed at Charlie and raised a bristling paw. She held him hard, held him until he eased off and settled once more on her lap, only faintly snarling. Dulcie was hurting. His lady was in there crying out and maybe in danger. Birthing kittens was frightening and perilous, why hadn’t he realized that? He butted his head against Charlie, shaken with fear.
Across the room Kit and Pan snuggled close to Wilma in her soft chair, Kit shivering but Pan stoic and calm, hoping to calm his own lady. They heard Dulcie’s whimpers and her single yowl, they watched Joe Grey flinch and strike at Charlie, saw Charlie’s green eyes widen as she settled him once more. They heard the back door open, watched Kate and the Greenlaws slip through. Dulcie’s patient but nervous attendants filled the living room, looking quietly at each other, waiting. These were not ordinary kittens, these were miracle kittens, and their friends waited nervously.
Only Ryan and Clyde were absent. How could they leave their guests to attend such an ordinary occurrence as the birth of kittens? So many folks had already rushed out. The Damens didn’t need more puzzled questions—but Joe Grey wished they were there. Clyde to bolster his courage, Ryan, like Charlie, to soothe and mother him.
“Sometimes,” Charlie said, stroking him, “it’s harder on the father.”
Joe Grey glared up at her. How could that be true?
“Do you remember,” Charlie asked him, “how proud you were when Dulcie told you? Proud and shy and excited?”
Joe remembered. “Kittens?” he’d cried. “Our kittens?” He remembered backing away from Dulcie, perplexed and amazed, racing away across the rooftops, then flying around her, skidding nose to nose with her. “Kittens?”
It was late evening. The three kittens had been born safe and strong. Dulcie had cleaned them up and was resting, the tiny little ones nursing against her when Joe Grey slipped into the room. John Firetti, kneeling over the box, looked up and nodded.
“Come, Joe Grey. Come see your babies.” John and Mary and Wilma had just cleaned the kittening box, Mary sliding the soiled newspapers out from under as John and Wilma gently lifted Dulcie and the kittens. Deftly Mary had slipped a thick warm blanket in, and John had settled mother and babies back onto their nest. Joe Grey entered warily, nearly electrified with shyness.
He crept up onto Wilma’s bed where he could look down into the box. He crouched there very still, looking at their new family. He was, for an instant, fearful of how he might respond. He was too aware of the ancient instinct of some tomcats to ravage their own young. Would this age-old urge surface in him now, would emotions he detested hit him suddenly? Looking down into the box, he was ready to turn and run before he hurt his tiny, helpless babies.
