Shirley Murphy - Cat On The Edge

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.