Shirley Murphy - Cat On The Edge

"He's gone, of course."

"What do you mean, of course?" Her pulse began to race.

"He disappeared a few days ago. I'm sure you know all about it. You know he hasn't been home. That he…" He stopped speaking.

"That he what?"

"That he's… That he's been in touch," Clyde said tightly.

"How do you mean, in touch?"

"Look, Kate, why go through all this? Why bother? You know all about this. Why hand me that long involved story about wharves and about Lee Wark chasing you. Why not just…"

"Been in touch how, Clyde?"

"The phone, damn it! You knew that."

It took her a while to work it out. She stared at Clyde and stared at the phone. She studied him again, then gulped back a laugh.

Joe Grey had phoned him.

Joe Cat was like herself. And he had figured out how to use the phone.

She collapsed in a fit of merriment that weakened her. Joe Grey had phoned him, had talked to Clyde. Joe Grey was more than a cat, he was like her. And the nervy little beast had had the balls to phone Clyde.

She could not get control of herself. She rocked with laughter. She was giddy, delirious with the knowledge that she was not alone. That she was not the only creature with these bizarre talents, that there was another like herself in the world.

Clyde's face was a mix of rage and confusion. "What the hell's wrong with you! After the story you just told about turning into a cat, where do you get off laughing?"

She stopped laughing and watched him quietly. "You don't believe what I told you."

"For Christ sake, Kate."

She played it back to him. "You truly believe that Joe Grey phoned you. But you don't believe what happened to me."

He just looked at her.

"I wasn't lying," she said softly. Clyde was the only person in the world she could talk to-it was shattering that he put her off like this. "I wasn't lying, I'll show you."

And she did the only thing she could do. She used the only rebuttal that he would understand. She said the words, felt the room twist and warp. She let him see her do it, she forced him to witness the whole fascinating transformation. She was suddenly small, standing on the linoleum looking up at him mewling, lifting a paw to touch his leg.

Clyde's face was white. He stared at her, then rose, pushing back his chair, and backed away from her toward the hall door.

She followed him, and wound around his ankles. She felt him shiver. She brushed her whiskers against his bare, hairy leg, and heard him groan with fear. She pressed closer to him, rubbing her face against his leg. She was terrifying him. How delicious. It served him right.

He backed away, snatched up his beer, fled away from her down the hall. She heard the bedroom door close.

The three cats had run into the laundry and leaped to their high bunk. Even the dogs were wary, pressing against the back door, their ears and tails down as if they'd been whipped. She hissed at them all, flicked her tail, and trotted away down the hall.

She sat down in front of Clyde's closed door and licked her paws, listening.

She heard him rustling some papers, and muttering. She heard him set down his beer glass, heard the springs squeak as if he had sat down on the bed. She began to feel sorry that she'd scared him.

Well what had she expected? That he'd be thrilled?

One thing sure, she wasn't going to get anywhere with him, as a cat. She said the words again, and returned to the Kate he knew. She knocked.

"Can I come in?"

"Go away. You can stay the night if you want, in the guest room, or you can go sleep in a tree."

"Please, Clyde."

When he didn't answer, she pushed the door open.

He was sitting on the bed holding a sheaf of papers. When she opened the door he'd been staring sickly at the threshold, expecting the cat. He stared up into her face, shocked, then watched her warily.

"Come on, Clyde, I'm still Kate. The cat is gone. What's to be upset about?" She sat down on the bed beside him. He winced and moved away.

"Hey, I don't have rabies. I'm just Kate. How else was I going to convince you?"

He remained mute.

"I really need you. I really need to talk." She moved away from him to the foot of the bed, and pulled her legs up under her. She stared at him until he looked back.

"I have something to tell you, something else, that hasn't anything to do with-with what I just did."

She looked at him pleadingly. "I've left Jimmie. Or, I am leaving him. I'll have to get my things."

He didn't seem surprised.

She gave him a cool, controlled look. "It's Sheril Beckwhite. Jimmie and Sheril Beckwhite. So damned shabby."

It was hard to talk when he just sat looking at her. She told him how cold Jimmie was in bed, how decorous and boring; how, if she could get Jimmie drunk enough he would make wild, delicious love to her but that didn't happen often, and the next morning he wouldn't look at her; for days he would be cold and silent, as if he was ashamed, as if she shouldn't have such feelings.

How ironic, she said, that he'd gone to Sheril Beckwhite.

"And once when we were out drinking and walked the village streets for hours laughing, looking in the shop windows, acting silly, he said, 'You love the night, Kate. You love the night better than the day,' and he looked at me so strangely. As if he knew something," she said uneasily. "As if he knew, a long time before I did."

Clyde set his beer down carefully on the night table. He looked at her and kept looking.

"What?" she said, watching him, puzzled. And then a shock of anger hit her. "You knew about them."

"I knew. I've known for months. I didn't…"

"You knew, and you didn't tell me." She stood up, holding herself tight. "I thought you were my friend. I just finished baring my whole damned life to you, I just told you the most intimate secrets of my life. I just performed the most intimate, shocking, personal act for you, and you… You knew all the time about Jimmie and that woman and you didn't tell me."

"Christ, Kate, how could I tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I thought… I thought I might make things worse. Men don't run to the wives of their friends with that kind of… Jimmie and I go clear back to grammar school."

"You and Jimmie are not friends, you don't even like Jimmie. You let me suffer, when I was trying to make things work, trying to overlook the painful things Jimmie said and did, when I thought it was all my fault. And all along he was fucking Sheril Beckwhite and you knew it."

She had been going to tell him about finding the foreign bank books. She had wanted to ask his advice, try to figure out together what Jimmie was into. She had been so sure she could trust Clyde, that they were friends and totally open with each other.

And, she thought, if he hadn't told her about Jimmie and Sheril, what else was he keeping to himself?

Could Clyde be part of whatever illegal business Jimmie was into? Was Clyde a part of that?

Was that why he'd kept quiet about Sheril? Because of secrets, because of what he and Jimmie were doing?

She turned away and left the room. She went into the guest room and shut the door. In a childish gesture she pushed the lock and propped the desk chair against the door. She stripped off her clothes and got into bed, lay curled with her arms around the pillow, lost and angry and alone.

Kate woke reluctantly. A heavy depression gripped her. She had no clue to its cause. She was not fully awake; she felt certain that the missing fact would make itself known the moment she came alive. The waiting revelation would, in just a moment now, sock her in the belly.

The impending weight was accompanied by a sense of helplessness, as if she would be able to do nothing whatever about the bad news. In one more minute she'd have to face some unavoidable irrevocable truth.