Shirley Murphy - Cat On The Edge

He sniffed the scent of wet tea bags and onions that radiated from the trash; these were mixed with the smell of floor wax and of a woman's faint perfume. "Will Wilma hear us?"

"The bedroom's at the far end of the hall. She sleeps like a rock. I can lie down across her stomach at night, and she doesn't wake up. Come on," she said, getting up, yawning. "When I open the refrigerator, hold the door open."

Lightly she leaped to the counter and pressed her front paws against the inside of the refrigerator handle. Bracing her hind paws against the edge of the counter, she pushed.

The door flew open, and Joe pressed inside to stop it from closing again. Leaning into the chilly shelves, he smelled the mouthwatering scent of roast chicken.

Together they hauled out a package wrapped in the kind of white paper Jolly's Deli used. They pawed the paper off, tearing it with their teeth, to reveal a plump half chicken, its skin crisp and brown.

Joe braced the drumstick between his paws and tore off chunks of dark meat as Dulcie quickly stripped meat from the breast. Dulcie was way too hungry to think about manners. The notion that cats were dainty eaters was an amusing human myth, no less silly than Sick as a cat, or Cat got your tongue.

They cleaned every scrap from the bones of the chicken, then they liberated from the refrigerator a foil-wrapped cube of cheese, a plastic container of oyster stew, and a wedge of cream pie. Dulcie lifted the aluminum pie tin out with her teeth, smearing her nose with cream. Joe hadn't realized he was so hungry. But as soon as the rich supper settled in his stomach he began to feel sleepy, and to yawn. He didn't want to sleep. If they planned to break into the automotive shop before dawn, he didn't need to pass out in a heavy, postsupper stupor.

He cleaned pie from his whiskers as Dulcie lifted what trash she could manage up into the trash receptacle. They left the floor a mess, but who could help it? They were cats, not kitchen maids.

They retired to the living room, to the top of Wilma's desk, where Joe pawed open the phone book and committed to memory Kate's number.

The room was old and comfortable. A worn blue afghan was thrown over the arm of the needlepoint couch. The big rag rug was thick and hand-braided, the desk was a nice rich cherry piece, carved and well polished. "Wilma keeps talking about redecorating,"

Dulcie said. "She keeps collecting pictures of rooms she likes." She shrugged. "Maybe she will, maybe not." The painting over the fireplace was the best thing in the room, a loosely rendered, painterly study of Molena Point cottages as seen from the hills, lots of red rooftops tucked among rich greens, and a slash of blue at the bottom that was the sea.

Joe lifted the receiver by the cord, and punched in Kate's number. The phone rang for a long time. He gave up at last, and lifted the handset back. He hoped she had left the village, that she was safely away from Molena Point and out of Wark's and Jimmie's reach.

At the back of the phone book, in the yellow pages, he found the automotive shop. Then, in the map at the front that the phone company had furnished for newcomers, he located Haley Street. He wondered if the people who had put together the phone book would be pleased that a cat was using their map.

The automotive shop was a block off Highway One, at the corner of Haley and Ocean. He thought that was near the vet's where Clyde took him once a year to get poked with a very sharp needle. Now that he had a little say in the matter, now that he was totally his own person, he wouldn't be dragged back there so easily.

The desk clock said two-twenty as they snuggled down on Wilma's blue afghan, pawing it off the couch arm onto the seat, and into a comfortable nest. Dulcie yawned hugely and rolled over, wriggling deeper into the soft wool.

Joe rolled onto his back, and licked a bit of chicken that he had missed between his claws. "I want to be out of here by four, up and headed for the shop."

"I'll wake up," she said sleepily. "I always wake up." Four o'clock was the shank of the night, the mysterious roaming hour; the time when her active imagination could soar into moonlit dreams; and, when the mice and small, succulent creatures come out of their burrows.

The warmth of the afghan seeped into their tired bodies, easing their tense muscles. But as Joe was dropping off, he felt Dulcie shiver.

He lifted his heavy head. "What? What's the matter?"

"I'm going to slip into the bedroom for a minute, and curl up with Wilma. Just for a little while, to let her know I'm all right."

He flattened his ears, hissing.

"Why not? What harm can it do? She'll be so worried about me. I've been gone for days."

"She might be so worried she'll shut you in. Maybe shut us both in, and call Clyde. You can bet he's told Wilma I'm gone." He sat up, alarmed. "Who knows what he's told her. Maybe about my phone call."

Dulcie smiled, and yawned. "So? It wouldn't matter, she won't tell anyone." She raised her head, frowning. "Haven't you thought about going home?"

"Wark knows where I live-and where you live. Sure, I miss Clyde. But even if I could go home, everything would be different.

"Life at home couldn't ever be the same as it was. What would we do? Have a beer together? Brag to each other about our conquests? Two crusty bachelors sitting around the living room telling each other whoppers about our love lives?" He stretched out again, wriggling deeper into the afghan. "A few days of that, and we'd both end up in the funny farm."

"Couldn't you just be yourselves? Why do you have to even think about it?"

"Because I'm not myself anymore. Not my old self. Because cats don't talk to people. Because cats and people don't have conversations. On the phone, okay. That was an emergency. But not everyday talk."

"But I… "

"On the phone, Clyde wasn't watching me talk. To talk to him in person-no way. Think about it. That's more than I could handle. More than Clyde could handle."

"But I've always sort of talked to Wilma. Roll over to tell her I want petting, scrunch down when I don't feel good. I tell Wilma a lot of things. I don't see… "

"That's body language. Body language is natural. Petting and stroking, tail lashing and snarling and purring and rubbing against, those are normal talk. But a conversation in the English language, face-to-face talk about everyday trivia, about what to have for supper, what channel to watch-no way."

She sighed. "Maybe you're right." She rose, prepared to jump down.

"Dulcie, believe me. If you go in there now, we might never get out of here. Not in time to see what Wark and Jimmie are up to."

"I suppose," she said, and settled back beside him, into the warm nest. "But I hate knowing she's worried about me."

He put his paw around her, laying his front leg over her shoulder, and licked her ear. "Do you think I don't feel bad because Clyde's worrying?" He yawned. "Go to sleep, Dulcie. There's nothing we can do about it; they'll just have to worry." He gave her a final lick, a little squeeze, and in an instant he was asleep.

Dulcie lay awake a long time, listening to Joe's faint, tomcat snoring. She longed to pad into the bedroom and snuggle down with Wilma. She had slept with Wilma ever since she was a tiny kitten, when Wilma brought her home, separating her from her litter because the bigger kittens kept pushing her out and wouldn't let her eat. She had vague memories of fighting those bigger kittens, but she never won.

She had slept in a little box, lined with something soft. At night, Wilma put the box beside her pillow, and whenever Dulcie woke hungry, Wilma would rise and go out to the kitchen to warm some milk for her. It didn't taste like the regular bottled milk tasted, that they used now. She supposed it was kitten formula, like in the ads on TV.