Shirley Murphy - Cat Cross Their Graves

Pulling around the corner, Clyde slid to the curb. Joe was pawing at the door handle when Clyde snatched him up again. "You can go under the house, I'll pull a vent cover off. You can-"

"Won't work," Joe said. "Grids are nailed tight; Dulcie and I already checked." This was amazing, this was for the record, that after their San Francisco caper, Clyde would even think to help him again.

Hauling Joe out of the car, clutching him close, Clyde cut through the neighbor's backyards, approaching the blinded Reed house with its plywood-sealed windows. Moving along the side of the house, they could see, out front, the tail end of one police unit.

"Just drop me, Clyde, and get out of here. I can hear all I want from the bushes," he lied. Feeling Clyde's distracted grip loosen, he made a powerful leap and was free, diving for cover.

From deep in the bushes he hissed, "Get out of here before one of those cops sees you. You could never explain this to Max."

Clyde gave him a look, but he turned and left. Joe didn't relax until he heard the Rio pull away, the sound of its engine fading in the direction of the village.

"Genelle's asleep," Wilma Getz said, taking Lori's hand. Lori watched the former parole officer uncertainly, then glanced up at Cora Lee. She'd seen Ms. Getz in the library. Did Ms. Getz remember her from when she was little and she had gone there with Mama? Did Ms. Getz know who she was? A parole officer had to be nosy, had to be the kind to ask questions.

There were two other women with her, a small wrinkled woman who always wore a white maid's uniform-Lori had seen her around the village-and a tall, redheaded woman who was younger and had freckles. They were sitting in a small waiting room at one end of the hospital corridor, a flowery room with magazines, nothing like the empty, medicine-smelling corridors. Cora Lee drew Lori to a couch and introduced them, using only Lori's first name. Lori tried to mind her manners. Mavity Flowers lived with Cora Lee. The redheaded woman's last name was Harper; Lori was sure she was the wife of the chief of police. Oh boy, she'd really stepped in it. Even if Pa hadn't told anyone else that she was gone, by now he might have asked the cops if a runaway child had been found. And the chief's wife would likely know all about that.

Mrs. Harper wasn't dressed like Lori thought of a cop's wife; she wore faded jeans and a pale-blue sweatshirt over a green turtleneck, and muddy, scuffed boots that smelled of horse. Her hair was really red, long and kinky, and was held back with a piece of brown yarn crookedly tied. When she rose and left the room, Lori was afraid she'd call the station. She'd said she was going for coffee, and to see if Genelle was still sleeping.

"Sometimes," Mrs. Harper said, "the nurses get busy and forget to come tell you when someone's awake." She looked at Lori. "They have cocoa. Or a Coke if you'd like."

"Cocoa, please," Lori said, swallowing.

Cora Lee said, "Mavity and Wilma and Charlie and I have already seen her. She got sleepy, but we thought we'd stay in case she wanted company again, or maybe a malt from the cafeteria, something besides hospital food." The waiting room was like a pretty parlor you'd see in North Carolina, with peach-colored walls and a flowered couch and matching flowery chairs. The only thing missing to make it into a little southern parlor, like their Greenville neighbors who had nicer houses than they did, was doilies on the arms or little figurines on a shelf. Sitting on the couch between Cora Lee and Ms. Getz, Lori didn't like to think that Genelle might not go home again. Mama died in a hospital. Alone.

"She asked for you," Ms. Getz said softly. "She's already stronger than when we brought her in."

"She was by the bookcase when she fell?" Lori asked.

Ms. Getz nodded.

"Why was she by the books, all alone, and without her oxygen?" Lori had such a sinking feeling Genelle might have been searching for a book for her, because they'd been talking about books. Because Genelle had asked if she'd read Roller Skates, and Lori had said no. "What book was she looking for?"

"She… I don't know," Ms. Getz said quickly. "Quite a few books had fallen."

Cora Lee was studying Lori, her brown eyes deep and caring. "You know she has a lung disease, one that cannot be cured. It makes her weak, Lori. Easy to take a fall."

Lori nodded. "Cancer," she said softly. And she thought, Like Mama.

Cora Lee said, "As pressure in the lungs increases, one is apt to faint. It's not surprising that she fell. But what the doctors are looking at now is an increased pressure in the heart, too-pulmonary hypertension.

"Genelle doesn't want to do anything radical. She's willing to take her medication, but…" Cora Lee put her slim hand gently on Lori's arm. Her nails were perfect ovals, not too long, prettily rounded, and polished a pale coral. "Does it make sense to you, Lori, that Genelle doesn't want surgery? Doesn't want any huge and cumbersome effort to prolong her life? That she doesn't want to linger when it's so hard for her to breathe, and will become harder?"

"It makes sense," Lori said, hurting inside. "What could the doctors do? What do they want to do?"

"They could put a shunt in her heart, to open the vein wider so there's less pressure. Genelle doesn't want to do that."

Lori tried to understand how Genelle felt. "I guess… I guess she's not afraid."

"No," Cora Lee said. "She's not afraid. Genelle holds a clear vision of what she believes comes next, when we leave this world. I can only believe her, I have no reason not to."

"Nor do I," Ms. Getz said. She smoothed Lori's hair with a surprisingly gentle hand. She was a tall woman, and slim. She had what Mama would call good bones. She was wearing faded jeans, freshly washed and creased, a white turtleneck sweater that looked soft enough to be cashmere, and a tweed blazer with little flecks of pale blue among the tan and cream. Her brown boots were well polished. Though she had more than enough wrinkles to be a grandmother, she didn't look like a grandmother. She looked tougher and stronger than grandmothers in books and movies. Lori had never known either of her own grandmothers.

"Over the years," Ms. Getz said, "Genelle has collected works written by many scholars and medical people about an afterlife. Well, you can find proof of anything if you try; there's no way to know until we get there-but I'll throw in with Genelle."

Lori liked Ms. Getz. She talked to her, as did Genelle and Cora Lee, not as a child. They didn't talk down to her the way that welfare woman did. The little wrinkled lady in her white uniform, Mavity something, watched them and said nothing. Lori couldn't guess what she was thinking. She had no idea that there was another presence in the room until she heard a deep and steady purr. Looking around her and then down into Ms. Getz's shopping bag, she laughed out loud.

A pair of green eyes looked up at her from the depths of the bag, and Dulcie purred louder. Ms. Getz said, "Genelle was asking for my little cat, so I smuggled her in. You won't tell?"

Lori laughed again. "I won't tell." And as Lori leaned over to pet Dulcie, Mrs. Harper returned to say that Genelle was awake and they could see her, one or two at a time. "You go," Mrs. Harper said, touching Lori's shoulder.

Following Cora Lee, Lori felt cold and afraid. Afraid to see Genelle here in this hospital that, beyond the pretty parlor, was chill and unfriendly and smelled of medicine and sick people. Passing the partly open doors of the rooms, she could see people propped up in metal beds, or lying flat and pale with tubes sticking out, as if they were already half dead. Some were watching TV, though, and that was nicer.