Shirley Murphy - Cat in the Dark

Shaken with repugnance at herself, she spun away again racing for home, speeding past the closed shops and at last hitting her own street, storming across Wilma's garden, trampling the flowers, up the back steps and in through her cat door, terrified of the dark stranger and terrified of herself.

Crouching on the linoleum, she watched her door swinging back and forth, unable to shake the notion that he would come charging through.

But after a long time when the plastic door grew still and remained pale, without any looming shadow, she tried to calm herself, washing and smoothing her ruffled fur and licking at her sweating paws.

She felt bruised with shame. She had for one long moment abandoned Joe Grey-for one moment abandoned the bright clarity of life and slipped toward something dark, something rancid with evil.

Azrael's twisted ways were not her ways.

She was not an ignorant, simple beast to whom a dalliance with Azrael would be of no importance. She was sentient; she and Joe Grey bore within themselves a rare and wonderful gift. With human intelligence came judgment. And with judgment came commitment, an eternal and steely obligation and joy from which one did not turn away.

In her gullible and foolish desire, she had nearly breeched that commitment.

There would never be another like Joe Grey, another who touched her with Joe's sweet magic. She and Joe belonged to each other; their souls were forever linked. How could she have warmed, for the merest instant, to Azrael's evil charms?

Pheromones, she told herself, and defiantly she stared at her cat door ready to destroy any intruder.

LATER THAT MORNING, in the patio of the Spanish-style structure, where piles of new lumber lay across the dry, neglected flower beds, from within a downstairs apartment came the sudden ragged whine of a skill-saw, jarring the two cats as they padded in through the arch past a stack of two-by-fours. The air was heavy with the scent of raw wood, sweet and sharp.

Joe couldn't count how many mice he and Dulcie had killed in the tall grass that surrounded this building, before Clyde bought the place. Situated high above the village, the two-story derelict stood alone on the crest of the hill facing a dead-end street. The day Clyde decided to buy it was the first time Joe had gained access or wanted to enter the musty rooms. Even the exterior smelled moldy; the place was a dump, the walls stained and badly in need of paint, the roof tiles faded and mossy, the roof gutter hanging loose.

That day, trotting close to Clyde entering the front apartment beneath festoons of cobwebs as thick as theater curtains, he was put in mind of a Charles Addams creepy cartoon; beneath the cobwebs and peeling wallpaper hung old-fashioned, imitation gas lights; under Joe's paws, the ancient floors were deeply scarred as if generations of gigantic rats had dug and gnawed at the wood.

"You're going to buy this heap?"

"Made an offer today," Clyde had said proudly.

"I hope it was a low offer. What are they asking for this monstrosity?"

"Seven hundred."

"Seven hundred dollars? Well…"

"Seven hundred thousand."

"Seven hundred thousand?" He had stared at Clyde, unbelieving.

Over the sour smell of accumulated dirt he could smell dead spiders, dead lizards, and generations of decomposing mouse turds. "And who is going to clean and restore this nightmare?"

"I am, of course. Why else would I…"

"You? You are going to repair this place? Clyde Damen who can't even change a lightbulb without a major theatrical production? You're going to do the work here? This is your sound financial investment, and you're going to protect that investment by working on it yourself?"

"May I point out that one apartment has been refurbished, that it looks great and is rented for a nice fifteen hundred a month? That most of what you're seeing is simply dirt, Joe. The place will be totally different when it's cleaned and painted. You take five apartments at fifteen hundred each…"

"Less taxes. Less insurance-fire insurance, liability insurance, earthquake insurance-less yard maintenance, utility bills, general upkeep…"

"After expenses," Clyde had said patiently, "I figure ten, maybe twelve percent profit. Plus a nice depreciation write-off, to say nothing of eventual appreciation, a solid capital gain somewhere down the line."

"Capital gain? Appreciation?" Joe had sneezed with disgust, imagining within these walls vast colonies of termites-overlooked by the building inspectors-chewing away on the studs and beams, weakening the interior structure until one day, without warning, the walls would come crashing down. He had envisioned, as well, flooded bathrooms when the decrepit plumbing gave way and faulty wiring, which at the first opportunity would short out, emit rivers of sparks, and ignite the entire building.

Which, he thought, might be the best solution.

"It is insured?"

"Of course it's insured."

"I can't believe you made an offer on this. I can't believe you sold those five antique cars-those cars that were worth a fortune and that you loved like your own children, those cars you spent half your life restoring-sold them to buy this. Ten years from now when you're old and feeble and still working on this monstrosity and are so in debt you'll never…"

"In ten years I will not be old and feeble. I am in the prime of my life. And what the hell do you know about houses? What does a cat know about the value of real estate?" Clyde had turned away really angry, hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the day-just because he'd pointed out a few obvious truths.

And, what was worse, Dulcie had sided with Clyde. One look at the inside of the place and she was thrilled. "Don't be such a grouch, Joe. It's lovely. It has loads of charm. Big rooms, nice high ceilings. All it needs is…"

"The wrecking ball," Joe had snapped. "Can you imagine Clyde fixing it up? Clyde, who had to beg Charlie to repair our leaky roof?"

"Maybe he'll surprise you. I think the house will be good for him." And she had strolled away waving her tail, padding through the dust and assessing the cavernous and musty spaces like some high-powered interior designer. Staring above her at the tall windows, trotting across the splintery floors through rooms so hollow that her smallest mew echoed, Dulcie could see only fresh paint, clean window glass, deep windowseats with puffy cushions, soft carpets to roll on. "With Charlie's help," she had said, "he'll make it look wonderful."

"They're both crazy, repairing old junkers-Clyde fixing up this place, Charlie trying to save that heap of a VW. So he rebuilds the engine for her, does the body work, takes out the dings and rust holes, gives it new paint…"

"And fits out the interior," Dulcie said, "with racks and cupboards for her cleaning and repair equipment-for vacuum cleaners, ladders, paint, mops, cleaning chemicals. It'll be nice, too, Joe. You'll see."

Charlie had made it clear that her work on the apartments would be part-time, that her other customers came first. Her new business was less than a year old; she couldn't afford to treat her customers badly or to turn customers away. She was lucky to have Pearl Ann on the job. Pearl Ann Jamison, besides having useful carpentry skills, was steadier, Charlie said, than most of the men she'd hired. Except for her solitary hikes up and down the coast, Pearl Ann seemed to want no other life but hard work. Pearl Ann's only faults were a sour disposition and a dislike of cleaning any house or apartment while the occupant was at home. She said that the resident, watching over her shoulder, flustered her, made her feel self-conscious.