Shirley Murphy - Cat in the Dark

GREELEY URZEY'S sour, boozy smell filled Wilma's car thicker than steam in a sauna. Despite the fact that she drove with all the windows down, the stink of secondhand rum and stale sweat made her want to boot the old man out and let him walk to her house-except, of course, he wouldn't. He'd head back for that hovel among his cases of 90 proof.

She could have stopped by Mavity's cottage and insisted that he take a bath and change his reeking clothes, but she hadn't wanted to take the time. Mavity was so anxious to see him; Wilma hadn't even waited, as she'd promised herself, for the old man to sober up.

But even as rum-sodden as Greeley was, he seemed genuinely worried about Mavity. He sat leaning forward, staring hard through the windshield as if to hurry the car faster-and clutching the black cat in his lap.

She had to smile at the way he'd slipped the cat in. After the police officer let her into the Davidson Building and saw her safely downstairs again with Greeley in tow, she'd waited alone in the dirty hall for Greeley to go back upstairs and fetch his jacket. She didn't think he'd run out on her-there was no other entry, just the second floor windows. She'd watched, amused, when he returned clutching not only the jacket but the black cat nestled down in the wadded-up leather as if the animal might not be noticed.

Drunk and argumentative, he'd insisted on bringing the beast despite the fact, as she'd pointed out, that Mavity disliked Azrael, and that it was Mavity's comfort they were concerned about here.

Now as she drove across the village, the cat sat possessively on Greeley's lap, a huge black presence which, unlike most cats, made no move to leap out the four open windows. "He'll do as I tell him," Greeley had promised drunkenly, "or he'll know what for."

Well, maybe the cat wasn't as bad as Mavity claimed. Certainly it was a handsome animal; admiring him, Wilma reached gently to stroke his broad black head-and drew her hand back at the blaze of rage that flamed in his slitted orange eyes.

So much for making friends. The animal was as unsocialized as its master.

The cat watched her narrowly as she parked in her drive and killed the engine, its gaze strangely calculating-as eerie as Poe's "The Black Cat" with its chilling stare. The figure of a gigantic cat… I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat … a large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree…

As she herded Greeley toward her kitchen door, escorting the drunken, smelly old man into her clean house, she felt like she was bringing home a parolee just released from the drunk tank- except that Greeley smelled worse. The instant she opened the door, the cat leaped inside, brushing boldly past their legs with none of the wariness most cats exhibited upon entering unfamiliar rooms.

Immediately he scented Dulcie's cat door and flew at it, sniffing and growling, and before she could stop him he turned his backside and drenched the little door with his testosterone-heavy stink, applying liberally the mark of male dominance and possession.

Shouting, she slapped at him with her purse-and jerked her hand away as he sprang at her, his swift claws raking her arm, leaving long red welts oozing drops of blood.

"You make that cat behave, Greeley. Or you'll put it outside."

Greeley shrugged and offered a helpless grin. Wilma found some peroxide in the emergency cupboard, poured some on a paper towel, and scrubbed the wounds, thinking of rare tropical infections and blood parasites. Snatching a spray bottle from the sink, she poured ammonia into it, to mix with the water. "He claws me again or sprays again, Greeley, he gets a shot of this in the face. He won't like it."

The cat glared. Greeley looked back grinning, amused that she would threaten his tomcat. Giggling, he headed for the dining room, stumbling unsteadily past her.

Before the cat could leap after him, Wilma slid through the door and slammed it in the beast's face.

Making sure the latch clicked, that the door was securely shut, she guided Greeley down the hall toward her bedroom. Ushering him in, she wondered if his boozy, sweaty smell would cling in the room forever. Down the hall behind her, she heard the kitchen door click open.

The cat came swaggering out of the kitchen, giving her a stare as sharp as a stabbing knife and pushed past her into the bedroom.

Mavity was asleep. Greeley leaned over his sister and delivered a peckish kiss, surely scratching stubble across her soft skin. Mavity woke, stared up at him vaguely, and drew away, grimacing at his smell.

Unperturbed, Greeley sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his with a gentleness that surprised Wilma.

"Dora's gone," Greeley slurred. "My little girl's gone. And Ralph gone, and that man you set such store by." Glancing to where the cat was sniffing around the dresser, Greeley whispered, "Death sucked them in. Sucked them all in. Death-death before the moon is full." Strange words for the drunken little man. Leaning down, he put his arms around Mavity, holding her close.

The cat watched, seeming almost amused. And as brother and sister comforted each other, the beast began to prowl, nosing into every inch of the bedroom, turning occasionally to observe Wilma, his huge topaz eyes as evil, she thought, as twin glimpses into hell.

Annoyed at her own fear, she went to make some coffee.

But, hurrying down the hall, she could feel the tomcat watching her. And when she glanced back, its eyes on her glowed so intently she turned away, shaken.

What was this beast?

Dulcie hadn't told her the nature of this animal.

Fixing a tray with coffee and sugar and cream and some pound cake, she returned quickly. The cat was not in sight. She set the tray on the night table and checked under the dresser and bed, then went to search the house. She didn't like to think of that creature alone with Dulcie.

She didn't find the animal. When she returned to the bedroom, Greeley was crying drunkenly, the tears rolling down his stubbled cheeks.

"… feeding those chickens when she was only a little girl, and helping her mama to plant the garden-my little girl… And that old goose used to chase her! Oh, how she would run," Greeley blubbered. "I killed that goose, killed it… But now-I couldn't kill whoever hurt her, couldn't save my little girl. So cold-so cold there in all them lilies…"

As Greeley doubled over, weeping, the black cat reappeared and leaped onto the bed. Mavity paled and shrank away from it, looked as if she'd like to hit it. Wilma watched, shocked, as it began to stalk Mavity-and thought of the times Mavity had complained about the beast's dirty habits. Surely, there was no love between them. But now the animal looked dangerous. As he crouched to leap, Wilma grabbed him, tossed him to the floor. The black cat landed heavily and jumped at once to the foot of the bed where it began pawing Greeley's jacket that lay crumpled on the blanket.

Clawing at the wrinkled leather, he slid his paw into a pocket, and with a quick twist, dragged out a black-feathered carcass. Taking this in his mouth, his ears back, his head low, he began to stalk Mavity. She jerked away, gasping, as Wilma snatched the blood-streaked bird.

But it wasn't a bird. The thing was hard under her fingers, not soft and limp like a dead bird. She turned it over, looking.

It was a small wooden man, the black feathers wrapped around him like a cloak and tied with red cord. His face was painted with blood red lines like a primitive warrior. His hair felt like real human hair, the side locks stiff with dried red mud, as if he were made up for some primitive ritual.