Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

He had a hunch which two they would be: George Bernard Shaw with his handsome beard… and Oscar Wilde with a posy in his buttonhole.

-14-

Qwilleran took his house guest to dinner at the , Northern Lights Hotel, apologizing for the ordinary , menu. “We would have dined with class at Owen’s Place, but Owen had the misfortune to drown. The cook here has been a fixture - for thirty years, and he cooks plain.”

They ordered Swiss steak, and to take their minds off the gravy thick as wallpaper paste, and the overboiled carrots, and the potatoes whipped to the consistency of shaving cream, Qwilleran asked a leading question: “What was it like to grow up in Horseradish ?”

“Actually, by the time I was born,” she said, “agriculture had given way to tourism. We were no longer the horseradish capital of the Middle West, but lingering fumes from the former industry still make an invigorating atmosphere for vacationers.”

“But were your forebears horseradish farmers?”

“No, they were in shipping. Our town was the chief port for all of Lockrnaster County, and my great-grandfather’s adventures as captain of the sailing vessel Princess have made him a legendary figure. You see, all sorts of commodities were being shipped in and out. There was still some gold-mining in the interior, as well as a thriving fur trade, especially beaver. This made cargo ships prey to buccaneers. Did you know there were pirates on the lakes at one time?”

“Joe told me that their victims were often made to walk the plank. He never mentioned the Princess.”

“Oh, she was famous in her day! On one occasion the Princess sailed out of harbor with a cargo and had just lost sight of land when a craft with a black flag loomed on the horizon. Captain Bunker gave some unusual orders: When the pirate ship hove to, the crew would go below with crowbars and wet rags.”

Tess paused to observe her listener’s reaction; she had told this tale many times.

“A volley was fired across the bow of the Princess, and she dropped sail. Then all hands disappeared into the hold, which was stowed with kegs of grated horseradish mixed with vinegar. The pirates came aboard, stomping and cursing. Where was the blankety-blank crew? It was a blankety-blank ghost ship! They stormed down the hatch… Immediately the lids came off the kegs, and the fumes rose like poison gas! The pirates choked and staggered blindly, while the crew - masked with wet rags - threw handfuls of the stuff and swung their crowbars. Overpowered, the pirates were dragged to the deck and heaved overboard.”

“Tess! That’s a fascinating story!” Qwilleran exclaimed. “Would you mind repeating it when my tape recorder is handy? I’m collecting local legends for a book.”

“I’d love to! The pirate story is true, but there are many Bunyanesque tales about our town, like the cargo ship powered by horseradish fumes before steam boilers came into use.”

Qwilleran found her well read, well spoken, and not a bad-looking dinner date. He was glad she had not worn her crow T-shirt. They discussed cats (she had two) and journalism (the ethics of responsibility) but not a word about crows. Yet, the sooner the crow-show was off the docket, the sooner he could take off for Pickax. For breakfast they would have coffee and rolls and then spend the morning talking crow, after which he would hope to see the tail-lights of the yellow bus disappearing down the driveway.

To direct the conversation accordingly, he asked, “Do you plan to sell Tshirts as a tie-in with the film?”

“Eventually,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ve brought one for you. What size do you wear? They’re cut full.”

“Uh … large,” he said vaguely, as he tried to imagine himself with a crow on his chest. “Do you have any real

assurance that your film will be produced?”

“Definitely! The university has the technology and the artists and the grant. My responsibility is to provide the scenario. I see the film as being entertaining, educational, and inspirational - with the crows solving problems, overcoming evil, and respecting the environment and family values.”

For a moment, it crossed Qwilleran’s mind that the crow-show was another of Wetherby Goode’s practical jokes, like his Intergalactic System of Managed Weather that would control temperature, regulate precipitation, harness winds, eliminate natural disasters, and promote global amity. One never knew whether he was prankster or visionary.

Tess was saying, “The bus attracts attention wherever I go, and I’m always happy to tell strangers about Corvus americanus. They’re curious to know how crows function in their cooperative families of seven: a breeding pair and five adult helpers.”

“So am I,” Qwilleran said.

“I left a dossier on your bar - papers I’ve written for scientific journals - and you can read them tomorrow while I run into town. Do you have a market that sells good meat? I know this is lamb country, and one of my specialties is lamb shank with beans, lumberjack style.”

That was another of Qwilleran’s absolute favorites. Okay, he thought; she can stay a second night. He said, “Grott’s Grocery is run by four generations: Gramps, Pop, Sonny, and Kiddo. They still cut meat to order and cheese from the wheel. Anything you buy can go on my charge account. Tell Gramps you’re my guest.”

Then a surge of hospitality prompted him to say, “Would you like to see a play at the barn theater tomorrow night? It’s a sellout, but they reserve a few passes for visiting celebrities.”

“I love barn theater!” she said.

Tess retired early to the Snuggery - she wanted to do some reading - and Qwilleran phoned Wetherby Goode in Indian Village. He said, “Guess who drove a school bus into my yard today and moved into the guest house! Your cousin!”

“That woman! She was supposed to go to the family homestead in Horseradish and phone you from there.”

“Well, she changed her mind.”

“What do you think of her, Qwill?”

“She’s as nutty as you are! But pleasant and interesting. Did you tell her that I have a weakness for macaroni-and-cheese and lamb shank?”

“No. I never mentioned food. I swear!”

“The problem is, she seems to like it here, but I’ve got to move back to Pickax.”

“Throw her out! She won’t mind,” Wetherby said. “And thanks, Qwill, for pinch hitting for me at the dogcart races Saturday.”

Friday morning Qwilleran served a continental breakfast on the kitchen porch, which was flooded with morning sun. He reconstituted frozen orange juice, thawed cinnamon rolls, and pressed the button on the automated coffeemaker. The Siamese joined them, looking for warm concrete on which to sun. Koko stretched out full-length to do his grooming in solarized comfort.

“He’s a ham,” Qwilleran explained. “He likes an audience for his morning ablutions. An eighteenth-century poet described the ritual in ten steps: For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean. For secondly, he kicks up behind to clear away there.”

Tess laughed heartily and said, “For thirdly he works it upon stretch, with his forepaws extended.

“You know Christopher Smart!” Qwilleran said in pleased surprise.

“Oh, I adored Christopher Smart! I named my male cat after Jeoffrey. Stop and think: For two centuries - or two millennia - cats have been washing up in the same simple, efficient way, while we go on inventing revolutionary improvements that mayor may not be successful or even necessary.”

“Avoid radical theories in Mooseville,” he advised. “Don’t get yourself arrested. The local lawmen may consider the Republic of Crowmania subversive…Incidentally, while you’re there, be sure to visit Elizabeth’s Magic on Oak Street.”