Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

At 2:30 I close the windows of guesthouse and van and stack the furniture on the north porch. The storm is coming from Canada.

At 2:35 it’s really dark. Lights have to be turned on. All the windows and doors are closed, and I sit down to wait for the storm to hit. But where are the cats? Nowhere in sight! Where’s the macaroni and cheese? I yell “Koko!” From the pantry come a yargle - half yowl and half swallow. The two of them are on the counter, with their heads down and tails up. They’re devouring the cheese, horseradish and all, but avoiding the macaroni.

The wind and rain that bombarded the shoreline communities on Sunday afternoon was a true squall - brief but violent. In five minutes the lake surface went from glassy to raging surf. Wind-lashed rain slammed into the north side of the cabin, rattling the window glass, seeping under the door and around the window frames. Qwilleran was kept busy soaking up the flood with towels and wringing them out in a pail. Then the blow ended as abruptly as it had started. Although heavy rain continued to fall, it fell in vertical sheets instead of horizontal waves. There was damage indoors but only as a result of Koko’s tizzy: crumpled rugs, a toppled table lamp, books and papers on the floor, and several yards of paper towels unrolled in the kitchen.

The good news was that the power had not failed, and the telephone still had a dial tone. He called Polly. “Just checking to see if you got home safely.”

“Luckily I was indoors before the onslaught. Now it’s merely a normal rainfall, steady but not destructive. How about you?”

“We’re getting a thorough drenching, but the worst is over. Were the cats glad to see you?” he asked.

“Catta was. She’s too young to know she’s supposed to boycott me for twenty-four hours after a prolonged absence.”

“Well, you’re probably tired and have things to do.”

“I admit I’m exhausted.”

“Make a cup of tea and have a Lorna Doone,” he advised, knowing her choice of pick-me-up. “And let me know tomorrow if there’s anything I can do. You’ll need groceries, and I expect to be back in Pickax tomorrow morning as soon as it stops raining.”

He hung up and started rectifying Koko’s rearrangement of the cabin interior. Patiently he rerolled the paper toweling, straightened the rugs, put the lamp together again, and restored two postcards to their proper place.

The gully-washer, as the locals called such a storm, continued all night, pounding the cabin roof and alarming the cats. They were used to the lofty roof of the barn in Pickax; in the tiny cabin, the weather was too close for comfort. Qwilleran allowed Yum Yum to crawl under his bedclothes, and eventually brave Koko followed.

On Monday morning it was still raining steadily, and roads outside Mooseville were flooded. Qwilleran would have to stay at the cabin one more day. The interior was dismal, even with all the lights turned on, and the cats were moping. “Count your blessings,” he told them. “It could be worse.”

Nevertheless they huddled on the floor, facing each other, in their bored-stiff pose. (Reading aloud to them was no good because of the noise of the rain on the roof.) Only then did Qwilleran remember the Kalico Kat. He found it in a drawer and placed it on the floor between their dispirited noses.

Koko stretched his neck to sniff it and then withdrew into his torpor. Qwilleran thought, So much for contemporary American folk art. Yum Yum, on the other hand, showed some signs of interest.

“This is Gertrude,” Qwilleran said. “She’s come to live with you.”

Murmuring strangely, she crept forward and sniffed the toy thoroughly, then gave it a few licks. Her maternal instincts were aroused. Closing her mouth over the scruff of the toy’s neck, she carried it to her favorite corner on the sofa. She had adopted Gertrude.

It was a bright spot in a dull day, and it inspired Qwilleran to telephone the florist in downtown Pickax. He recognized the silky voice of Claudine, a gentle young person with innocent blue eyes. “Good morning,” he said. “Is it raining cats and dogs where you are?”

“This sounds like Mr. Q,” she said.

“Where are you calling from?”

“The haunts of coot and hem.”

“Oh, Mr. Q, I never know when you’re serious and when you’re kidding.”

“Have your new flowers come in, or are you still selling last week’s wilted stock?”

“You’re awful! They’re unloading the express truck right now. What would you like?”

“A mixed bouquet for Polly, to be delivered to Indian Village ASAP.”

“I hope she isn’t sick.”

“She’s suffering from post-vacation letdown, and I want the flowers to get there while she still feels rotten.”

“Our van doesn’t go to Indian Village till noon.”

“Too late. Send the flowers by taxi, and put it on my bill.”

“What do you want the card to say?”

“Just ‘the grocer boy.’ No name.” When Claudine hesitated, he spelled it for her.

“Oh! The grocer boy! You’re always pulling a fast one, Mr. Q.”

“Don’t hang up,” he said. “I also want to send a large bouquet to a restaurant in Mooseville tomorrow. The roads should be open by then. It’s Owen’s Place on Sandpit Road, and it’s decorated in white, pink, and yellow. Just say ‘from a well-wisher’ on the card. And make it something special; it’s an upscale establishment.”

Within an hour Qwilleran received a phone call, and a woman’s cheery voice said, “Is this the grocer boy? I’d like a dozen oranges.”

“With or without seeds?” he replied.

“Qwill, dear, the flowers are lovely. Thank you so much! They came by taxi! It’s so good to be home.”

“I must say I was shocked to see you yesterday.”

“I was shocked to see that aggregation of youthful pulchritude on your porch - in shorts and sunglasses - and driving! I won’t ask you to explain.”

“Good! And I won’t ask you about the charming and erudite professor who talked you into spending more time in Quebec City.”

“We’ll have much news to exchange tomorrow night, dear. Is it still raining at the beach?”

“It’s pouring! Everything in the cabin is damp: my clothes, the sofas, the cats’ fur, my books! The one I’ve been reading is so soggy, I’ve retitled it A Damp Yankee in King Arthur’s Court… See you tomorrow.”

As the morning splashed on, Qwilleran found himself going rain-crazy, unable to concentrate on either reading or writing. It was the roar! Like Niagara without the picture postcards. So far there were no leaks in the roof, but dryness was all the cabin had to offer. The cats were playing Yin and Yang on the sofa, their ears buried in each other’s fur. Should he thaw a second-rate burger for lunch? Or venture into the outside world at the risk of being drowned? He could get an equally second-rate burger at the hotel.

Holding a waterproof jacket over his head, Qwilleran dashed for his van and headed for Mooseville. There were few vehicles on the highway, and they were moving cautiously as the drivers peered through windshields made opaque by the hurtling rain. There was not yet any flooding; the sandy terrain drained well, but how much more could it take? Already the ditches were beginning to look like canals.

In town, there were many parked cars, but everyone was indoors. He found them in the hotel lobby and coffee shop - gloomy vacationers, looking stranded and bored. Some sat on the veranda and watched the raindrops hitting the pavement hard enough to splash .vertically like a million tiny geysers.

Wayne Stacy was relatively cheerful when he saw Qwilleran. “How about that? It held off till after the races! The C of C will have to send a fifth of something to the weatherman. And we got the new storm sewers just in time, thanks to the K Fund. The stupid voters turned down millage three times before we applied for a grant.”