Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Saw Stars

The locals always felt better when the subject of an accident or crime was not one of their own. Arch Riker would be furious, Qwilleran knew, because the newsbreak had happened on the radio station’s time, and the Something could not cover it until Friday; no paper was published on the holiday.

Qwilleran himself was pleased with the way things had turned out and proposed to reward the Siamese with a session of reading aloud. They always enjoyed the sound of his voice, and he rather enjoyed it, too. He suggested Far from the

Madding Crowd. “You’ll like it,” he said. “It’s about sheep and cows. There’s also a dog named George and a cat who plays a minor role.” His readings for the Siamese were always dramatized by sound effects. His theater training in college had made him an expert at bleating, barking, and meowing - if nothing else - and the cats especially liked the lowing of cattle. He did a two-note “moo-oo” like a foghorn. When he mooed, they looked at him with a do-it-again expression in their alert blue eyes, and he did it again. To tell the truth, he enjoyed mooing.

After the reading, he unpacked the sailboat that Kenneth had delivered. Yum Yum assisted. She had a vested interest in shiny objects, cardboard boxes, and crumpled paper, and the carton was stuffed with crumpled sheets of the Moose County Something.

The sailboat looked larger than it had in the store among all the other merchandise. A foot tall, it was constructed of sheet copper that had been treated to retain color and brilliance, and it was dazzling in the light from the skywindows. The sails, tilted at realistic angles, played with the light and gave added dimension to the sculpture. To stabilize the lightweight object, there was a heavy base of wood, chipped to suggest choppy water, with the keel cemented into a groove. It was a clever and eye-catching piece of work.

Qwilleran carried it to the porch, only to discover that Koko had taken possession of the pedestal, where he posed like an ancient Egyptian cat.

“Jump down,” Qwilleran said foolishly, knowing that Koko never jumped down when told to jump down. So he left the sailboat on the table and went to write some more in his journal.

He had long wanted to keep a journal; some day he might want to write a memoir. He should have started at an early age, but he had always been too busy growing up, playing baseball, acting in plays, sowing wild oats, discovering the work ethic, hanging around press clubs, and making life-threatening mistakes. Now at last he was a journalist with a personal journal.

-4-

The Fourth of July parade was scheduled to start at one P.M., and Qwilleran reported early to scout around. Never having participated in a parade, he was curious about the preparations behind the scene. He thought it must be a masterpiece of organization, and it was!

The staging area was beyond the town limits, with parade units assigned to specific parking lots or open fields. Marchers were close to the starting point, and mechanized units were farthest away; that made sense. In between, assigned to the parking lot of the FOO restaurant, were the bikers. They were a colorful troupe. Qwilleran himself wore white shorts, a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, and a red baseball cap. There were trail bikes, school bikes, plenty of racers, and one old-fashioned high-wheeler. He left his recumbent locked in his van and went exploring with a camera

hanging about his neck.

The floats interested him most. There were five lined up on the highway-flatbeds skirted with tricolor bunting and identifying banners: “Signing of the Declaration of Independence,” “Dear Old Golden Schooldays,” “Priends of Wool.” A twenty-four-foot sailboat on a dolly, called Smooth Sailing, was sponsored jointly by the private marinas, its sails furled and its deck awash with young persons in skimpy swimwear. The fifth float was the one Mrs. Hawley had mentioned. It was called “Feedin’ the Chickens.” Three commercial fishermen in slickers, boots, and rubber gloves were laughing and clowning as they waited for the signal to move. On the flatbed were a couple of barrels, a weathered table, and stacks of wooden boxes.

Qwilleran signaled to Magnus Hawley, one of the three. “Explain the name of your float,” he asked.

“Well, see, soon’s we get rollin’, we start dressin’ the fish in the boxes and throwin’ the guts and heads in the gut barrels. That’s when the gulls come out from nowhere. Chickens, we call’ em.

First two or three, then a whole flock, followin’ us down the whole route, catchin’ the heads before they hit the barrel. By the time we get to the end, there’ll be a hunerd!” He roared with laughter. “Some show!”

As parade time drew near, the official starter in his tricolor top hat ran up and down the highway, waving his arms and yelling. His aides in tricolor sashes and baseball caps checked the individual units. Standing by was the sheriff’s car that would precede the parade at four miles an hour to clear the road and order watchers back onto the sidewalks; Deputy Greenleaf was at the wheel. The color guard stood solemnly at parade-rest-the flag-bearers flanked by members of the military, rifles by their sides.

Highly visible was Andrew Brodie, the Pickax police chief. As grand marshal, the Scots bagpiper would lead the parade in full Highland regalia. He was a big man in any uniform but a giant when swaggering in his lofty feather “bonnet” with a shoulderful of plaid and an armful of pipes.

There was an air of frenzy around the marching units, however. Besides the two bands there were three restless groups: the Parade of Pets, Parade of Moms, and Athletes for Peace. To add to the confusion, the high school band was practicing - no two musicians playing the same number - while the middle-schoolers in the fife-and-drum corps were warming up and had reached fever pitch. Nervous parents were cautioning children who would trudge the course with cats and dogs on leashes or in wagons. Moms were trying to quiet their youngest, who would ride in strollers, baby buggies, backpacks, or even wheelbarrows.

As for the Athletes for Peace, their staging area was a madhouse. Young persons, each with a large letter of the alphabet on a pole, were running around in a state of hysteria, shouting and laughing like maniacs. They had discovered they could scramble their letters to spell CHEAT, SHOOT, TREASON, and worse! The coach in charge of the unit blew his whistle and yelled at deaf ears.

The official starter was frantic. The sheriff’s car, the grand marshal, and the color guard were lined up. The first float was pulling up with its serious statesmen in wigs and knee breeches, but the athletes were out of control. “What do we do?” the starter cried to his aides. “Do we cancel ‘em?”

At that moment, two gunshots sounded above the din. The effect was paralyzing. Everything stopped. No one moved. The silence was heavy with unasked questions.

Then the coach blew his whistle. “Fall in!” The sheriff’s car started to roll. After giving it a fifty-yard head start, the piper began his slow, swinging gait and skirling rendition of the national anthem. The color guard snapped to attention.

No one asked who had fired the shots, but Qwilleran had an idea.

One by one, the units moved out of the staging area in the correct order, with floats and marchers and bands alternating appropriately.

Qwilleran, waiting for the bikers to be signaled, watched the Friends of Wool roll past. The shepherd stood knee-deep in a small flock of sheep and baby lambs and played his flute. Two spinners dressed as pioneer women sat in antique chairs and treadled their wheels. Six similar chairs were arranged back-to-back for the knitters: four women and two men.