Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

At the rear of the parking lot Qwilleran’s brown van passed through an ornamental iron gateway into an ancient grove of evergreens so dense that all was dark and silent even in midday. Suddenly the drive opened into a clearing where a huge structure, more than a hundred years old, loomed like an enchanted castle. This was Qwilleran’s barn, octagonal and four stories high.

The first story was the original fieldstone foundation, with walls so thick that small windows cut in the stone looked like crossbow ports in a medieval fort. Above the foundation the walls were

shingled with weathered wood, and the octagonal roof was centered with a cupola. New windows cut in the walls had odd shapes dictated by the massive interior timbers bracing the structure.

Then there were the doors. In its heyday, this had been a drive-through barn, with doors large enough for a farm wagon and a team of horses. Now the two large openings were filled with glass panels and doors of human scale. A formal double door faced east, leading from the foyer; a single door on the west connected the barnyard with the kitchen.

The interior was even more spectacular. As renovated by an architect from Down Below, it featured a continuous ramp that spiraled up to the roof, connecting balconies on three levels. In

the central open space, which soared a good forty feet, stood a huge white fireplace cube with white cylindrical stacks rising to the roof. The cube divided the main floor into lounge area, library, dining room, and foyer.

Though not especially designed to be cat-friendly, that was what the barn proved to be. The cube, a good eight feet high, was a safe perch just beyond human reach. The ramp was made-to-order for a fifty-yard dash; before each meal, eight thundering paws spiraled to the top and down again. Odd-shaped windows admitted triangles and rhomboids of sunlight that tantalized the cats by moving throughout the day.

Arriving home, Qwilleran parked his van in the barnyard and checked the antique sea chest that stood at the back door and served for package deliveries. It was empty. He stood with his hand on the doorknob as he had a moment’s qualms about his housemates. Were they all right? Had they wrecked the interior in a fit of catly exuberance? Would they meet him with a yowling welcome and waving tails?

When he entered the kitchen, the premises were hushed, with no visible signs of life.

“Koko! Yum Yum!” he shouted - three times with increasing concern - before starting a search. Circling the main floor counterclockwise, he stopped short when he reached the foyer. “You rascals!” he said with relief and rebuke. “You gave me a scare!”

The two elegant Siamese were standing on their hind legs, gazing out the low-silled windows that flanked the front door. They were watching a congregation of seven black crows just outside the glass. They had never seen such birds at such close range. Briefly, they turned glassy eyes toward the person who had called their names, but they were still under the spell of these creatures who strutted in unison like a drill team-all seven to the north, then right-about-face and all seven to the south.

“I’ve brought you guys a treat,” Qwilleran said. Reluctantly they moved away from their posts and followed him to the kitchen, walking stiffly on long slender brown legs. When they reached the sunlight streaming through the west windows, their fawn fur glistened with iridescence and their dark brown masks framed brilliant blue eyes.

Suddenly black noses twitched, brown ears pricked forward, and whiplike brown tails waved in approval. Turkey! It was diced and served on separate plates.

Then Qwilleran produced a white canvas tote bag with the logo of the Pickax Public Library and announced, “All aboard!” He lowered it to the floor and spread the handles. Koko was the first to jump in, settling down in the bottom and making himself as compact as possible. Yum Yum followed, landing on top of him. After some good-natured shifting and squirming, they settled in, and other items were tucked in around them. It was the easiest, quickest, safest way to transport two indoor cats, some reading matter, and a coffee thermos to the gazebo. It was only a few yards from the barn - a free-standing octagonal structure, screened on all eight sides.

It had been the landscaper’s idea to introduce a bird garden to the scrubby barnyard.

“We don’t have many birds around here,” Qwilleran had told him, questioning the proposal.

“Start an avian garden, and they will come!” the enthusiastic young man assured him. “The cats will flip their whiskers! What they like best is the movement of the birds-the flitting, swooping, hopping, and tail-twitching.”

. . So Qwilleran gave the okay, and Kevin Doone brought in selected trees and shrubs, some tall grasses, three birdfeeders, and two birdbaths, one on a pedestal and the other at ground level. The birds came. The Siamese were ecstatic.

Qwilleran reported the success of the gazebo to Polly Duncan when they talked on the phone in the early evening. She thanked him for the groceries and complimented him on his choice of produce.

“Mrs. Toodle gets all the credit,” he said. “I don’t know a zucchini from a cucumber.”

“What did you have for dinner, dear?” Polly asked, always concerned about his casual eating habits.

“I thawed some macaroni and cheese.”

“You should have a salad.”

“I leave the salads to you and the rabbits.” His tone became stem. “Did you take your twenty-minute walk today, Polly?”

“I didn’t have time, but my bird club meets at the clubhouse tonight, and I’ll go early and use the treadmill in the gym.”

Her voice was soft and low, and she had a gentle laugh that he found both soothing and stimulating. He liked to keep her talking. “Any excitement at the library today?” he asked. “Any anticomputer demonstrations? Any riots?”

Under Polly’s direction, the library had recently been automated, thanks to a Klingenschoen grant, but many subscribers disliked the electronic catalogue. They preferred to make inquiries at the desk and be escorted to the card catalogue by a friendly clerk, who probably attended their church and might even be engaged to marry the son of someone they knew. That was Pickax style.

The bar code scanner and the mouse were alien and suspect.

On the phone, Polly said to Qwilleran, “We need to schedule some hands-on workshops for subscribers, especially the older ones.”

“What did you do with the old card catalogue?” he asked.

“It’s in the basement. I suppose we’ll

- “

“Don’t throw it out,” he interrupted. “Come the revolution, you can move it back upstairs. Someday the pencil-pushers will rise up and overthrow the computerheads, and sanity will return.”

“Oh, Qwill.” She laughed. “You’re on your soapbox again! What did you do today when you weren’t pushing a pencil?” She knew he drafted his twice-weekly column in longhand, while sitting in a lounge chair with his feet propped on an ottoman.

“I picked up an old copy of The Day of the Locust in mint condition. If you’re in the mood for scathing comedy, we might read a portion aloud this weekend. Where would you like to have dinner Saturday night?”

“How about Onoosh’s? I’m hungry for Mediterranean.” Changing her tone, she said, “I heard something bizarre today. You know the old Coggin farmhouse on Trevelyan Road? Someone painted the front of it with the word witch.”

“Yes, I know. The editor thought it wise to keep it out of the paper. How did you find out?” he asked, as if he didn’t know. The library was - and always had been - the central intelligence agency of the community.

“My assistant’s daughter belongs to the Handy Helpers, and they were called in to obliterate the graffiti. The sheriff spotted it on his early morning patrol and alerted them. The paint was gone, I believe, before Mrs. Coggin knew it was there.”