Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

Qwilleran himself felt sentimental about the old card catalogue and sympathized with the demonstrators, knowing their protest to be futile. Polly’s assistant stood on the top step, uncertain how to react. Obviously the media had been notified. Roger MacGillivray was there with his camera, and a WPKX news reporter was thrusting a mike in front of rebellious volunteers and patrons.

Hurrying back to his van, Qwilleran apologized to the shopkeeper for parking in the drive and was immediately forgiven; no one ever begrudged the Klingenschoen heir a small favor. To avoid the traffic snarl around Park Circle, he then turned around and drove home the back way, via Trevelyan Road.

At the Art Center he saw Thornton’s van in the parking lot and went into the building, where he found the white-haired volunteer at the reception desk in the foyer.

“What are you doing here?” Qwilleran asked.

“Making visitors wipe their feet, answering questions, and trying to sell memberships. And what are you doing here, if I may ask?”

“I’m on my way home after witnessing a remarkable incident: library volunteers picketing to protest automation, and patrons burning their library cards.”

“That’s no great shake; we’re all getting new plastic cards anyway… Did you see the cemetery news on page one?”

“I certainly did! Why not come to the barn when you’re through here, and we’ll talk about it.”

When Thornton finally appeared, they settled in the library area with coffee, and the stonecutter began his harangue: “So the city fathers are giving bereaved families a memorial park! I’ve been working with bereaved families for three decades, and I don’t see they’re going to derive much comfort from four acres of well-clipped grass! What they want is a ten-foot Celtic cross or a slab of granite with some words of solace chipped into the polished face - a visible memorial they can visit and talk to and point out to their grandchildren - plus, maybe, a memorial bench where they can sit and meditate.”

Qwilleran said, “Did you ever see a traditional cemetery in the late afternoon, with all the stones facing west and the sun hitting them? It’s a sight to stir the emotions. Is it a thing of the past?”

“Looks like it. We’re phasing out our stonework and concentrating on sand and gravel. Do you know who sold the land to the city? There was no name in the paper.”

“Chester Ramsbottom, although the property was in his wife’s name.”

“That old sharpie! No doubt he bought it for practically nothing.” Thornton peered across the room. “Is that a checker set? I wouldn’t figure you for a checker player. Chess, maybe, but not checkers.”

“It’s just an interesting relic,” Qwilleran said. “I pick ! up old things that appeal to me. Would you like to see a seventeenth-century compass?”

The treasure was safely stored in a desk drawer, away from inquisitive paws. He put it on the desktop. “Come and look at it under the lamp. It has some very fine detail.”

Koko thought he was included in the invitation, and the three of them watched the compass card quivering and rotating under the glass.

“When it settles down, it’ll be pointing to the dining room, which is north.”

Thornton was impressed. “Can you imagine anything so delicate lasting all those years? I have a plastic compass that’s brand-new and not worth a tinker’s dam. They don’t make things as good as they used to.”

Stealthily, Koko was moving his nose closer to the strange object. Qwilleran was watching him. The nose twitched; the whiskers curved forward; the card started to quiver and move. In a few moments the north star was pointing toward the kitchen.

“That’s west!” Thornton exclaimed. “Is that what you call animal magnetism? How do you explain it?”

“What cats do can never be explained,” said Qwilleran lightly, at the same time wishing he could confide in someone about Koko’s uncanny talents. He picked up the squirming, protesting cat, and the star returned to the north.

“Try it with the female,” Thornton suggested. Yum Yum was lifted to the desktop and showed interest in the shiny brass inlay of the lid but ignored the instrument itself. “Try it once more with the male!”

Again Koko’s nose sent the card slowly moving until the star pointed west.

I’m going home,” he said. “This is getting spooky! Will you sign an affidavit, Qwill? My wife will never believe me.”

“Before you go, you must see Phoebe’s butterflies. They’re on the second balcony.”

They walked up the ramp, followed by the Siamese, waving tails like flags. In the guestroom, two Painted Ladies were flitting about their enclosure, while three future ladies remained in the chrysalis stage, clinging to the ceiling of the box. Yum Yum was the most excited of the four observers; she knew they were insects, and insects of all kinds were her specialty. Koko was bored. With all the birds of the forest attending his gazebo parties, why should he flick a whisker over a butterfly? Thornton was impressed and declared he would buy some caterpillars for his grandchildren.

As the two men walked toward Thornton’s van, Qwilleran asked, “Was Phoebe in her studio today?”

“Not a sign of her. I hope she’s not getting cold feet about the spell game. She strikes me as being a little flighty.”

“Papilionaceous,” Qwilleran said. “If you say so.”

When his visitor had gone, Qwilleran could think of many things to discuss with Rollo McBee: the Northern Land Improvement hoax; Ramsbottom, not XYZ, as purchaser of the Coggin land; the sale to the city at six thousand an acre; and increasing doubts about the commissioner’s integrity. This was not an auspicious hour to go looking for a farmer, however. The trick was to catch him between supper and evening chores.

Meanwhile, he sat down to deal with his fan mail. There was one businesslike envelope with a California postmark and the address in large print. The name in the lefthand corner was Martha V. Snyder. He read that one first:

Dear Jim,

I remember you when your name was Merlin and your ambition was to play with the Chicago Cubs. I know you remember me, although by another name. I am your Mrs. Fish-eye, and I have been following your column in the Moose County Something. I have a granddaughter who trains race horses in Lockmaster, and she sends me everything you write. Not only do I applaud your writing skills but I am enormously flattered to know that I was a good influence. When I was teaching you and your unpromising classmates in Chicago, it was no secret that the entire student body called me by a descriptive but uncomplimentary nickname. Fortunately, I had a sense of humor. Unfortunately, the prominent feature that inspired the sobriquet failed me in later life, and I am now a VIP - visually impaired person. This letter is being dictated to a talking computer, and since electronic spell-checks are less reliable than retired teachers of English, someone will proofread this letter. I’m sure you know the story, possibly apocryphal, about a newspaper item concerning the beautiful paramour of a famous man. A semi-literate computer produced a memorable gaffe referring to his beautiful power-mower. Your recent column expressing your gratitude to Mrs. Fish-eye was doubly appreciated, coming forty years after the fact. Keep up the good work. Your columns are read aloud by gracious volunteers at the residence where I am comfortably ensconced, and they enjoy them, too. Give my regards to Koko and Yum Yum.

Gratefully, Martha V. Snyder

At the bottom of the letter there was a handwritten note by the volunteer proofreader, saying, “The computer spelled your cat’s name Coco. Mrs. Snyder says it knows more about Chanel than about Gilbert and Sullivan.”