Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

He felt guilty about leaving the Siamese cooped up in this stark environment.

"How about a read?" he asked them. He stretched out in a lounge chair that was comfortable except for one broken spring in the seat. Yum Yum piled into his lap, and Koko perched on the arm of the chair as he read to them from Walden. He read about the wild mice around Walden Pond, the battle of the ants, and the cat who grew wings every winter. Soon his soothing voice put them to sleep, their furry bellies heaving in a gentle rhythm.

It was their first night on the island, and it was deadly quiet. Even in rural Moose County one could hear the hum of tires on a distant highway. On the island there was breathless silence. The wind was calm; there was no rustling of leaves in the nearby woods; the lake lapped the shore without even a whisper.

Suddenly—at the blackest hour of the night— Qwilleran was frightened out of slumber by a frenzy of demonic screams and howls. He sat up, not knowing where he was. As he groped for a bedside table, he regained his senses. The cats! Where were they? He stumbled out of the bedroom, found a light switch, and discovered the Siamese awake and ready for battle— arching their backs, bushing their tails, snarling and growling at the threat outside.

He rushed to the porch with a flashlight and turned it on a whirlwind of savage creatures uttering unearthly screeches. He ran back to the kitchen, filled a cookpot with water, and threw it out the back door. There was a burst of profanity, and then the demons disappeared into the night. The Siamese were unnerved, and he left the bedroom door open, spending the rest of the night as a human sandwich between two warm bodies.

While dressing for breakfast the next morning, he thought, Dammit! Why should we stay here? I'll make some excuse. We'll go back on the ferry.

"Ik ik ik" came a rasping retort from the next room, as 3 Koko knew what Qwilleran was thinking.

"Is that vote an aye or a nay, young man?"

"Ik ik ik!" The connotation was definitely negative.

"Well, if you can stand it, I can stand it, I suppose." Avoiding the closet, with its aromatic bundle of slipcovers lad whatnot, Qwilleran dressed in shorts and a tee from the dresser drawer and went to the inn for breakfast, carrying a hammer. He had hung the two gilded masks ower the sofa, between two travel posters, and their elegance made the sturdy, practical furnishings look even bleaker by comparison.

In the sunroom he nodded courteously to a few other guests and took a small table in a cornet, where he found a card in Lori's handwriting:

-

GOOD MORNING

Monday, June 9

Pecan Pancakes With Maple Syrup and Turkey-apple Sausages

or

Tarragon-chive Omelette

With Sauteed Chicken Livers

Help yourself to fruit juices, muffins, biscuits,

homemade preserves, and coffee or milk

-

"These pancakes are delicious," Qwilleran said to the plain-faced waitress, who shuffled about the sunroom. "Did Mrs. Bamba make these herself?"

"Ay-uh," she said without change of expression.

When the serving hours ended, he stopped drinking coffee and went to the office, where he found Lori slumped in a chair, looking frazzled. "That was a sumptuous breakfast," he said. "My compliments to the chef."

"Today I had to do it all myself," she replied wearily. "My cook didn't show up, and the waitress was late. Two of the guests volunteered to wait on tables until she came. I believe in hiring island women, but they can be annoy-ingly casual. Perhaps that's why the hotel hires college kids. Anyway, I'm glad you liked your first breakfast. Did you have the pancakes or the omelette?"

"To be perfectly honest, I had both."

Lori shrieked with delight. "Did you sleep well? Did you find the bed comfortable?"

"Everything was fine except for the catfight outside our back door."

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry. Did it disturb you? It only happens when strays from the other inns come over in our territory. We have three nice strays that we take care of: Billy, Spots, and Susie. They were here before we were, so we adopted them. You'll notice a lot of feral cats around the island."

Qwilleran asked, "What do the islanders think about the resort's invasion of their privacy?"

"The old-timers are dead-set against it, but they can use the jobs. My cook is an older woman. Mr. Beadle, who fixed our steps, is a great-grandfather; he's grumpy but willing to work. And the old men who drive the cabs are as grumpy as their horses. The young islanders are glad to get jobs, of course; they're not exactly grumpy, but they sure don't have any personality. They're good workers—when and if they report—but I wish they'd take their commitments more seriously."

"I'd like to talk with some of them about life on the island before the resort opened. Would they cooperate?"

"Well, they're inclined to be shy and suspicious of strangers, but there's one woman who'd have a wider perspective. She grew up here, attended high school on the mainland, and worked in restaurants over there. Now she's back on the island, operating a cafe for tourists— with financial aid from the K Foundation, of course. You probably know about Harriet's Family Cafe."

"The K Foundation never tells me anything about anything," he said. "Where is she located?"

"Up the beach a little way, in one of the old lodges. She serves lunch and dinner—plain food at moderate prices. Most of our guests go there. She also rents out the upper floors as dorm rooms for the summer help at the hotel. It's a neat arrangement. Don Exbridge masterminded this whole project, and he thought of everything."

"What is Harriet's last name?"

"Beadle. The island is full of Beadles. It was her grandfather who fixed our steps. She got him for me when I was desperate. Harriet's a nice person. She's even a volunteer firefighter!"

Before leaving the inn, Qwilleran was introduced to the Bamba brood. Shoo-Shoo, Sheba, Trish, Natasha, and Sherman were the resident cats.

"Didn't you have a Pushkin?" Qwilleran asked.

"Pushkin passed away. Old age. Sherman is pregnant."

Then there were the children. The eldest, Jason, was in first grade on the mainland; a photo of him showed a lively six-year-old with his mother's blond hair. The talkative Mitchell, age four, had his father's dark coloring and serious mien, and he spoke so earnestly that Qwilleran tried his best to understand him.

"He wants to know," his mother translated, "if you'll play dominoes with him."

"I don't know how," Qwilleran said. Actually, he had played dominoes with his mother while growing up as the only child in a single-parent household. The game had been his boyhood bete noir, along with practicing the piano and drying the dishes.

"Mitchell says he'll teach you how to play," Lori said. "And this is Lovey, our youngest. She's very smart, and we think she'll be president of the United States some day ... Lovey, tell Mr. Qwilleran how old you are."

"Two in April," said the tot in a clear voice. She was a beautiful little girl, with a winning smile.