Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"But in the middle, my dear. I stepped on the end of the step, and the other end flew up in a seesaw effect. The carpenter blamed it on rusty nails, and I do believe the nails in this building are even older than I am."

His wife squirmed to get out of the wooden swing. "Do sit here, Mr. Qwilleran."

"Don't let me disturb you," he protested.

"Not at all. I have things to do indoors, and I'll leave my husband in your good hands ... Arledge, come inside if you feel the slightest chill."

When she had bustled away, Qwilleran said, "A charming lady. I didn't mean tp chase her away."

"Have no compunction. My dear wife will be glad of a moment's respite. Since my accident she feels an uxorial obligation to attend me twenty-four hours a day—and this for a single fractured rib. I tremble to think of her ceaseless attention if I were to break a leg. Such is the price of marital devotion. Are you married, Mr, Qwilleran?"

"Not any more, and not likely to try it again," said Qwilleran, taking the vacant seat in the creaking swing. "I understand you have visited the island in the past."

"Yes, Mrs. Harding and I are fond of islands, which is not to imply that we're insular in our thinking—just a little odd. Individuals who are attracted to islands, I have observed, are all a little odd, and if they spend enough of their lives completely surrounded by water, they become completely odd."

"I daresay you've noted many changes here."

"Quite! We were frequently guests of an Indianapolis family by the name of Ritchie—in the decades B.C. Before commercialization, I might add. The Ritchies would have deplored the current development. They were a mercantile family, good to their friends and employees and generous to the church, rest their souls."

Qwilleran said, "The name of Ritchie is connected with the Mackintosh clan. My mother was a Mackintosh."

"I recognized a certain sly Scottish wit in your writing, Mr. Qwilleran. I mentioned it to Mrs. Harding, and she agreed with me."

"What was this island like in the years B.C.?

Mr. Harding paused to reflect. "Quiet... in tune with nature ... and eminently restorative."

"Did the Ritchies have the lodge behind the high iron fence?"

"Gracious me! No!" the vicar exclaimed. "They were not at all pretentious, and they found delight in poking fun at those who were."

"Then who is the owner of The Pines? It looks like quite a compound."

"It belongs to the Appelhardts, who founded the private club and were the first to build in the 1920s. The Ritchies called them the royal family and their estate, Buckingham Palace ... What brings you to the island, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"A working vacation. I'm staying in one of the cottages because my cats are with me, a pair of Siamese."

"Indeed! We once had a Siamese in the vicarage. His name was Holy Terror."

Mrs. Harding suddenly appeared. "A breeze has sprung up, and I'm afraid it's too chilly for you, Arledge."

"Yes, a storm is brewing. I feel it in my bones, and one bone in particular." The three of them went into the lounge and found comfortable seating in an alcove, whereupon the vicar asked his wife, "Should I tell Mr. Qwilleran the story about Holy Terror and the bishop?"

"Do you think it would be entirely suitable, Arledge?"

"The bishop has been entertaining the civilized world with the story for twenty years."

"Well ... you wouldn't put it in the paper, would you, Mr. Qwilleran?"

"Of course not. I never mention cats and clergymen in the same column."

"Very well, then," she agreed and sat nervously clutching her handbag as her husband proceeded:

"It was a very special occasion," Mr. Harding said with a twinkle in his left eye. "The bishop was coming to luncheon at the vicarage, and we discovered that he enjoyed a Bloody Mary at that time of day. This required much planning and research, I assure you. After consulting all available experts, we settled upon the perfect recipe and took pains to assemble the correct ingredients. On the appointed day our distinguished guest arrived and was duly welcomed, and then I repaired to the kitchen to mix the concoction myself. As I carried the tray into the living room, Holy Terror went into one of his Siamese tizzies, flying up and down stairs and around the house at great speed until he swooped over my shoulder and landed in the tray. Glasses catapulted into space, and the Bloody Mary flew in all directions, spraying tomato juice over the walls, furniture, carpet, ceiling, and the august person of the bishop."

The gentle Mr. Harding rocked back and forth with unholy mirth until his wife said, "Do try to control yourself, Arledge. You're putting a strain on your rib." Then she turned to Qwilleran and asked the inevitable question: "Do you play dominoes?"

"I'm afraid I have to say no, and I suppose I should go home and see what profane terrors my two companions have devised."

Gasping a little, Mr. Harding said, "I would deem it ... a privilege and a pleasure ... to introduce you to a game that promotes tranquility."

Sooner or later, Qwilleran knew, he would have to play dominoes with someone, and he could use a little tranquility after the events of the day. He followed the Hardings to a card table under a bridge lamp. When the old man was properly seated, his wife excused herself, saying the best game was two-handed.

The vicar opened a box of dominoes and explained that there were twenty-eight'pieces in the set, having pips similar to the spots on dice. "Why the one game is considered nice and the other is considered naughty, I am unable to fathom, especially since the naughty game is so often played on one's knees with certain prayerful exhortations. Or so I am told," he added with a twinkle in his good eye. "You might address that weighty question in your column some day. As a clue, let me mention that a domino was originally a hood worn by a canon in a cathedral."

The two men began matching pips in geometric formations, and Qwilleran began thinking longingly about a chocolate sundae, a symptom of boredom in his case. When the game ended, and the Hardings retired to their cottage, he found Lori and asked if Harriet's Family Cafe would be open at that hour.

"She'll be open, but she may not be serving the regular menu. If you're starving, though, she'll scramble some eggs for you."

"All I want is some ice cream."

Before walking to the restaurant, Qwilleran picked up his tape recorder and a flashlight at the cottage, moving quietly to avoid waking the Siamese. They were sleeping blissfully in the bowl-shaped leatherette cushion of the lounge chair. Groggy heads raised indifferently, with eyes open to slits, and then fell heavily back to sleep.

The cafe occupied one of the more modest lodges, built when the west beach was being invaded by the lower upperclass and even the upper middleclass. Whatever residential refinements had been there were now superseded by a bleak practicality: fluorescent lights that made it easy to clean the floor; dark, varnished paneling that would not show grease spots; tables with stainproof, plastic tops and kickproof, metal legs. It had been a busy evening, judging by the number of highchairs scattered among the tables. The last customer stood at the cash register, counting his change, and the cashier was clearing tables and sweeping up jettisoned food.