Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

Directional signs are beginning to assure me that Spuds-boro really exists. The purplish ridges in the distance are turning into rounded mountains of misty blue, and the highway is heading toward a gap between them. Now and then it runs close to the Yellyhoo River . . . Just caught a strong whiff of pine scent from a truckload of logs coming out of the mountains . . . It's been raining here; there's a rainbow . . . We're passing a well-kept golf course, a new hospital, three fast-food palaces, a large mall. Judging by the number of car dealers, Spudsboro is booming! . . . Here we are at the city limits—time to stop talking and concentrate on my driving.

Upon arriving in the small but thriving metropolis of Spudsboro, Qwilleran found it to be a strip-city, a few blocks wide and a few miles long, wedged between two mountain ranges. Three or four winding but roughly parallel streets and a railroad track were built on a series of elevations—like shelves—following the course of the river. On one shelf a locomotive and some hopper-bottom cars were threatening to topple over on the buildings below. Qwilleran imagined the whole town might wash away downstream if hit by a hard rain.

At the residential end of Center Street a conglomeration of Victorian cottages, contemporary split-levels, and middle-aged bungalows coexisted peaceably—with the usual hanging flower baskets on porches, tricycles on lawns, and basketball hoops on garage fronts. Next came the commercial strip: stores, bars, gas stations, small office buildings, barbers, two banks, and one traffic light.

Naturally Qwilleran's eye was quick to spot the newspaper office, the animal clinic, and the public library. In the center of town a miniature park was surrounded by the city hall, fire hall, police department, county courthouse, and post office. Pickets were parading in front of the courthouse, which had a golden dome too grandiose for a building of its modest size, and a police officer was issuing a parking ticket. Altogether it was a familiar smalltown scene to Qwilleran, except for the mountains looming on each side of the valley.

Somewhere up there, he kept telling himself, was the hideaway where he would be living and meditating for three months. It was comforting to know that he could rely on police and fire protection; that he could take his cats to the veterinarian and his car to the garage; that he could have his hair cut and his moustache trimmed. Although he wanted to get away from it all, he was reluctant to get too far away.

At the Lessmore & Lessmore office on Center Street he angle-parked and locked all four doors, having rolled down the windows two inches with confidence that he would find no bent coat hanger on his return.

There were two enterprises sharing the building: a real estate agency and an investment counseling service. In the realty office a woman with a husky voice was talking on two telephones at once. She was on the young side of middle age, short and rather pudgy, dressed in bright green, and coiffed with an abundance of fluffy hair. On her desk was a sign that destroyed Qwilleran's preconceived notion of Dolly Lessmore: THANKS FOR NOT SMOKING.

"Ms. Lessmore?" he inquired when she had finished phoning. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."

She jumped up and trotted around the desk with bubbling energy and outstretched hand. "Welcome to Spudsboro! How was the trip? Have a chair? Where are the cats?"

"The trip was fine. The Siamese are in the car. When did you give up smoking?"

She darted a puzzled glance at her client. "How did you know? Last March a charming young doctor at the hospital gave a class in not-smoking."

"Spudsboro seems to be a lively town," he said approvingly, "and right up to the minute."

"You'll love it! And you'll love your mountain retreat! I'm sure you're anxious to see it and move in, so as soon as I make one more phone call, I'll take you up there."

"No need. You're busy. Just tell me where it is."

"Are you sure?"

"No problem whatsoever. Just steer me in the direction of Big Potato Mountain."

She pointed across the street. "There it is—straight up. Little Potato is farther downriver. I have a little map here that you can have." She unrolled a sheet of paper. "Here's Center Street, and over here is Hawk's Nest Drive. That's where you're going, although you can't get there from here—at least, not directly. When you reach Hawk's Nest Drive, just keep going uphill. It's paved all the way. And when you can't go any farther, you're there! The house is known as Tiptop, which is the name of the original inn."

The map was a labyrinth of black lines like worm tracks, peppered with numbers in fine type. "Don't any of these mountain roads have names?" Qwilleran asked.

"They don't need names. We always know where we are, where we're going, and how to get there. It may be mystifying at first, but you'll get used to it in no time. Hawk's Nest Drive is the exception to the rule; it was named by J. J. Hawkinfield when he developed Tiptop Estates."

"Is there anything I should know about the house?"

"All the utilities are connected. Bed linens and towels are in a closet upstairs. The kitchen is completely equipped, including candles in case of a power outage. There are fire extinguishers in every room, but all the fabrics and carpets are flame retardant." Ms. Lessmore handed over three keys on a ring. "These are for front and back doors and garage. We had to make some minor repairs in preparation for your arrival, and a Mr. Bee-chum will be around to do the finishing touches. He's one of the mountain people, but he's an excellent worker. If you need anyone to clean, there are mountain women who are glad to earn a little money. We had one of them fluff up the place yesterday. I hope she did a satisfactory job." While speaking she was swiveling and rocking her desk chair with a surplus of nervous energy.

"What's my mailing address going to be?" Qwilleran asked.

"There's no mail delivery up the mountain. You can have a rural mailbox at the foot of Hawk's Nest Drive if you wish, but for your short stay, why don't you rent a post office box?"

"And where do I buy groceries?"

"Do you cook?"

"No, but I'll need food for the cats. Mostly I prefer to eat in restaurants. Perhaps you could recommend some good ones."

At that moment a roughly handsome man in a business suit rushed into the investment office, threw a briefcase onto a desk, and started out again. "Gonna play some golf," he called out to Ms. Lessmore.

"Wait a minute, honey, I want you to meet the gentleman who's renting Tiptop. Mr. Qwilleran, this is my husband, Robert . . . Honey, he was asking about restaurants."

"Give him the blue book," he said. "That has everything. Don't plan dinner, Doll. I'll eat at the club. Nice to meet you, Mr. ..."

He was out on the sidewalk before Qwilleran could say "Qwilleran."

"Robert's a golf nut," his wife explained, "and we've had so much rain lately that he's been frustrated." She handed over a blue brochure. "This lists restaurants, stores, and services in Spudsboro. If you like Italian food, try Pasta Perfect. And there's a moderate-priced steak-house called The Great Big Baked Potato."

"And how about a grocery?"

"You'll find a small but upscale market at Five Points on your way to Hawk's Nest Drive. From here you go down Center Street until it curves to the right, then take a left at the Valley Boys' Club and wind around past the old depot, which is now an antique shop, and go uphill to Lumpton's Pizza, where you jog left—"