Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Lived High

As soon as Qwilleran read this he recognized a conspiracy on the part of Arch Riker, the publisher, and Junior Goodwinter, the managing editor. The two guessed what the result of such an announcement would be, and they were right. Qwilleran's telephone started to ring, and the citizens of Moose County tried to dissuade him from braving the perils Down Below. When told that the trip was important and necessary, they offered advice: "Wear a money belt... Don't take your best watch... Get a burglar alarm for your car... Lock yourself in when you drive in the city." Police Chief Brodie said, "Och, mon, you're a bit daft. I happen to hear a few things that don't get in the papers, but if you insist on going, stay home after dark and buy one of them gadgets that lock the brake pedal to the steering wheel." From Susan Exbridge, a member of the Theatre Club, there was a melodramatic phone call: "Darling, don't walk anywhere! Take a taxi, even if you're only going a block. I have friends Down Below, and they tell me it's hell!" Dr. Goodwinter warned of respiratory ailments caused by airborne pollutants, and Eddington Smith, the timid dealer in secondhand books, offered to lend his handgun.

Lori Bamba was concerned chiefly about the cats. "If you're taking Koko and Yum Yum," she said, "don't let it be known that you have pedigreed animals. Kitnapping is big business Down Below. Also, you should feed them extra B vitamins to combat stress, because they'll sense menacing elements." Even Qwilleran's cleaning man was worried. "It's prayin' I'll be," said Mr. O'Dell, "until you be comin' safe home, Mr. Q." Nevertheless, Qwilleran stubbornly shopped for the journey. He bought a cagelike cat carrier that was more commodious and better ventilated than the picnic hamper in which the Siamese had formerly traveled. For their meals en route he laid in a supply of canned crabmeat, boned chicken, and red salmon. He also bought two blue leather harnesses - one medium and one large - with matching leashes. For himself he would take whatever he happened to have on hand.

There were two suits in his closet-a gray flannel that he had worn once to a wedding and a dark blue serge that he had worn once as a pallbearer. These - 'with two white shirts, a couple of ties, and a raincoat - were his concessions to city dressing. Otherwise, he would take flannel shirts, sweaters, and his comfortable tweed sports coat with leather patches on the elbows.

During Qwilleran' s final days in Pickax, fare- well scenes with friends and associates had the solemnity of a deathbed vigil. Polly Duncan, on their last evening together, was lachrymose and in no mood to be comforted or to quote Shakespeare, although Qwilleran rose to the occasion with "parting is such sweet sorrow." "Promise you'll call me as soon as you arrive" were her final words. He had hoped for less wifely anxiety and more amorous sentiments.

Even the Siamese sensed that something dire was afoot, and they sulked for twenty-four hours before their departure. When taken for rides in their new carrier, as rehearsal for the trip, they reacted like condemned nobility on the way to the guillotine - stoic, proud, and aloof.

None of this heightened Qwilleran's anticipation of the expedition, but he packed the car on Saturday morning with grim determination. Two suitcases, his typewriter, the unabridged dictionary, and his computerized coffeemaker went into the trunk. On the backseat were two boxes of books, the new cat carrier, and a blue cushion. The cats' water dish and their commode - a turkey roaster with the handles sawed off - were on the floor of the backseat.

The car was a small, energy-efficient, preowned four-door that Qwilleran had bought in a hurry, following his accident on Ittibittiwassee Road. The paint finish, a metallic purplish-blue, was not to his liking, but the used-car dealer assured him it was a color ahead of its time, called Purple Plum, and it would increase in acceptance and popularity.

"It looks better on fruit," Qwilleran remarked. The price was right, however, and the gas mileage was said to be phenomenal, and he had retained thrifty habits despite his new financial status, so he bought it. This was the car he packed for the four-hundred-mile journey, which he intended to stretch over two days for the comfort of the Siamese.

"All aboard the Purple Plum for Lockmaster, Paddockville, and all points south!" he announced to his two reluctant passengers. Grudgingly they allowed themselves to be stuffed into the carrier.

As the three of them pulled away from their home on Park Circle, the pair in the backseat maintained their funereal silence, leaving Qwilleran long, quiet hours to reflect on his sojourn in the north country. Despite the king-size mosquitoes, poison ivy, skunks, and hazardous deer crossings, Moose County afforded a comfortable life among good people. Most of them were rampant individualists and non-stop gossips, but that merely made them more interesting in the eyes of a journalist. How, he questioned, would he adjust to city life with its mask of conformity, guarded privacy, and self-interest?

His ruminations were interrupted by a demanding shriek from the backseat - so loud and so sudden that he gripped the steering wheel to keep the car on the road. Yum Yum was merely making a suggestion. How a creature of such delicacy and gentleness could produce this vulgar screech was beyond his comprehension, but it was effective. At the next crossroads he stopped for a coffee break and released the Siamese from their coop to stretch, peer out the windows, lap a tongueful of water, and examine the gas pedal.

After six hours of driving (Yum Yum objected to speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour), Qwilleran could not fault his passengers. They were behaving like mature, sophisticated travelers. At the motel that night - a less-than-deluxe establishment that welcomed pets - the Siamese slept soundly throughout the night, although Qwilleran was disturbed by barking dogs, slamming doors, and a growling ice machine outside his room. This appliance was located at the foot of wooden steps, up and down which the second-floor guests thumped frequently, shouting to each other: "Where's the gin?" "In the trunk under the spare tire!" "I can't find the peanuts!" It was Saturday night, and travelers were partying late. They also took an undue number of showers in Qwilleran's estimation. The force of the water hitting the fiberglass tubs in neighboring rooms thundered like Niagara, while he lay awake waiting for the tumult to end.

Meanwhile, the Siamese slept peacefully on top of his feet, and when he wriggled to relieve the numbness, they moved farther up and draped their soft bodies across his knees. Then late arrivals slammed their car doors and ran up the wooden steps, exchanging shouts: "Bring my zipper bag up with you!" "Which one?" "The blue one!" "Do you have the key?" "Yes, but I can't find 203." "Who's going to take Pierre for a walk?" After that they all took showers, and the cascading water in the rooms above drowned out the television in the rooms on either side. Qwilleran heaved the cats off his knees, and they crawled farther up without opening their eyes.

So it continued until four o'clock in the morning, at which time he managed an hour's sleep before the early risers started taking showers, slamming car doors, and revving motors. He could have been excused for greeting the new day with a colossal grouch, but he exhibited a purposeful and admirable calm. All of Moose County had advised against this trip, and he was determined to prove them wrong from start to finish. He was, he told himself repeatedly, having a good time.

On the second day of driving, the panorama of woods and open fields and farmyards gave way to a scattering of billboards, gas stations, auto graveyards, and party stores, followed by strip malls and housing developments with fine- sounding names, and finally the freeway. Heavy traffic and increased speed began to put the backseat passengers on their guard, their noses lifting to register the density of emissions, while Yum Yum complained bitterly. For Qwilleran the sight of sweeping interchanges and incoming jets and the jagged skyline produced an urban high that he had relished in the past and had almost forgotten. Even the Purple Plum looked less offensive in the smoggy atmosphere.