Shirley Murphy - The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

But some of Sammie’s night visions were ugly. When she was barely four years old she dreamed that the courthouse was on fire and she woke crying that the tower was falling all in flame. A week later the courthouse burned, the tower fell blazing, its flying parts breaking ladders, smashing the hood of the town fire truck, severing a six-inch hose, and injuring four volunteer firefighters.

Becky and Morgan had told no one about their child’s predictions, and they swore Sammie to secrecy. The same year she dreamed that her little dog was dead, the small spotted pup Becky had gotten for her from the animal shelter and for which she’d had a fence built to keep him from running in the street, the pup who slept with Sammie and spent every waking hour with her. Sammie dreamed that he followed their car to Main Street where a truck hit him, she dreamed his death in detail far too vivid for any child to have imagined, for any child to have to witness. Three days later the pup dug under the fence and followed their car when Sammie and her mother went shopping. He was killed on Main Street under the wheels of a delivery truck. The child’s grief had already reached its peak before his death; now, her response to the fatal accident was numbness, a cold silence that deepened day by day, badly frightening Becky.

But not all Sammie’s dreams were shattering, some were happy predictions, a new teacher she would grow to love; her grandmother Caroline’s new sewing machine on which Caroline, a tall, handsome woman, would fashion bright new clothes for Sammie. She dreamed the tale in a brand-new storybook, knew it nearly word for word before it was read to her. She dreamed of a school party with papier-mâché elephants and giraffes and a cake with a zebra on top, her school “circus party” about which she knew nothing at the time.

But now, this past week, a stranger vision had begun: Sammie had started dreaming of an old man, someone neither Becky nor Morgan had ever met. Sammie called him the cowboy, she would wake worried because he was worried, because he was frightened. “Scared because he’s growing old and weak,” she told Becky. It seemed that only by sharing her dreams could the child deal with her fears; and this old man seemed as close and familiar to Sammie as if she had known him all her life. Becky tried to say something reassuring about people getting old, how natural that was; she would hold Sammie and rock her until the child’s sadness seemed to ease, until Sammie’s pain and fear for the old cowboy drew back, the distress in the little girl’s dark gaze to soften, though she would remain pale and unnaturally quiet.

But now Sammie, flying her crop duster over the leaves saying the cowboy would be happy about the plane and that it would make everything all right, that the airplane would bring him what he wanted, the connection of Sammie’s play with those night visions indeed disturbed Becky. The powerful juxtaposition of dream and waking play left Becky warily on edge, left her waiting nervously for whatever would happen next, for whatever was destined to happen, for the inevitable conclusion to her little girl’s strange and unnatural predictions.

15

Lee’s first sight of Lucita nearly undid him, he was driving a loaded truck in from the fields, the men clinging to the sides cutting up as usual, when he saw a cloud of dust a long way off coming up the dirt road toward the ranch. As it drew near he recognized the green Chevy station wagon that Jake said he’d bought Lucita last Christmas. “Got it just in time,” Jake had said, laughing, “before her old Ford fell apart.” Lee watched her park before the house, step out, and open the tailgate. He’d expected that after so many years she’d be changed some, maybe a bit faded, maybe having gained a bit of weight. He hadn’t thought she’d be even more beautiful, still slim and long waisted, her sleek black hair wound into something complicated, her pale, silky shirt open low at the throat, her breasts high and firm, her jeans just as narrow and smooth-fitting as when she was a girl. He was so intent, watching her haul out packages and a small suitcase, that he nearly ran the truck into a toolshed; behind him the men exploded shouting and laughing. He braked fast and they leaped off, heading for the mess hall.

Killing the engine, he sat in the truck watching her carry a load of groceries into the house, balancing the bags, swinging the door open with her foot. He wanted to go over and help her, to talk to her, but instead he moved on into the mess hall behind the pickers. He loaded his plate at the long counter, found an empty seat alone at the end of a long table where he could see the ranch house, see her unloading the last packages. He ate his meal quietly, and then followed his crew out to the truck again and headed back to the fields. Seeing Lucita had put him off his game so badly that twice he let the truck swing too close to the edge and almost went off the levee. Trying to pay attention to his driving, he thought about dinner tonight with Lucita and Jake, feeling as nervous as a lovesick boy, felt so unsettled he had half a mind to beg off, to say he didn’t feel well.

But that would hurt her feelings, and would make Jake wonder. He sweated nervously through the afternoon. Evening came too soon, and not soon enough. Hurrying in from the fields, parking and crossing to his cabin, he showered, cleaned and polished his boots, put on the one clean shirt that he had washed the night before, spreading it out on his towel to ease the wrinkles before straightening it onto a hanger to dry. He should have gotten off the train in San Bernardino if only to buy himself some new clothes.

Leaving the cabin, walking across the yard, he was foolishly aware he was getting his boots dusty again. He’d started up the porch, was reaching to knock when she flung the door wide and threw her arms around him, startling and embarrassing him. She smelled like roses and she was so warm, her cheek soft against his, her kiss on his cheek sisterly and tender, and then she held him away, looking him over.

Her golden skin was without a wrinkle, except for the laugh creases that had deepened around her dark eyes and that made her seem somehow easier and more comfortable. She still wore her black hair long, pinned up with a silver clasp, but now it was touched with streaks of white, a bright touch that added a new charm. Her low white Mexican blouse and flowered skirt clung in a way that made him want to pull her close again, to keep on holding her. Seeing his look, she backed away, her dark eyes laughing. She took his hand and led him on inside, closed the door behind them. No dog greeted them, though she and Jake had always had a dog or two around the place, Lucita’s own dog close and protective of her. She saw him glance around and knew exactly what he was thinking.

“My Aussie was poisoned, last fall,” she said. “I can’t bear to get another dog, to have that happen again. Someone poisoning coyotes,” she said, her voice breaking, “and my dog found the bait.”

She led him into the living room where Jake was setting down a tray before the leather couch, she pulled Lee to the couch and sat down beside him. “Nearly twenty years, Lee,” she said easily, as Jake passed him a beer in a chilled glass. Lee would have been more comfortable drinking from the bottle, would have felt easier, too, if Lucita would move away a little, and if she hadn’t dressed up for him. But she had always loved a party, loved any excuse to get dressed up. In the old days she served her party meals on cracked pottery, not the fine china and expensive silver that now graced the Ellson table. Beside him, her sweet scent mixed sharply with the spicy smells of a Mexican dinner, a combination that brought back long-ago evenings, brought back so many times for the three of them, when he and Jake had sparred good-naturedly over her. A flowered plate sat on the table, piled with miniature tamales served before dinner with the beer. It took two days to make tamales properly, and Lee was more than flattered.