Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

She drew her hands up, ecstatic with the feel of the mouse squirming against her palm. She stood up, gripping it tightly; she shook it and felt it wriggle with terror and she smiled and turned…

Braden was awake, watching her.

She backed away from him. “I—I heard it scratching. It was—it was so loud. Scratching at something. It woke me. I—I don’t know how I did this. What—what shall I do with it? Oh, it’s moving in my hand, it’s horrible.” Its movement excited her unbearably. She wanted to loose it and chase it, wanted to bat at it and play with it. She looked at Braden pleadingly. “What—what shall I do with it?”

He looked back at her, expressionless.

She went into the bathroom and dropped the mouse into the toilet. She pulled the handle. It fought as it was swept away from the sides in the churning water. It thrashed wildly as it was sucked out of sight. She stared after it regretfully. What a waste of a perfectly good mouse. She longed to have kept it, to have played with it then killed it. She washed her hands because Braden would expect it, and returned to the bedroom. “It’s gone. Horrible.”

He was still staring. She stood looking at him, her expression as surprised as she could manage. And she was filled with terror. He knew. He knew what she was. It was over. It was all over between them.

She picked up the heavy bedspread they had kicked to the floor, wrapped it around herself, and curled up in the upholstered chair, her face turned away from him. As soon as it was dawn she would leave. She should have gone before. She should never have come here with him. She closed her eyes, keeping her face hidden.

She heard him rise. She felt the chair give as he sat down on its upholstered arm. He drew her to him, held her against him. “Come to bed, Melissa.”

“You don’t want me there.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You were horrified by—by the mouse. You were looking at me as if…”

“As if what?”

“I don’t know what. As if you thought me disgusting because I happened to catch a mouse in the closet.”

“You have to admit, it isn’t something every girl does, catching mice in the middle of the night with her bare hands. Most girls won’t go into a room with a mouse, let alone catch it with—that way.”

“But I had a mouse when I was a child. I used to catch it like that when—when it got out of its cage. Tonight—it was so loud. And how else would I have caught it? I just—I didn’t think…”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed and put her down, pushing a pillow behind her. “Any other girl would have told me, let me deal with the mouse.”

“You were asleep. Are you disappointed? Did you want to catch it yourself?”

He looked startled, then scowled. He didn’t see anything funny.

“I just didn’t think,” she repeated contritely. “I used to catch my mouse that way, so I just…” She looked at him innocently.

He stared at her then began to laugh, a choke at first, then he doubled over laughing, fell across the bed laughing. “You caught a mouse—a mouse…flushed it down the john…” He shook with laughter until she was laughing too. “You slipped up on a mouse in the middle of the night…” He rolled over, consumed with helpless laughter.

When their laughter had died they lay limp, gasping. A giggle escaped her, then she sighed against him and curled down in his arms.

But the catharsis of laughter didn’t last. The next day they began to argue about nothing, tense and irritable with each other. She would catch him looking at her, puzzled, and she would lash out at him with something rude. The hot sun in her face made her feel sick and dizzy. Once she had to leave him, hurrying back to the hotel, barely reaching the bathroom before she threw up her breakfast.

She returned to Braden weak and cross.

“You’re awfully pale. I’m nearly finished with this drawing. Can you hang on a little while?”

“Yes,” she said. But all he wanted was the paintings, he didn’t care anything about her. And then she wondered what was wrong with her. It didn’t make sense to be so angry. She loved him—they were together, in this lovely village. She should be so happy; she should be warmed and replenished by their love, by Braden’s knowing lovemaking and by his caring. And the paintings were part of his lovemaking, his painting her brought them together in a way few lovers could know.

Yet the little cat was driving him away.

The stupid cat couldn’t be still, and her wildness and hungers were ruining everything. She did not feel at one with the calico at this moment; she felt led by her, used and intimidated by her.

That afternoon when Braden started another painting, he said it would be the last. That when this one was finished they would do nothing but play. He was working on the painting when Morian called. Melissa picked up the phone thinking it was the boy who brought room service because she had ordered some sandwiches.

Morian said a registered package had come from the History Museum, that it looked like drawings. Braden said, “Ask her to open it. And ask her about the cat.”

“Open it, Morian. And he—he wants to know if his little cat is all right,” Melissa said weakly.

Morian said, “She hasn’t come home, Melissa. Not since you left. I didn’t want to tell him but…Maybe I don’t need to tell him?” There was a long silence, then, “Maybe I needn’t worry about—the cat—just now?”

Melissa’s heart had nearly stopped.

“Melissa? I’m opening the package now.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember that Olive left me a note when she brought the kitten here?”

“Yes.”

Braden glanced up, wondering what they were talking about.

Morian said, “It was pretty cryptic. I couldn’t figure it out.” Again a pause. Then, “Now I think I know what Olive was saying. Now I think I don’t have to worry about Braden’s cat. Now,” Morian said, “I see that you can take care of her.”

Melissa couldn’t speak.

“Shall we tell Braden that his little cat is here, and safe?”

“That—that’s right, Morian.” She felt so weak she had to sit down.

Braden scowled at the silence, put down his brush, came across the room, and took the phone from her. “What’s wrong, Mor? What’s happened?” He sat down on the bed beside Melissa, putting his arm around her. She pressed her face to his, listening to the low voice at the other end of the phone.

Morian said, “Nothing’s wrong, Brade. Everything’s fine. The calico’s doing just fine.”

Melissa’s heart thundered. Her hands were shaking, her mouth was dry. Morian said, “She’s safe and happy and cared for, Brade. Loved. Your calico cat is very loved.”

She felt sick. She couldn’t stop shaking.

“I have the package open, Brade. It’s two of Alice’s drawings of the garden door. There’s a letter.”

“Read it,” he said tensely, watching Melissa.

“Let’s see, they—they found the drawings while going through the archives. It’s from the director Alice saw that day. He says…he thought they had all been returned—tried to phone you, guess your phone is unlisted—sorry for the inconvenience. That’s all, nothing urgent, just returning the drawings.”

Melissa went into the bathroom, washed her face in cold water, and stayed there until she was calmer. When she came out he was painting again, eating a sandwich with a painty hand. The tray sat beside the bed; she poured herself some tea. He hardly looked up at her. She ate and drank her tea but couldn’t settle down. She went out at last to shop, and paced the village until dusk thinking about Morian, about what she knew, what Olive knew. Knowing that Braden would find out eventually, and when he found out, her life would be over. There would be nothing more for her.