Part 11 (1/2)

She rose and started off up the street away from the bar. When he didn't follow she turned; her look seared him. ”Come on, Joe. Wilma has a phone book. And there's food at home.” And she trotted away through the fog, her ears and whiskers back and her tail las.h.i.+ng.

18.

The bubble bath was scented with vetiver. The water was deliriously warm, easing every muscle. Kate lay back in the tub, letting her body relax, absorbing the welcome heat and sipping her cold beer, listening contentedly to the comforting sounds from the kitchen, where Clyde was cooking spaghetti for her.

What other man would rise from sleep at midnight, get dressed and in the car, pick her up and bring her home, then draw a bath for her and cook her supper? Above the herbal scent of the bubbles, she could smell the wonderful aroma of the rich sauce and garlic bread.

She had already consumed a plate of cheese and crackers, which he had set beside the tub with her beer. What a nice man he was, what an absolutely comforting and comfortable and caring man.

On the phone, when she called him from Binnie's, he hadn't asked one question. He hadn't even asked why she didn't just walk down to the house from Binnie's, it wasn't more than ten blocks. He had just come to get her, had walked her out and had sat in the car gently holding her, letting her cry.

Clyde might not have a lot of polish, he might make rude remarks, and belch with good-natured humor, but he was a veritable paragon among men.

He had not only drawn a bath for her and waited on her, he had cleared out the spare room as if she were royalty, had put fresh sheets on the guest bed, had hauled away stacks of tool catalogs and a pile of folded sweats.h.i.+rts, had shoved the heavy, movable parts of his weight equipment out of her way, under the bed.

He had, while picking up his sweats.h.i.+rts from the desk, quietly slipped a small spiral notebook and a thin briefcase in between two s.h.i.+rts, and carried them away.

Something obviously private; maybe something belonging to one of his girlfriends. She imagined that the vetiver bubble bath would belong to dark-haired Caroline Waith. Or maybe the little redheada”she couldn't keep them all straight.

She finished her beer, and lay back. She had remembered what it was about Dr. Firreti doing something with cats. It was, after all, nothing alarming. Quite the opposite. He collected stray cats from somewhere, very likely the thin cats under the wharf. Firreti neutered the cats, gave them shots, and turned them loose where they had been found. She grinned. That was what she had smelled in the damp sand, the metallic scent of a trap, mixed with human smell, probably Firreti's scent. Though it seemed more like that of a young boy.

She stepped out of the tub and toweled off, enjoying the thick, huge towel Clyde had provided.

Looking in the mirror, she studied with distaste the purple smudges across her body, like the marks of giant fingers. Ugly souvenirs of the bas.h.i.+ng Wark had given her small cat self.

She resisted putting on Clyde's robe, though he had left it folded on the counter. She dressed in her jeans and s.h.i.+rt, and used his dryer on the edges of her hair. Then, limp and sleepy and content, she padded barefoot out to the kitchen.

Clyde turned from the sink. He was dressed in cutoffs and sandals and a faded purple T-s.h.i.+rt with a hole in the sleeve. He had set the kitchen table and was pouring her another beer. The fresh gla.s.s was white with frost from the freezer. She sat down at the table and petted the two old dogs who crowded against her knees.

But the three cats made no move to greet her. They sat in the center of the kitchen watching her intently, and not in a friendly way. She looked back at them uneasily.

She'd known these cats for years. They always ran right to her. All their lives she had held them and stroked them as they napped beside her or on her lap. She had played games with them, and had lain on the floor with all the cats asleep across her stomach.

But now, in those three pairs of eyes, was a look that chilled her. She daren't put out her hand and try to touch them.

Clyde seemed not to notice their wary behavior. Draining the spaghetti and pouring on sauce, he set the heaping plate before her. It looked so good she wanted to push her face in, slurping. He brought a bowl of salad and a basket of garlic bread, then found the grated cheese and a bottle of salad dressing.

He sat down across from her, toying with his beer and with a piece of garlic bread. She couldn't help gobbling. She couldn't take time to wind her spaghetti, she hardly cut it before she raked it in; she was almost panicked with hunger. Clyde busied himself with his bread and beer.

He not only ignored her unusual bad manners, but waited patiently, without questions, for her to explain her seeming abandonment to the streets without money or her purse, without her car.

When, halfway through her meal the first emptiness was satisfied, when the good hot spaghetti began to give back to her some warmth, she settled back and slowed that flying fork. Sipping her cold beer, she told the story slowly. She told him how she had found herself in the alley behind that old office building, standing barefoot among garbage, her clothes and hands filthy, and with no memory of going there, no idea of where she had been, no memory of leaving the house. She told him how, when she left the alley, Wark had chased her. She told him what happened when Wark's foreign, rhythmic words touched her. She told him how it felt to be suddenly small and four-footed, how nice her soft fur had felt, how nice it felt to run so swiftly and to lash her tail. When he didn't laugh, she described all the sensations she had encountered. She was telling him what she could remember about living under the wharf, when he came to life suddenly.

”Stop it, Kate! For Christ sake, stop it!”

She stared at him.

”Why, Kate? Why would you make fun of me? And how did you know?”

She wasn't tracking, she'd lost something here. What was he talking about? ”How did I know what? I'm not making fun of you.” She stared at him, perplexed.

”How did you find out what happened? No one would . . . Did Wilma tell you?” He stared hard at her. ”That couldn't have been you on the phone.” His look bored in, then he shook his head. ”No, not that voice.”

She didn't know what this was about. He was so angry the look on his face made her cringe. She rose and went around the table, clutched his shoulders. ”What's the matter? What's happened? I don't understand.” She could read nothing from his expression.

They were silent for a long time, looking at each other, each of them trying to fill in the blanks. A little heat of excitement s.h.i.+vered through her. She said, ”Clyde, where is Joe?”

”He's gone, of course.”

”What do you mean, of course?” Her pulse began to race.

”He disappeared a few days ago. I'm sure you know all about it. You know he hasn't been home. That he ...” He stopped speaking.

”That he what?”

”That he's . . . That he's been in touch,” Clyde said tightly.

”How do you mean, in touch?”

”Look, Kate, why go through all this? Why bother? You know all about this. Why hand me that long involved story about wharves and about Lee Wark chasing you. Why not just...”

”Been in touch how, Clyde?”

”The phone, d.a.m.n it! You knew that.”

It took her a while to work it out. She stared at Clyde and stared at the phone. She studied him again, then gulped back a laugh.

Joe Grey had phoned him.

Joe Cat was like herself. And he had figured out how to use the phone.

She collapsed in a fit of merriment that weakened her. Joe Grey had phoned him, had talked to Clyde. Joe Grey was more than a cat, he was like her. And the nervy little beast had had the b.a.l.l.s to phone Clyde.

She could not get control of herself. She rocked with laughter. She was giddy, delirious with the knowledge that she was not alone. That she was not the only creature with these bizarre talents, that there was another like herself in the world.

Clyde's face was a mix of rage and confusion. ”What the h.e.l.l's wrong with you! After the story you just told about turning into a cat, where do you get off laughing?”

She stopped laughing and watched him quietly. ”You don't believe what I told you.”

”For Christ sake, Kate.”

She played it back to him. ”You truly believe that Joe Grey phoned you. But you don't believe what happened to me.”

He just looked at her.