Cat Found (5 page)

CLYDESDALE TOWN HALL MEETING
JULY 25

T
he town councillors held their monthly meeting. There were a lot of issues on the table. The town needed a better bus service to the big city. There were too many homeless people. And the garbage. Where was the town going to put all the garbage?

Many of the townsfolk attended the meeting. Even the county reporters showed up. The shop owners had a petition. “We need to attract more people,” they argued. “If we make Main Street more attractive, it will bring in the Saturday shopping crowd.”

Those shop owners expected the mayor to pull money from a hat.

The mayor listened to the arguments. He saved the good news for last.

“The town council has received a grant to restore the Main Street chapel,” he said to the crowd. “It’s an opportunity to honor our past. The fixed-up chapel can host local events and draw tourists. We’ll landscape the yard behind it, too.”

It was great news for Clydesdale. The street tenants and property owners wouldn’t have to pay a dime. Even the reporters clapped.

“What about the lost bell?” someone called out. “The chapel tower has been empty for generations.”

“The bell is part of this town’s past,” replied the mayor. “But we’ve got to have faith in the future. We’ll see to the chapel first. Maybe one day, that bell will turn up.”

The town meeting was opened up to the public for a discussion. The mayor took the chair. “Today’s public forum will be about the feral overpopulation. Clydesdale has too many stray cats. Every year the problem gets worse. Four citizens have asked to speak. We’ll have Mr. Close up to the microphone first.”

Joe Close came to the podium. “Most of you folk know me,” he declared to the crowd. “The wife and I live down Haven Street by the arena. There’s a pack of wild cats
that hangs around the back of the trash cans. Those cats are nothing but vermin. One night my boy Johnny got too close to one of ’em. It scratched his hand and he had to have shots. If that ever happens again, I’m going to sue the town. I pay my taxes. My kid shouldn’t have to be afraid to walk around in his own community. I say we do a cat roundup. Get rid of the dirty strays all at once.”

He stepped down. Some people applauded. But a girl wearing silver hoop earrings called out, “The strays stay away from people. I’ve watched your Johnny chase after the squirrels. I bet he tried to hurt the cat.”

“Now, now, Salome,” the mayor said. “We’ll just let everybody have their say. Keep the heckling for another occasion. Ms. Winsome is up next.”

April Winsome took her time getting to the mike. She had on her best daytime dress and a hat made of real feathers. There was powder on her nose. She said, “There needs to be a ruling so that nobody feeds those wild cats. Why, the owner of the Lebanese restaurant leaves his trash can open at nights to let them at his leftovers. Lots of other people leave out food, too. We’ll have no end to the beasts unless the council takes a stand. This is a nice town. We’ve got to keep it that way.”

A bag lady in several filthy sweaters and a pair of
flip-flops stood up. She started to mumble. The mayor jumped in quickly. “Everyone who speaks has to have a num —”

“I’ll just say my piece right here,” the lady interrupted. She spoke so quietly that the people in the room shut up and listened. “The way I see it,
Your Honor,”
she went on, “the town needs to take care of its own. That includes the cats. I don’t want to see no cats starving on my patch.”

The reporter snapped a picture as the homeless lady hobbled out. That didn’t sit well with Ms. Winsome. She wanted the spotlight.

Joxie, the pet store lady, went to the stage next. “I agree there are too many cats,” she began. “But it’s our fault. The cats are just trying to stay alive. We’ve got to spay and neuter the strays. And people have to fix their pets, too. Half the time it’s a wandering house cat that gets a feral one pregnant. As soon as there are no more babies, the wild colonies will shrink on their own.”

She turned to the mayor. “We should set an example for our kids. Killing off things that aren’t convenient isn’t the right way to go about that.”

A man in a heavy shirt almost ran over her, he was in such a hurry to get at the mike. His shirt must have made him hot. His red face looked ready to burst. “Name’s
Gayle Lacy,” he declared. “The way I see it, we got to do something fast and hard. There’s probably more than one crazy cat lady like that Mary Downs out there. Nothing goes together better than an old lady and a bunch of alley cats. I got a bird feeder in my backyard. If a stray stalks one of the birds, I aim to put a bat right between its pretty eyes.”

He leaned right over the crowd. “The council ought to put a bounty on their heads,” he said. “So’s I get paid for my trouble.”

The threat was applauded. “Amen to that!” someone yelled out from the crowd.

Billy stood by the back door. He looked into the audience to see who did the yelling.

It was his dad.

B
illy and his dad went back to the meadow for some more shooting.

“Takes a lot of practice to break in a gun,” his dad said. “You bring that rag?”

Billy pulled it from his pocket.

“Let’s see if we can’t do more damage this time.” Billy’s dad tied the rag to a sapling and got Billy to load a pellet. “The more you practice, the more you’ll get to know your trigger. All of ’em are different. Some like to take it slow. Others can’t wait.”

Billy pumped up the gun. His arm was fresh, and he got to five pumps before he felt the familiar quiver of his muscles. He widened his stance and swung the barrel until the red rag lined up in the scope.

“The pellet has a long way to go before it frees the barrel,” his dad reminded him. “You already know
the gun’s going to jump when you pull the trigger. Once you learn to ride with the shot, it’ll come out right.”

Billy hit the rag more times than he missed. He was sweating by the time his dad called off the practice. Only a few threads held the rag in one piece.

On the way back to the car, Billy’s dad pointed to a tall oak tree. “Take a gander up there on that branch. See the squirrel? It’s time you had a live target. Want to try your luck?”

Billy looked at the gray squirrel sitting in the leaves. Its tail curved along its back like an armchair. It was having a meal. Bits of chaff rained down between the boughs. Billy shook his head. “My arm is too tired to pump anymore,” he said. “And we’re already late for dinner. Mom will be mad.”

“That woman has you scared of your own shadow,” his dad muttered. But he kept walking. As soon as they climbed in the truck he switched on the local news.

The mayor was delivering a speech. He spoke in a serious voice.

“Clydesdale citizens have asked for leadership from the council on the cat issue. The ferals are taking over our streets. These are wild animals. They keep people awake at night and damage their property. They threaten
the public health. Animal Services say that it costs thirty dollars to trap a stray cat, and twenty more to put it down. That’s too expensive for our little town. The council is asking for volunteers to help with a roundup instead. It will be held the last week of August. Cages and bait will be provided. The town will pay five bucks a head for every cat caught.”

The mayor finished up. “Homeowners will be asked to keep their pet cats indoors for the three-day duration,” he said. “If we round up all the cats at once, it will save the town money.”

Billy’s dad punched Billy lightly in the arm. “That mayor of ours finally found the guts to do the right thing. Those critters are pests. I’ll grab a cage as soon as they offer them.”

Billy stared out the window.

“Yes, sir,” his dad muttered. He changed the station to the baseball game. “Be nice to get five bucks for the gray tom. That cat will buy me a beer.”

As soon as Billy and his dad got home, his folks had another fight. His mom wasn’t fooled when they came in the door. Maybe she could smell the gun oil. Maybe she had simply figured things out. She flung dinner on the table. Then she started up. “He’s my child, too, Walter.
And I say there’s no need for him to learn how to shoot a gun. You know that I’ve never liked you hunting.”

Billy’s dad wasn’t having any of her arguments. He wolfed down his meal. “I suppose you think the chicken on this plate up and volunteered to be our dinner? It’s a mean world out there, Mae. Billy’s got to learn that life is no picnic. And I aim to take him deer hunting as soon as I can get him a license.”

Billy shoved his food around. His dad didn’t mention the cat roundup.

“That’s years away,” his mom retorted. “Billy’s too young to decide if that’s what he wants.”

“He doesn’t need to decide anything!” his dad yelled. “He needs direction. Somebody’s got to keep the deer population down. And it’s food for the table. Just the same as this clucker.”

Billy’s mom took his plate. “Walter Reddick, your freezer’s full of deer. And most of it is too old to eat.”

Billy’s dad jumped up. He took a swallow of his coffee and grabbed his hat. “You should talk!” he yelled. “You waste time trying to ‘better’ yourself. Meanwhile I put food on the table. You can’t eat those books of yours. Till you start bringing in money again, I make the decisions in this house. I decide what the boy will do.” He stomped out.

Billy’s mom cleared the table. She shoved a towel in Billy’s hands. “You dry the dishes,” she sighed. “Now that’s a skill you can use.” After they finished, she gathered her coat and her books. “I’m going to the library for a bit. There’s a test tomorrow. I expect you here when I get back.”

As soon as she’d gone, Billy opened his bedroom window and set Conga between his legs. Worries swirled around him. His parents acted as if they hated each other. All his friends had forgotten him. The council wanted to clean out the chapel yard. And now some people in town were gearing up to trap cats.

“Conga,” Billy said. “This place is going to blow like a shook-up soda can. I’ll take care of you, though — no matter what.”

Conga washed her black-beaded coat. She believed him.

But Billy knew he was talking guff.

In Clydesdale, there was no safe place for a mother cat to have her kittens.

A
ugust brought a heat wave.

Conga’s belly was getting ripe. Her teats shone like bright pink buttons. She lost interest in games. All she wanted to do was burrow into Billy’s shirt and purr like a motor on a road trip. When the gray tom stalked the backyard, she didn’t pay him any attention. She was through looking out at the world. She was looking in at her kittens.

One day, Billy overheard Joxie talking to her assistant in the pet store. “A cat about to give birth is just like any other mother,” Joxie told Salome. “One is quiet. Another screams like a banshee. That mother just has to herald the new ones.”

Right then and there, Billy made up his mind. He ran all the way back to his bedroom. “Conga,” he huffed. “Today’s moving day. There’s no use putting off what has
to be. I’ve got an idea for a safe place. When the time comes, you can make all the noise you want.”

How could one cat need so many things? Billy rammed a foil tray into his schoolbag along with a couple of plastic tubs. He sluiced out a juice bottle and filled it with fresh water. On top of that he stacked kibble, cans of food, and litter. There was no room left for his bathrobe, so he shoved it into a shopping bag.

Conga came out from behind the dresser to watch. She coiled backward along the floor in a swollen curve. Billy reached over to rub her tummy. “Conga,” he said. Her tail slipped around his hand and lassoed his wrist. “Conga, you wait here. I’ll come back for you once I set up your new place.” He scooped her up and put her back behind the dresser. Then he grabbed the bags and headed down the alley to Main Street.

Salome was out front washing windows when Billy hurried past the pet supply store. “Bag boy,” she muttered.

Billy’s ears went red but he kept on walking.

Behind the chapel, the stray cats were having a siesta. Billy turned around and looked up. There was a door in the church gable high over his head. The stairs to it had long disappeared. Only the remains of a landing jutted into space. Billy set down his bags and began to stack crates
along the stable wall. Once they were high enough, he climbed onto the rafters. From there he threw the belt of his bathrobe over the rail of the balcony and tied a loop. It gave him a leg up to the landing.

The door wasn’t locked so he was able to walk right into the choir loft.

Billy expected to see spidery corners strewn with leftover junk. Instead, the wooden floor was swept clean. Hazy sunlight filtered through the stained-glass rosette facing Main Street. The light threw patches of color over the sloped sides of the roof and left bright stains on his clothes.

Everywhere there were cats.

Paper cats.

There must have been a hundred drawings tacked to the beams. In their charcoal skins, the paper cats walked and slept and groomed, and did a thousand different things. They sprawled in the weeds, they teetered on high wires, they leaped tall buildings, and they chased their tails. In one picture, the gray tom jumped for a fence with his mouth full of vole.

“That’s the apartment backyard,” Billy breathed. He wondered who else had watched the tom hunt.

Some of the drawings made Billy feel bad. There were
too-thin, mangy cats with fierce eyes and snarling jaws, their mouths full of feathers and tails. There were cats with ripped ears and torn noses and smashed paws. And there were cats trapped in cages, wrapped in plastic, flattened on the road, and stuffed, drowned and dripping, in trash cans.

Billy turned away. He couldn’t help those cats. But he
could
help Conga.

The chapel loft was dry and warm. He pulled the things from his bag and set up a bed and a litter box. He put food and water ready nearby. And he took down a few of the drawings and stacked them in the corner. Conga’s newborns didn’t need to see the hardship.

Before he left, Billy looked up at the empty bell tower. “The past is a jigsaw,” his teacher had once told Billy’s class during a lesson on local history. “The bell of the old Main Street Chapel is a lost piece of the puzzle. Maybe it will turn up sometime.”

Billy shook his head. History wasn’t important. He had Conga’s future to think about.

That night, Billy told Conga all about her new home. Conga chewed his hair and hummed in his ear. When he got to talking about the bad pictures, the vibrations
stopped. Her cat eyes burned like molten pennies.

“Conga, I’ve done my best,” Billy whispered. “The rest is up to you.” He went to sleep right there on the floor, his top half behind the dresser and his feet under the bed.

There was no point in worrying about the wallpaper in the chapel.

Sometimes you had to take things as they came.