Cat Shout for Joy (6 page)

“My husband,” Tekla snapped, glancing down at Sam in his wheelchair where he waited patiently at the bottom of the steps, “can hardly maneuver his chair through that narrow gate. And you will have to do something about this ramp, you can
see
it's way too flimsy for a wheelchair. If it gives way, if Sam falls . . .” Tekla stepped closer to Ryan, her stance threatening. Ryan looked at her coolly.

Ryan's dark, short hair was spattered with sawdust, as were her neatly fitting jeans and her white T-­shirt. She dangled a Skilsaw from one hand, where she'd been cutting a porch rail. “I have not yet torn out the gate,” she said patiently. “You can see we have only begun on the new rail.” She did not point out that Sam had no trouble at all with the gate, that his wheelchair slid right on through.

“And,” she said, “the new wooden ramp is sturdy enough for an army. Concrete supports in five places. Sam has been up and down it every day and it's given him no trouble. You
wanted
wood, Tekla. Not concrete, as I suggested.” Looking over Tekla's head, Ryan gave Sam a wink. The poor man never got in a word.

His eyes grew bright at Ryan's smile, though he listened meekly enough to his wife's haranguing. Joe thought it pointless for Tekla to make a fuss over Sam's comfort when, inside the house, adaptations for his wheelchair were minimal, at best. One bathroom and a small bedroom had been retrofitted for him, but most of the renovation was concentrated on fancy countertops, fancy basins and faucets. Ego appeal, not efficiency for a challenged resident. Even the bright new kitchen was not being adapted for a wheelchair; the counters were all standard height, not even a low, easy island where Sam might fix himself a snack, as Ryan had forcefully suggested.

How simple it would have been to design the job with prime attention to Sam's comfort. Whatever complaints Tekla had now were irrelevant to the main purpose of the project, and the woman's arguments were wearing Ryan thin. Demands that they tear out brand-­new work, put in different light fixtures though these had just been installed, replace the new kitchen hardware because Tekla had changed her mind. The arbitrary reversals were at Tekla's expense, that was in the contract, but the extra time and labor had Ryan and her workmen increasingly frustrated. Even her foreman, big, red-­bearded Scott Flannery, who was usually calm and reined in, was about at the end of his temper.

Ryan's nature was much the same as her uncle's; it didn't take much for their Scots-­Irish blood to flare up. So far she and Scotty had been circumspect with Tekla, trying not to upset Sam; everyone felt sorry for Sam Bleak. Everyone but his wife.

It was Ryan's young carpenter, Ben Stonewell, who pointedly stayed away from Tekla, avoiding trouble. Joe could see how much the woman upset him. Now, after Ben's evasive behavior in the restaurant patio when he didn't want to be seen by the Hoop ­couple, Joe had to wonder if there was more about Ben than he was seeing. He hoped not, he liked the shy young man.

Only Billy Young seemed immune to Tekla's shrill complaints. Ryan's thirteen-­year-­old apprentice seemed more amused than angered. Joe had seen Billy, more than once, turn away, hiding a little smile at the storm of Tekla's raving. Joe watched Billy now as the boy put away the shovels and a pick from where he'd been digging a new water line. The tall boy looked older than thirteen, his brown hair trimmed short and neat, his thin face, high cheekbones, and black eyes hinting at his trace of Native American blood.

Finished cleaning up, Billy wheeled his bike from beside the garage and moved on up the drive to the street to wait for Charlie Harper. This evening, even Billy had had enough of Tekla.

The chief's wife often picked Billy up after work, when she came down from the ranch on an errand. Charlie and Max Harper had been Billy's guardians since his grandma died; they hadn't wanted to see him go into foster care. Max usually dropped Billy at work in the morning, throwing his bike in the back of his pickup. The bike got him to school for early afternoon classes; then he was back at work again, on the school's part-­time apprenticeship arrangement. Now, as Tekla raised her voice louder, Billy wheeled his bike farther away, up the street. She was insisting on different flooring, when the new floor was already down in three of the six rooms.

“This is
not
what I ordered,” Tekla shouted.

“This,” Ryan said, “is exactly what you selected.”

“It is not. You're lying! You're a liar!” Tekla snapped. “You got this cheap stuff at some discount sale!” Her accusation made every hair on Joe's body bristle. Crouched as he was on the roof, he found it hard not to leap straight down on Tekla's head.

“I don't lie,” Ryan said softly, her green eyes steady. “You cosigned for the flooring yourself.” She picked up a square of the sleek golden wood where a pile of scraps had been tossed on the porch; she showed Tekla where it was stamped on the back: “Same manufacturer, same style number, same color:
antique oak
.”

“I don't believe you. Where is the order?”

Ryan pulled both the order and the delivery bill from her pocket. She held them so Tekla could look, but she didn't hand them over.

Tekla said no more. Joe dropped down onto the truck hood trying to keep his angry claws from scratching Ryan's red paint. He longed to dig them into Tekla. Ryan was beautiful and kind and Joe loved her; but Tekla's harangues sent her home every night with a headache, in a cranky mood that cut through both Joe and Clyde, that cowed Rock and sent the little white cat to a far corner—­until Ryan got herself under control. Until she did her best to smile, and the household turned sunny once more. Now when Ryan glanced up at Joe, he laid his ears back and licked his whiskers, telling her,
Screw the woman. I'm hungry, it's suppertime!
Dump Tekla and let's move it!
His tomcat scowl said it all.

Ryan tried hard not to laugh. Tekla looked at her strangely, but at last she turned away and wheeled Sam to their van. Sliding open the side door, she pulled down the ramp and helped him in. Joe watched her fold the wheelchair and secure it beside him. Tekla might be small in stature, but she was strong; and she seemed to take adequate care of Sam—­adequate physical care, anyway, if you could discount her spirit-­bruising sarcasm. Their son, Arnold, was kinder to Sam than Tekla was. At least he acted kinder when he stopped by after school; he seemed far closer to his father than he was to Tekla.

Though somehow even Arnold gave Joe the twitches. As nice as the kid could be to Sam, there was something hard inside him. Something about Arnold Bleak that mirrored, exactly, the deep-­down enmity of his mother.

Joe watched the van pull away, watched Ben head up the street for his small coupe, patting his coat pocket as he always did to make sure his phone was there and the little spiral-­bound notebook that contained his building measurements and notes. Watching Ben, Joe edged from the hood of the king cab around through its open window and dropped to the front seat. ­At once Ryan joined him, slipping in through the driver's door, leaving Billy to wait for Charlie, leaving Scotty to lock up.

“How do you stand her?” Joe said as she started the engine. “You could break the contract.”

She looked at Joe, frustrated. “With Sam in a wheelchair, they
need
this remodel. At least he'll have a convenient bath and bedroom. They have to be cramped in that little place they're renting.” Her patience sounded kind and forgiving, but when again she glanced at Joe, angry tears filled her eyes. Ryan, who never cried. Who was usually high-­spirited and in charge of a situation. “If she could just be civil,” she said. “If she could just try . . .”

On the seat Joe snuggled closer and laid a soft paw on her arm. “You
know
she does it on purpose, you know she likes hurting ­people. Don't let that scum get to you with her power trip, you're better than to listen to her.” Looking up, his eyes held Ryan's. “She won't take
you
down, you have more style, more everything. You can laugh at her.”

Driving, Ryan smiled, and wiped at her tears. They were a block from home when she pulled over to the curb and gathered Joe up in her arms. Burying her face in his fur, she was silent for a long time, dampening his gray coat with her tears, needing a little time-­out, needing Joe as she tried to get herself under control.

But suddenly she began to laugh. She laughed against Joe, she held him tighter, then held him away, laughing in his face, her teary green eyes bright with amusement. “You're right, tomcat. I can growl at her just as good as you can,” and she hugged him harder. “If Sam can't silence Tekla, if he
won't
silence her, then maybe I will.” She stroked and hugged him. “Why not?
I
can unsheathe my claws just as well as you can.”

 

7

T
ears still dampened
Ryan's cheeks as she pulled into the drive—­but she was still smiling, cuddling Joe close on her lap. Above them, bright reflections from the lowering sun flashed across her upstairs studio windows. She and Joe sat a moment enjoying the sight of their comfortably remodeled house, Ryan scratching Joe Grey's ears as she shook off the last of her anger. “Guess we have it pretty good, don't we, tomcat?”

Joe gave her a nudging purr. “Guess we do, now that you've added a little pizzazz to the old cottage.
And
to the family,” he said, grinning. “Now that you've civilized Clyde,” and that did make her laugh.

The Damen house had started out some fifty years earlier as a one-­story weekend bungalow. It was now a spacious two stories with more air and light, and a touch of Spanish flavor. It still amused Joe that the renovation was what had pushed the romance into high gear as Ryan and her crew worked on the remodel and Clyde often worked with them. What better way to get to know a person than working side by side, exhibiting your worst temper when you hit your thumb with a hammer, as Clyde was inclined to do, or when the wrong materials were delivered, nudging Ryan's temper. What better way to know someone than when a project turned out exactly right and they could share that glow of pleasure. As the ­couple learned each other's moods, as they began to see the truth of what each one was about, the romance bloomed.

Now, gathering Joe up in her arms and swinging out of the truck, Ryan hurried inside. Setting him down in the hall, she didn't go into the kitchen to kiss Clyde as she usually would, but headed upstairs to wash away the last of her tears. Joe heard the bathroom door slam as he followed the smell of spaghetti into the kitchen; then soon he heard the shower pounding.

“In a temper again,” Clyde said, moving around the big table laying out napkins and silverware. “What does Tekla want now? Gold-­plated doorstops?”

“Wants to rip out the new floors,” Joe said, leaping up to the kitchen counter. “Said that floor wasn't the one she ordered.
”

Clyde snorted. “What did Ryan say?”

“Ryan showed her a floor scrap with the name and color number on it, showed her a copy of the order Tekla had signed. Why does Sam Bleak stay with that woman? Even in a wheelchair he'd be better off alone. You're setting four places.”

“Just Scotty and Ben.” Ryan's uncle Scott was a bachelor and was often there for dinner. Young Ben Stonewell was single, too. The thin, twenty-­something carpenter, who was new to the village, was so quiet, so withdrawn and shy, that Ryan was inclined to mother him.

Clyde said, “It would be pretty hard for Sam to get along alone in a wheelchair. He needs someone.”

“He has Arnold.”

“Arnold's what? Maybe fourteen? And the kid's . . . he's kind enough to Sam, but there's something about him. The kid makes me uneasy.”

Joe twitched a whisker. “With Tekla for a mother, no wonder. I don't get too friendly with him, I doubt he likes cats very much. He makes my fur twitch.”

They heard Ryan descending the stairs. She came into the kitchen, her temper washed away, looking softer in a pink velvet jumpsuit and smelling of lavender soap—­no longer smelling of anger. Her short, dark hair curled around her face, from the steamy shower. “Sam and Tekla have no one but Arnold,” she said. “No other family that I know of. Both Sam and the kid need Tekla, and they sure need to have this house finished. If she'd just stop bugging us and let us get on with it.”

Clyde moved away from the stove and took her in his arms. She melted against him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Tekla's a lot less caustic,” she said, “when Arnold's around. Is she ashamed to pitch such a fit in front of their son?”

“I'd be ashamed,” Clyde said. He stroked her hair, then turned back to the stove, where the water for pasta had begun to boil. He eased in the dry spaghetti, then opened two cans of beer, handing one to Ryan. He stood watching the pot, ready to turn it down when it boiled. At the sink Ryan washed tomatoes and began cutting up salad greens. Joe moved down the counter away from her splashes and then sailed across to the table. He hoped he wouldn't have to move again when their guests arrived. After all, it was only Scotty and Ben. At the other end of the long kitchen, the big silver Weimaraner and little white Snowball watched the proceedings with nose-­twitching interest, though their own bowls of supper had already been licked clean. As Joe settled down between the place mats, Clyde turned from the stove to fix him with a piercing look.

“Okay. Now Ryan's home. Now we're all together. Let's hear it.”

Joe looked up at him blankly. Ryan turned, watching them.

Clyde sipped his beer, his gaze never leaving Joe. “You were grinning when you got home this afternoon, grinning until you left again. You're scowling now, after a half hour with Tekla. But that smug look is still there, underneath. Come on, Joe. Spill it.”

Ryan looked closely at Joe. She reached out one slender finger and tipped up his chin, studying his wide yellow eyes. “I didn't notice, down at the Bleaks' or in the truck, I was too caught up in . . . too damn mad. You do look a bit smug,” she said. “What, Joe? What
is
that look?”

Joe Grey sighed.

He told himself he was blessed to have Ryan and Clyde, to have a loving family. That he was blessed he hadn't remained a homeless stray in the San Francisco alleys. That he was more than fortunate that Clyde had rescued him, back when he was a starving kitten. Told himself he was lucky beyond dreams that Clyde had married Ryan Flannery.

But there
were
times when they didn't have to be so damned nosy. He lay between the place mats staring back at his housemates' stern and unblinking assessment, the two of them waiting for him to explain that inner joyousness that he couldn't seem to hide or quell: two stern humans banded together in silent interrogation, as hard-­nosed stubborn as a pair of old-­time detectives. If Clyde
thought
he had a secret, Ryan
knew
he did. Her green eyes saw too deeply into his wily cat soul.

He
wanted
to share his and Dulcie's news. He was eager to tell them about the kittens and see their excitement. But he felt embarrassed that he
was
so excited. And he dreaded the fuss they'd make. They'd start worrying over Dulcie; they'd caution him to take care of her when he and she were out running the roofs and streets. They'd tell him not to let her climb trees, just as John Firetti had told Dulcie herself. They'd go on and on, he could only half imagine their concern.

But he had to say something. The two were still staring. There was no getting out of this. Besides, Dulcie was already starting to show, if you looked carefully. Pretty quick now, her condition would be too obvious to hide. Then everyone would start asking questions. If he or Dulcie didn't break the news, Clyde and Ryan, or Charlie, would start to interrogate Wilma, whom Dulcie had so far sworn to secrecy.

Well, hell,
he thought, fighting his prideful embarrassment, and he laid it out for them using Dulcie's own words. “Kittens,” he said, “there'll be kittens.”

Clyde stared.

“We're going to have kittens,” Joe said slowly.

Ryan's eyes widened and she began to smile. Clyde's expression was numb. Dulcie and Joe had been together a long time, with no sign of ever expecting babies. Kittens born to speaking cats were a rare occurrence. The idea still amazed Joe himself, still left him only half believing. “Dulcie is with kittens,” he repeated, watching Clyde.

But Ryan flew around the table and grabbed Joe up in her arms. “
Kittens! Oh, Joe.
How
many
kittens? Do you
know
how many? Has she seen Dr. Firetti? When are they due? How soon? Has she told Wilma? Wilma hasn't said a word . . .
Oh!
” She kissed the top of Joe's head, then kissed his nose. Beneath his fur, Joe had to be blushing.
“Oh, kittens,”
she said.
“Little speaking kittens . . .”

Snug in her arms, Joe didn't point out that there was no guarantee their babies would speak. Ryan and Clyde knew that, if they'd thought about it. John Firetti had told them, long ago, that the gift of speech didn't always happen, that sometimes the talent was not passed on, that it did not appear at all. Just as, once in a great while, a little speaking kitten would be born to an ordinary, nonverbal litter.

A recessive gene? An anomaly surfacing out of nowhere? Joe found the tangle of genetic paths daunting; he didn't comprehend the math of it at all, or the implications. He wondered if anyone understood this particular scientific puzzle. How could geneticists study and understand a creature they didn't know existed? No more than a handful of ­people in the world could know there even
were
literate, verbal cats.

Most ­people,
Joe thought,
wouldn't believe in talking cats if one shouted obscenities at them.

Those few who
knew
the speaking cats and loved them kept their secret well, to protect the cats themselves; to shield them from human exploitation in a world where any creature rare and different was open to human greed.

Settling deeper into Ryan's arms, Joe worried that the babies might
not
be able to speak. Dismayed, he looked solemnly at Clyde and then up into Ryan's green eyes, so tender now as she fussed over him. But Clyde was saying, “Kittens! My God, Joe. If they're half as stubborn and hardheaded as you . . .”

“Or if they're half as smart and decisive as Joe,” Ryan said, “and as clever and sweet as Dulcie . . . oh, a baby shower, Joe! We'll have a shower for Dulcie—­little kitten toys, a soft new cat bed. Baby books, little kitty primers to—­”

Joe drew back in her arms and pressed a paw to her lips. “You're not having a
baby shower
!” Ryan never gushed, he was shocked at her gushing. “Dulcie's not having a
foo-­foo
baby party
like some . . . some giddy . . .
human
mother.”

“Why not?” she said, hugging him. “Little toy mice, some pretty little blankets . . .” She was never like this, his steady, sensible housemate, the woman he counted on for a calm and balanced view of the world when Clyde might be off the wall. The tomcat's voice was sharper than he intended.

“We don't want a baby shower!”
he hissed at her.
“Don't you think you should ask Dulcie if
—­”

A loud explosion stopped him, then a deafening metallic clatter as the top blew off the cook pot. Clyde and Ryan spun around, Ryan hugging Joe tighter, backing away from the stove, where a geyser of steam blasted toward the ceiling. Pasta was boiling over in a white cascade of froth, bubbling over the sides of the pot and across the stovetop and burbling down into the burners. The metal lid spun rattling across the floor. Clyde dove for the pot and pulled it off the burner. At the same moment a series of loud thuds rattled the front door and a deep voice echoed through the intercom. “Supper ready?”