How to Moon a Cat (12 page)

He scanned the crowd in frustration. His face grew pained as his voice pinched with disbelief.

“See here, I have it on good authority that my subversive propaganda has thoroughly infiltrated the educational system of this country . . . ”

He began to pace back and forth indignantly. “A voluminous collection of texts explicitly crafted to inspire outrageous pranksterism and impish deviltry?”

The man’s face reddened with mock outrage. “Manifestos which have corrupted generations of malleable young minds with their recountings of tomfoolery . . . and
Huck-Finnery
?”

The slightest whisper of a wink twitched the man’s left eyebrow, triggering a few nervous giggles in the audience.

He leaned over the stage to examine a nine-year-old boy sitting in the front row next to a protective elderly woman in a silk scarf. The boy’s eyes bulged as he plastered himself against his seat-back.

The actor’s face broke into a gentle, reassuring grin. “Ma’am, is this your grandson?”

She nodded with a reserved smile.

The man beamed down at the boy. His voice silked a rich comforting tone. “Ah, so innocent appears the bloom of youth.”

He shifted his gaze back to the woman and thumped the lumpy bridge of his nose.

“Do not be deceived by this crafty little devil,” he barked harshly. “The youth is a scheming and conniving beast—one of the most dangerous creatures known to mankind!” He leaned back on his heels with an appeasing grin. “I should know. I used to be one.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the theater, and the man spread his arms wide. “We’re all friends here. There’s no need for the formality of our full Christian names,” he said genially. “You can just call me . . . ”

He picked up a four-foot-long wooden dowel stick and tapped it against a placard set up on an easel near the edge of the stage. It was identical to the one I’d passed in the foyer introducing the Mark Twain impersonator.

He cleared his throat with a loud “ ahem.” Then, with an extra jab of the pointer, he stated, “You can call me Clem.”

HAROLD WOMBLER’S GREEN
baseball cap bobbed through a sidewalk full of cycling fans as he lumbered up Broad Street toward the Nevada Theatre. A red cotton fabric flashed in the holes at his knees as he walked. After testing the late afternoon’s crisp mountain air, he’d slipped on a precautionary pair of thermal underwear beneath his frayed overalls.

A prudent wardrobe choice, he thought to himself as he tugged the stretchy fabric to adjust the fit, but not nearly as comfortable.

From the front chest pocket of Harold’s overalls, a pink nose popped up to check out the scene. Comfy in his tiny green jacket, the mouse twitched his whiskers as he soaked up the sights and smells of Nevada City.

In his right hand, Harold gripped the handle to the terrarium, taking care not to swing it as he walked. Before leaving the pickup, he’d refreshed the plant cuttings and tossed in a couple more chilled crickets. The two frogs rested comfortably on the wet leaves, their stomachs working to digest their afternoon snack. Every so often, the larger frog turned his head to stare proudly at the blue first-place ribbon tied to the terrarium’s handle.

When he reached the top of the hill, Harold glanced briefly up and down the street to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Not seeing anyone of concern, he ducked into the lobby of the Nevada Theatre.

Other than the food table positioned next to the auditorium’s curtained entrance, the room was empty. Harold listened to Clem’s voice echoing from the stage as he snatched up a triangular-shaped sandwich with his free hand and stuffed it into his mouth. Still chewing on the oversized bite, he shuffled over to a red velvet rope that had been looped across a flight of stairs leading to the balcony. With a last glance at the empty lobby, he goose-stepped over the rope and climbed the steps to the second floor.

A few seconds later, Harold stepped onto a landing packed with lighting and sound equipment. Booms, bulbs, and speaker boxes competed with one another for space. With difficulty, Harold made his way to the front row of seats and placed the frog terrarium on the ledge overlooking the auditorium. The frogs waddled to the side of their glass cage so they could peer down onto the patrons below. Harold carefully squeezed in behind the frogs and craned his neck over the top of the terrarium.

After a quick search of the audience, Harold spied a familiar pair of heads sitting in the middle of the theater: a woman with curly gray hair and, beside her, an elderly Asian man who was nearly bald. Dilla and Wang, he grunted silently. The Vigilance Committee was present and accounted for—Montgomery Carmichael had been left off the roster for the Bear Flag operation, which was plenty fine with Harold. That man had become even more unbearable since his recent promotion at the Mayor’s office.

Harold rotated his head to study the space directly beneath the balcony. A woman with long brown hair sat next to a stroller containing two white cats. Through the carriage’s net cover, a furry face with pointed orange ears looked up at him inquiringly.

Harold’s bleary bloodshot eyes locked in on Isabella’s clear blue ones. He jerked his head several times to the left; then he tapped the tip of his nose.

Isabella tilted her head up against the netting, cautiously pressing the flat pad of her nose against the underside of the zipper’s metal slider. Following Harold’s guidance, she began to move her head in quick jerking motions to the left, slowly inching the slider across the teeth of the zipper. The brown-haired woman sitting beside the stroller failed to notice as a cat-sized opening formed in the net cover.

Harold shifted his focus to the stage. The actor’s cadence gradually began to increase as he built to a moment that would capture the audience’s full attention.

When Harold saw the actor lean toward the front row, he motioned a go-ahead sign to Isabella. The actor growled viciously at the audience, causing the brown-haired woman to jump in her seat. Her attention remained fixed on the actor’s bear impersonation as a flash of white fur leapt gracefully from the stroller.

Harold pushed back from the railing, a satisfied expression on his face. He reached into a pocket on the left side of his overalls. His thin lips twisted into a smirk as he unwrapped the package to reveal a toy bear holding a tiny paper flag in its outstretched paw.

Noiselessly, Harold eased his way to the rear of the balcony. Then, carrying the frogs in their cage, the mouse in his pocket, and the toy bear in his free hand, he quietly returned to the lobby.

 

 

IN A DARK
corner of the balcony, where he’d sat watching Harold’s entire charade with Isabella, Ivan Batrachos silently stroked the thin line of the scar that creased the left side of his face.

CLEM TAPPED THE
microphone as the applause to his opener died down. “Now that we’re all introduced,” he continued jovially. “I’d like to move on to the main topic of today’s lecture. This afternoon, I’ll be discussing one of the more curious events from our state’s early history.”

He tilted his head conversationally. “The incident I’m about to relate to you happened a few years before I arrived on the scene, but I spoke to many firsthand witnesses, and I’m convinced my information is reliable and accurate.”

Clem coughed lightly into his fist before amending. “Well—let’s say
generally
reliable and
mostly
accurate.” He shrugged his shoulders with a sheepish grin. “You have to allow me a few modest embellishments here and there.”

His eyes flicked toward the back of the theater as he licked his lips dramatically. “Today, I’m going to tell you the story of the Bear Flag Revolt.”

I edged forward in my seat as Clem leaned out over the front of the stage. Clearly, I had come to the right place, I thought as he suddenly assumed a threatening grizzlybear stance and growled at the young boy in the front row. I felt myself jump, in tandem with the boy, who once more flattened himself against the back of his chair.

Clem chuckled reassuringly, “No, no, I promise, there aren’t any
real
bears here tonight.”

My hand instinctively reached into my pocket for the stuffed bear from Oscar’s kitchen as my eyes stayed riveted to the action at the front of the auditorium.

“For a very brief time in the summer of 1846 . . . ” Clem wacked the dowel stick against the rim of the stage as he pumped his eyebrows at the boy in the front row. “A very brief time, don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

Winking, he swung the stick up and over his shoulder. “California declared itself an independent republic. The Bear Flag Revolt was the beginning—and the end—of that independence movement.”

Clem leaned the dowel stick against the microphone stand, tucked his hands into the small of his back, and began pacing back and forth across the stage.

“As I said, the Bear Flag Revolt took place in 1846. June fourteenth to be specific. Back then the West was a vast unknown territory, claimed by many, owned by none. It was a land of men. Men who were unfettered by the restraining yoke of a society’s rules and regulations”—Clem reached up to the bent crook of his nose; dramatically pinching his fingers around the tip end, he squeaked out—“and its regiments of sanitation.”

The crowd murmured in amusement.

“I’m not talking about those gold-grubbing Forty-Niners you here in Nevada City are so familiar with.” Clem cleared his throat with a note of self-deprecation. “I count
myself
in that classification.”

Straightening his shoulders, he self-consciously stroked the thin gray strands that covered the crown of his head. “No, I’m recollecting a time before those starry-eyed masses surged across land and sea to California’s gold fields. This was a different group of explorers. Intrepid souls who came West hankering after something far more elusive than the gold nuggets that tumble through these frigid mountain streams.”

Clem grumbled a shivering aside under his breath. “Blast those tormenting nuggets . . . ” He shook his head as if to clear the memory.

“No, this was before the state took on its golden luster. In her early days, California attracted a different type of reckless visionary . . . ruthless, cunning men who were intent on fame, glory, and a permanent place in history—and they were willing to do anything to get it.”

Clem dragged a wooden stool to center stage and eased himself onto the seat. “The old-man version of me needs a few props,” he explained apologetically before resuming his dialogue.

“Our story begins with one such character, a young gentleman who would become the leader of the Bear Flag Revolt: Captain John C. Frémont. He was in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers—the part of the military responsible for drawing up maps of this country.”

Clem politely cleared his throat. “Early on in his career, this here Frémont earned himself a nickname. It was a clever moniker, one that young John Charles wore with pride. He thought it was a compliment. You see, they called him ‘the Pathfinder.’ ”

Clem issued a sly smile to the boy in the first row. “Beware of nicknames, lad,” he said, slapping the top of his knee. “I don’t know if Frémont ever caught on to the punch line about his nickname. He was a rather sensitive, touchy kind of fellow, and it’s quite possible no one ever bothered to explain the joke to him for fear of the volcanic temper tantrum that might erupt.”

Raising a finger toward the ceiling, Clem explained. “You see, the Pathfinder was known for blazing trails through the wilderness . . . his particular specialty was
finding paths
that had already been mapped out by others.”

A roll of laughter passed through the crowd.

“Now,” Clem admonished, wagging his finger at the audience. “This is not to say that our Pathfinder lacked ingenuity or that he in any way shied away from danger. Oh no. Long before his landmark visit to California, he’d demonstrated he was full to the brim with conniving initiative as well as the blindest form of bravery.”

Clem cocked his right eyebrow. “John Frémont took a shine to the beloved daughter of the country’s most powerful senator. Jessie Benton hadn’t passed her sixteenth birthday when she fell under his romantic influences; she was more than ten years his junior—and stratospherically above his social status.

“Senator Benton right near took our sapling Pathfinder to the woodshed when he found out they’d eloped. If it weren’t for the new Missus Frémont’s intervention, her husband might well have been reduced to splinters. Cut down in his prime, so to speak.”

Clem grinned impishly. “Seeing as Jessie had hidden all the meat cleavers and commandeered the keys to the gun cabinet, Senator Benton had to come up with some other means of dealing with his unsolicited son-in-law.

“Benton wasn’t one of the country’s leading politicians for nothing,” Clem said, tapping his temple wisely. “He quickly came up with a plan. He arranged for a new mapmaking mission for the Pathfinder, one that his overly ambitious, glory-hungry heart could not possibly turn away from, one that would send him on horseback all the way across the continent to the wilds of the Oregon Territory.”

A chuckle rumbled up from Clem’s chest. “
Oregon
immediately became Senator Benton’s favorite word. He repeated it over and over again in his mind. He bought himself a dog and named it Oregon, just to have an excuse to call it out.”

Stroking the rumpled collar of his suit jacket, Clem stood up from the stool and beamed at the audience. “Benton knew the trip to Oregon would take the pesky Pathfinder a year, if not more, to complete. It would send him on a perilous journey through scorching desert heat and jaw-locking blizzard freezes . . . through lands chock-full of scalp-severing Indians, ravenous mountain lions, and ornery outlaw bandits.”