Cat Under Fire

5

Where Charlie's ancient van stood two feet from the curb, Charlie's thin, denim-clad legs protruded from beneath, her feet in the dirty tennis shoes pressed against the curb to brace her as she worked. The six unopened cans of motor oil that stood on the curb beside a pile of clean rags were of a local discount brand, and the oil was fifty weight in deference to the vehicle's worn and floppy rings, oil thick enough to give those ragged rings something they could carry. Anything thinner would run right on through without ever touching the pistons. Clyde stood on the curb studying Charlie's bare, greasy ankles. He could smell coffee from the kitchen, and when he turned, Wilma waved at him from the kitchen window, framed by a tangle of red bougainvillea, which climbed the stone cottage wall, fingering toward the steeply peaked roof.

The cottage's angled dormers and bay windows gave it an intimate, cozy ambience. Because the house was tucked against a hill at the back, both the front and rear porches opened to the front garden, the porch leading to the kitchen set deep beneath the steep roof, the front porch sheltered by its own dormer. The house was surrounded not by lawn but by a lush English garden of varied textures and shades, deep green ajuga, pale gray dusty miller, orange gazanias. Wilma had taught him the names hoping he might be inspired to improve his own landscaping, but so far, it hadn't taken. He didn't like getting down on his hands and knees, didn't like grubbing in the dirt.

A muffled four-letter word exploded from beneath the van, and Charlie's legs changed position as she eased herself partially out, one hand groping for the rags.

He snatched up a rag and dropped it in her fingers. "Spill oil in your eye?" Kneeling beside the vehicle, he peered under.

She lifted her head from the asphalt, the rag pressed to her face. Beside her stood a bucket into which dripped heavy, sludgy motor oil. "Why aren't you at work? Run out of customers? They find out you're ripping them off?"

"I thought you had an appointment with Beverly Jeannot."

"I have. Thirty minutes to get up there." She took the rag away, selected a relatively clean corner, and dabbed at her eye again. "I didn't have to do this now, but the oil was way down, and I didn't want to add-oh you know."

"No, I don't know. All my cars run on thirty weight and are clean as a whistle. How's the Harder job going?"

"I have my two people working up there." She tossed out the oily rag, narrowly missing his face. "Thought I'd wash this heap, but I won't have time."

"What difference? Is clean rust better?"

Under the van she watched the last drops of oil ooze down into the bucket. Replacing the plug into the oil pan, she slid out from under, pulling the bucket with her. Kneeling on the curb, she opened a can of oil, stuck the spout in, then rose and inserted the spout beneath the open hood into the engine's oil receptacle.

"Better get a hustle on. Beverly Jeannot doesn't like the help to be late."

"Plenty of time. She's formidable, isn't she? How do you know her? I thought she lived in Seattle-came down just to settle the estate."

"I don't know her, I know of her. From what Janet told me."

She removed the can, punched another, and set it to emptying into the van's hungry maw.

"Like a suggestion?"

She looked up, her wild red hair catching the light, bright as if it could shoot sparks.

"Ride up to the shop with me, and take that old '61 Mercedes. It looks better than this thing, and it needs the exercise."

"You're being patronizing."

"Not at all. This is entirely in the interest of free enterprise-it will help your image. Beverly Jeannot's a prime snob. And I don't drive that car enough."

"And what's the tariff? How much?"

"You're so suspicious. It really needs driving. Scout's honor, no strings. Not even dinner-unless you do the asking." He watched her open the third can of oil, admiring her slim legs and her slim, denim-clad posterior. He liked Charlie, liked her bony face and her fierce green eyes, liked her unruly attitude. He was at one with her general distrust of the world; they were alike in that.

But beneath her brazen, redheaded shell she was amazingly tender and gentle. He'd seen her with the cats, kind and understanding, seen her playing with a shy neighborhood pup who usually didn't trust strangers.

Charlie had had a heavy crisis in her life when she realized she had wasted four years on a college degree that wouldn't help her make a living. He thought she was handling it all right. She would, when she met with Beverly Jeannot this morning up at Janet's burned studio, give Beverly a bid on the cleanup, the work to begin as soon as the police had released the premises. He thought that removing the burned debris, alone, would be a big job.

As she turned, he brushed dry leaves off the back of her sweatshirt. "There's a lot to do up there, cleaning up the burn rubble."

"I wouldn't bid on the job if I couldn't do it," she said irritably. Then she softened. "I'm going to have to hustle. All I have is Mavity Flowers, and James Stamps." She removed the last oil can and slammed the hood. "I wish I could get a better fix on Stamps. But he'll do until I can get someone I trust."

"Mavity, of course, is a whiz."

"Mavity has some years on her, but she's a hard worker. She'll do just fine on the cleaning, and maybe the painting. It's the other stuff, the repairs, that she can't handle. That's my work." She picked up the oil cans. "Beverly's in a big hurry, wants the work done pronto, soon as the house is released." She tossed the empty cans in a barrel inside the van. The Chevy's bleached and oxidizing green paint was cracked, dimpled with small rusty dents. The accordioned front fender was shedding paint, rust spreading underneath.

She looked the vehicle over as if really seeing it for the first time, stood comparing it with Clyde's gleaming red 1938 Packard Twelve. "You serious about the Mercedes?"

"Sure I'm serious."

She grinned. "I'll just wash and change. Come on in, Wilma's in the kitchen."

He followed her in, wondering why Beverly Jeannot was in such a hurry to have the fire debris cleaned up. Maybe she needed the money. He'd heard that she meant to rebuild the upstairs and put the house on the market. He thought she could make just as much profit by selling the building in its present condition, with just a good cleanup. Let the buyer design a new structure to suit himself. He went on into the kitchen and sat down at the table, where Wilma stood beating egg whites, whipping the mixture to a white froth.

"Angel cake," she said.

He waited for the automatic coffeemaker to stop dripping and poured himself a cup. From the kitchen he could see through the dining room into the living room, where Janet's landscape dominated the fireplace wall, a big, splashy oil of the village and treetops as seen from higher up the hills, lots of red rooftops and rich greens.

Wilma had paid for the painting in part by designing and planting Janet's hillside garden-she'd had some huge decorative boulders hauled in, and planted daylilies, poppies, ice plant, perennials she said were drought-resistant. She had done the garden the same week Janet moved in.

The house had suited Janet exactly. She had designed and had it built for the way she wanted to live. The big studio-garage space upstairs was connected to the upper, back street by a short drive. The studio was big enough for both a painting area and a welding shop, the east wall fitted with floor-to-ceiling storage racks for paintings and a few pieces of sculpture. And there was room to pull her van in, to load up work for exhibits. Wilma had admired Janet's planning and had loved the downstairs apartment. Both stories looked down over the village hills. The area Wilma had landscaped was below the house, between the apartment and the lower street.

He watched Wilma select an angel cake pan and pour in the batter. "Why don't you buy Janet's place? You've always liked it. It would be just right for you and Dulcie. You could build a great rental upstairs, where the studio was."

She looked at him, surprised. "I've thought about it." She set the cake in the oven. "But I'd feel too uncomfortable, living in the house where she died."

She poured coffee for herself, and sat down. "And it's too far from the village, I like being close to work." Wilma's cottage was only a few blocks from the library, where, since her retirement, she had served as a reference assistant. "I like being near the shops and galleries, I like walking down a few blocks for breakfast or dinner when I take the notion, and I like being near the shore.

"If I lived up there, it would be a mile climb home after work. Face it, the time will come when I couldn't even do that uphill mile."

"That'll never happen." He rose and refilled his coffee cup. He didn't like to think about Wilma getting old, she was all the family he had. His mother had died of cancer eight years ago, his father was killed a year later in a wreck on the Santa Ana Freeway. He and Wilma were as close as brother and sister, always there for each other.

"Even though I still work out, and walk a lot, that climb up to Janet's can be a real artery buster.

"Besides, I enjoy my garden. Janet's hillside doesn't suit me. That was a landscape challenge, a minimum-care project, not a garden to potter around in. No, this place fits me better." She grinned. "It took me too long to dig out all that lawn, put in the flower beds. Now I want to enjoy it-I can potter around when I feel like it, leave it alone when I choose. I about wore out my knees planting ground cover and laying the stone walks.

"And Dulcie loves the garden. You know how she rolls among the flowers." She set a plate of warm chocolate cookies on the table. "I miss her, when she's not here for our midmorning snack. Lately, she's taken to eating a small piece of cake and a bowl of milk at midmorning-when she's home at that time of day.

"But this morning, she was gone when I got up. I wish I didn't worry so about her."

He restrained himself from eating half a dozen cookies at one gulp. "She came poking at Joe's cat door around nine. Looked like they were headed for Janet's."

"I wish she'd just torment the neighborhood dogs the way she used to. Spend her time stealing, and enjoy life." She gave him that puzzled look he had seen too often lately.

"But who can talk to cats? No matter how bizarre those two are, they're still feline. Still just as stubborn, still have the same maddening feline attitude."

He belched delicately.

She sampled a cookie. "Beverly Jeannot is meeting Charlie up at Janet's. If she finds those two in the apartment…"

"They'll stay out of her way. Do them good to get booted out. Though I doubt they can get in-Harper boarded up the burned door with plywood."

"You don't think Beverly would hurt them?"

The idea surprised him and he thought about it. "I don't think she'd hurt an animal. And with Charlie there, she won't."

"Well, if the cats want to… "

They heard Charlie coming down the hall.

Wilma rose uneasily, turned her back, and busied herself at the stove. She had to be more careful. It was hard enough dealing with her own feelings about Dulcie's new talents. But having a houseguest, even if Charlie was her niece, didn't help. She'd barely recovered from the shock of Dulcie's eloquence when Charlie arrived. With Charlie in the house, she was terrified she'd say something to Dulcie and that Dulcie, in her boundless enthusiasm, would shoot back a sharp observation, come right out with it.

She'd talked to Dulcie ever since she'd brought her home as a small kitten. Cats were to talk to. She'd always talked to her cats. When Dulcie's replies had been a rub against her ankle, a purr, and a soft mewl, life was simple. But the first time Dulcie answered back in words, both their worlds had changed.

Now, of course, their conversations were hardly remarkable. Just relaxed remarks between friends.

Does the vacuum cleaner really bother you?…

Only when it jerks me out of a sound sleep; if you'll wake me up before you start it, that will help… I do love the scent of lavender in the sheets… Is there any more of that lovely canned albacore?…

Do you want to watch Lassie?…

No, Wilma. We both know Lassie is stupid…

You are a cat of impeccable taste. How about a Magnum rerun?… Oh, I would much rather watch Magnum. And could we have a little snack of sardines…?

Charlie swept into the kitchen, dressed in fresh jeans and a pale yellow sweatshirt. She had tied back her hair with a yellow scarf, the curly red tendrils already escaping around her face, the effect fresh and electric. Snatching up a handful of cookies, she hugged Wilma and punched Clyde's shoulder to move him along.

Wilma stood at the kitchen window watching as they drove away in the Packard.

She had to be more careful around Charlie. In spite of her wariness, she had caught Charlie several times studying Dulcie too intently.

She told herself that was only the gaze of the artist. Charlie did have an artist's disturbing way of staring at a person or an animal as she memorized line and shadow, as she absorbed the bone structure and muscle, committing to memory some rhythm of line.

She hoped that was all Charlie was seeing when she studied Dulcie. She hoped Charlie wasn't observing something about the little tabby cat that would best go unnoticed.