The Cat Who Brought Down the House

Chapter 18

On Friday morning Qwilleran filed his copy earlier than usual, leading the managing editor to say, “Is something wrong? Or are you a better person from eating all that broccoli?”

“I have other work to do, Junior! And don’t you dare touch a single comma in my copy! After last week’s proverb fiasco—”

“I know! I know!” Junior threw up both hands in defense.

The truth was that Qwilleran had an urgent desire to return to Thelma’s letters from Bud. A familiar sensation in his upper lip was the forerunner of suspicion, corroborated by Koko’s growling and spitting at someone or something that was not present. Qwilleran was convinced that it was Dick who was on what he called “Koko’s spit list.”

First there were errands to do, however, like mailing a letter to England and cashing a check for daily needs.

At the bank Qwilleran found himself in line behind Wetherby. He leaned forward and said quietly, “Has WPKX started paying you for your services?”

The weatherman turned quickly. “Hey! Qwill! That was the best steak I ever ate in my life! I'll understudy you any old time!!”

“Have you time for coffee at Lois’s?”

“Next!” the teller said impatiently.

After their transactions were completed, the two men walked to Lois’s the long way, in order to see what was happening to the opera house. The old stone building was looking noble once more. The boardings had been taken down. There were new doors. At one side of the entrance a carved wood plaque of tasteful size announced THELMA'S FILM CLUB with letters highlighted in gold. The parking lots on either side were freshly paved. And across the street a strip of storefronts was upgraded. Gone were the plumbing fixtures and printshop clutter. An ice-cream bar, antique shop, and gift gallery were moving in. In the center of the row the door leading to the small apartments upstairs was newly lettered: OPERA HOUSE TERRACE.

Wetherby said, “They’re not bad apartments. I visited someone there once. One-bedroom. There’s a little upstairs porch all along the back, but good only for raising tomato plants.”

“Have you joined the club?” Qwilleran asked.

“Nab. I'm not into old movies. Did you?”

“Only so I can take guests once in a while. I hear that Thelma’s nephew is managing it.”

“Lots a luck,” Wetherby said.

At Lois’s they ordered coffee and whatever was freshly baked. It proved to be cinnamon sticky buns.

The implied sneer in Wetherby’s last remark supported Qwilleran’s growing disenchantment.

He said, “Did I detect a note of cynicism in your remark about Dick Thackeray?”

“Well... you know... we were in school together all the way through twelfth grade. Us kids from the Village of Horseradish attended a consolidated school in East Lockmaster—a bunch of country bumpkins among all those rich dudes. I knew Dick when we were pitching pennies in the schoolyard. He always won. In high school I had to work hard to get a B; Dick got all A's. I acted in plays; he hung out with eggheads who were going to be scientists. My sport was track; theirs was playing cards –for money. I had to work my way through college; Dick thought college wasn’t necessary; he went traveling. Never did settle down to a career. How long is he going to act as manager of his aunt’s Film Club?”

“I see what you mean,” Qwilleran said.

Then they talked about the Kit Kat Revue; how the cats would get along backstage while waiting to go on... what kind of music should be played for the Grand March... what Jet Stream and Koko would think about rhinestone harnesses.

Wetherby said, “Well, we’ll get a few answers at the rehearsal Monday night.”

The Siamese were waiting anxiously at the barn, knowing their noontime snack was eleven minutes late. Qwilleran fed them and even read a passage from the Wilson Quarterly aloud—to make them drowsy. After they had crawled away to some secret nap-nook, Qwilleran took a large dish of ice cream to the gazebo, along with the second box of Thackeray letters.

Bud’s letters continued infrequently as he grew older. Most of them recounted unusual cases he and Sally treated in their clinic—a veritable name-dropping of famous race-horses and the winners of dog shows. Once there had been a terrible barn fire, and Bud agonized with the owners. Occasionally Dick would arrive unexpectedly and stay for a week. His ingratiating smile and happy disposition always made him a welcome visitor. Sometimes he had a clever idea for a new business venture and they gladly lent him money, although experience had taught them that it would never be returned but that was all right. lie was their only son. What better investment could they make? It was too bad he never wanted to go on a nature walk along the Black Creek Gorge.

Then Sally began to slow down, have bad days, stay home from the clinic. During this period investors offered to buy the clinic and relieve him of a burdensome responsibility. After all, he was in his late seventies. But Sally urged him to keep the clinic that had meant so much to him. Dick came and went. Then Sally just faded away. That was all he had the heart to say. He no longer walked along the gorge. But he was thankful that he had his challenging work—and the health to carry on.

That was the last letter in the box, What had happened to the final letter that Thelma called so beautiful? He phoned the Thackeray house, and Janice answered. Thelma was at the club, she said, working out details.

“I've read the two boxes of letters,” Qwilleran said, “and the last one seems to be missing.”

“Oh!... That’s right! She keeps it close by so she can read it. It’s getting quite worn from all the folding and unfolding.”

“You should make a photocopy and preserve the original in some special way. Do you have a copier?”

“No, but I could have it done somewhere in town.”

“I have a copier. If you can find the letter, you could bring it over here, and the job could be done in... no time.” He congratulated himself for avoiding the Moose County cliché.

Soon the green coupe drove into the barnyard, and he took the cherished letter to his studio for copying while Janice talked to the Siamese and looked at titles on the bookshelf.

“This is a funny title,” she said when Qwilleran came down the ramp. She was looking at How to Read a Book by Dr Mortimer Adler. “If you can read a book on how-to-read-a-book,” she said, “why do you need to read this book?”

“Some day I'll lend it to you, and you’ll find out... made two copies of the letter and will put one in the box with the others. You can have the other to save wear and tear on the original. Do you have time for a glass of fruit juice?”

He was glad she declined the invitation. He wanted to read Bud’s last letter.

Dear Sirs,

A miracle happened on this 20th of June—Sally’s birthday. For almost a year, I haven’t been able to face the beauties of our old hiking trail. Dick is here on one of his infrequent visits—his old room is always ready and waiting for him—but his presence has not succeeded in lightening my heavy heart since the loss of my dear Sally.

Then the miracle happened! The houndmaster at the Kennel Club invited me to go ‘walking the hounds.’ There are fifty foxhounds that are walked en masse along country roads every day. A kind of loving understanding exists between the master and the hounds. He speaks to them in a firm but gently musical voice. Mr Thomas is his name.

“Come on out now,” he said, and the pack of hounds left the kennel and headed for the road.

“Come this way now.” They followed him to the left.

My job was to bring up the rear and coax stragglers back to the group. Both Mr Thomas and I had whips—but only to crack the ground and get their attention.

There was hardly any traffic on that back road, but when a vehicle appeared, Mr Thomas would say, “Come over here now,” and they would herd to the right or left. They could read his mind, I was sure. Once, a farmer stopped his truck and said, Purtiest thing I ever seen!”

And I was part of it. The countryside was beautiful. The air was fresh and uplifting. 1 walked with a springy step as the emotional burden of the past year began to disappear.

By the time I returned to the club, and Mr Thomas had said, “Kennel up now’... I wanted to go walking the gorge once more! All the wonders of nature that I enjoyed with my dear Sally came rushing back with love instead of sorrow.

Dick is spending a couple of weeks here, and I even invited him to go along on Sunday. To my delight he agreed and said he would go into town for some hiking shoes.

Dear Sis—Be glad for me. I feel as if an angel dipped a wing over my troubled brow.

With love from Bud

P.S. Why don’t you come for a visit? It’s been so long! Exchanging snapshots isn’t ‘where it’s at’—to quote Dickie Bird. Don’t worry, Sis. I won’t make you go hiking.

Slowly and thoughtfully Qwilleran placed the photocopied letter back in the box. There was a tingling in the roots of his moustache that disturbed him.

He looked at his watch; it was not too late to phone his friend Kip MacDiarmid, editor of the Lockmaster Ledger.

“Qwill! Speak of the devil— We were talking about you at the Lit Club last night. They want to know when you’re coming down to our meeting again.”

“As a guest? Or do I have to pay for my own dinner?”

“Put it on your expense account,” said the editor.

After the usual amount of banter Qwilleran said, “I'll be in Lockmaster Monday. Would you be free for lunch? I want to discuss a book I'm thinking of writing, and it would help if you could copy some news clips for me.”

Arrangements were made.

By long experience Qwilleran knew that newspapermen always know the story-behind-the-story, and it was more often true than false. He also had a ploy for uncovering buried facts and/or rumors. “I'm writing a book,” he would say. Laymen and professionals were always willing—even eager—to talk to the purported author of a book that would never be written.