The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

CHAPTER 2

When the compact four-door pulled away from the apple barn, both cats were in their carrier on the backseat, reclining on a cushion befitting their royal status, and Qwil-leran was at the wheel contemplating a new adventure that might change his life. He planned to keep a diary during the journey, using the small recorder that was always in his pocket. It would capture his thoughts and impressions while driving, along with yowling remarks from the backseat, and he could add commentary when they stopped at motels. The following account was recorded on tape:

TUESDAY . : . Left Pickax at ten-thirty, a half hour later than planned. The car was packed, and I was ready to take off, when the Siamese vanished. Nothing is more exasperating than delay caused by a last-minute cat hunt. First I found Koko on a bookshelf, doing his ostrich act behind the biographies, with six inches of tail protruding from the hiding place. With him it was a game, and the tail was intended to be a clue, but Yum Yum was in deadly earnest. She was huddled on a beam under the roof, accessible only by a forty-foot ladder. Curses! Rather than call the volunteer fire department, I opened a can of cocktail shrimp with an ostentatious rattling of utensils and remarks such as "This is delicious! Would you like a treat, Koko?" In our household the T-word is taboo unless a treat is actually forthcoming, so it always works. After a minute or two a series of soft thumps told me the princess was on her way down from her ivory tower.

Having enjoyed their impromptu feast they hopped into their carrier, ready to hit the road. Did I say impromptu? I daresay the entire episode was plotted by those two incorrigible connivers!

To avoid tiring my passengers, who are confined to 360 square inches of cushioned luxury, I plan to limit each day's driving. At rest stops I release them from the carrier, giving them freedom to hop about the car interior, have a drink of water, and use their commode, which is placed on the floor of the backseat. At least, that's the general idea; they usually ignore their commode until we arrive at a motel. Tonight we'll stop at the Country Life Inn, which not only welcomes pets but supplies a friendly cat to any guest who wants feline company overnight. Extra charge for this, of course.

TUESDAY EVENING . . . Here we are in room 17 of the Country Life Inn. I paid for a room with two beds, and the cats immediately went to sleep on the one I intended for myself. Meanwhile, I went out and had a decent steak at a so-called family restaurant where the waitresses wear granny dresses. More families are dining out these days. I was surrounded by broods of four or six children who screamed, spilled drinks, raced up and down the aisles, threw food, and otherwise made themselves at home. A spoonful of mashed potato and gravy narrowly missed my left ear, and I determined then and there to boycott wholesome family restaurants and patronize murky dives where the waitresses wear mini-skirts and fishnet tights, where sleazy characters hang around the bar, and where all the potatoes are french fried.

WEDNESDAY ... I gassed up and pulled away from the inn after a breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, eggs, and country sausages. (We have better sausages in Moose County.) Last night after I turned out the lights, the cats started roaming. I could hear their claws scurrying around the bathtub, and I assumed they were wrestling and having a good time. Later I discovered there was more to that caper than met the ear . . . Anyway, I fell asleep and didn't hear another sound until the car doors started slamming at 7 A.M., at which time I opened one eye and looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Both cats and one dead mouse were in bed with me! Tonight we're going to have separate rooms.

We are now approaching urban areas and driving on freeways, and the furry folks in the backseat seem to be lulled by the steady rate of speed and drone of traffic. Or they may be drugged by the diesel fumes and broken-down oil burners on the highway.

For lunch I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and parked at the rear near the dumpsters, thinking the garbage aromas would entertain the Siamese during my absence. After releasing them from the carrier, I took care to leave the windows ajar for ventilation and lock all four doors before going in for a quick burger and fries. When I left the restaurant fifteen minutes later I could hear a horn blowing—the continuous, annoying wail of an automobile horn that's stuck—a short in the wiring or whatever. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized it was my own car! That roguish Koko was behind the wheel, standing on his hind legs, with his paws planted firmly on the horn button. As soon as he saw me, the rascal jumped into the backseat. I said, "That's a clever trick, young man, but we could all be arrested for disturbing the peace."

It was only when I fastened my seat belt and turned the ignition key that I noticed an unauthorized object on the floor. It was below the window on the passenger side. Until I reached for it I couldn't identify the thing. It was a piece of bent wire from a coat hanger. Car thieves—or worse, cat thieves—had tried to break in! I apologized to Koko . . . Was it a coincidence? Or is he now functioning as a burglar alarm? I can never be sure about that cat!

WEDNESDAY EVENING ... We checked into our motel at four-thirty. This time I paid for two rooms, both singles. The three of us are spending the evening together in room 37, the cats huddled on the bed watching TV without the audio, while I start a Thomas Mann novel I haven't read since college. At bedtime I'll turn out the lights and slip into room 38.

THURSDAY . . . Now we've left the freeways behind. The scenery is more picturesque, but the forested hills are spoiled by billboards advertising discount stores and warehouse outlets. I went into one such store in a town called Pauper's Cove and bought a pair of slippers, having left mine in Pickax. They had two thousand pairs but only one in size twelve. The slippers weren't the color I wanted, but they were a rare bargain. Then I stopped for lunch at a local eatery and had some very good vegetable soup and cornbread. While I was eating, a guy rushed in and shouted something, and the entire place emptied— customers, cashier, cook, everyone! I followed, thinking it was an earthquake or a forest fire. But no! They were all standing around my car, peering in at the Siamese, who were leaping gracefully about the interior and striking magnificent poses. Whenever they know they have an audience, those two are shameless exhibitionists.

Before starting to drive again, I went into another discount store, just to browse. They had a good price on driving gloves, so I picked up a pair to use in Moose County next winter—that is, if I'm still in Moose County next winter. Time will tell. I may be in Alaska. Or the Canary Islands.

THURSDAY EVENING . . . Tonight I paid for two rooms at the Mountain Charm Motel, which would be improved by better plumbing and mattresses and fewer ruffles and knickknacks. When I put on my new slippers, I found out that the one I had tried on in the store was size twelve, all right, but the other was size eleven. That led me to inspect the driving gloves. They were both for the right hand! There's one thing I like about Moose County: Everyone's honest . . . Tomorrow we arrive in Potatoland.

FRIDAY . . . Last leg of our journey. Koko and Yum Yum have just had their first experience with a tunnel through a mountain. They raised holy hell until we emerged into the sunlight . . . They're getting excited. They know we're almost there.

Directional signs are beginning to assure me that Spuds-boro really exists. The purplish ridges in the distance are turning into rounded mountains of misty blue, and the highway is heading toward a gap between them. Now and then it runs close to the Yellyhoo River . . . Just caught a strong whiff of pine scent from a truckload of logs coming out of the mountains . . . It's been raining here; there's a rainbow . . . We're passing a well-kept golf course, a new hospital, three fast-food palaces, a large mall. Judging by the number of car dealers, Spudsboro is booming! . . . Here we are at the city limits—time to stop talking and concentrate on my driving.

Upon arriving in the small but thriving metropolis of Spudsboro, Qwilleran found it to be a strip-city, a few blocks wide and a few miles long, wedged between two mountain ranges. Three or four winding but roughly parallel streets and a railroad track were built on a series of elevations—like shelves—following the course of the river. On one shelf a locomotive and some hopper-bottom cars were threatening to topple over on the buildings below. Qwilleran imagined the whole town might wash away downstream if hit by a hard rain.

At the residential end of Center Street a conglomeration of Victorian cottages, contemporary split-levels, and middle-aged bungalows coexisted peaceably—with the usual hanging flower baskets on porches, tricycles on lawns, and basketball hoops on garage fronts. Next came the commercial strip: stores, bars, gas stations, small office buildings, barbers, two banks, and one traffic light.

Naturally Qwilleran's eye was quick to spot the newspaper office, the animal clinic, and the public library. In the center of town a miniature park was surrounded by the city hall, fire hall, police department, county courthouse, and post office. Pickets were parading in front of the courthouse, which had a golden dome too grandiose for a building of its modest size, and a police officer was issuing a parking ticket. Altogether it was a familiar smalltown scene to Qwilleran, except for the mountains looming on each side of the valley.

Somewhere up there, he kept telling himself, was the hideaway where he would be living and meditating for three months. It was comforting to know that he could rely on police and fire protection; that he could take his cats to the veterinarian and his car to the garage; that he could have his hair cut and his moustache trimmed. Although he wanted to get away from it all, he was reluctant to get too far away.

At the Lessmore & Lessmore office on Center Street he angle-parked and locked all four doors, having rolled down the windows two inches with confidence that he would find no bent coat hanger on his return.

There were two enterprises sharing the building: a real estate agency and an investment counseling service. In the realty office a woman with a husky voice was talking on two telephones at once. She was on the young side of middle age, short and rather pudgy, dressed in bright green, and coiffed with an abundance of fluffy hair. On her desk was a sign that destroyed Qwilleran's preconceived notion of Dolly Lessmore: THANKS FOR NOT SMOKING.

"Ms. Lessmore?" he inquired when she had finished phoning. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."

She jumped up and trotted around the desk with bubbling energy and outstretched hand. "Welcome to Spudsboro! How was the trip? Have a chair? Where are the cats?"

"The trip was fine. The Siamese are in the car. When did you give up smoking?"

She darted a puzzled glance at her client. "How did you know? Last March a charming young doctor at the hospital gave a class in not-smoking."

"Spudsboro seems to be a lively town," he said approvingly, "and right up to the minute."

"You'll love it! And you'll love your mountain retreat! I'm sure you're anxious to see it and move in, so as soon as I make one more phone call, I'll take you up there."

"No need. You're busy. Just tell me where it is."

"Are you sure?"

"No problem whatsoever. Just steer me in the direction of Big Potato Mountain."

She pointed across the street. "There it is—straight up. Little Potato is farther downriver. I have a little map here that you can have." She unrolled a sheet of paper. "Here's Center Street, and over here is Hawk's Nest Drive. That's where you're going, although you can't get there from here—at least, not directly. When you reach Hawk's Nest Drive, just keep going uphill. It's paved all the way. And when you can't go any farther, you're there! The house is known as Tiptop, which is the name of the original inn."

The map was a labyrinth of black lines like worm tracks, peppered with numbers in fine type. "Don't any of these mountain roads have names?" Qwilleran asked.

"They don't need names. We always know where we are, where we're going, and how to get there. It may be mystifying at first, but you'll get used to it in no time. Hawk's Nest Drive is the exception to the rule; it was named by J. J. Hawkinfield when he developed Tiptop Estates."

"Is there anything I should know about the house?"

"All the utilities are connected. Bed linens and towels are in a closet upstairs. The kitchen is completely equipped, including candles in case of a power outage. There are fire extinguishers in every room, but all the fabrics and carpets are flame retardant." Ms. Lessmore handed over three keys on a ring. "These are for front and back doors and garage. We had to make some minor repairs in preparation for your arrival, and a Mr. Bee-chum will be around to do the finishing touches. He's one of the mountain people, but he's an excellent worker. If you need anyone to clean, there are mountain women who are glad to earn a little money. We had one of them fluff up the place yesterday. I hope she did a satisfactory job." While speaking she was swiveling and rocking her desk chair with a surplus of nervous energy.

"What's my mailing address going to be?" Qwilleran asked.

"There's no mail delivery up the mountain. You can have a rural mailbox at the foot of Hawk's Nest Drive if you wish, but for your short stay, why don't you rent a post office box?"

"And where do I buy groceries?"

"Do you cook?"

"No, but I'll need food for the cats. Mostly I prefer to eat in restaurants. Perhaps you could recommend some good ones."

At that moment a roughly handsome man in a business suit rushed into the investment office, threw a briefcase onto a desk, and started out again. "Gonna play some golf," he called out to Ms. Lessmore.

"Wait a minute, honey, I want you to meet the gentleman who's renting Tiptop. Mr. Qwilleran, this is my husband, Robert . . . Honey, he was asking about restaurants."

"Give him the blue book," he said. "That has everything. Don't plan dinner, Doll. I'll eat at the club. Nice to meet you, Mr. ..."

He was out on the sidewalk before Qwilleran could say "Qwilleran."

"Robert's a golf nut," his wife explained, "and we've had so much rain lately that he's been frustrated." She handed over a blue brochure. "This lists restaurants, stores, and services in Spudsboro. If you like Italian food, try Pasta Perfect. And there's a moderate-priced steak-house called The Great Big Baked Potato."

"And how about a grocery?"

"You'll find a small but upscale market at Five Points on your way to Hawk's Nest Drive. From here you go down Center Street until it curves to the right, then take a left at the Valley Boys' Club and wind around past the old depot, which is now an antique shop, and go uphill to Lumpton's Pizza, where you jog left—"

"Hold on," Qwilleran said. "It sounds as if you have me going west in order to go east. Run through that once more, and let me take notes."

She laughed. "If you think about east and west in the mountains, you'll go crazy. Just concentrate on left and right, and up and down." She repeated the instructions. "Then ask anyone at Five Points Market how to reach Hawk's Nest Drive. It's very well known."

"Thank you for your assistance," he said. "If I get lost I'll send up a rocket."

She escorted him hospitably to the door. "Enjoy your stay. Be sure to walk through the woods to your private lake. It's enchanting! In fact, you'll love everything about Tiptop and want to buy it before the season's over."

"If I do," Qwilleran said, "my first move will be to change its name."

Unlocking the car, he said to his passengers, "Sorry for the holdup, but we're on our way now. It won't be long before you can have a good dinner and a new house to explore."

For answer there was some stoic shuffling and squirming in the carrier.

As he started to drive, Big Potato was on his left; soon it was ahead of him; next it was on his right. Yet, he was not aware of having made any turns. It was quite different from downtown Pickax, where streets were laid out north and south and every turn was ninety degrees. He found the market at Five Points, however, and loaded a shopping cart with food for the Siamese, plus ice cream, doughnuts, and a can of pork and beans for himself.

At the checkout counter the cashier surveyed with undisguised curiosity the ten cans of red salmon, six cans of crabmeat, five frozen lobster tails, eight cans of boned chicken, and two packages of frozen jumbo shrimp. "Find everything you want?" he asked helpfully, glancing at the oversized moustache.

"Yes, you have a fine store," Qwilleran said. "Do you take traveler's checks?"

"You bet!" The young man's badge indicated that he was the manager, filling in at the cash register, and he was briskly managerial—a smiling, rosy-cheeked, well-scrubbed, wholesome type. Qwilleran thought, He runs in marathons, pumps iron, coaches basketball at the boys' club, and eats muesli. There's such a thing as looking too healthy.

"We have a good produce department," the manager said. "Just got some fresh pineapple."

"This is all I need at the moment, but I'll be back. I'm staying in the mountains for three months."

"Where are you staying?" The young man seemed genuinely friendly and not merely interested in selling pineapples.

"At a place called Tiptop. Can I get these things home before they thaw? I'm a stranger here."

"You'll be up there in ten minutes if you take the Snaggy Creek cutoff. Did you buy Tiptop?"

"No. Just renting."

As the manager totaled the array of salmon, crab, lobster, chicken, and shrimp he asked politely, "Are you with a group?"

"No, we're only a small family of three, but we like seafood and poultry."

The man nodded with understanding. "Everybody's worried about cholesterol these days. How about some oat bran cookies?"

"Next time. Tell me about this cutoff."

The manager closed the checkout counter and accompanied Qwilleran to the exit. Pointing up the hill he said, "Okay. This street winds around for half a mile and deadends at a pond. That's really Snaggy Creek, swollen by the heavy rain. Turn left there and go to the fork. Okay? Take the right spur. It goes downhill, which may look wrong, but don't try to figure it out. Just remember: the right spur. Okay? After you cross a culvert—the water's pretty high there—watch for some wet rocks on the left and immediately turn right across a small bridge. Okay? About two-tenths of a mile farther on, there's another fork . . ."

Qwilleran was scribbling frantically.

"That's the simplest and fastest way to go," the manager assured him. "You won't have any trouble. By the way, my name's Bill Treacle. I'm the manager."

"I'm Jim Qwilleran. Thanks for the directions."

"Hope we have some good weather for you."

"It's more humid than I expected," Qwilleran said.

"That's very unusual, but the weatherman has promised us a nice weekend." Treacle helped load the groceries into the trunk, exclaimed over the Siamese, and said a cheery "Hurry back!"

Two hours later Qwilleran was cursing the friendly Bill Treacle and his Snaggy Creek cutoff. Either the man had misdirected him, or someone had moved the spurs, forks, culverts, bridges, and wet rocks. There was nothing remotely resembling a paved road that might be Hawk's Nest Drive. There were no road signs of any kind, and for the last hour there had been no signs of life, on foot or on wheel. He could no longer see Spudsboro down in the valley.

"Don't tell me I'm on the outside of the mountain!" he shouted in exasperation. "How did I land on the other side without going over the top or through a tunnel? Does anybody know?"

"Yow-ow!" said Koko with the infuriating authority of one who has all the answers.

The dirt road Qwilleran was now following was merely a narrow ledge between a towering cliff and a steep dropoff, with no guardrails even at hazardous hairpin turns. Gouged by tires during the recent wet spell, it had been blow-dried by mountain winds into treacherous ruts, bumps, and potholes. The ice cream was melting in the trunk; the frozen shrimp were thawing, but Qwilleran cared little about that. He simply wanted to arrive somewhere—anywhere—before dark and before the gas tank registered empty. Suddenly visibility was zero as he drove into a low-flying cloud. And all the time the Siamese were howling and shrieking in the backseat.

"Shut up, dammit!" he bellowed at them.

At that moment the bouncing, shuddering sedan emerged from the cloud and headed into someone's front yard. Qwilleran jammed on the brakes.

It was only a rough clearing. An old army vehicle and a rusty red pickup with one blue fender were parked in front of a weatherbeaten dwelling that was somewhat more than a shack but considerably less than a house. Two nondescript dogs came out from under the porch with a menacing swagger like a pair of goons. If they had barked, someone might have come forth to answer Qwil-leran's question, but they watched in threatening silence from a distance of ten feet. There were no other signs of life. Even in the backseat there was a palpable silence. After a reasonable wait he opened the car door cautiously and stepped out in slow motion. The watchdogs continued to watch.

"Good dogs! Good dogs!" he said in a friendly tone as he proceeded toward the house with his hands in his pockets. Through the open windows and half-opened door he could hear a sound of muffled beating. With a certain amount of suspicion he mounted three sagging wood steps to a rickety porch and rapped on the door. The beating stopped, and a shrill voice shouted some kind of question.

"Hello there!" he replied in the same amiable tone he had used to address the watchdogs.

A moment later the door was flung wide and he was confronted by a hollow-cheeked, hollow-eyed young woman with long, straight hair cascading over her shoulders. She said nothing but gave him a hostile glare.

"Excuse me," he said in a manner intended to be disarming. "I've lost my way. I'm looking for Hawk's Nest Drive."

She regarded him with indecision, as if wondering whether to reach for a shotgun.

"You're on the wrong mountain!" she snapped.