The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-9-

There were times when Koko made Qwilleran’s head ache. It happened in the process of thought transference. The cat stared at the man’s forehead, and the latter suddenly remembered it was time to feed the cats or change the litter in their commode. If slow in remembering, he experienced a dull ache between the eyes as the staring intensified.

For example, one day Qwilleran was slumping on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, trying to think of a topic for the “Qwill Pen.” Writing more than a hundred original columns a year put a strain on his inventiveness. Suddenly he swung his feet to the floor. He had an idea! Why not write a thousand words in praise of “the ample moustache”? There had been many moustaches of amplitude, made famous by Mark Twain, Teddy Roosevelt, Pancho Villa, A. G. Spalding, Einstein, Groucho Marx, Simon Legree, British airmen in World War II… and Qwilleran himself knew a thing or two about the advantages and disadvantages of an ample moustache. He could easily milk a thousand words out of this topic.

He touched his forehead; the dull ache between the eyes was subsiding. He glanced at Koko, who was sitting on a large book on the coffee table. It was Qwilleran’s pleasure to have a few important books on display: new, large-format, and handsome. They were good for browsing, effective conversation starters when he had guests, and especially appreciated by the bibliocat. Koko liked to sit on a large book - “keeping it warm,” as Qwilleran said.

At this moment there were three books on the table: one on baseball history, one on Andrew Wyeth. The book that Koko was keeping warm was Mark Twain A to Z, a reference work with a jacket photo of the great American writer and his great moustache! Qwilleran slapped his forehead as the truth struck him: Koko had done it again! It was happening more and more in recent months. Qwilleran thought, Mine not to question how or why; just accept it and be grateful.

It happened again on the day after Maude Coggin’s funeral. He was lolling in the library, listening to tapes, and the Siamese were on hand, enjoying the propinquity of a family threesome. Yum Yum had her back turned, but Koko was watching Qwilleran intently. Halfway through the recording, it occurred to him that he had never listened to the taped conversation with Maude Coggin. Without finishing the reel, he switched to the reedy, high-pitched voice of the ninety-three-year-old. The cats were silent as she talked about her life - silent until the remark about “taters and beans.” It brought an unexpected yowl from Koko - imperative enough to make Qwilleran play the passage again:

“But how do you cultivate all this acreage, Mrs. Coggin?”

“Some young lads been tillin’ it since Bert passed on. Hunnerd acres, all-a-ways back to the river. With them big machines, it ain’t like it were. Good lads, they be. Paid me rent, they did, for twenty year, ‘thout missin’ a month.”

“I think I know them - the McBee brothers.”

“Don’t rent the land no more. Sold the whole caboodle! No more taxes to pay, an’ I can live here ‘thout payin’ rent. This new feller loves the soil, he does, like Bert did. He’s gonna plant food crops - taters an’ beans - “

Koko yowled again. Something about the message was bothering him, and Qwilleran was feeling tremors on his upper lip. He turned off the machine and phoned Rollo McBee. The farmer was in the barnyard, but his wife was eager to talk.

“Did you see the six o’clock news?” she asked excitedly. “They showed the dogs, and Culvert, and the flowers, and the farmers, but not His Royal Highness, the mayor! Isn’t that a joke? Him and his limousine!”

“You can compliment Culvert on his handling of the dogs,” Qwilleran said. “And thank the pastor for his appropriate remarks - also the Farmers’ Collective for turning out in such numbers.”

“Yes, it was a nice mark of respect for the poor soul, wasn’t it?”

“Are you going to keep the dogs?”

“It looks like it. Culvert has decided he wants to be a veterinarian, so I guess we’re starting with a five-bed dog hospital.”

“Good for him! … By the way, I’m glad to hear the Collective is sponsoring a team in the spelling bee.”

“So am I. It’s a good cause. My sister-in-law is going to spell for the farmers, and Culvert would love to be on the team, but I told him it’s just for adults. I bet he could beat’ em all, though.”

“I believe it,” Qwilleran said. Then he edged into his reason for calling. “The organizers of the spelling bee would like to line up some Lockmaster sponsors, and I thought about Northern Land Improvement. Do you have their address and/or phone number?”

“Wait till I get the rent file, Mr. Q.” She returned with a phone number but no address - only a post office box.

As the conversation ended, Koko walked from the room with a resolute step and slightly lowered head. Qwilleran thought, There’s something on his mind; he’s going to do something rash… A moment later there was a crash, accompanied by a metallic, bell-like clatter.

Qwilleran rushed to the foyer and found the antique brass handbell on the stone floor. There was no damage to the bell - only a small chip out of the flagstone.

“Bad cat!” he scolded. “Very bad cat!”

Koko was not there to hear the reprimand.

The phone number of Northern Land Improvement was indeed a Lockmaster exchange, and Qwilleran called several times without getting an answer, or even an answering machine. Koko only made matters more irritating by bleating in a pessimistic monotone. Qwilleran said, “I wish you’d stop your eternal kvetching!” Yet he himself felt dispirited. He pounded his moustache with his fist. He was getting a hunch that Northern Land Improvement was a sub rosa division of XYZ Enterprises. It was the developers’ scheme to obtain prime land at a favorable price. Sellers always upped their asking price when XYZ showed an interest in buying. As it had happened, Maude Coggin was a pushover, and after fleecing the aged woman out of her property, the bogus company would dissolve. That was Qwilleran’s train of thought.

The Coggin farm backed up to the east fork of the Ittibittiwassee River, where water rushed over giant boulders and willows grew on the banks. It would be ideal for another Indian Village, closer to town. As for the rumors about a possible cemetery and an unsightly facility for the road commission, they could be no more than that - rumors, planted by XYZ.

Qwilleran had no respect for the organization that had botched Breakfast Island. Their residential projects made a good show but cut comers on construction. The Indian Village development in Suffix Township, where Qwilleran had bought a condo for winter use, was a case in point. Yet it was a moneymaker for XYZ.

His reflections were interrupted by a phone call from Derek Cuttlebrink’s girlfriend, Elizabeth Hart. She had used some of her inherited wealth to open a gift boutique in the resort town of Mooseville. It was a venture that only an heiress could afford; gift boutiques had never done well in this fishing, boating, camping mecca. Bait shacks and T-shirt shops were the best bet. Qwilleran could guess why she was calling, and he was right.

“Has Derek told you about his job offer?” she asked anxiously without polite preliminaries.

“Yes, and he seems quite flattered,” he replied.

“Flattered! Have you ever been to that place, Qwill? He look me there one night, and I refused to stay. Horrid food, cheap service, mindless noise, with everyone shouting and screaming, while two television channels blasted at each other! It would be a dreadful work environment for anyone with Derek’s qualities. I wish you would dissuade him from accepting, Qwill. He respects your judgment.”

“It’s not for me to interfere with his career choices,” Qwilleran said, “especially since I’ve never been to Chet’s, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do: although barbecue isn’t my favorite food, I’ll sacrifice my tastebuds for your sake and go there tonight.”

“Thank you, thank you, Qwill. I’m counting on your support.”

“How’s the boutique business?”

“My shop has just opened. When are you coming to see it?”

“This weekend.”

“How are the kitties?”

“They’re fine. Yum Yum is chief bug catcher, and Koko is taking singing lessons from the birds.”

Hanging up, Qwilleran turned to Koko, who was listening with ears pointed inquisitively. “That was Elizabeth Hart. She asked about you.”

As Qwilleran prepared dinner for the Siamese, they had their feline Happy Hour, chasing up and down the ramp. On the way up, Koko was the chaser and Yum Yum the chasee. At the top she slammed on the brakes and chased him all the way down, Time: sixteen seconds.

Qwilleran, dressed in grubbies for his dinner date at Chet’s Bar & Barbecue, watched them gobble their canned crabmeat garnished with goat cheese. He said to them, “You guys are dining better than I am tonight.”

There were two restaurants in Kennebeck, He and his friends patronized Tipsy’s Tavern, founded in the 1930s and named after the owner’s cat. Famous for high-caliber steak and fish, it occupied a sprawling log cabin. Chet’s, in a cinder block building down the street, advertised “Plain, Clean, and Friendly.”

When Qwilleran entered Chet’s for the first time, all the tables were filled, and the atmosphere was hazy with smoke. Wetherby Goode signaled him from the bar, Normally known as a snappy dresser, he looked suitably grungy for the occasion.

“It wasn’t easy,” he explained, “I threw everything out in the driveway and ran over it with the van a couple of times.”

“It’s crowded,” Qwilleran observed, “It’s always crowded. Let’s have a drink at the bar and grab the first table that is available.” He turned to the redheaded bartender, “Give the gentleman a Squunk water with a twist.”

“Hi, Mr. Q,” said the young man, “First time I ever seen you here.”

“I hope it won’t be the last,” Qwilleran replied with tactful ambiguity.

In the center of the backbar was a portrait of Chester Ramsbottom, the one that Paul Skumble had been painting at the Art Center, Surrounding it were ten framed watercolors of shafthouses, labeled with the names of the ten historic mines, now abandoned: Buckshot, Goodwinter, Moosejaw, Old Glory, Big B, Dimsdale, Black Creek, Honey Hill, Smith’s Folly, and Three Pines.

As Qwilleran analyzed the variations in light, shadow, ,angle, coloration, and season of the year, the bartender said, “My great-grandfather worked in the Buckshot.”

“It had a cave-in this year during the flood,” the weatherman said.

“Yeah… Say, you guys live in Indian Village, don’t you? I’m thinkin’ of buy in’ a condo there.”

The two customers glanced at each other. The condos at Indian Village, despite their questionable construction, were pricey and occupied by successful professionals or persons of independent means.

Qwilleran said, “They look good, but they’re poorly constructed. You might be sorry.”

“The windows rattle,” Wetherby said. “The floors bounce when a cat walks across them.”

“You can hear your next-door neighbor stirring sugar in his coffee.”

“I don’t care. I always wanted to live there,” said the bartender. Then he leaned across the bar and said in a confidential voice, “I’m gettin’ promoted. I’m gonna be manager. It’s a good deal… Hey! There’s an empty table!”

The men made a dash for it, and when they sat down, Wetherby remarked, “Chet must pay his manager good money if he can afford to live in Indian Village.”

“Somebody’s got his signals crossed,” Qwilleran said. “Derek Cuttlebrink’s been offered the job.”

An overworked waitress interrupted. “Pork, beef, or turkey? Sandwich or platter? Hot-mild, hot-hot or call 911?” In a matter of seconds she was back with plastic plates piled high, while two fluffy white rolls teetered on the summit. “If you want seconds of any thin’, wave your fork.”

Everyone in the restaurant had to shout in order to be heard above the general din, and that resulted in a privacy of sorts - the privacy of deafening noise. Loudly Qwilleran and Wetherby talked about the dogs at the funeral, the parrot at the Art Center, and the weatherman’s cat, Jet Stream.

“I’ve built Jet-boy a screened porch outside the kitchen window,” Wetherby said. “It’s two-by-two-by-two feet, screened on three sides and carpeted wall-to-wall. The land slopes down to the river, so he has an aerial view.”

“Does he stare at you when he wants something?” Qwilleran asked.

“No, he stares at the refrigerator when he wants food and stares at the kitchen window when he wants out.”

“That makes sense… Koko and Yum Yum have developed an unnatural friendship with seven crows who hang around, strutting back and forth like a drill team, bouncing up and down and fluttering their wings. I don’t know exactly what’s going on.”

“I have a cousin in Virginia who’s a corvidologist, and she says crows are among the smartest of birds. She believes they’ll be the next big animal fad. We’ve had frogs, owls, monkeys, pigs, whales, and dinosaurs. Now she thinks we’re due for crow posters, crow T-shirts, crow jewelry, and who knows what else. Let’s face it, crows are neat!”

“Thoreau liked the sound of crows,” Qwilleran said. “Teresa - that’s my cousin - has an idea for an animated feature film about crows, but she needs someone to work up a scenario. Would you be interested?”

“It would be quite a challenge, quite an adventure.”

“She’s coming up here to visit family this summer, and we’ll get you two together. I think you’ll like her.”

The waitress kept returning, urging them to have more of this or more of that.

Wetherby said to Qwilleran, “Did you know that Chet’s father was a bootlegger during Prohibition? He had a blind pig in one of the abandoned shafthouses. The rule was: if you fall down the mineshaft, you’ve had too many.”

“I keep looking at his portrait and wondering if his expression is one of intelligence or craftiness. Paul Skumble is said to have a talent for revealing two sides of a persona. I’ve commissioned him to paint Polly’s portrait.”

“You’d better chaperon the sittings,” Wetherby said. “He also has a talent for charming the socks off his female subjects.”

“Thanks for warning me, Joe.” Wetherby Goode was an alias; his real name was Joe Bunker.

There was a scream at the other end of the room, and everyone in the restaurant joined in singing “Happy Birthday.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Qwilleran said. “I’ve had enough barbecue to last a lifetime.”

Outdoors, the silence of a small town fell on their ears like a blessing. As they were saying good night, Qwilleran asked Wetherby if he had ever heard of Northern Land Improvement in Lockmaster.

“No, but I’m not much into real estate,” the weatherman said.

“I have their phone number but don’t get an answer. If I could get in touch with the principals, I could throw some business their way. They must have registered their assumed name with the county clerk. Do you have any contact at the county building?”

“No, but I can track ‘em down easily enough… If you’re selling some of your lake frontage, I’ll make an offer.”

“You’ll have first refusal, Joe. Enjoyed the evening. Give Jet Stream my regards.”