The Cat Who Went Underground

CHAPTER 12.

ON SUNDAY MORNING Qwilleran recalled Mrs. Ascott’s messages with mixed reactions. He suspected she had received no vibrations whatever about Clem Cottle and was only trying to save face. He resented her ominous reference to Mildred’s health; there were less frightening ways of urging a friend to have a physical checkup. On the other hand, the idea of a spirit message from Joy Wheatley, with whom he had been so close for so many years, was disturbing. He remembered Roger’s story about Harriet and the nursery ceiling.

He was on the porch with the Sunday papers, throwing each section on the floor as he finished reading it. Yum Yum liked to roll on them, kicking and squirming and having a good time. At one point he went indoors to call Mildred and discuss the events of the previous evening. There was no answer, of course; she and Sharon were chauffeuring Mrs. Ascott back to Lockmaster. While he was letting the phone ring the recommended number of times, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of ripping paper. Koko was standing on a newspaper with his front end down and his hind end elevated and his tail stiffened into a question mark. With teeth aid claws he was shredding the Moose County Something. It was the second time Koko had attacked the “Qwill Pen” column.

“This has got to stop!” Qwilleran scolded. “Shape up, or we’ll ship you to Washington. You can get a job at the Pentagon.”

Why did that cat never shred the Daily Fluxion or the Morning Rampage or the New York Timesi Did it have some-diing to do with the quality of the paper or the smell of the ink? Patiently he gathered the torn scraps of newsprint. Koko had destroyed Emma Wimsey’s story about Punkin.

Qwilleran had met many old-timers since moving to Moose County: the incredible Aunt Fanny; Grandma Gage, who did pushups and headstands; Homer Tibbitt, still doing volunteer work at ninety. When he was with them, he felt he was talking with his own grandparents, whom he had never known. Now he had a sudden strong urge to drive to Pickax and visit the Senior Care Facility. He could scout the possibilities of more memoirs. He might take some flowers to Emma Wimsey. He wondered if the Chief Canary would be on duty. Smugly he groomed his moustache with his fingertips.

Sunday afternoon was a popular visiting day at the Facility. Cars filled the parking lot, and relatives were chatting with residents in the lounge, the lobby, and the dining room. The “canaries” flitted about in their yellow smocks, bringing the elderly down from their rooms, watching lest they became overtired or overexcited, then wheeling them back to the elevator.

Irma Hasselrich, in her yellow blazer, was on duty at the reception desk. “Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!” she greeted him. “We’ve all been reading your column about Emma and Pun-kin. It’s delightful!”

“Thank you,” he said, “but I can’t take credit. It was Emma’s story.”

“We read it to her three times, and it brought tears to her eyes. I myself thought it was beautifully written-with such sincerity and compassion.” Qwilleran preened his moustache with pleasure. Although he affected modesty, he relished compliments about his writing. “Is she allowed to have flowers?” He was carrying a bunch of daisies in a florist’s green tissue.

“Of course. She’ll be thrilled! I’ll have someone bring her down to the reading room, where it’s quiet. We’re getting awfully busy today. By the way, Emma had some discomfort this week, and the doctor is limiting her visits to ten minutes.”

When Emma’s wheelchair rolled into the reading room, she reached forward to clasp Qwilleran’s hand with both of her shrunken ones, her thin lips trembling in a smile. “Thank you … for that beautiful … write-up,” she said, her speech faltering and her voice noticeably weaker. More than ever she appeared fragile and wispy.

“It was a pleasure to write,” he said, “and here’s a small thank-you for sharing your story about Punkin.”

“Oh!” she cried. “I never had any .’. . flowers in … green paper. We never had … money for … fancy things.”

“May I ask, after you went to college, did you teach school?”

“Yes. The school had … one room. There was … a potbellied stove … and oil lamps …”

He tried to ask questions that would focus her attention and jog her memory, but her answers were hesitant and vague. “You told the story of Punkin very well. Do you remember any other tales?’”

“I used to know … a lot of stories. … I wrote them down … I don’t know where they are.”

“Emma, honey,” said the volunteer, “they’re safe and sound in your room upstairs.” She caught Qwilleran’s eye and tapped her watch. Emma was looking weary.

“We’ll have another visit someday,” he said. “Until then, goodbye.” He clasped her cold hands in his.

“Goodbye,” she said in a wisp of a voice.

As Emma was wheeled away, clutching her daisies, he went to the reception desk to speak with Irma Hasselrich. “She seems to be failing,” he said.

“But you never know!” she said brightly. “These farm-women have tremendous stamina.” Optimism was the policy of the canaries.

“The newspaper is interested in running more memoirs of old-timers. How many residents do you have?”

“Sixty-five, and others on the waiting list.”

“Would it be possible to screen them? The volunteers probably know who has a reliable memory and who has a story to tell.”

“I’ll raise the question at a staff meeting this week,” she said, “but we wouldn’t want to discriminate, would we? We might hurt the feelings of some of these dear folks. They’re like children.”

Her gentleness was attractive, Qwilleran thought, yet she bad a cultivated sophistication. He was curious about this stunning woman, probably about forty, who had never married, who dedicated her life to helping others, and who still lived with her parents in Indian Village. This much he had gleaned from her father, the jovial attorney for the Klingenschoen Fund.

He said, “You could help a great deal with this project, if you could be good enough to give me some background information on policies of the facility.

Perhaps you would be free for dinner some evening.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “I’ll be on the desk every evening this week, but it’s charming of you to ask.”

“How about Saturday night?”

“I would really love it, but it’s Father’s birthday.”

Before Qwilleran could huff into his moustache, a voice called out, “Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran! I’m glad I caught you.” It was Emma’s canary, waving a shopping bag. “Emma wants you to have these things-to keep.”

“What are they?”

“Just little mementoes, and some stories about her life.”

“Shouldn’t she give them to her family?”

“Her family isn’t really interested, but Emma says you’ll think of something to do with them. There’s a candy box that was a valentine from her husband, probably seventy years ago.”

“Give her my thanks,” he said. “Tell her I’ll write her a letter.”

When he turned back to finish his conversation with the Chief Canary, she had walked away from the desk, replaced by a lesser canary in a yellow smock. “Ms. Hasselrich was needed in a meeting,” she said. “Is there a message?”

There was no message. He carried Emma’s keepsakes to the parking lot, thinking, What am I doing here? I could have been an investigative reporter Down Below.

At the cabin Koko was immediately attracted to the shopping bag and its contents. He took a vital interest in anything new, anything different, any addition to the household, and Mrs. Wimsey’s mementoes-having been on a farm for seventy years-probably retained an enticing scent. Among the notebooks and envelopes and loose papers was the candybox, covered in faded pink brocade that was almost threadbare and topped with a heart outlined in yellowed lace-a pathetic reminder of bygone happiness. Qwilleran stuffed the documents back into the shopping bag and added the candybox to the clutter on the dining table, where Koko applied his inquisitive nose to every inch of the old silk and lace, all the while tapping the table with his tail. Tap tap tap.