SIAMESE SUMMERS
Lea Tassie
Smashwords Edition October 2009
ISBN 978-0-9738541-9-0
Copyright ©2009 by Lea Tassie
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole
or in part without permission.
Cover Art © Lynn Arnold
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One of the most delightful cat books I've ever read, even better than Cats in Clover! You'll want to stay on Adriana Island forever with Ben and Holly and their four-footed friends. (Sharon King-Booker, author of 15 Dark and Twisted Tales and Slaybells Ring)
Contents
“How soon will you get the lab report?” I put King George the Magnificent back in his cat carrier, where he hunched down and swore in Siamese. I could tell by the look in his eyes as I closed the lid that he intended to get even with me for unforgivable lèse majesté. Not only had I forced him into a small, dark box, I’d allowed the vet to stick a needle in him.
“Tomorrow,” Jerry said, scrubbing the examination table with disinfectant.
“How come so fast?”
Jerry grinned at me. “Holly, this is veterinary medicine, not people medicine.”
“That settles it. In my next life I am definitely coming back as a cat.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem; you keep telling me you’re already half cat.” He lugged the cat carrier out to the car and said, “Don't forget we have a bridge game later this week.”
“I never forget to show up for bridge games. I don't even mark them on the calendar.”
“You must really be hooked,” Jerry said, one hand resting on the hood of the car.
“I am. Every hand requires the use of strategy and psychology, and each hand is different. Every one is a challenge.”
“Just like every cat is a challenge,” he said, waving his hand at the cat carrier. “Particularly Mr. Magnificence there.” He grinned and hurried back into his clinic.
As I drove through the serene April sunshine, past small farmsteads, then steep hills clad in fir, cedar and arbutus, toward the east side of Adriana Island where Ben and I lived on our mini-farm, I couldn’t help worrying about the lab report. My other cat, Henry, my beautiful Buddhist cat, had been diagnosed with Feline Immunodeficiency Virus a year and a half ago. Though I was fairly sure George hadn’t come into contact with Henry’s saliva or blood, we’d decided to have George tested for FIV. Not that we could do much about it if the diagnosis was positive, but at least we’d know what to expect.
Henry was a big gray cat with white bib, belly and paws, who had turned up one winter night and somehow persuaded George, a fiercely territorial tabby-Siamese, to let him stay. Ever since then he’d been trying to teach George democracy and me the futility of worrying, but I doubted that either of his pupils would learn our lessons well enough to graduate.
The Chevy shuddered across the cattle guard that supposedly kept wandering cows out of our farm and George’s muttered curses rose to a demanding yowl.
“I beg your indulgence, Magnificent One; you’ll be out of that carrier in about one minute.”
Three dozen hens and Mr. Mighty, the Leghorn rooster who continually competed with George for the title of King, scattered toward the orchard as I came down the driveway. Nicky, our fat, snow-white Samoyed dog, danced beside the car as I pulled into the carport next to Ben’s battered blue pickup. Now I remembered, five miles and fifteen minutes too late, that I hadn’t brought Nicky his usual treat from the grocery store in Mora Bay.
By the time I was out of the car, Ben had hurried over from the big greenhouse he’d built during the winter.
“When will Jerry get the lab report?”
I managed not to smile at the intense look on his face. When we’d moved to the farm three years before, Ben had thought cats were boring creatures who did nothing but eat and sleep. Now he was a devoted slave to George and Henry and called himself their Houseboy. He’d also become a modern-day version of St. Francis of Assisi, who fed deer, raccoons, birds and squirrels and would no doubt have fed mice if George had allowed any on our five-acre farm.
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s fast.” Ben took the cat carrier in through the back door – though we should have called it the front door because it was the one we always used – and set it down beside the washer and dryer. He opened the carrier and George charged out, ears back, tail quivering with indignation. My ten-pound King stalked into the kitchen, lecturing us loudly in semi-Siamese tones.
“George,” I said, “stop yelling. I had to do it.”
He turned his back on me, sat down and began grooming his black and gray stripes to their usual elegance. His big ears were still folded back and I knew there was an angry glint in those large green eyes.
Henry strolled in from the living room, his big, gray froth of a tail carried jauntily upright, the sign of a happy cat, flopped down in front of George and said, “Prrrt?”
Ben stroked his beard, a sure sign he was worried about something. “Holly, we need to talk. I had a phone call while you were gone.”
“Can it wait? I’ve got an appointment to interview the new owners of that RV park near Gordon Bay and I’m already late.”
Ben sighed. He was proud of Tidelines, the column I wrote for our weekly island newspaper, the Adriana Advocate, but I was always rushing off somewhere just when he was in the mood to discuss weighty subjects like what kind of lettuce to plant or the mess the cats and I had made of his current budget. “It can wait. Go on, or you’ll be even later. I’ll soothe Georgius Felinus Rex’s wounded feelings and give him an extra treat for lunch.”
Ben’s hobby was the study of ancient Rome and he’d given George the impressive Latin moniker about the same time he’d named himself Houseboy and me Head Slave. Now he carried George to the kitchen counter, saying, “It’s not easy being a cat in this house, is it, Your Majesty?”
“Save me some lunch, too,” I said, as I headed toward the door.
“I’ll try,” Ben said, “but Cal’s eating with me. We’re going to extend the watering system to the rose garden.” Cal was our next-door neighbor, the local Mr. Fix-It, and he and Ben always had their heads together over one project or another. The only time they disagreed was over politics. Ben was right-wing, Cal left-wing. I didn’t want to get involved in their fist-thumping arguments, so I refused to tell anyone, even the cats, who I voted for. I liked Cal a lot, but his stomach was a bottomless pit. There wouldn’t be a crumb left, no matter how much lunch Ben made.
I climbed back in the car and retraced my route, this time skirting Mora Bay and heading south along the island’s west shore. I’d visited Rollin RV Park, near Gordon Bay, in the fall, when the Rollins still owned it, and had written part of a column on what a great place it was for a vacation. The camp sites were scattered among the trees for maximum privacy and a shady trail wound though the arbutus trees down to a sand and pebble beach littered with driftwood. The Rollins had lived there for years, doing most of the development of their five acres after he’d retired from the small mill outside Mora Bay.
I drove in through the wide gate, surprised to see that the old hand-lettered sign had been replaced with a slick professional version in metal and bright blue paint. It wasn’t out of place, but I wondered why the new owners thought they needed it. Ted Rollin had told me he always had a waiting list for RV slots and sometimes even for tent sites.
The small office was to the left, just inside the gate. I went in and rang the buzzer. While I waited for the young blonde woman who emerged from the old-fashioned stucco house fifty yards away, I heard a faint scratching behind the desk. Mice? Not likely. Mice were usually cautious enough to be quiet around humans.
“I’m Deanna Perry,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “You must be Holly Sutton.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I had to take one of my cats to the vet this morning and it took longer than I expected.”
“Cats? You have cats? Here, would you like another one?” Deanna hauled a cardboard box from behind the counter, set it at my feet and retreated. “I can’t touch the creature; I’m violently allergic.”
Inside the box, crouched in one corner, was a cream-colored kitten with fawn feet, tail and ears. Out of a light brown little face shone the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Definitely part Siamese. She croaked at me in a tiny voice and I picked her up and cuddled her against my chest. Her small body was warm against my hand and I could feel a steady heart beat and hear the rumble of a purr that seemed too loud for such a tiny creature.
I looked in the box. It was empty, except for a damp patch in one corner, and smelled of urine. No water, no food. I got a grip on my rising anger and said, “How long has she been in that box?”
“Since yesterday,” Deanna said. She leaned on the counter and scowled at the kitten. “Some people in a motor home accidentally left it behind. Peter, my husband, found it trying to get in our back door. We’re not going to allow stray cats around here, breeding and begging and being a nuisance.”
“She’s too young to breed.” I was trying not to grit my teeth.
“Whatever. I called the people and they didn’t want to come all the way back here for her. Apparently they only got the kitten because one of their kids nagged them into it. They said it wouldn’t matter, that cats can look after themselves. But with my allergies, I simply can’t have any animals on the place.”
“Look,” I said, “this kitten is probably dying of thirst. Could you get me a little dish of water?”
While Deanna was gone, I crooned to the kitten. Why was I calling it ‘she’? Another glance at her face gave me the answer. She looked so tiny and helpless, so soft and delicate, it was difficult to think ‘he.’ But we’d made that same mistake when George adopted Henry. Henry had long soft cloud-gray fur, a white blaze on his nose, slanted yellow eyes and a great plume of a tail. Ben said the cat was too pretty to be male and named it Henrietta. When we took Henrietta to Jerry for shots and to have a leg wound treated, he surprised us by suggesting we have ‘him’ neutered. I’d told Ben it was lucky he’d given the cat a name that could be shortened to the male version.
Deanna returned with the water and I put it and the kitten back in the box. The kitten stuck her face in the dish and started lapping.
“I hope you’ll take it,” Deanna said. “Otherwise I don’t know what I’ll do.”
I could tell her to hand the kitten over to the SPCA in Mora Bay, but who knew when she’d get around to it? “I’ll make sure she finds a home.” I hauled my notebook out of my bag. “May I ask you a few questions now?”
“All right.” Deanna was keeping a wary eye on the kitten. “I hope it can’t get out of that box. Is this an article you’re doing about us?”
“No, Tidelines is basically tidbits about the business community on the island. When I run out of news items, I rant about whatever is on my mind at the time.” There’d definitely be some ranting in the next column about people who abandoned small kittens.
Fifteen minutes later I put my notebook away, uneasy about some of the answers Deanna had given me, but not willing to get deeper into a conversation that might reveal I knew less than I should about the legalities of running a business on Adriana. I put the box with the kitten on the front seat of the car and decided it was a good time to visit my friend, Norma Brentwood. Her home was only five minutes away, set between the high tide mark and a thick forest of old-growth timber on the south side of Gordon Bay.
As I parked beside the wide veranda of the old house, its cedar siding weathered to silver-gray, I saw Norma sitting on the porch swing. I was surprised to see her wearing a skirt and sweater. At this time of year she was usually dressed in jeans, shirt and rubber boots, spading up her garden for a new crop of vegetables, or else mending fences.
Norma’s half-dozen cats and her long-haired red dachshund, BJ, greeted me when I walked up the steps, each demanding a ritual head-scratch before stretching out in the sun again. Norma’s smile was subdued, her white hair in its French roll wispier than usual.
“Hi, Norma! Are you ready for another kitten?”
“Sit down, Holly.” She shook her head and sighed. “I’d better not take another kitten right now. Trevor says this place is getting too much for me and that I should think about selling.”
This did not sound like the Norma I knew. “I’m sorry to hear that you’re not feeling well.”
“Oh, I feel fine,” she said, moving restlessly on the swing. “But every time Trevor came over this winter, he told me I’m getting too old to run this place by myself. I suppose it’s time I faced the fact that I’ll be seventy-five next month.”
“Norma! Don’t tell me you’re going to just lie down and die because of a few numbers.” I’d met her son Trevor, a high-priced surgeon in Victoria, and he was way too smooth for my liking.
She frowned at me. “Well, no, I’m not, but Trevor says I could have a heart attack or a stroke any time. Better to have things tidied up before that happens. He’s offered to buy the property from me so I’ll have enough to go into an apartment or a seniors’ home.”
“Very considerate of him.” There was more than that behind Trevor’s offer, I was sure. Norma owned a hundred and sixty acres, half in grazing land, and encompassing two-thirds of Gordon Bay, an inlet known for its sand beaches and safe anchorage. If I were a land developer, I’d be salivating big time.
Norma glanced at two otters munching on a crab at the edge of the quiet cove and sighed. “I just hate to leave here, Holly. I was born in this house, you know.”
I knew. And I knew how much she loved the place. She and I had walked over almost every square foot of it while she told me its history. She had touched the trees as though they were her personal friends.
“Don’t go, then,” I said. “There’s no need to leave things tidy just for Trevor’s convenience.” I rose. “I have to be on my way, Norma. That kitten hasn’t been fed for heaven knows how long and Ben’s anxious about something. Sure you don’t want to see the kitten?”
“Sorry, but I must say no.” She sighed again. “Come back soon, Holly, I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
I climbed into the car, worrying. For the three years I’d known Norma, she’d been busy, brisk and full of energy. Now she was acting like a little old lady. She even looked older.
Had Ben and I aged much since we’d come to Adriana Island three years ago? I didn’t think so. Ben was now closer to sixty than fifty and I wasn’t far behind, but all I’d noticed was that my long braid of black hair had a little more silver in it. Someday I’d look like my Italian grandmother, but not yet. Ben’s blond hair and beard had grayed over the years to a sandy color that hadn’t changed in the last ten. Retirement from the rat race hadn’t turned us into fatties, either. We were both still lean, still wearing the same size jeans we’d worn when younger. Ben occasionally wore overalls and a straw hat and, with those innocent blue eyes of his, looked like a real hayseed. I still didn’t know whether he liked the look or wore the outfit as sort of a joke.
No, we hadn’t changed. And I knew it would take more than the theoretical threat of illness to make us old before we actually felt that way.
I couldn’t understand why Norma was giving in to Trevor so easily. But he was a doctor and her only child. Perhaps she thought his opinion carried more weight than her own. Or it might be that she didn’t want to fight with him.
A small meow from the box reminded me that I still had to make a decision about this little cat. I’d always wanted a Siamese kitten and Ben was agreeable. He'd even promised I could have two. Now one had fallen into my lap. She probably wasn’t pure Siamese, since her former owners had driven off without her, but that didn’t matter. The big question was whether I should expose this tiny creature to the risk of contracting Henry’s FIV.
Supposing I did keep her, what would I call her? I knew that naming an animal almost guarantees it will have you under its paw forever, but I couldn’t resist. What was an apt name for such a tiny little girl? If she was a girl.
The tiny little girl let out a bellow that startled me so much I nearly drove off the road.
“Definitely a Siamese accent,” I said. “I’m sorry, kitten, but you can’t get out of the box. The last thing I need is for you to crawl under the brake pedal just when I have to use it.”
Another comment from the box, soft and plaintive this time. It seemed she was willing to use every weapon in her small arsenal to get what she wanted. That reminded me of another tiny person, a character in a fantasy novel by one of my favorite authors. The girl called Kaylie had needed to use every weapon available in order to survive.
“Kaylie,” I said. “How does that sound?”
She answered with a soft meow and I went back to worrying about her fate. Aside from Henry’s illness, there was George to think about. He was eight now, middle-aged and more conscious than ever of his dignity and elevated position, so he might not accept her. Mr. Mighty, our fierce Leghorn rooster, could take a notion to attack with that sharp beak of his. I tried to think who among our friends would be willing to adopt a kitten and managed to come up with numerous reasons why none of them were suitable candidates for parenthood.
When I coasted down our driveway, Nicky came bounding to meet me. I climbed out of the car, the cardboard box in my arms.
“I’ve got a kitten in here, Nicky. But you’re not allowed to eat her.” He wouldn’t, of course; Nicky adored cats. I just needed to keep talking while I tried to resist temptation.
Nicky nosed the box, tail wagging, and was rewarded with a ladylike little hiss from Kaylie. He decided to follow at a respectful distance. George The Magnificent had raised him from a puppy and Nicky knew that cats were gods and must be worshiped. He’d also had his nose clawed often enough to know he wasn’t allowed to play with them unless invited to do so. Still, he’d never seen a kitten and I didn’t know how he’d react to Kaylie.
I took the box into my den and left it there while I gathered food, water and a litter box. Kaylie needed to recuperate with food and sleep for a couple of days before she went anywhere. She made short work of the Fancy Feast, tramped through the litter box, then through her water dish and climbed up my pant leg into my lap, trailing wet sand.
“I thought you were dainty and delicate,” I said.
She burped and fell asleep. I stroked her gently and murmured, “How could anybody drive off and leave you behind? Didn’t those irresponsible fools know you’re a princess?”
Outside my den door, Nicky whined. George had no doubt caught a whiff of kitten and would be out there, too, his scowl threatening mayhem. Henry might be anywhere; meditating on his favorite chair or up a tree talking to the squirrels.
When I heard Ben’s voice, I yelled, “Come in, but leave the guys outside.”
He squeezed quickly through the door. “Holly, why is the door shut? I want to tell you about that phone call.”
“Not now. We have a more immediate problem.” I lifted my hand so he could see Kaylie.
“That’s a kitten!” he said, unnecessarily. “I thought you weren’t going to get a kitten until Henry…” His voice trailed off.
By the time I finished a detailed description of my meeting with Deanna Perry, Ben was pacing up and down the room. “If I could find those people in the motor home I’d wring their necks! And those people at the park, too, those Perrys. Can you imagine anyone so criminally stupid as to leave an animal shut up with no water?” His voice had risen and outside the door, Nicky’s threatened to burgeon into a proper howl. Even George was complaining about being shut out of the family conference.
“Kaylie’s safe now. We just have to decide what to do with her.”
“We’ll keep her, of course.”
“But what about Henry’s FIV?”
“George is all right,” Ben said.
“We don’t know that. What if Jerry calls tomorrow and says George is infected, too?”
Ben sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” He leaned down and ran a finger along the fur on Kaylie’s back. “Maybe Gareth and Sue will adopt her.” Gareth was Ben’s son.
“I doubt it. Beanbag would have a nervous breakdown.” Their forty-pound corgi was terrified of cats.
“Well, somebody will. Come on, let’s go make coffee and pay some attention to Nicky and George before they tear the door down.”
I left Kaylie, still sound asleep, in my chair and went to the door. Ben opened it and I shooed Nicky, George and Henry out of the way so he could close it again. In the living room I cuddled George, told him he was wonderful and apologized again for subjecting him to the merciless ministrations of the vet. When Ben came in with the coffee, I noticed Nicky had disappeared. Henry sprawled peacefully on the floor and George paced around my lap, torn between staying to enjoy my adoration of his peerless self and exploring that strange cat smell emanating from the den.
Ben had no sooner sat down and said, “Holly, about that phone call …” when Nicky came trotting in from the hall with Kaylie’s body dangling limply from his mouth.
“Nicky!” I screamed, ejecting George from my lap as I leapt up. “Ben, you didn’t close the door properly!”
Before I could do anything, the dog put Kaylie on the floor and stood there grinning, tail waving madly. The kitten shook her head and staggered to her feet, blinking. She stared up at the white giant with his mouthful of teeth, then smacked him across the nose. Nicky stopped grinning and sat down abruptly, his tail slowing to a merely tentative invitation. Kaylie gazed around, blue eyes wide, apparently overwhelmed with the possibilities of her new world.
George looked at the kitten as though he didn’t believe what he was seeing. He sniffed the air a couple of times, then lowered his belly to the floor and crept forward with lissome ease, a fur-covered drop of mercury, growling deep in his throat. Three feet away from Kaylie, he rose to full height, stalked over to her and hissed.
Kaylie looked up at this new monster who weighed twenty times more than she did, arched her back, bared her teeth and spat in George’s face.
George backed up a foot, looking so surprised that I clapped my hand over my mouth. If I laughed, he’d smack Kaylie out of spite or else sulk for the rest of the day. He continued to stare at her, astounded that this tiny creature would dare sass him back.
Kaylie figuratively dusted her little brown paws, stepped around George and minced over to Henry, who was still sprawled on the carpet, watching the proceedings with great interest. Kaylie sniffed his ear, he sniffed hers and they butted heads. Then she turned her attention to Nicky, who was now lying in front of the couch.
They touched noses and Nicky took a swipe at her creamy body with his great tongue, tumbling her on her back. She staggered to her feet and clambered over him, occasionally getting tangled in his long fur. She skidded down his back, thumped to the floor and began clawing her way up the sofa, intent on conquering her personal Mount Everest.
“She’s sure a gutsy little thing,” Ben said. “But she looks so dainty. I thought she’d faint if George even looked at her cross-eyed.”
“I thought she'd run when he hissed at her, but instead she hissed right back.”
“She was pretending to be a bigger snake, I guess.”
“Why a snake?” I asked.
“Because when a cat hisses, it's imitating a snake. This book I got from the library said snakes are one of the most feared animals in the world.”
“I thought she was imitating a tiger and telling George that if he didn't leave her alone, she'd rip him to shreds.”
I knelt, petted George and assured him that he was King forever and that Kaylie wasn't big enough to rip him to shreds. Then I captured Kaylie and petted her, hoping that if they smelled their own scents on each other, Kaylie wouldn’t be so impudent and George would refrain from committing caticide.
Ben took the kitten from me and the little minx sat demurely in his hands, purring, her big blue eyes gazing adoringly into his. He cooed and cuddled her wet head under his chin. Kaylie had made another conquest.
George bellowed, his tone clearly saying, “Look at ME. I’m the most important personage here.”
I picked him up and crooned to him, but his attention was on Ben cuddling the kitten. “Ben, put her down or George will explode with jealousy.”
“Are you going to keep her, now that she’s met everybody?” Ben asked. He took George from me and attempted to soothe the King’s ruffled feathers.
“I won’t know until I talk to Jerry tomorrow,” I said.
I scooped up Kaylie and headed for the den, with Ben, George, Henry and Nicky trailing behind. She decided the litter box was exactly what she needed at that moment and showed her pedigree by burying her puddle under a mountain of sand. Then she took two laps of water and charged off down the hall toward the kitchen, Nicky right behind her, and the two adult cats a few paces behind.
“Aren’t you going to see if she’s all right?” Ben asked.
“I have a feeling Nicky will look after her. Is there any more coffee in the pot?” It had been a long day, what with errands and appointments and the rescue of a kitten who had more guts than Dick Tracy but not nearly as much sense.
Ben poured me a mug of potent brew and I led the way to the front veranda, where I lit a cigarette and slumped down in one of the wooden deck chairs to survey my kingdom. George was convinced it was his kingdom, of course, but it was my name and Ben’s on the title deed.
The meadow, velvety green with new grass, sloped down the hill to the cedars, maples and Garry oaks at the foot of our property. Beyond lay the shimmering blue of the Gulf of Georgia, punctuated in the distance by low-lying rocky islands. I savored the peaceful view with as much pleasure as I did the coffee.
To my left was the orchard, half hidden by the house, where the apple trees were in full bloom. To the right was Ben’s greenhouse and a huge vegetable garden, surrounded by an eight-foot fence to keep out the deer. Between garden and house, budding rose bushes surrounded a concrete patio, a permanent memento of the swimming pool which had been there when we bought the place. Ben loved swimming but after a couple of animals fell into the pool, his St. Francis persona took over. He filled it with rocks, cemented it over and built a rose garden around the perimeter.
I took a sip of coffee, leaned back and heaved a contented sigh. The house renovation was pretty well done, the outbuildings were in good shape, the garden was protected from the deer and I had a new kitten. Maybe.
Life was peaceful. Life was good.
Ben said, “Holly, about that phone call. I don’t know how to tell you this, but …”
I smiled. “How bad can it be?”
He looked as worried as I’d ever seen him. “Bad enough. The call was from my brother Dave.”
I sat up straight. “Your mother’s had another heart attack?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She’s coming to live with us.”
~~~~~
I felt chilled, as though a cloud had drifted across the sun, and my coffee suddenly seemed bitter. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with Edith, Ben’s mother, but I knew the last thing I wanted was for her to live with us. She was opinionated, outspoken and bossy. In other words, George in human form.
“But why does she want to come here?” I asked. “All her friends are in Moose Jaw. And Dave is there.”
“Says she wants to start a new life.”
“She could move to Cuba,” I muttered.
“It might not be so bad, Holly. She could probably help a little bit with the cooking.”
I groaned. I did not need someone messing around in my kitchen, misplacing pots and dishes and telling me how to feed her darling son. When she and Ben’s father, Jim, spent time with us in Victoria, she’d told me not only what to cook and how to cook it but also offered comments on how Ben and I lived our lives. “How can she do housework? She’ll be eighty next November and she’s already had a heart attack.”
“It was just a minor one. A sort of warning, Dave says. She’s actually in much better shape than before she had it, now that she’s exercising and eating properly.”
“Then she can help you with the garden.”
“I don’t think she should do any heavy work,” Ben said. “Besides, when my father was alive, he looked after the garden. She’s got a black thumb, just like you.”
Oh, wonderful. Edith and I had something in common besides Ben. Maybe we’d have a contest to see who could kill house plants the fastest.
“Ben, why would she want to live here? We’re miles from anywhere and there’s nothing for her to do.”
“I don’t know. Dave said she simply announced yesterday that she’d given notice to her landlord and was flying here to move in with us, to begin a new life. She said she’d never lived on a farm and it was time she did. And that’s all he could get out of her.” He shook his head. “I don't understand it. She’s lived in Moose Jaw all her life.”
“Why didn’t you ask Dave to tell her she couldn’t come?”
“How? She’s my mother.”
I noticed then that Ben had a vague look, as though he’d been poleaxed. Various clues from our eighteen years of marriage coalesced in my mind and I concluded that Edith had kept him under her thumb when he was a kid – hardly a surprise – and he still had the habit of obeying her without question.
“How will she take to all our animals?”
Ben sighed. “I don't know. She only once let Dave and I have a pet; that's when we had the collie. My father thought pets were just a nuisance and didn’t approve of wasting money on them. But you know, Holly, I have a hunch my mother liked that dog. She might get along with our gang.”
I’d believe that when I saw it. “When does she arrive?” What I really meant was: how many days of freedom did I have left before doom and disaster destroyed my life? A week? A month? But she was his mother, after all, and I might as well get in the habit of biting my tongue.
He shrugged. “Dave said she’ll phone tonight.”
Ben followed as I took my coffee mug and went inside. “We’d better make some decisions then,” I said. “Where will she sleep?”
“We have three spare bedrooms and a bath upstairs,” Ben said. His tone suggested that I was making a big deal out of nothing. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to think about her moving in and taking over.
“Will she be able to handle the stairs?” I hoped so. I didn’t want to give up our big main floor bedroom and neither would the animals. George, Henry and Nicky slept with us and Kaylie would be sure to join us on the king-size bed if we decided to keep her. If we moved upstairs, so would they. I didn’t like to think of how easy it would be for us to trip over one another as we all went up and down those stairs several times a day.
“I don’t know.” Ben sounded frustrated. “I’ll ask her when she phones. Stop worrying, Holly. Nothing has to be done right this minute.”
I was halfway up the stairs, wondering which of the guest bedrooms would suit Edith, when I was nearly bowled over by a thundering herd of fur. It was led by Kaylie, with Nicky lumbering behind and then George, still with a scowl on his face, no doubt wondering how to regain control of his empire. Henry brought up the rear, more like a UN observer than one of the combatants.
“Hey, guys, this is a stairway, not a racetrack. If you trip me and I break a leg, you won’t get any supper.” They paid no attention, knowing that St. Francis would feed them, whatever happened to me, quite possibly before he thought of phoning 911.
The bedroom in the southwest corner was the largest and I thought that would suit Edith best. The big open area beside the stairwell could be her sitting room when she wanted to get away from us. I hoped she would feel the need often and crossed my fingers that she’d prefer to read, knit and nap rather than try to reorganize Ben and me.
I did have one possible escape hatch. Rather than work in my den where I was already much too available to animals with frequent food and play demands and a husband with unanswerable questions about what kind of seed potatoes to buy – and in the future, a mother-in-law with non-stop complaints – I might persuade the editor of the Adriana Advocate, Scott West, to let me use some space in his premises. I could acquire a cell phone and spend more time roaming the island while I gathered bits of news. I might even find it necessary to go to Victoria or Vancouver to do research. After all, there were always rumors that some developer ready to do battle with the Islands Trust had his eye on Adriana. Someone would have to find out the answers to those crucial newspaper questions: who, what, where, why, when and how. And who better than me?
Feeling a trifle calmer, I went downstairs and headed for the kitchen, keeping a weather eye out for hurricanes of fur. But Nicky, Henry and George squatted in front of the couch, watching a small brown paw occasionally dart out from beneath it. Kaylie was teasing them from her invulnerable position. I threw some dinner together, relieved that she was keeping everyone amused and out from under my feet.
When I went to call Ben in for the meal, he was putting the tiller away.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Good. Another day should see it done and ready to plant. And the seedlings in the greenhouse are doing really well.” He smiled at me. “Maybe we’ll make some money this year. I’m meeting with the owners of the grocery store in Mora Bay next week to see if they’ll give me a contract to supply them with fresh produce.”
We walked back to the house and I paused in the rose garden to give a pat to the cement sculpture of Henry that Ben had made. It had been his first attempt and had taken a dozen tries before he got what he wanted. It was, so far, also his last attempt. Building the greenhouse and putting in a watering system to make his market garden viable had kept him – and often Cal – busy for the last eight months.
After supper we sat in the living room and waited for the phone to ring. George purred on my lap, seeking comfort. His nemesis, Kaylie, was sound asleep between Nicky’s front paws, exhausted from conquering her new world. Henry, who was fond of reviving trends I thought I’d squelched, was asleep on the dining room table.
“These cats are napaholics,” I said to Ben. “They’re always settling down somewhere for a sleep.”
“I think they’re very brave.”
I stared at him. “What does taking naps have to do with being brave?”
“Think about it, Holly. Imagine waking up and facing the dawn of a new day a dozen times oftener than we do.”
The thought made me groan and George, who had put his head down and closed his eyes, looked at me suspiciously. “I’m not moving, Your Highness, just making a comment.” After a moment he went back to sleep.
As the phone continued not ringing, I reminded myself that anticipation is often worse than the actual event. Just the same, I regretted the loss of my old dream of becoming a truck driver. A year ago, the island had needed a delivery service and I had pictured myself driving a big monster of a truck, growling up hills in low gear and making everybody get out of my way. The fact that I’d spent my working life sitting in an office chair and knowing my muscles were well past their prime hadn’t deterred me from the dream. However, someone else had beaten me to it. A young someone, of course, male and muscular, who hefted boxes and lumber as if they were made of air, and made money doing it.
I knew I’d need more than one excuse to escape from Edith. Writing the Tidelines column was a start, but I had to think of something else.
In my musing, I hadn’t noticed that Kaylie was awake and on the move again until Ben said, “Ouch!”
She’d climbed up his trouser leg and was digging her needle-sharp little claws into his knee. He petted her and tried to make her curl up in his lap but she was having none of that. Intent on exploration, she marched up his chest and found a perch on his shoulder.
“Isn’t she cute?” Ben said, rubbing his knee. I could see that he was falling into the role of Houseboy for Kaylie, the same as he had for George and Henry.
Little Miss Cute was peering into Ben’s ear and I thought she might stick a paw in there to see if it was navigable. Before I could warn him, she batted at his ear lobe, then bit it.
“Ow!” He hoisted her off his shoulder and back into his lap. “That is not the action of a lady!”
She scooted off his lap and trotted over to my chair. George rose to his haunches and growled. She stared up at him for a moment, blue eyes bright in her dark little face, apparently not in the least frightened. Afraid that war might break out on my lap, I braced myself to move fast. But she decided not to push her luck and headed for Nicky instead.
Ben said, “Did I say something about how delicate and feminine Kaylie is?”
“Well, she looks the part.”
“You should know looks don’t mean anything. That kitten is Genghis Kahn in disguise.”
“Is your ear bleeding?”
He fingered it. “I don’t think so. But I’d better put some antiseptic and a Band-Aid on it anyway.”
“You did say she’s cute.”
“She is.” He glowered at her.
George rolled over on his back and presented his tummy for rubbing. I obliged, knowing that if I didn’t pay him extra attention until he got used to the kitten, somebody would have to suffer, and the likeliest candidate was me.
“You’ll have to give George some extra ruffs,” I said to Ben. “You know how jealous he gets.”
The phone rang and Ben dashed to the kitchen to answer it.
The conversation went on for fifteen minutes. Henry hopped up to claim half my lap and I sat back with my eyes shut, stroking him and George and trying to live in the moment. Maybe Edith had changed her mind. Maybe all the planes were booked solid for the next year. Maybe she’d had another minor heart attack. No, that was an evil thought. I canceled it and concentrated on the cats’ soft fur.
Ben disconnected and said, “Three weeks. She’s coming in three weeks.”
Three short weeks. Better than three days, though. Did I need to redecorate the bedroom I’d chosen for her? No. Did I need to stock up on groceries? No. The last time we’d visited her in Moose Jaw, she cooked the same kind of food we did. All I had to do for the next three weeks was enjoy every moment and pretend I wasn’t anticipating utter disaster.
While Ben was feeding the raccoons and shutting Mr. Mighty and the hens in their smelly little house for the night, I looked at the picture of Ben’s mother which sat on the corner bookcase. It had been taken last Christmas and she looked much younger than her seventy-nine years. She was a tiny woman, under five feet tall, her short white hair softly curled. Her blue eyes looked demure and her lips curved in a self-deprecating little smile, effectively disguising the will of iron that lurked beneath.
A tiny, delicate little lady.
Just like Kaylie.
***
The next morning, I sat down at the computer to do some research. The first site said there was no cure for FIV, the feline version of human HIV. I already knew that; Jerry had told me. However, the site also informed me that casual, nonaggressive contact among cats rarely resulted in the spread of FIV.
Well, good. Henry was never aggressive. George probably could be if anyone crossed him but every living creature on the farm, except Mr. Mighty, knew better than to try.
The next site said, “FIV is transmitted from cat to cat primarily by bites, as the virus is shed in the saliva. Intimate contact through grooming, sharing food, etc. does not spread the virus.”
Even better. George and Henry never groomed each other and they ate from separate bowls. Nicky groomed any cat that would sit still for it, but that didn’t matter.
“FIV is a fragile virus and can’t survive on food bowls, litter trays or cat baskets, and it is safe to pet your negative cat after handling an FIV positive cat.”
Better and better. I hadn’t realized how worried I’d been until I noticed my shoulders had relaxed into a normal position.
Other sites strongly recommended that all cats be spayed or neutered and also kept inside unless they had a large area in which to run. Both our cats were neutered and Kaylie would be spayed in due time, though we wouldn’t have it done until she was at least six months old. Spaying before then, according to Jerry, might interfere with the hormones necessary for a kitten's normal growth. We also had an unusually large ‘running area’ for cats: five acres, or if you were Ben, who had fallen in love with the metric system when the government brought it in sometime in the 1970’s, two hectares.
When Ben came in for coffee, I said, “Do you think Kaylie senses that Henry isn’t well? She greets him but doesn’t play with him.”
“You’re the Cat Person; can’t you figure it out?”
“I’m trying. It seems reasonable, because she’s always chewing on Nicky. She bites his ears and pounces on his tail and just now she tried to climb one of his legs.”
“How did he react to that?”
“He must think she’s a puppy or else he’s found a new mission in life: herding kittens. Whichever it is, he doesn’t seem to mind what she does to him.”
Ben poured coffee. “If she chews Nicky but not Henry, maybe she does sense something. I suspect cats have a way of communicating that we know nothing about and it’s possible Henry’s told her not to bite him. Has Jerry phoned yet?”
I said no just as the phone rang. It was Jerry.
“George the Magnificent is clean, Holly. No FIV and, luckily, nothing else either.”
“Wonderful! Now I have another question.” I told him about rescuing Kaylie and my dilemma over whether or not to keep her.
“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said, and repeated most of what I’d read on the internet. “George and Henry have lived together for two years without George being infected, so I’d say there is very little risk.”
Elated, I said, “In that case, I guess you’ve got another patient.”
“Bring her in soon so I can check her over.”
I agreed and hung up. Ben refilled our coffee mugs and said, “I take it George doesn’t have FIV?”
“No, he’s fine. And it’s not a fluke; I went surfing the Web this morning and every site I visited said that even if there are infected cats in a multiple-cat household, as long as there are no fights, there’s very little risk. So Kaylie gets to stay.”
Ben grinned and clinked his coffee mug with mine. “It’s a great feeling being a father again.”
I patted his hand. “With luck, you’ll soon have that feeling again. Since it’s safe for Kaylie to live with us, I’m going to see about getting another kitten. You know I’ve always wanted at least six cats.”
Ben groaned. “There goes my budget again!”
I went to the living room door and said to Nicky, “It’s okay, you can keep her.” He looked at me as though I were a few bricks short of a load and went back to bathing Kaylie, pinned but struggling under one of his paws.
When I returned to the kitchen, Ben had brought a book from his den.
“Look,” he said, “I think Kaylie may be valuable. It's possible she's a purebred Siamese.”
The photographs of the sealpoint Siamese kittens did look exactly like our new baby. “Why are these called appleheads? Seems rather an odd name,” I said.
“They’re the original Siamese cats,” Ben said, leaning back and using his hands for emphasis as he went into standard lecture mode. “They’re now called Traditional. The modern Siamese are being bred for longer legs and triangular faces, sort of lean and extreme. The appleheads are built more like ordinary cats, with round heads, though they have that distinctive coloring and the bright blue eyes.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, “just like Kaylie.” If she was purebred, the creamy fur on her back would darken to fawn and her legs, tail, ears and face to a dark brown.
“And listen to this.” He read from the book. “Siamese were once sacred cats, guarding Buddhist temples.”
“Henry’s a Buddhist and I haven’t noticed her guarding him.” I suspected Ben had learned how to lecture from his mother, who had taught elementary school for years and obviously had never got out of the habit of telling people what to do.
“No? Perhaps her idea of guarding someone is simply not to belt them every time they move.”
I wondered if Edith had belted Ben when he was a boy. I’d been so involved with Kaylie and my own dread of Edith’s arrival that I hadn’t asked Ben how he felt about it. I felt a stab of guilt. If he was unhappy too, we might insist that a short visit was all we could handle.
“Are you sorry your mother’s coming to live with us?”
He thought about that for a moment, turning his coffee mug round and round. “Yes and no. We’ll lose some of our privacy. But maybe she and I will get to know each other better and become close, the way families are supposed to be.”
That surprised me. “What makes you think you don’t know each other?”
“She was always strict with Dave and me, both at school and at home. Said we had to be good examples to the other kids. I remember her more often with a pointer in her hand and sharp words on her tongue than in the kitchen making cookies.”
“Her attitude must have changed when you grew up.”
Ben shook his head. “I left home at eighteen and haven’t seen her that often since. I think in her eyes I’ve always been a boy. And I still see her as a tough schoolmarm. With Dave it was different; she was there to see him get a college degree, a wife and three kids. She saw him grow up to be a man.” He grinned. “With me, all she heard were the rumors.”
“She is almost eighty,” I said, feeling guilty again. “If you’re going to get close, it better be now.”
“She’s spent a lot of time with Dave. It kind of makes me feel good that she wants to spend some with me.” Ben put his mug in the sink. “I don’t know if we could be friends, though; she’s from a different generation. She’s bound to have slowed down a lot in the two years since I saw her, when she had the heart attack. She might only want to talk about the good old days, when Dave and I were little or maybe reminisce about my father. You know how old people like to live in the past.”
Ben went back to his greenhouse and I tried to reconcile his vision of ‘sweet little old lady’ with mine of ‘George in human form.’ Well, what did I know? Perhaps Edith had mellowed in the last year or two. I could only hope.
***
Two days later I took the kitten to Mora Bay to see Jerry. He looked her over, confirmed that she was female, pronounced her fit and gave her a vaccination shot.
“She may have had one already, but I want to make sure,” he said. “And she is a purebred, Holly. See this tattoo in her ear? Some breeders tattoo for identification. Normally it’s not done unless the animal is valuable.”
“I’m sure Nicky will be thrilled to know his kitten is worth money. Can you tell how old she is?”
“I’d guess about twelve weeks. Most breeders won’t let a kitten be adopted under ten weeks, so those people in the motor home couldn’t have had her more than a week or two.”
I counted weeks backwards in my head. “I’ll choose January twenty-first as her birthday. And you will, of course, get a gold-edged invitation to her first birthday party.”
On the way to the car, Kaylie decided she didn’t like being in a cat carrier and screamed so loudly that people on the sidewalk began giving me dirty looks. Inside the car, I let her out, threatening her with immediate extinction if she dared even step off the seat. She climbed on top of the carrier and sat there, so much like a queen on her throne that I was surprised she didn’t wave to the adoring populace as we rolled down the road toward Holly Haven.
At home, I let her out in the house, remembering to block the cat door again in case she figured out what it was for. Gutsy she might be, but I didn’t want her tangling with Mr. Mighty just yet.
I found Ben and Cal in the greenhouse, conferring over the young tomato plants.
“Hi, Cal,” I said. “Are you staying for lunch?”
“No thanks, Holly.” Cal straightened his lanky frame to its full six foot three. “Got a date.”
Ben said, “Is she cooking?”
“I’m buying. This time. Maybe next time she’ll cook.”
Ben grinned. “Good luck, buddy.” He turned to me. “What did Jerry say about Kaylie?”
“She’s definitely a purebred Siamese. She has what Jerry calls a breeder’s tattoo in her ear.”
“Then we can’t possibly give her up,” Ben said. “Think what giving away a five-hundred-dollar kitten would do to my budget.”
Astonished at this piece of non-logic from a man who had cost accounting in his blood, I considered it for all of two seconds and went back to the house. It was time I sat down with Henry and spent some time living in the moment and contemplating the universe. Especially as Henry and I seemed to be the only sane individuals on the property.
My estimate of the sanity of Holly Haven’s residents was confirmed the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Kaylie was on top of the dining room table, racing back and forth. Nicky was on the floor, racing around the table. After a moment, Kaylie went flat on her belly and crept toward the edge. Unable to see the kitten, Nicky skidded to a halt and sat absolutely still, ears perked forward, trying to guess where she was. When she popped up and stuck her head over the edge of the table, Nicky barked and they began the race again.
Not to be outdone, George was lying on his back on top of the piano, his head hanging over the edge. Henry sat on the piano bench, batting at George’s head, his paw somehow always missing by a quarter inch.
“You’re all crazy!” I said.
None of them paid any attention to me but, finally, the kitten fell asleep in the middle of the table. Nicky lay down beneath it and dozed off. By the time Ben came in for lunch, George and Henry were rolled up in round balls, side by side, in Ben’s arm chair.
After soup and sandwiches, I poured fresh coffee. “We drink too much coffee,” I said. Ben looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
“You said something bothered you about those new owners of Rollin RV Park,” he said. “I mean, other than their treatment of Kaylie.”
I’d forgotten I hadn’t told him. “It’s what they plan to do with the property. The park is perfect the way it is, with lots of open area and plenty of room between parking spaces, but they’re planning to triple the number of spaces. Vehicles will be packed in like sardines.”
“You can’t blame them for wanting to make money,” Ben pointed out in predictable cost accountant fashion.
“I don’t. But people will be falling over one another on the beach over there. And more traffic will maybe scare the deer away. I think the attraction of Adriana for most tourists is that it’s rural and peaceful.”
“That’s what brought us here.” Ben smiled. “I should say it’s what brought me here. It took a couple of years to convert you, but now you’re more of an islander than I am.”
“Because of writing Tidelines, I’ve been everywhere you can go with a car on this island and it’s not only beautiful, it’s unique.” I refilled our coffee mugs. “And another thing, Norma Brentwood is talking about selling her hundred and sixty acres to her son and I’ll bet you any amount of money he’ll try to develop it.”
“Sixty-four hectares.”
“A hundred and sixty acres sounds more impressive.”
Ben pushed himself away from the table. “Time I got back to work. I think you’re worrying over nothing. Surely the Perrys will have to apply to somebody for permission to expand. From what I hear, the Islands Trust is tough about enforcing the bylaws.”
“Yes, but what do those bylaws say?” I protested as Ben went out the back door.
Henry leapt onto the table, sat in front of me and butted my chin with his forehead.
“Oh, all right, Henry, I know what you’re saying. I’ll quit worrying, I promise.”
Five seconds later I was back to stewing about the bylaws and how they could be changed, if that turned out to be necessary, to circumvent the Perrys. It was, however, less stressful than stewing about Edith.