Dedication - Кроха

Joe looked up at him blankly. Ryan turned, watching them.

Clyde sipped his beer, his gaze never leaving Joe. “You were grinning when you got home this afternoon, grinning until you left again. You’re scowling now, after a half hour with Tekla. But that smug look is still there, underneath. Come on, Joe. Spill it.”

Ryan looked closely at Joe. She reached out one slender finger and tipped up his chin, studying his wide yellow eyes. “I didn’t notice, down at the Bleaks’ or in the truck, I was too caught up in . . . too damn mad. You do look a bit smug,” she said. “What, Joe? What is that look?”

Joe Grey sighed.

He told himself he was blessed to have Ryan and Clyde, to have a loving family. That he was blessed he hadn’t remained a homeless stray in the San Francisco alleys. That he was more than fortunate that Clyde had rescued him, back when he was a starving kitten. Told himself he was lucky beyond dreams that Clyde had married Ryan Flannery.

But there were times when they didn’t have to be so damned nosy. He lay between the place mats staring back at his housemates’ stern and unblinking assessment, the two of them waiting for him to explain that inner joyousness that he couldn’t seem to hide or quell: two stern humans banded together in silent interrogation, as hard-nosed stubborn as a pair of old-time detectives. If Clydethought he had a secret, Ryan knew he did. Her green eyes saw too deeply into his wily cat soul.

He wanted to share his and Dulcie’s news. He was eager to tell them about the kittens and see their excitement. But he felt embarrassed that he was so excited. And he dreaded the fuss they’d make. They’d start worrying over Dulcie; they’d caution him to take care of her when he and she were out running the roofs and streets. They’d tell him not to let her climb trees, just as John Firetti had told Dulcie herself. They’d go on and on, he could only half imagine their concern.

But he had to say something. The two were still staring. There was no getting out of this. Besides, Dulcie was already starting to show, if you looked carefully. Pretty quick now, her condition would be too obvious to hide. Then everyone would start asking questions. If he or Dulcie didn’t break the news, Clyde and Ryan, or Charlie, would start to interrogate Wilma, whom Dulcie had so far sworn to secrecy.

Well, hell, he thought, fighting his prideful embarrassment, and he laid it out for them using Dulcie’s own words. “Kittens,” he said, “there’ll be kittens.”

Clyde stared.

“We’re going to have kittens,” Joe said slowly.

Ryan’s eyes widened and she began to smile. Clyde’s expression was numb. Dulcie and Joe had been together a long time, with no sign of ever expecting babies. Kittens born to speaking cats were a rare occurrence. The idea still amazed Joe himself, still left him only half believing. “Dulcie is with kittens,” he repeated, watching Clyde.

But Ryan flew around the table and grabbed Joe up in her arms. “Kittens! Oh, Joe. How manykittens? Do you know how many? Has she seen Dr. Firetti? When are they due? How soon? Has she told Wilma? Wilma hasn’t said a word . . . Oh!” She kissed the top of Joe’s head, then kissed his nose. Beneath his fur, Joe had to be blushing. “Oh, kittens,” she said. “Little speaking kittens . . .”

Snug in her arms, Joe didn’t point out that there was no guarantee their babies would speak. Ryan and Clyde knew that, if they’d thought about it. John Firetti had told them, long ago, that the gift of speech didn’t always happen, that sometimes the talent was not passed on, that it did not appear at all. Just as, once in a great while, a little speaking kitten would be born to an ordinary, nonverbal litter.

A recessive gene? An anomaly surfacing out of nowhere? Joe found the tangle of genetic paths daunting; he didn’t comprehend the math of it at all, or the implications. He wondered if anyone understood this particular scientific puzzle. How could geneticists study and understand a creature they didn’t know existed? No more than a handful of people in the world could know there even were literate, verbal cats.

Most people, Joe thought, wouldn’t believe in talking cats if one shouted obscenities at them.

Those few who knew the speaking cats and loved them kept their secret well, to protect the cats themselves; to shield them from human exploitation in a world where any creature rare and different was open to human greed.

Settling deeper into Ryan’s arms, Joe worried that the babies might not be able to speak. Dismayed, he looked solemnly at Clyde and then up into Ryan’s green eyes, so tender now as she fussed over him. But Clyde was saying, “Kittens! My God, Joe. If they’re half as stubborn and hardheaded as you . . .”

“Or if they’re half as smart and decisive as Joe,” Ryan said, “and as clever and sweet as Dulcie . . . oh, a baby shower, Joe! We’ll have a shower for Dulcie—little kitten toys, a soft new cat bed. Baby books, little kitty primers to—”

Joe drew back in her arms and pressed a paw to her lips. “You’re not having a baby shower!” Ryan never gushed, he was shocked at her gushing. “Dulcie’s not having a foo-foo baby partylike some . . . some giddy . . . human mother.”

“Why not?” she said, hugging him. “Little toy mice, some pretty little blankets . . .” She was never like this, his steady, sensible housemate, the woman he counted on for a calm and balanced view of the world when Clyde might be off the wall. The tomcat’s voice was sharper than he intended.

“We don’t want a baby shower!” he hissed at her. “Don’t you think you should ask Dulcie if—”

A loud explosion stopped him, then a deafening metallic clatter as the top blew off the cook pot. Clyde and Ryan spun around, Ryan hugging Joe tighter, backing away from the stove, where a geyser of steam blasted toward the ceiling. Pasta was boiling over in a white cascade of froth, bubbling over the sides of the pot and across the stovetop and burbling down into the burners. The metal lid spun rattling across the floor. Clyde dove for the pot and pulled it off the burner. At the same moment a series of loud thuds rattled the front door and a deep voice echoed through the intercom. “Supper ready?”

8

Ryan held Joe forcefully over her shoulder, having grabbed him away from the geyser of steaming water as she hurried to the living room to let Scotty in—leaving Clyde to deal with the erupting pot. Reaching for the door, she tossed Joe on the mantel among the tangle of photographs. He hissed at her and settled down to collect himself, to ease his jangled nerves. Washing his paws, he listened to Clyde in the kitchen swearing and banging pots.

Chaos was nothing new in the Damen household. Joe should be used to calamities. But deep in his feline nature burned that ancient instinct for self-preservation, that fight-or-flight inborn shock at loud noises, every fiber geared to slash or race away until he’d sorted out the cause of the trouble.

Reflex response, he thought, and where would a cat be without that instant reaction? As he sat on the mantel calming himself, in the open doorway Scotty gave Ryan a big bear hug, happy to see her though they’d worked together all day. Her uncle’s voice was so deep and comforting that soon Joe’s fear reflexes had eased. He began to purr, and then to smile as he saw again the lid of the spaghetti pot blow off, and Rock and Snowball streak out through the dog door to the safety of the backyard.

Stretching out among the small, framed photos, he was washing his shoulder when the phone rang. He heard Clyde answer, but not until he realized the call was from Kit’s traveling housemates did he drop to the rug, beat it to the kitchen, and land on the table, to listen.

Clyde had pushed the boiling pot off the burner and opened the windows to clear out the steam. The trash can was filled with sopping paper towels sticky with starchy water. Was this the end of their supper? Was the spaghetti ruined? Joe eyed the mess with dismay. He wasn’t about to choke down a serving of cat kibble.

But no, there on the stove the spaghetti itself was piled in a colander glistening with olive oil, balanced atop a deep bowl. And the covered pot of tomato sauce looked tame enough, nothing bubbling out, nothing running over the side. As Clyde talked on the phone he wiped the last of the sticky gray liquid off the stove. “Lucinda,” he mouthed at Joe, silent because Scotty was headed through to the kitchen. “It’s Lucinda.”

Clyde’s words didn’t cheer Joe. If the Greenlaws had arrived home before Kit and Pan returned from their own journey, if the older couple found them still absent they’d be beside themselves. But then, listening to Clyde, Joe realized that Lucinda and Pedric were in Anchorage. They were talking about the shops and a native arts museum, Clyde asking questions to avoid the subject of Kit as Scotty and Ryan entered. “ . . . yes, they are, Lucinda. Kate says the new garden plants are fine, she checked the watering system yesterday.”

Lucinda, aware that someone had come in, talked for only a few minutes more, then ended the call. Did Clyde’s “Yes, they are, Lucinda . . .” answer her most urgent question, tell her that Kit and Pan were still away? Had she hung up burdened by that news?

“Lucinda,” Clyde said to Ryan and Scotty. “They’re in Anchorage.” He looked at Ryan. “Your dad and Lindsey have gone on to the Kenai River for a day or two of early salmon fishing. Lucinda wasn’t sure whether they’d be coming home together or separately, she wasn’t sure which flight they’d take.” The travelers hadn’t been gone long, but it seemed to Joe like forever. He hoped Kit and Pan would be home before the Greenlaws; even this short parting had been hard for the older couple, and surely was hard for Kit, too. The three had never been parted since the amazement of their finding one another just a few years ago up on Hellhag Hill. The frightened tortoiseshell kitten, a lonely stray, hadn’t ever imagined she would discover humans she could speak with, humans she could trust to keep her secret, humans she could love and who would love her as she had never dreamed.

As for Lucinda and Pedric, long immersed in the Celtic myths that told of speaking cats, to imagine encountering such an astounding creature in real life was beyond their dreams. Such a longing was only whimsy, fanciful thinking; they hadn’t dared suppose that a speaking cat would appear before them there on those green hills, wanting to share their picnic—to share their lives. A chance meeting born perhaps of a deep and inherent need within the two humans and within Kit herself. Their close bond now had made it hard indeed for the three of them to part. They’ll be together soon, Joe told himself hopefully, nothing bad will happen.

At the kitchen table Scotty took his usual place, absently petting Joe where the tomcat lay sprawled across the place mat, his paw on Scotty’s spoon. Scotty was never annoyed at Joe’s boldness but only amused; he nodded thanks as Ryan handed him a can of beer and a frosty mug.

“Ben will be along,” Scotty said. “He stopped by his place to feed his rescues.” They had all been pleased when young Ben Stonewell, even in his tiny rented room, had taken in three rescue cats, giving them safe temporary quarters until real homes could be found. Scotty laid a sheaf of drawings on the table. “I swung by Kate’s to pick these up—the changes she’d like for the outdoor shelter rooms.”

Joe watched Scotty with interest. His mention of Kate brought a vulnerable look to the Scotsman: he glanced down shyly, seemed suddenly off center, making Joe Grey smile.

Blond, beautiful Kate Osborne, their good friend who understood the speaking cats so well, had at last succeeded in buying the old Pamillon estate. The acreage and crumbling mansion had languished for generations in the hills above Molena Point, caught up in a tangle of legal disputes. Kate’s attorney had finally wound a legal path through the mire of too many heirs, too many overlapping trusts and wills. Now the property was through escrow, Kate and Ryan had all the building permits, the plans had been approved by a hard-nosed county inspector, and they had begun construction of a fine new cat shelter. It rose just south of the fallen mansion with a low hill in between. Ryan’s larger crew of carpenters was working up there, Ryan dividing her time between several jobs, but always happy to get away from the Bleak renovation.

The shelter project was part of CatFriends, their volunteer rescue group. The refuge was a special dream of Kate’s, to care for abandoned cats. Kate had lived in the village before she left her philandering husband. It was here in Molena Point that she discovered her own strange relationship to the speaking cats. She had, while investigating that connection, found her way down the hidden tunnels beneath San Francisco’s streets into the Netherworld, where Kit and Pan now traveled. Though Kit and Pan’s route had taken them, not from the city’s tunnels, but from here in the village beneath the estate itself, down a cavern discovered by the band of speaking, feral cats who made their home among the Pamillon ruins.

Kate, at the moment, was living in Lucinda and Pedric’s downstairs apartment looking after their house and garden while they were away—watching for Kit and Pan’s return, just as she waited eagerly for Lucinda and Pedric to arrive home again, safe.

“She was working on two more drawings,” Scotty offered. “She said she’d drop them by later.” Again Scotty had that off-center look that made Joe and Ryan glance at each other.

“She wants to add two more outdoor group rooms,” Scotty said, opening up the folded plans. “For the ferals that want to see outdoors, cats who get upset being shut inside.” The plan was, the ferals would be neutered, given their shots, and turned loose again into the colonies where they had been trapped. That way, the whole colony was healthier, the cats wouldn’t reproduce but could live happy, productive lives hunting the rats and mice and destructive ground squirrels that bedeviled the village cottages. CatFriends’ volunteers were currently feeding three such colonies, supplementing their rodent diet and seeing to it that they had plenty of fresh water.

The rescue group’s plan for the shelter had begun at the time the economy faltered so badly that many homes and cottages were foreclosed and families moved hastily away, searching for new jobs, cruelly abandoning their pets to fend for themselves or find new owners. Members of CatFriends had patiently trapped the lost, frightened animals and found temporary foster homes for them until the shelter could be built. There would be roomy cages and two big group rooms for the cats who got along well together. Rescued dogs went to the SPCA, which had larger facilities for them.

A lot of thought had gone into CatFriends’ shelter. Their group meetings included Charlie Harper, Ryan’s glamorous sister Hanni Coon, Ryan and Kate, and five other members. Joe and Dulcie had sat in on a few gatherings at the Damens’—had sat in, finding it hard not to offer their own opinions. How could humans design a cat shelter without consulting an expert? Sometimes they even wanted to argue with Kate.

Joe had been amused when Scotty started attending the meetings. Scott Flannery was not a cat person and was not inclined to women’s groups. But then Ryan’s shy, quiet carpenter Ben Stonewell had joined. Ben was interested in the rescue operation. Scotty was more interested in Kate; he would come to the meetings with Ben but leave with her, “for a walk on the beach,” he would say, or, “a nightcap in the village.”