Morian said, “It was pretty cryptic. I couldn’t figure it out.” Again a pause. Then, “Now I think I know what Olive was saying. Now I think I don’t have to worry about Braden’s cat. Now,” Morian said, “I see that you can take care of her.”
Melissa couldn’t speak.
“Shall we tell Braden that his little cat is here, and safe?”
“That—that’s right, Morian.” She felt so weak she had to sit down.
Braden scowled at the silence, put down his brush, came across the room, and took the phone from her. “What’s wrong, Mor? What’s happened?” He sat down on the bed beside Melissa, putting his arm around her. She pressed her face to his, listening to the low voice at the other end of the phone.
Morian said, “Nothing’s wrong, Brade. Everything’s fine. The calico’s doing just fine.”
Melissa’s heart thundered. Her hands were shaking, her mouth was dry. Morian said, “She’s safe and happy and cared for, Brade. Loved. Your calico cat is very loved.”
She felt sick. She couldn’t stop shaking.
“I have the package open, Brade. It’s two of Alice’s drawings of the garden door. There’s a letter.”
“Read it,” he said tensely, watching Melissa.
“Let’s see, they—they found the drawings while going through the archives. It’s from the director Alice saw that day. He says…he thought they had all been returned—tried to phone you, guess your phone is unlisted—sorry for the inconvenience. That’s all, nothing urgent, just returning the drawings.”
Melissa went into the bathroom, washed her face in cold water, and stayed there until she was calmer. When she came out he was painting again, eating a sandwich with a painty hand. The tray sat beside the bed; she poured herself some tea. He hardly looked up at her. She ate and drank her tea but couldn’t settle down. She went out at last to shop, and paced the village until dusk thinking about Morian, about what she knew, what Olive knew. Knowing that Braden would find out eventually, and when he found out, her life would be over. There would be nothing more for her.
She lay awake that night long after Braden slept. Near midnight she rose and stood restlessly at the window, then pulled on shorts and a shirt, and went out.
The village was dark, the moon veiled behind clouds. She walked to the beach but didn’t go out on the sand. She followed beside it through tangled bushes and tall grass, compulsively moving toward the darkest shadows. Soon she knelt, crawled on hands and knees in among the bushes and she changed to cat. She had no choice but to change.
The calico paced and wound among the bushes feeling sick. Her coat felt matted, and she didn’t want to groom herself. She came out from the bushes once to stare away toward the sea, and when a sharp pain gripped her, she crouched. The pounding sea sounded like a giant heartbeat. When the pain was gone she moved back under the bushes and crept along through the tangle. She was all instinct now, searching for the darkest shelter, searching for the driest, softest bed. Another pain caught her, and she crouched, panting.
When the pain was gone she moved on again, seeking urgently. She pushed through the tall grass and wild holly, and another pain brought her down.
When the pain passed she remained hunched on her forelegs, breathing hard. Another pain pressed, and another. She rose, searching. She found no place better than the last. All the ground was damp. Pains forced her into another crouch, her claws dug into the earth; her thoughts sank into mindless pain and the need to lick, to push out; frightened and alone, she felt water break. Her pain and her cry tangled together. She felt the first kitten come. Turning her head she saw it, gauze covered, dropping down in the wetness.
She tore the damp, spider-web gauze away. She licked the tiny kitten frantically, wanting to clean it before the next one came. She licked its tiny closed eyes, its little face, its minute ears. Why was it so still? She licked harder, pushing at it, waiting for it to move, waiting for the next pain.
The gauze was gone from the kitten. She severed the cord. But still the kitten didn’t move.
She pushed at it, rasping along its skin with her rough tongue to wake it and make it breathe.
The kitten didn’t wake. It lay mute and still.
There were no more pains.
She lay quiet at last, her one dead kitten cuddled against her throat, her paws curved around its little, still body.
It was much later, as dawn touched the sea, that she licked herself clean and rose wearily to her four paws, looking down at her dead kitten.
She was unwilling to leave it alone.
Yet she knew she must leave it.
She dug a grave for it, first as cat, her claws tearing at the earth, then as Melissa, her hands scrabbling into the torn soil. She buried her kitten deep, and covered its grave with holly thorns and stones.
