The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Stanley was a big, gorgeous feline with thick blond fur and a spotless white bib. He followed us into the house, his plumed tail waving with authority and aplomb.

Jane instructed her son: “Show Aunt Linda to the guest room, and then bring her out to the deck for cocktails.”

Spook lugged my overnight case upstairs and showed a great deal of curiosity about its contents when I unpacked. “Are you my aunt?” he wanted to know.

“Not really. But you can call me Aunt Linda. I’d like that.”

Then the four of us assembled on the redwood deck overlooking a flawless lawn and a wooded ravine, its edge dotted with clumps of jonquils. Jane and Stanley and I made ourselves comfortable on the cushioned wrought-iron chairs, while Spook—now wearing a camouflage jumpsuit—chose to sit on the Indian grass rug at my feet. He was an affectionate little boy, and his Buster Brown haircut was charming. He leaned against my legs in a possessive way, and when I rumpled his hair he looked up and smiled happily, then licked his fingers and straightened his blond bangs. I thought to myself: He’s as vain as his good-looking father.

As we sipped orange juice and vodka, I asked how Spook got his name.

“He’s really Ed Junior,” Jane said, “but he was born on Halloween, and Ed called him Spook. At school the teacher insists on calling him Edward, but he’s Spook to all the neighbors . . . . Linda, you’re the perfect image of a successful young woman executive—just like the pictures in the magazines. I envy you.”

Spook said: “Are you a lady engineer?”

“No, I’m an industrial electronic supply sales manager.”

“Oh,” he said, and after a moment added: “Is that hard to do?”

“Not if you like Zener diodes and unijunction transistors.”

“Oh,” he said, and then he climbed onto my lap.

“Spook dear,” his mother admonished, “always ask permission before sitting on laps.”

“That’s all right,” I assured her. “I like little boys.”

“He loves to be petted, you know.”

“Don’t we all? . . . How long will Ed be gone, Jane?”

“Another three weeks.”

“Don’t you mind his long absences?”

She hesitated. “Yes . . . but it’s a good living. It’s paying for a housekeeper five days a week and a good college for Spook and some fabulous vacations.”

As we talked, the cat listened, turning his head to watch each of us as we spoke. “Stanley looks so intelligent,” I remarked.

“He’s good company. He’s almost human . . . . Linda, you never told me why you and Bill divorced.”

“I wanted a career of my own,” I said. “I was tired of being a dam-builder’s wife. The construction camp was driving me up the wall, and Bill was drinking heavily. Things were all wrong.”

At this point a robin flew into the yard and tugged at a worm, alerting Spook, who jumped from my lap and chased him. The crafty bird took flying hops just lengthy enough to stay beyond the boy’s grasp.

“That robin comes every evening during the cocktail hour,” Jane said. “He likes to tease Spook, I think. Stanley isn’t the slightest bit interested.”

“Are you going to have any more children, Jane?”

“We’d like to adopt a girl. After what I went through with Spook, I couldn’t face childbirth again. He was born at the camp, you know—a year or two after you left. I didn’t have proper prenatal care because I refused to go to that so-called doctor at the camp. Do you remember him?”

I nodded. “His office smelled more of whiskey than antiseptic.”

“He made passes at everybody, and I do mean everybody!”

“They couldn’t get a really good doctor to go up there and live in those conditions.”

At that moment a large dog bounded over a fence and headed straight for the boy. Spook had been lying on the lawn, chewing a blade of grass, but he scrambled to his feet and headed for the nearest tree.

“Spook, no more climbing, please,” his mother called. “Juneau won’t hurt you. She just wants to play.”

The man in the Mexican shirt came to the fence, calling: “Here, Juneau. Come on home, baby.” To us he explained: “She broke her chain again. Sorry.”

Precisely as we finished our second drink, Stanley jumped down from his chair with a fifteen-pound thump and went to Jane, putting one paw on her knee.

“Stanley’s telling me it’s time for dinner,” she said. “Linda, I’ll put the ramekins in the microwave while I’m feeding the cat. Mrs. Phipps fixed chicken divan for us before she left. You might see if you can find the son-and-heir and tell him it’s time to wash up.”

I wandered around the grounds, noting the professionally perfect flower beds, until I found Spook. He was digging among the jonquils. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Digging,” he said.

“You’re getting your jumpsuit all muddy. Come and clean up. It’s time for dinner.”

He raised his nose and sniffed. “Chicken!” he squealed, and headed for the house, running in joyful circles as he went. A few minutes later he appeared at the dinner table, looking spic and span in chinos and a tiger-striped shirt, with his face and hands scrubbed and his Buster Brown haircut combed to perfection.