The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

At some unthinkably early hour my slumber was disturbed by a strange sensation. Before opening my eyes I tried to identify it, tried to remember where I was. Not in my New York apartment. Not in a Chicago hotel. I was at Maplewood Farms, and Spook was licking my face!

I jumped to a sitting position.

“Mommy wants to know—eggs or French toast?” he recited carefully.

“Thank you, Spook, but all I want is a roll and coffee. It’s too early for anything more.”

Frankly, I was glad to say goodbye and head for the airport. The situation at Maplewood Farms was too uncomfortably weird. I dared not think about it while I was driving. After I had boarded the plane and fortified myself with a Bloody Mary, however, I tackled the puzzle of Spook’s tree climbing, bird stalking, and face licking. He did everything but purr! Could Jane’s inordinate fondness for cats have imprinted her son in some . . . spooky way?

Everything added up. I recalled the way the boy had rubbed his head against me when he was pleased, smiling and squeezing his eyes shut. He was afraid of dogs. He was reluctant to swim. At the zoo his preference was for the big cats! He was always licking his fingers to smooth his hair. Then I remembered something else: Like a kitten, he had been born blind! I shuddered involuntarily and ordered another Bloody Mary.

While the boy had so many catly traits, Stanley had none at all. How could one explain the situation? Well . . . they had been born on the same day. They had been born in the same cottage. For both mothers—Jane and Maple Sugar—it had been a difficult birth. And that disagreeable woman—Cora What’s-her-name—had been in charge.

Other old friends from the construction camp had told me about Cora’s curse on the dam, and although I don’t believe such nonsense, I had to admit that the project and all those connected with it had suffered a run of bad luck. My marriage broke up, and Bill became an alcoholic. Jane’s vain, handsome, athletic husband lost a leg in a bulldozer rollover. Other men were crushed under falling trees or buried in mudslides. And, ironically, the dam was never completed!

After lives were lost and the environment was desecrated and billions of dollars were spent, the dam was abandoned. They blamed it on political pressure, cost overruns, a new administration in Washington—everything.

Now I began to wonder: Was there some truth in what they said about Cora? When she was brought to the camp to nurse me during my fever, she was always moving her lips soundlessly. Was she muttering incantations under her breath?

Could she have cast some kind of spell on the two newborn creatures? Would it be possible to transpose the personality traits of the boy and the cat? Transpose their souls, so to speak? I know more about thyratrons and ignitrons than about souls, but the notion was tantalizing. At thirty-two thousand feet, it’s easy to fantasize.

That was in early June. I wrote my thank-you note to Jane and in August received a postcard from Alaska. She and Ed were showing Spook the icebergs and polar bears, but he was fascinated chiefly by the puffin birds.

Then in December the usual expensive Christmas card arrived, with a brief note enclosed.

Dear Linda . . . Sad news! . . . My dear Stanley was run over by a bakery truck on Halloween. It was delivering a birthday cake for him and Spook. There’ll never be another cat like Stanley. I still miss him . . . . Otherwise we are well. Spook is seven now and turning into a real boy. He’s stopped ear scratching and people licking and other childish habits that you probably noticed when you were here. He’s taking swimming lessons at the clubhouse, and he wants a dog for Christmas.I suppose he was just going through a phase. Love, Jane.

My speculations were right! The mix-up was conjured by that bitter, hateful woman at the construction camp. And Stanley’s death—in some mysterious way—had broken the spell.

A Cat Too Small for His Whiskers