THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

“A plague on ‘em! They be writin’ letters to the paper ‘bout mud! It be good honest farm dirt, an’ we be trackin’ it for seventy year! Let ‘em take their fancy stuff and go somewhere else. They come in here with all them cars, pollutin’ the air and botherin’ my hens! Artists, they say they be! Likely drawin’ pitchers of folks ‘thout clothes on!”

Qwilleran said, “I’m hoping we’ll all be able to live together in peace.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna write no letters to the paper. Me, I mind my own business. I be ninety-three.”

“Your dogs are very friendly.”

“Pore ol’ things! Nobody wants’ em. They come around, starvin’ and shiverin’, I give ‘em a blanket in the shed and somethin’ t’eat.”

“Do they have names?”

“I call ‘em Blackie, Spot, Dolly, Mabel, and Li’l Yaller. Yessir! When I pass on, I be leavin’ my money to take care o’ pore ol’ dogs. All I want - I want a tombstone next to Bert’s, an’ the words I want on it be: ‘Maude Coggin. Worked Hard. Loved Animals. Mound Her Own Business.’”

With assorted reactions Qwilleran walked away from the Coggin farm. He hoped there was no feud brewing between the art community and the farmers… . He knew Polly would appreciate the bucolic philosophy and Old Moose vernacular, which he had taped surreptitiously … He wondered if he should send a case of dog food to the Coggin Shelter for Pore ol’ Dogs.

It was too early for the newspaper

delivery, but he stopped at his mailbox on the side of the road. There were a few letters. Business correspondence went to a post office box and was handled by a secretarial service; fan mail went to the newspaper office.

In the Art Center parking lot the large number of cars prompted him to go in and investigate. He found a light interior with walls and vinyl floors in the pale neutral compatible with art. Volunteers were setting up the opening exhibit in two galleries. There was also a room with chairs and tables for classes and sliding glass doors opening to a patio. Down a hall were studios with north light, an office for the manager, and stairs leading to a future gallery on the lower level.

Most of the helpers were middle-aged women in blue denim smocks with the Art Center logo. There was one man on a stepladder, however, adjusting the track lights under the supervision of a businesslike young woman.

“Higher, higher,” she said, waving her arms. “Now a little to the left.”

Catching a glimpse of Qwilleran, she rushed to his side, and her expression changed from stern to hospitable. “You’re Mr. Q, aren’t you?” she said. “I’m Beverly Forfar, the manager.” Even while being pleasant she looked formidable, owing to the severe haircut that fitted her head like a helmet. Straight dark hair covered ears and eyebrows. She waved an arm around the interior.

“We have you to thank for all this, Mr. Q.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank those eggheads at the K Fund,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be ready in time for the Sunday opening?”

“Absolutely! Even if the entire crew has to work around the clock!”

“Answer one question, Ms. Forfar. How do galleries hang and rehang exhibits without leaving holes in the wall?”

“It’s very simple. Our walls are plywood covered with carpet. The nails go into the plywood, and the carpet weave conceals the holes.”

“Well! … Learn something every day! Don’t let me keep you from your work. I’m only snooping.”

“Will you be covering the opening for the paper?”

“No, Roger MacGillivray is assigned, but I’ll be here with friends. I hope you’re having refreshments,” he added playfully.

“Oh, definitely!” Taking him seriously, she enumerated the two kinds of punch and seven kinds of sweets, before returning to the exhibit space.

The man on the stepladder - no one Qwilleran knew - was waiting patiently with the bemused attitude of a volunteer. He had a distinguished appearance, with a shock of white hair that was hard to overlook and gold-rimmed glasses that gave his eyes a friendly look.

“Now - the other bank of lights,” Ms. Forfar instructed him, pointing and gesturing. “Bring them all down… First one to the left… Others straight ahead… No, that one slightly to the right and higher, higher! … Not so high! Slightly to the left!”

The white-haired helper turned to look at her, caught Qwilleran’s eye, smiled and shrugged, and Qwilleran composed an original Chinese proverb: Man on ladder, directed by woman below - not good.

Still, he decided, the manager was an attractive woman in her way: buxom, but slim-hipped. No blue denim smock for her! She was wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit.

As he ambled toward the studios, he heard a loud male voice saying irritably, “What did they hope to accomplish? They made fools of my kids! And my daughter has a weak heart; she could’ve had an attack!”

“What was it all about?” another man said quietly without any real show of interest.