The Catswold Portal

It took her some time to maneuver the sparrow into position. Skillfully she pounced, bit it behind the head, carried it into the bushes, and ate it. This morsel stirred her hunger, and she began to watch the studio. There was food there—she had gotten food there. Her green eyes blazed as she slipped out of the bushes onto the veranda and peered in through the glass door. She pressed against the door, and when no one came to let her in, she began to claw at it.

The door didn’t open. Nothing moved inside. She clawed harder. Soon a figure moved on the couch.

The man stretched, and the cat backed away. But the next minute she pressed at the glass again, looking in sideways, her whiskers flattened in white lines across her cheek. She had received food in that room; she had known warmth and shelter in there, and love. Layers of her nature surfaced, layers of Melissa’s childhood, but to the cat, she simply needed to be in there.

When the man didn’t come to let her in, she raked again impatiently. She saw him swing his feet to the floor.

He couldn’t believe this. The cat was staring in, raking its claws insolently down the glass. Why wasn’t it still afraid? Why had it come down here? A chill touched him. What the hell did it want? As it reared up, its belly shone white against the glass. Its mottled and white face seemed curiously intent, its green eyes demanding. He snatched up a museum catalog and threw it hard at the glass. The cat stopped clawing. But it didn’t run; it looked angry, almost looked incensed.

Maybe it smelled Morian, maybe had followed her because she fed it, maybe it thought she was in here. He pulled on his shorts, got a cup of coffee, sucking in the first sip, and went to shower and shave. The cat would be gone when he came out. He slammed the bathroom door on the sound of its claws.

When he came out the cat was still there. But it wasn’t scratching now, it was mewling. He rushed at the door shouting, flung it open, and chased the cat into the bushes.

He put the canvas of Natalie at Summer on the easel, poured out turpentine and oil, got a fresh cup of coffee, and stood back to study the painting. Then, squeezing half a dozen tubes onto the palette, he got to work; softening Natalie’s face and the purple shadow across her forehead, working in Indian Red, toning down the umbrella and its shadow across her shoulder. At some point the cat came back and began yowling stridently and clawing again. He wanted to throw the easel at it.

He worked steadily, ignoring the sound until his stomach began to growl either from frustration at the noise or from hunger. He refilled his coffee cop and stood in the hall looking at the painting. It was coming to life—there was warmth now. This was the one he’d wanted most to make right, the one Morian had looked at longest last night, though she had said nothing.

The cat was suddenly so quiet he looked up, hoping it was gone. It stared back at him, its green eyes huge and demanding. Christ, he and Morian had spent half the night waiting in the woods for the damned cat. It wouldn’t come then, so why was it down here now, trying to get in? He went into the kitchen, started some bacon, and broke four eggs into a bowl. When he turned the skillet down he could hear the cat yowling.

Why the hell didn’t it go to Morian’s? She was the one who wanted to feed it and mother it. He went out to chase it off, but this time it didn’t run. When he shouted it stood at the edge of the terrace looking so determined he almost laughed. For a little thing, it had a hell of a nerve.

Alice said cats went to the people who disliked them, that they found that amusing. He smelled the bacon burning, made a dash for the kitchen and flipped it onto a plate, swearing. He washed the skillet and started over, then turned the bacon low and went to phone Morian.

“That cat’s down here.”

“What cat?”

“The one last night.”

“Don’t be silly, Brade. It wouldn’t come there, it was too frightened.”

“The same cat. Clawing my door.”

“It can’t be. Are you sure? Calico with white paws and—”

“The same cat.”

“I’ll be down.” She hung up, and in a minute she came down the garden dressed to go to work in a sleek café au lait suit. Before she reached the veranda the cat fled for the bushes. Morian stood looking after it as Braden opened the door.

“It’s the same cat,” she said, frowning. She approached the bushes and tried to coax it out, kneeling awkwardly in her high heels, talking softly. They could see the cat peering but it wouldn’t come out.

Morian left at last, instructing Braden to feed it. “I’ll come for her tonight—my class is in an hour. Please, Brade—she’s just a young little thing, and frightened.”

“She wasn’t frightened while tearing up my door. And she looks old enough to hunt for her breakfast.”

“Feed her, Brade.” She cupped his chin in her hand, brushed his lips with hers, and left him.