The Catswold Portal

Reaching the porch, Morian shifted the calico to her shoulder, opened the door and, carrying her, emptied the laundry basket. She took it into the bedroom and found an old quilted robe to line it. Stroking the little calico and talking to her, she put her down near the basket, shutting her in the bedroom while she went to collect a litter box and cat food.

In the kitchen, as she filled a bowl with water, her thoughts were on Anne. She had been alarmed and puzzled by Anne’s distress, and amazed at Anne’s sudden helplessness. She couldn’t believe Tom was as changed as Anne said. Yet Anne was not given to imaginative flights. She would have to see him for herself; maybe she could figure out what had made Anne react so alarmingly.

Anne’s husband had died in a mental institution. Anne had had a hard time and was sensitive about mental problems. Morian shook her head; the thought that Anne herself might be having such a problem chilled her.

She had known Anne long before Anne and Tom had moved to the garden. Anne had kept her equilibrium remarkably well through the hard times with her husband. It seemed strange that now Anne would be losing her grip.

In the bedroom Morian arranged water and food dishes on a newspaper, knowing the little cat would be happier in one room until she got used to the house. She could let her deal with the black tom later. Morian smiled, speaking softly to the cat. “It’ll take Skillet a while to get used to you.” She stood watching as the calico peered with curiosity under the dressing table. Skillet had been lonely since Tiger died, but he wouldn’t want another cat in the house.

She opened the window three inches from the top for fresh air, checking to be sure the screen was latched. The cat was sniffing the laundry basket. Morian watched her circle it then hop in and begin to knead the quilted satin as if she was pleased with the sleeping arrangements. This pleased Morian, too, and she knelt to stroke the little cat, admiring her brightly mixed colors against the cream robe. “You don’t seem anxious to get out. Too bad Braden won’t keep you—he needs something alive around him. He’s getting morose.”

The little cat’s purr rumbled against Morian’s stroking hand.

“You need a name, you know.” Morian thought of several, but didn’t offer any. The cat was beautiful and she’d like to keep her. But she didn’t want this to get too permanent. Maybe Braden would change his mind.

In the kitchen again, she made a sandwich. She ate it looking out at the garden, thinking about Anne and Tom, then she left for an evening class.

In the bedroom the cat napped briefly. When she woke, she ate all the food. She used the litter box with interest, then prowled the room restlessly. Now that she was alone she felt shut in.

When the door wouldn’t open under her demanding digging, she leaped to the windowsill. The breeze blew in above her. She leaped again and clung to the top. Under her weight the window dropped a few inches. Encouraged, she climbed atop the sash. It dropped farther. Balancing, she sniffed the night air, pushing at the screen, then she clawed the screen. It was an old screen and rusty, and when it ripped she stuck her nose through the small tear and pushed.

The hole expanded. She pushed through and, balancing awkwardly on the sash, she gauged her distance to the railing below. She quavered, rocking across the screen, found purchase with her hind legs, and leaped. Her rocketing jump ripped down the screen, sending her thudding onto the rail.

In a little while she was back at Braden’s. Crouching on the bricks, she stared into the lighted room. When Braden didn’t look up, she mewled. When he ignored her, she clawed the glass.

Braden heard her, and scowled. What the hell had Morian done—left the door open? After some moments of strained patience he picked up a folded newspaper and opened the door, meaning to scare the cat away. He smacked the wall loudly, but the cat only stared up at him and marched past him into the room.

Flicking her tail, she leaped onto the model’s couch and circled, kneading the crimson velvet. He stood watching, amazed by her colossal nerve, and flattered by her determination. He watched her settle herself comfortably, her colors rich against the red. She gave him an unfathomable green look, lowered her eyes as if dismissing him, and began to wash herself.

He knew he ought to pitch her out.

But what harm could she do in the studio for a few hours? He felt like going out anyway, so let her stay. He stared out at the night, cold and perfect, pulled on his tennis shoes, and went running.