The Catswold Portal

The reflections formed a montage: the shattered light striking across the tea shop window, shards of reflected color and light weaving around and through the girl’s figure. She was turned away; he had caught her profile against the red awning and the blue building. The work was alive—it had the old, sure resonance. He was caught up totally, wildly eager, seeing other paintings…

He’d have to find her. He wanted the series to be of her. The planes of her face belonged to reflections, were uniquely made for reflections—in mirrors, in windows. He could see her in the shattered light of a dozen settings, the long sweep of her mouth, the hint of a secret smile, the look he couldn’t define. He’d find her—he’d have to find her.

He had reached to turn off the bright studio lights, meaning to go into the village and look for her, when he realized the cat should have been winding around his feet demanding food. He remembered he hadn’t seen her all day.

He opened the door and stood calling her, embarrassed to be shouting “kitty, kitty” across the garden. When she didn’t come, he went up the hill carrying his drink, looking for her.

She didn’t appear. She should be starving—he didn’t think he’d fed her this morning, couldn’t remember letting her out, then remembered looking for her when he got up. He began to worry about her, and to wonder if she was hurt. He got a flashlight out of the station wagon and looked for her along the lane, thinking how fast people drove in that lane, remembering that Morian’s tiger cat had been run over there. Not finding her, he walked down the lane to the highway and up the highway, shining his light along the shoulder and into the bushes. He walked back on the other side, searching the marsh. The jagged grass caught his light, and once he saw the gleam of eyes, but it was a raccoon.

When he didn’t find the calico, fear for her shook him. That annoyed him; he had never in his life worried about an animal. Abruptly, he turned back to the studio. She was probably in the woods hunting.

He made another drink and stood looking at the painting, too excited about it to leave it alone. He began to worry that the girl might not live in the village, that she had been passing through, maybe was already gone. If she lived here, why hadn’t he seen her before? He grabbed a jacket and swung out the door to look for her, nearly stepping on the cat where she was pressed against the sill.

“Whoa. That’s no damned place to sit in the dark!” Then he saw how frightened she was, crouching and shivering. She stared up at him wild eyed and sped past him into the room, huddling beside the easel, looking back, her pink mouth open in a silent cry. He knelt, afraid she would scratch in her panic, and he took her up against his shoulder, stroking her tense little body.

He petted her for a long time. Slowly she eased against him, relaxing. What the hell had frightened her? He looked out through the windows at the dark garden, wondering if Tom Hollingsworth really had tried to kill the yellow cat. If Tom was so violent with his own cat, how might he react to the pretty little calico?

When the calico had stopped shivering and lay warm against him, he carried her into the kitchen, opened a can of tuna, and watched her tie into it. Whoever said cats ate delicately hadn’t seen this one; she acted as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks, gulping and smacking. When she finished the tuna he gave her some milk. He watched her clean the bowl, then picked her up again. She belched, then lay limp against his shoulder purring. She was soon half asleep, drifting in some inscrutable feline dream. He stood in the hall holding her and looking at the painting. He had to find this girl. If the cat hadn’t interrupted him he might already have found her somewhere in the village.

Two cats crouched in the garden watching the studio where the calico had disappeared. The black tom was filled with hate of her and wanted her gone from the garden. The white female felt no hatred as long as the calico stayed off her porch. She was a heavy, old cat, sway-backed from the weight of her pendulous, kitten-bearing belly. She sat with her belly protruding like a Buddha, bored by the black cat’s anger. She grew more interested when the yellow tom appeared from the shadows. The black cat, conditioned by other confrontations, lowered his head and crept away.

The golden tom stood on the path staring after the retreating black, then went boldly down the garden to the terrace that ran the length of the studio. He took shelter under the bushes at the end, sniffing the calico’s scent and watching the house for a glimpse of her. She interested him in a way he didn’t understand: not as a female ready to go into heat, not in any ordinary way, but in a manner that both baffled and intrigued him.