The Catswold Portal

Braden fried three hamburgers for dinner, two for himself and one for the cat, his mind on the girl and how the hell he was going to find her. He ate standing in the hall studying the painting, imagining the new series, ignited in the way a good series always stirred him. As if the series already existed somewhere, as if he had not to invent it but only to discover the individual paintings. Twice he put his hamburger down, once to let the cat out, and then to phone Bob for lunch the next day. Bob might know the girl. And he thought, if they had lunch, he could run Anne’s problem by Bob and get that off his conscience.

He described the girl to Bob, but Bob didn’t know her. He waited, holding the phone while Bob asked Leslie if she knew her, but Leslie didn’t. Braden let the cat in, then made half a dozen more phone calls, but no one knew the girl. He went to bed late and tried to read, but couldn’t keep his mind on the book.

He slept restlessly. He dreamed that he lay close to someone, he could feel her rough-textured dress against his skin; once he thought he touched her hair, tangled across his cheek.

He woke to a room gray with rain. The cat was sleeping soundly. It was raining hard when he left the house to meet Bob, sloshing out to his car under a battered corduroy cap, having no idea where to find an umbrella. He had left the cat inside; she seemed to have no intention of going out in the wet. The rain was a torrent when he pulled into the parking lot at the Dock. He made a run for the door and found Bob already at a table, perfectly dry, his umbrella dripping where he had leaned it against the window. Through the glass, sky and bay were joined in one dark curtain, the rain so heavy they could see only the first two boats tied to the quay.

“Working?” Bob said, nodding across the room to the waiter.

“Matter of fact, yes—the girl I mentioned.” He explained about the sketch, and that he wanted to paint her again.

“She’s no one I remember. Leslie will keep an eye out—nearly everyone passes through the library sooner or later.” He looked at Braden intently. “This is important.”

“Yes, a series—something very different. Something I want very much to do. Something…I haven’t felt like this about the work in a long time.” He could see Bob’s look of relief in his returned enthusiasm and improved mental health, and was annoyed.

When they had ordered, he tried to describe Anne’s situation, but now Anne’s fear seemed silly. “You could drop by,” he said. “I think she’s gotten herself over the edge. She’s called me twice since the night she came down, and she’s talked to Morian, talked to Olive—she’s talked herself into believing that Tom isn’t Tom, that the boy isn’t her child.”

Bob shook his head. “If Anne doesn’t want to see me, Brade, I can’t intrude. Has Morian seen Tom? What does she think?”

“That’s strange, too. When I asked her about it, she clammed up. I don’t know what she thinks. She’s talked with Tom, she just doesn’t say anything.”

“That’s not like Morian, not to express an opinion.” Bob paused, then, “Anne may be upset about some other things right now. Maybe that, plus Tom’s illness, has gotten to her.”

Braden waited.

“Two of my clients do business with Anne’s company. A new brokerage firm is trying to elbow them out, giving them trouble, putting the screws to several small Bay area firms.”

“Anne’s not the kind to get upset over something like that.”

“They have already taken over two small real estate firms and fired the key personnel. This could mean her job. Have you seen Tom?”

“He’s pale, irritable, lost a lot of weight.”

The waiter came with their order. Braden on impulse asked for some fish or seafood scraps for the cat, receiving Bob’s amazed stare. When the bag was brought, he realized he’d have to pick through other people’s germs to remove shell and bone before the cat got it, and was sorry he’d asked.

Bob looked immensely amused. “When did you get a cat? I thought you hated cats.”

“I don’t hate cats. It’s Morian’s cat. I’m keeping it.”

“The black one? The tiger cat was killed, I remember.” Bob was big on cats—he and Leslie had several. “Where’s Morian, some kind of vacation? I thought…”

“She’s at home,” Braden said patiently. “I’m just keeping the cat for a while. It’s the stray, the one she—we—chased that night at Sam’s, the one the gardener had in a bag.”

Bob’s expression was one of delighted superiority. Why were cat people so superior? Braden dropped the bag beside his chair and managed to ignore it, but as they rose to leave, Bob picked it up, handing it to him. “Have you named it yet?”

“What?”

“Have you named your cat?”

“It’s Morian’s cat. It’s not my cat.”

Bob buttoned his raincoat and picked up his umbrella. “I guess I can drop around, talk to Anne, see Tom. But I can’t do anything, can’t offer help unless she asks me.” Then they were out the door, Braden running through the rain for his Chevy wagon, Bob sauntering beneath the black umbrella to his green MG. He waved as he spun out of the parking lot.