The Catswold Portal

He stopped for a signal, then moved on through traffic. She watched him, liking his lean good looks, his smile. He answered her questions honestly, she thought. He said, “Timorell was soon pregnant, and terrified her husband would find out. But the husband didn’t contact her until after you were born.” He turned onto the road to Tiburon, the car’s lights slewing across the water.

“When you were three months old, Timorell’s husband came to the apartment with his small sister. Alice was there visiting, and McCabe was at work on a house up in north Marin.

“The husband was in a rage about the baby. Timorell tried to get him to leave. As they argued, the earthquake hit. It rocked the building. The wall cracked, warping in at them. Alice described it quite graphically. Timorell was holding you, trying to protect you when the front windows collapsed inward and a huge bookcase toppled; it hit Timorell hard, she twisted and fell, and Alice grabbed you.” Braden slowed for a cross street.

“Alice didn’t remember clearly what happened next. She woke in the rubble, sprawled under the dining table clutching you. You were screaming. There were rafters down all around the table. Timorell was dead. Alice screamed at her and shook her, trying to wake her. The husband was alive, trapped by fallen timbers, watching Alice woodenly. But his small sister was standing over Alice staring down at the baby; she said something in a strange language, some kind of rhyme, then Alice fainted.

“When she came to, you were gone. And the sister was gone. Alice had no doubt she had taken you, and she was terrified for you. She felt things about that little girl…” He shook his head. “Alice was terrified of her.

“She got out of the building, got down the broken stairs, and searched for you. The street was all rubble, cars every which way, groceries scattered where they had exploded from shop windows. And there was looting, confusion everywhere. She searched until dark then made her way home hysterical and exhausted.”

Melissa could see too clearly her mother lying dead. She could see young Siddonie snatching up the baby and running—stealing her, stealing the Catswold child. “And McCabe? What happened to my father?”

“He was working up here in Marin County, on a scaffolding four stories up. It fell with him. The police said that somehow he jumped free, but he was hit by falling bricks and killed.”

Braden turned into a parking lot, under a row of muted lights. There were potted plants at the door of the restaurant. It was a weathered wood building set on rough pilings, extending out between the docks, over the bay.

Inside there was a small shop and then the bar. Braden led her into the shop to wait for their table. She didn’t want to talk; she was filled with the past. But then in the shop, she saw on a top shelf a basket that intrigued her. When Braden lifted it down she knew she wanted it. She was fascinated by its smooth, octagonal sides and by its smell—it would be just right to nap in. She bought it, pulling the roll of bills out of her pocket, making Braden stare. “It’s for your little cat.” She handed the basket to him. “For her to sleep in.”

He looked surprised, then faintly embarrassed. “She sleeps all over the silks I keep for models; she’s clawed the hell out of them.” He grinned. “Maybe, with a basket, she won’t get on them.”

When their table was called Braden watched the other women studying Melissa, her hair, her lithe beauty. It made no difference that she wore a long, rather strange dress, she would be smashing in anything. He was surprised she wasn’t used to such stares, that the glances made her uneasy. Only when they were seated did she forget the other women watching her, as she became fascinated with the fishing boats crowding the dock outside their window. Her green eyes took in every detail of rigging, her mouth curving up in the little smile he liked. He wanted to touch her throat, her cheek. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to know her better, to know what she thought, to show her new things, to take her sailing in the bay, or maybe riding. He felt a pang of guilt at being unfaithful to Alice, then realized how stupid that was.

When he asked her if she rode, she seemed surprised that he did. He told her he had learned to ride in England after the war. “Because of a girl whose name I’ve long since forgotten.”

“The war,” she said, watching him, seeming almost puzzled.

“I was in the Second Marines, in the Pacific. But after the armistice they sent me to England as an embassy guard. It was after I came home that I met Alice, when I was teaching.” He picked up his menu. “What would you like? The lobster’s usually good.”

“Oh, yes, the lobster.” She looked as if lobster was the most wonderful thing in the world. Everything seemed wonderful to her; she seemed to drink in every sight, every sound as if the whole world was spanking new, as if she had just been born.