"You knew, and you didn't tell me." She stood up, holding herself tight. "I thought you were my friend. I just finished baring my whole damned life to you, I just told you the most intimate secrets of my life. I just performed the most intimate, shocking, personal act for you, and you… You knew all the time about Jimmie and that woman and you didn't tell me."
"Christ, Kate, how could I tell you. I wanted to tell you. But I thought… I thought I might make things worse. Men don't run to the wives of their friends with that kind of… Jimmie and I go clear back to grammar school."
"You and Jimmie are not friends, you don't even like Jimmie. You let me suffer, when I was trying to make things work, trying to overlook the painful things Jimmie said and did, when I thought it was all my fault. And all along he was fucking Sheril Beckwhite and you knew it."
She had been going to tell him about finding the foreign bank books. She had wanted to ask his advice, try to figure out together what Jimmie was into. She had been so sure she could trust Clyde, that they were friends and totally open with each other.
And, she thought, if he hadn't told her about Jimmie and Sheril, what else was he keeping to himself?
Could Clyde be part of whatever illegal business Jimmie was into? Was Clyde a part of that?
Was that why he'd kept quiet about Sheril? Because of secrets, because of what he and Jimmie were doing?
She turned away and left the room. She went into the guest room and shut the door. In a childish gesture she pushed the lock and propped the desk chair against the door. She stripped off her clothes and got into bed, lay curled with her arms around the pillow, lost and angry and alone.
19
Kate woke reluctantly. A heavy depression gripped her. She had no clue to its cause. She was not fully awake; she felt certain that the missing fact would make itself known the moment she came alive. The waiting revelation would, in just a moment now, sock her in the belly.
The impending weight was accompanied by a sense of helplessness, as if she would be able to do nothing whatever about the bad news. In one more minute she'd have to face some unavoidable irrevocable truth.
And it hit her. She came fully awake: she remembered her small cat self.
She remembered changing from woman to cat. Remembered doing that last night in front of Clyde, remembered rubbing against Clyde's ankles. Remembered his sick disgust.
She remembered that he knew about Jimmie and Sheril; and that he hadn't told her. That he had behaved with some kind of uncharacteristic loyalty to Jimmie, a loyalty he would never exhibit, normally, given his long-standing antipathy to Jimmie.
She stared around at Clyde's small, homely guest room; at the drawn blind awash with early light; at the scarred oak desk, the ugly green metal filing cabinet, the large black-and-chrome structure of his weight equipment, whose immovable part was fixed to the wall. The weights, she remembered, Clyde had shoved under the bed. On the dresser, the small digital clock said six-forty.
She could hear no sound in the house. She couldn't hear Clyde stirring, couldn't hear water running. There was no impatient shuffling from the kitchen, no scratching at the kitchen door as if the animals were wanting their breakfast. Maybe Clyde was walking the dogs or was out in the backyard with them. She unwrapped herself from the twisted covers and rose, stood naked looking into the mirror.
Her eyes were puffy. A dark bruise sliced across her neck. The bruises on her arms and body, like giant finger marks, seemed even darker. Her short, pale hair stuck up all on end.
She smelled coffee, then, as if it had just started to perk, and heard from the kitchen the metallic sound of the can opener. She heard Clyde's voice, low and irritable, then heard the dogs' toenails scratch the linoleum, scuffling, as if he had set down their food. She heard a cat mewl.
She didn't want to face Clyde this morning. She'd just dress and slip out, go away somewhere. Maybe around nine o'clock she'd call the shop, disguise her voice and ask for Jimmie. Then, assured that he was at work, she'd go home, throw her clothes in the car.
She guessed she'd left Clyde's robe in the bathroom. She pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and headed down the hall to wash. She wished she had her toothbrush, wished she had her comb and lipstick. Passing the door to Clyde's bedroom, she stopped to look in.
Last night when he was so upset, why had he been sitting on his bed calmly reading a bunch of papers? The briefcase and notebook lay in plain sight on the dresser.
She could hear him in the kitchen talking to the animals. She slipped in, walked to the dresser, and flipped open the notebook.
The pages were filled with short entries listing foreign cars: the year, the make, then particulars as to model, color, type of upholstery and the various accessories. All were expensive models. Each entry listed a state and county, a license number, then a date and the name and address of a Molena Point resident. That could be the purchaser. Twelve pages were filled. She put the notebook down, opened the briefcase, and drew out a stack of papers.
They were photocopies of book and magazine pages. All were articles about cats. She read quickly, at first amazed, and then eagerly as one would read a letter from home filled with welcome news.
She read until all sound from the kitchen ceased. She stuffed the papers back in the briefcase, laid the notebook on top as she had found it, and fled for the bathroom.
She turned on the shower and stepped into the welcome warmth and steam. Why did Clyde have all that amazing stuff about cats? Where had he gotten it? And why, if he'd read it, was he so upset with her last night?
He must be trying to find out about Joe Cat. In her own distress, she'd almost forgotten Joe. Clyde had gone to some trouble to put together that remarkable information. But if he'd read those amazing articles, he shouldn't have been so upset last night.
She got out of the shower, brushed her teeth with her finger and Clyde's toothpaste, and brushed her hair with his hairbrush. When she came out, glancing down the hall, she could see him in the bedroom standing at the dresser.
He was dressed to go out, wearing tan jeans, a dark polo shirt and an off-white linen jacket. As she stood looking, he slipped the little notebook into his jacket pocket.
He moved to the nightstand and picked up the phone, and she backed away into the guest room. Through her open door she listened to him punching in a number.
He didn't ask for anyone, he just started talking. "Can I meet with you this morning? Yes, two days ago." He listened, then said, "Don't do that. That could mess us up real bad."
He listened, then, "No, nothing. But I'm not done with it. It's the money…"
Then, "Yes." He laughed. "Ten minutes," he said softly. "Soon as I can get there."
She shut her door quietly, dropped the sheet, and pulled on her clothes. She heard him pass her door going down the hall, then heard the back door open, heard him talking to the dogs as if letting them in. Quickly she slipped out to the living room and out the front door.
In the carport she slid into the open Packard, thankful that he kept the top down most of the time. The bright red car was an antique, valuable and lovingly cared for, always clean and well polished. Well why not? The men at the shop kept it washed. Sitting in the front seat she took a deep breath, whispered, and in an instant she was little again, four-footed, her tail lashing with nerves.
She leaped onto the back of the seat, then down to the floor in the back; she did it all so fast she thought she was going to throw up. Crouching on the floor among a tangle of jogging shoes, automotive catalogs, rags, paperback mysteries, and what smelled like stale peanut butter, she heard the front door slam, heard his footsteps. She hoped he wouldn't throw anything heavy on top of her. She heard him calling Joe. After a long silence, he came into the carport.