14
Ryan pulled her red king cab into her aunt’s drive between Wilma’s car and the back door and quickly they loaded up—a small overnight bag for Wilma, a box of food and toys and quilts for the kittens. Leaving the house watched by three plainclothes officers wandering the neighborhood door to door handing out religious pamphlets, and by one of Ryan’s carpenters measuring for the window, they hoped this much activity would keep the burglar away from the area until the house was quiet again. Wilma’s car had sat in the same spot all night and would remain there.
Quickly the kittens leaped into the backseat, keeping their little mouths shut in case a cop, moving down the sidewalk, might hear them. All three were wide-eyed at this new delight, not only the exciting escape from the burglar, but the adventure of visiting a new house and taking over Clyde and Ryan’s downstairs guest room all to themselves.
So far in their short lives they had been inside only two other houses besides their own: Kit’s hilltop home with Lucida and Pedric Greenlaw, the cats all sitting before the fire listening to Pedric’s tales; and Max and Charlie Harper’s ranch house with its pastures and stable and hay barn where they could climb the tall bales, and chase mice. Now here was another new place to explore, and the first thing they saw as Ryan approached the Damens’ house was Joe Grey’s tower rising above the second-floor roof. It didn’t look damaged at all, it looked brand-new.
“A tree really fell on it?” Courtney asked, switching her tail.
“It did,” Ryan said. “It was all torn branches and broken glass. It doesn’t take my crew long to fix a problem.” As she pulled into the drive, Wilma, Dulcie, and the kittens all piled out, moving quickly into the shadows of the porch. Ryan took the big box from her, as the kittens fled up the walk, hit the cat door at a run, and bolted inside nearly crashing into the big silver Weimaraner. He stood shocked at the onslaught, but smiling and wagging his short tail.
Joe Grey leaped to the couch watching his unruly kittens. “This is Rock,” he said as the kittens warily backed off from the Weimaraner. They had too often been warned about dogs, especially big dogs. “Rock’s all right,” Joe told them, “he won’t hurt you. He’s an exception.”
“Exception,” Courtney said, not sure what that meant, but liking the new word. Was “exception” a kind of dog? Or did it mean different than others? Rock stepped gently among them to lick their faces. Reassured, the kittens rubbed against his legs. Ryan’s dad had brought the sleek gray dog back early that morning from their vacation trip; he had brought, as well, a dozen fresh, cleaned trout that were now in the refrigerator. The kittens, following the delicious scent to the kitchen, searched the counters and table but found no fish at all. Disappointed, they bolted away again through the rest of the house. Dulcie started after them—until she caught Joe’s look, and stopped.
“Let them go,” Joe said. “Let them investigate.”
Ryan agreed. “They can’t get into trouble here as they might have up at the Harpers’ ranch. No horses to step on them, no territorial barn cats to attack them.”
“They have to learn about new places,” Wilma said as the Weimaraner poked his nose at her, begging for a pet. “Even a new house is an adventure, they can’t stay babies forever.”
The kittens raced in again, pounding down the hall to explore the living room more fully, investigating the flowered couch and chairs, the three tall green plants growing in pots against the soft yellow walls, the fresh white draperies that begged to be climbed. But when they eyed the draperies then looked from Dulcie to Joe Grey, they backed off.
As Ryan and Wilma headed for the kitchen, they paused a moment to watch the kittens looking above the couch and the mantel at the framed drawings of Joe Grey and Dulcie, of Kit, of a little white cat and the big silver dog. They looked and looked; and Courtney said, in a whisper, “Charlie Harper did these. Oh my. One day, will she draw portraits of us?”
“I expect she will,” Wilma said, wondering at the kitten’s use of the word “portrait.” A word perhaps from memory? From some long-ago dream?
But Striker and Buffin were most fascinated with Joe Grey’s comfortable chair, frayed, clawed, fur matted; Courtney joined them there, they all had to roll in the deep cushions, in their father’s scent, flipping their tails and purring.
Joe and Dulcie watched them investigate behind the furniture, picking up new smells; they followed the kittens as they prowled again through the big family kitchen with its round table, the flowered chair at the far end that also smelled of Joe and of Rock and of another cat.
“You smell Snowball,” Joe said, leaping to the kitchen table. He looked at his three curious children. “When you discover Snowball, be gentle with her. She’s not used to new visitors. She’s a shy, tender little cat—but she doesn’t speak. Be kind with her, you three.”
The kittens looked back, very serious, then raced away to find Snowball; but pausing to investigate the downstairs guest room, rubbing their faces against its wicker and oak furniture, they quickly made it their own room. It was already scented with Wilma’s overnight bag and with their own sacks of kibble, their own toys and blankets.
Best of all were the softly-carpeted stairs leading from the hall to the rooms above: they raced madly up and down, leaping over one another, flipping around in midair, dashing between Rock’s legs as he ran up the stairs gently playing with them. Dulcie followed to keep them out of trouble. Joe Grey remained in the kitchen watching Wilma slice cranberry bread and Ryan brew coffee; Ryan wore a flowered apron over her worn jeans and khaki work shirt, the ruffled hem brushing the top of her leather work boots. They could hear, upstairs, the thunder of Rock’s paws, and the kittens’ softer thumps as they leaped from desk to rafter and down again; they had strict instructions not to go out on the roof.
Ryan said, as Wilma sat down at the table and poured the coffee, “I’m still nervous about the breakin. That was no casual burglary, not after his following and watching you. You have nothing of huge value, not like the mansions up in the hills or along the shore.”
“Janet Jeannot’s painting,” Joe Grey said, leaping to the table. “Janet’s landscape hanging right there over Wilma’s fireplace.”
Ryan nodded. “That painting of the village is worth a nice sum. But it isn’t as if you own a whole collection of expensive art, or a houseful of priceless silver and antiques. Besides Janet’s landscape there are only the few pieces of jewelry Kate has given you. They’re worth a lot. But even if he’d seen you wearing them, how would he know they were real? And,” she said, putting sugar and cream on the table, “if he was looking for jewelry, why would he look in your desk? He—Oh,” she said, looking at Wilma, then at Joe Grey. The tomcat’s yellow eyes were smugly slanted, waiting for Ryan to catch up.
“Oh,” she said again, “the Bewick book? But how could he know about that? Anyway, it’s gone now,” she said sadly. “There’s nothing but ashes.”
It was the feral cats who had first discovered an old and sturdy, handmade wooden box buried among the ruins beneath a tilted foundation. They had led Wilma and Charlie Harper there to find, within, an ancient and valuable volume, hand printed on thick parchment pages. Old, handmade type, hand set, and printed by some early, manual process. The illustrations were woodcuts, hand carved, hand printed. The volume had been produced by artist and writer Thomas Bewick in 1862.
Of the few original copies that remained, most were owned by collectors, each worth at least several thousand dollars. But this one single copy had an added chapter at the back, where Bewick had written about the cats he had encountered in his travels. Wilma and Charlie had been so excited to find such a treasure; but they were shocked when they read that chapter. Why had Bewick written this?