Clyde snorted. “What did Ryan say?”
“Ryan showed her a floor scrap with the name and color number on it, showed her a copy of the order Tekla had signed. Why does Sam Bleak stay with that woman? Even in a wheelchair he’d be better off alone. You’re setting four places.”
“Just Scotty and Ben.” Ryan’s uncle Scott was a bachelor and was often there for dinner. Young Ben Stonewell was single, too. The thin, twenty-something carpenter, who was new to the village, was so quiet, so withdrawn and shy, that Ryan was inclined to mother him.
Clyde said, “It would be pretty hard for Sam to get along alone in a wheelchair. He needs someone.”
“He has Arnold.”
“Arnold’s what? Maybe fourteen? And the kid’s . . . he’s kind enough to Sam, but there’s something about him. The kid makes me uneasy.”
Joe twitched a whisker. “With Tekla for a mother, no wonder. I don’t get too friendly with him, I doubt he likes cats very much. He makes my fur twitch.”
They heard Ryan descending the stairs. She came into the kitchen, her temper washed away, looking softer in a pink velvet jumpsuit and smelling of lavender soap—no longer smelling of anger. Her short, dark hair curled around her face, from the steamy shower. “Sam and Tekla have no one but Arnold,” she said. “No other family that I know of. Both Sam and the kid need Tekla, and they sure need to have this house finished. If she’d just stop bugging us and let us get on with it.”
Clyde moved away from the stove and took her in his arms. She melted against him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Tekla’s a lot less caustic,” she said, “when Arnold’s around. Is she ashamed to pitch such a fit in front of their son?”
“I’d be ashamed,” Clyde said. He stroked her hair, then turned back to the stove, where the water for pasta had begun to boil. He eased in the dry spaghetti, then opened two cans of beer, handing one to Ryan. He stood watching the pot, ready to turn it down when it boiled. At the sink Ryan washed tomatoes and began cutting up salad greens. Joe moved down the counter away from her splashes and then sailed across to the table. He hoped he wouldn’t have to move again when their guests arrived. After all, it was only Scotty and Ben. At the other end of the long kitchen, the big silver Weimaraner and little white Snowball watched the proceedings with nose-twitching interest, though their own bowls of supper had already been licked clean. As Joe settled down between the place mats, Clyde turned from the stove to fix him with a piercing look.
“Okay. Now Ryan’s home. Now we’re all together. Let’s hear it.”
Joe looked up at him blankly. Ryan turned, watching them.
Clyde sipped his beer, his gaze never leaving Joe. “You were grinning when you got home this afternoon, grinning until you left again. You’re scowling now, after a half hour with Tekla. But that smug look is still there, underneath. Come on, Joe. Spill it.”
Ryan looked closely at Joe. She reached out one slender finger and tipped up his chin, studying his wide yellow eyes. “I didn’t notice, down at the Bleaks’ or in the truck, I was too caught up in . . . too damn mad. You do look a bit smug,” she said. “What, Joe? What is that look?”
Joe Grey sighed.
He told himself he was blessed to have Ryan and Clyde, to have a loving family. That he was blessed he hadn’t remained a homeless stray in the San Francisco alleys. That he was more than fortunate that Clyde had rescued him, back when he was a starving kitten. Told himself he was lucky beyond dreams that Clyde had married Ryan Flannery.
But there were times when they didn’t have to be so damned nosy. He lay between the place mats staring back at his housemates’ stern and unblinking assessment, the two of them waiting for him to explain that inner joyousness that he couldn’t seem to hide or quelclass="underline" two stern humans banded together in silent interrogation, as hard-nosed stubborn as a pair of old-time detectives. If Clydethought he had a secret, Ryan knew he did. Her green eyes saw too deeply into his wily cat soul.
He wanted to share his and Dulcie’s news. He was eager to tell them about the kittens and see their excitement. But he felt embarrassed that he was so excited. And he dreaded the fuss they’d make. They’d start worrying over Dulcie; they’d caution him to take care of her when he and she were out running the roofs and streets. They’d tell him not to let her climb trees, just as John Firetti had told Dulcie herself. They’d go on and on, he could only half imagine their concern.
But he had to say something. The two were still staring. There was no getting out of this. Besides, Dulcie was already starting to show, if you looked carefully. Pretty quick now, her condition would be too obvious to hide. Then everyone would start asking questions. If he or Dulcie didn’t break the news, Clyde and Ryan, or Charlie, would start to interrogate Wilma, whom Dulcie had so far sworn to secrecy.
Well, hell, he thought, fighting his prideful embarrassment, and he laid it out for them using Dulcie’s own words. “Kittens,” he said, “there’ll be kittens.”
Clyde stared.
“We’re going to have kittens,” Joe said slowly.
Ryan’s eyes widened and she began to smile. Clyde’s expression was numb. Dulcie and Joe had been together a long time, with no sign of ever expecting babies. Kittens born to speaking cats were a rare occurrence. The idea still amazed Joe himself, still left him only half believing. “Dulcie is with kittens,” he repeated, watching Clyde.
But Ryan flew around the table and grabbed Joe up in her arms. “Kittens! Oh, Joe. How manykittens? Do you know how many? Has she seen Dr. Firetti? When are they due? How soon? Has she told Wilma? Wilma hasn’t said a word . . . Oh!” She kissed the top of Joe’s head, then kissed his nose. Beneath his fur, Joe had to be blushing. “Oh, kittens,” she said. “Little speaking kittens . . .”
Snug in her arms, Joe didn’t point out that there was no guarantee their babies would speak. Ryan and Clyde knew that, if they’d thought about it. John Firetti had told them, long ago, that the gift of speech didn’t always happen, that sometimes the talent was not passed on, that it did not appear at all. Just as, once in a great while, a little speaking kitten would be born to an ordinary, nonverbal litter.
A recessive gene? An anomaly surfacing out of nowhere? Joe found the tangle of genetic paths daunting; he didn’t comprehend the math of it at all, or the implications. He wondered if anyone understood this particular scientific puzzle. How could geneticists study and understand a creature they didn’t know existed? No more than a handful of people in the world could know there even were literate, verbal cats.
Most people, Joe thought, wouldn’t believe in talking cats if one shouted obscenities at them.
Those few who knew the speaking cats and loved them kept their secret well, to protect the cats themselves; to shield them from human exploitation in a world where any creature rare and different was open to human greed.
Settling deeper into Ryan’s arms, Joe worried that the babies might not be able to speak. Dismayed, he looked solemnly at Clyde and then up into Ryan’s green eyes, so tender now as she fussed over him. But Clyde was saying, “Kittens! My God, Joe. If they’re half as stubborn and hardheaded as you . . .”
“Or if they’re half as smart and decisive as Joe,” Ryan said, “and as clever and sweet as Dulcie . . . oh, a baby shower, Joe! We’ll have a shower for Dulcie—little kitten toys, a soft new cat bed. Baby books, little kitty primers to—”
Joe drew back in her arms and pressed a paw to her lips. “You’re not having a baby shower!” Ryan never gushed, he was shocked at her gushing. “Dulcie’s not having a foo-foo baby partylike some . . . some giddy . . . human mother.”
“Why not?” she said, hugging him. “Little toy mice, some pretty little blankets . . .” She was never like this, his steady, sensible housemate, the woman he counted on for a calm and balanced view of the world when Clyde might be off the wall. The tomcat’s voice was sharper than he intended.