Wilma scanned the lead story with mild interest, standing in her front garden. The Gazette articles were getting tedious. Much of this story was a rehashing of Janet's personal life, which the reporters seemed to find fascinating; newspaper reporters were not conditioned to let the dead rest, not as long as there was any hint of story to be milked from a tragedy. She folded the evening paper again, tucked it under her arm, and bent to pluck some spent blooms from the daylilies. A cool little breeze played through the oak tree, rattling the leaves. Above her, above the neighbors' rooftops, the sky flamed red, so blazing a sunset that she considered hurrying the five blocks to the shore to enjoy its full effect spreading like fire over the sea. But she had dinner cooking, and she'd pulled that trick before, turning the stove low, nipping down to the beach for a few moments-and returning home to find her supper burned.
She wished Dulcie was home. She grew upset when the little cat was gone for more than a night and a day. Even with Clyde's reassurances that the cats were all right, Dulcie's absence was unsettling. Clyde would say little, only that they were perfectly safe. Turning from the daylilies she headed for the house, moved on through the kitchen, where she'd left the noodles boiling, and into the dining room to have another look at the drawings Charlie had left propped on the buffet.
She'd discovered them when she got home from work, had stood looking at the little exhibit, amazed. She'd had no idea that Charlie was drawing Dulcie, and she'd had no idea, no hint that Charlie could draw animals with such power. Until that moment she'd thought of Charlie's artistic efforts as mediocre, dull and unremarkable. The work which she had watched over the years consisted mostly of uninspired landscapes bland as porridge, studies so lacking in passion that she was convinced an art career was not the best use of Charlie's talents. She had felt a deep relief when Charlie gave up on making a living in the field of either fine or commercial art. Had felt that Charlie, in making a break from the art world, could at last throw herself into something which would fit her far better.
But these drawings were totally different, very skilled and sure, it was obvious that Charlie loved doing animals; strange that she'd never seen anything like this before. Always it was the landscapes or Charlie's hackneyed commercial assignments from class. But these showed real caring-the work was bold and commanding, revealing true delight in her feline subject.
The three portraits of Dulcie were life-size, done in a combination of charcoal and rust red Conte crayon on rough white paper. They brought Dulcie fully alive; the little cat shone out at her as insouciant and as filled with deviltry as Dulcie herself. In one drawing she lay stretched full-length, looking up and smiling, her dark, curving stripes gleaming, her expression bright and eager. In the second study she was leaping at a moth, her action so liquid and swift that Wilma could feel the weightless pull of Dulcie's long, powerful muscles. The third drawing had caught Dulcie poised on the edge of the bookshelf ready to leap down, her four feet together, her eyes wild with play.
This work was, in fact, stronger and far more knowledgeable than any animal drawings Wilma could remember. The cat's muscle and bone structure were well understood and clearly defined beneath her sleek fur, the little cat's liquid movement balanced and true. There was nothing cute about this cat, nothing sentimental. These studies created for the viewer a living and complicated animal.
Leonardo da Vinci said the smallest feline is a masterpiece. These drawings certainly reflected that reverence. She couldn't wait for Dulcie to see these.
To an ordinary cat, such drawings would read simply as paper with dark smudges smelling of charcoal and fixative. A drawing would communicate nothing alive to the ordinary feline, no smell of cat, no warmth or movement. A normal cat had no capacity to understand graphic images.
An ordinary cat could recognize animal life on TV primarily by sounds, such as barking, or birdsong, and by the uniqueness of movement: feline action sleek and lithe and deeply familiar, birds fluttering and hopping. Action was what most cats saw. She had no doubt about this, Dulcie had told her this was so.
But Dulcie would see every detail of these drawings of herself, and she would be thrilled.
Returning to the kitchen, dropping the evening Gazette on the table, she turned to finishing up her dinner preparations. Her cheerful blue-and-white kitchen was warm from the oven, and smelled of the garlic and herbs and wine with which she'd basted the well-browned pot roast. Removing the noodles from the stove, she drained them in a colander then pulled the roaster from the oven, releasing a cloud of deliriously scented steam. She basted the roast, put the lid back, put the noodles in a bowl and buttered them, set them on the back of the stove to keep warm. It was nice having company; she was pleased to have Charlie staying with her. She deeply enjoyed her solitude, but a change was delightful, and Charlie was just about all the family she had since her younger brother, Charlie's father, had died. There were a couple of second cousins on the East Coast but they seldom were in touch. Her niece was the closest thing she had to a child of her own, and she valued Charlie.
She laid silverware and napkins on the table, meaning to set them around later. Beyond the window the sunset had deepened to a shade as vivid as the red bougainvillea which clung outside the diamond panes, the red so penetrating it stained the blue tile counter to a ruddy glow, sent a rosy sheen over the blue-and-white floral wallpaper. She set out the salt and pepper, then returned to the dining room for another look. She couldn't leave the drawings alone. Now, suddenly, it seemed to her a great waste for Charlie to be starting a cleaning and repair business. Why had she hidden such work?
Charlie had mentioned once there wasn't any money in drawing animals, and maybe she was right. Certainly animal drawings weren't big in juried shows; one would have to build a reputation in some other way than Janet had done. Charlie said Janet was truly talented, and that she herself was not. Wilma wondered how much of that came from the narrow view of the particular art school she had attended.
She returned to the kitchen, moving restlessly. She was tearing up endive and spinach leaves for a salad when Charlie's van pulled up at the curb, parking up toward the neighbors' to leave room behind. The red sky was darkening, streaked with gray, the wild kind of sky Dulcie loved. She tried to put away her worries about Dulcie; it did no good to worry. Clyde had said, on the phone, that the cats were fine.
So where are they?
At Janet's. Joe is at Janet's.
Then where is Dulcie?
She's nearby-gathering some information, Joe said.
What does that mean? Snooping somewhere? She can't… Those cats can't…
Joe says not to worry, and what good does it do to worry? He'd let me know if anything-if they…
She had hung up, shaken, and no wiser.
She shook the salad dressing, fussed with the salad. Standing at the window, she watched Charlie come up the walk dragging, looking hot and irritable.
Charlie dropped her jacket in the entry and came on through the dining room into the kitchen, slumped into a chair. Her red hair was damp with sweat, curling around her face, her limp, sweaty shirt was streaked with white paint and rust.
"Not a good day," Wilma said tentatively.