"Who the hell do they think they are?"
"They," Wilma said, "are our rarefied and venerable art critics, those specially anointed among us with the intelligence to understand true art."
Clyde made a rude noise.
Wilma studied Charlie. "I'll admit I didn't like your landscapes. But these-these are strong. More than strong, they're knowledgeable, very sure. Do you have more?"
"Some horses," Charlie said. "Lots of cats, all my friends in San Francisco had cats. A dog or two."
"Did you bring them with you?"
"They're in the storage locker with my cleaning stuff and tools."
"Will you bring them home?" Wilma said patiently. "I'd like to see them all."
Charlie shrugged and nodded. "The sketches of Dulcie are yours, if you want them."
"You bet I want them. Dulcie will be… is immortalized," Wilma stumbled. She caught Clyde's eye, and felt her face heating. "I'll take them down right away, to be framed." She rose and began to fuss at the sink, her back to Charlie, and hastily began final preparations for dinner, again checking the roast, making sure the noodles were still warm.
She was going to have to be more careful what she said to Charlie, and in front of Charlie.
And, she'd have to get those drawings out of the house before Dulcie saw them. The little cat could be as careless as she. If Dulcie came on those drawings unprepared, she would be so pleased she'd very likely forget herself, let out a cry of astonishment and delight that, if Charlie heard her, would be difficult to explain.
12
It was poker night at the Blankenships'. Frances served an early supper of canned spaghetti and a limp salad, then hustled Mama off to bed. Returning to the kitchen, she made a stack of baloney and salami sandwiches, wiped the counters, and dutifully removed from the round kitchen table its collection of animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers, pig-shaped sugar bowl, the cream pitcher made in the image of a cow, and the potted fern. Varnie slapped a new unopened deck of cards and a rack of poker chips on the table, and checked the refrigerator to assess once again his stock of cold beer. Dulcie watched the preparations from a dark little space between the end of the stove and the kitchen wall.
But, crouching in the shadows, she was tempted to nip out the open laundry window or return to Mama's room before the kitchen filled up with boisterous jokes and cigarette smoke. She expected Frances would retire to her own secluded part of the house, to the pristine little lair at the back, which Dulcie had investigated just this morning.
When Frances had made a quick trip into the village for groceries, Dulcie had been able for the first time to inspect closely Frances's small office. Heretofore she had only looked in from the hall. Certainly the room was off-limits to both Mama and Varnie; neither seemed welcome there. This morning she had slipped in quickly, padding across the bare wood floor, staring up at the unadorned white walls. The plain white desk was bare, except for Frances's computer. White desk chair, white worktable, low white file cabinets. No clutter anywhere. She could see nothing on any surface, certainly no china beastie or tatty fern plants. Leaping up onto the desk she paced its bare surface, brushing by the computer. And she could not resist the slick surface, it was perfect for tail chasing-she'd spun, snatching at her tail, whirling until she fell over the side, landing hard on the oak floor.
She tested the white leather typing chair, found it soft and inviting, and then atop the white filing cabinets she had investigated the copier. It was very like Wilma's copier at the library. Next to it stood a state-of-the art white telephone with answering machine and fax.
A fax still unnerved her. Though she had watched the library's fax, she couldn't get used to it spitting out pages suddenly without any apparent human input-as if the messages were generated by nothing living.
But she had felt that way about the telephone, at first, shivering with fear. As Joe pushed the headset off, punched in a number, and talked into the little perforated speaker, she had deeply distrusted the disembodied voice which answered him.
She felt easier with a copier. She had played with Wilma's copier, and that machine seemed to her more direct. You pressed a paw into the sand and created a pawprint. You put a page in the copier and got a copy. No invisible, offstage presences.
Even computers seemed more straightforward. You punch in CAT, you get CAT on the screen. She considered a computer to be a glorified typewriter-until you got into modems. Then the ghosts returned.
Frances had a modem; Dulcie had watched her from the doorway and knew that she received many pages via modem. These she edited, making changes, putting in appropriate punctuation, then sent the material away again to some mysterious, unnamed destination.
Mama, complaining that Frances neglected her for the computer, said Frances typed some kind of medical report. Mama had even less notion than Dulcie herself about the workings of a modem. And Dulcie had no idea whether Frances did this work to help support the household or to get away from the old woman. Maybe both. Whatever the reason, she spent a good part of the day in there. And who could blame her. Anything to get away from the oppressive clutter in the rest of the house-there was nowhere to go in this house that didn't make Dulcie herself feel trapped.
Last night, her second as a secret agent, in the old woman's lap she had waked in a panic of confinement, kicking and fighting, trying to free herself. In her dream, dark walls pressed in at her, threatening to crush her. She was with the white cat, pushing along beside him between damp, muddy walls that pressed in too close and dark, she was wild with fear; she woke with the old woman's hands pressing against her, trying to calm her. "Kitty? Oh, dear, what a dream you must have had. Were you chasing mice-or was a bad dog chasing you?"
She had leaped off the old woman's lap and raced away, totally frustrated.
She'd been with the Blankenships three days, waiting for some pearl of information about Janet's murder, and all she got was bad dreams and cuddled to death by Mama and yelled at by Varnie.
She'd made herself as accommodating to Mama as she could, obligingly eating string beans and mashed potatoes and even Jell-O, whatever the old woman saved from her own meals. She should feel flattered that Mrs. Blankenship put aside part of her supper despite Varnie's sarcastic comments.
Now, even the dark little space between the stove and wall was beginning to get to her, to give her the jitters. It was cramped, too warm, and smelled of grease. Peering out, she watched Varnie open a beer, stand looking out the window, then prowl the kitchen, opening cupboards, maybe looking for additional snacks. She longed to be with Joe out on the cool hills, running free. The brightest moments in her day were when she leaped to Mama's window and looked across the street. If Joe was sitting in Janet's window watching for her, immediately she felt free again and loved, didn't feel like a prisoner anymore.
This morning when he saw her, he had stood up against the glass, his mouth open in a toothy laugh, then disappeared. In a moment he came slipping out beneath the burned door, grinned at her, and, assured that she was safe, trotted away up the hill to hunt, cocky and self-possessed. She had looked after him feeling painfully lonely. She didn't remind herself that this little visit with the Blankenships had been her own idea. And she'd been tempted to go hunt with him; there was nothing to prevent her. The first night, Frances had propped open a window in the laundry and slid back the screen, leaving a six-inch opening through which she could come and go. Frances hadn't done it out of thoughtfulness but was saving herself the trouble of letting the cat in and out, or of cleaning up a sand box.