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.
Charlie reached for a leaf of spinach to nibble. "Not too bad. Mavity got a lot done. She's a good worker, and a dear person." Mavity Flowers was an old school friend of Wilma's. She had gone to work cleaning houses when the small pension left by her husband began to dwindle under rising prices. She'd be in fair financial shape if she'd sell her Molena Point cottage and move to a less expensive area, but Mavity loved Molena Point. She would rather stay in the village and scrub for a living.
Charlie rose and got two beers from the refrigerator.
"Cold glasses in the freezer," Wilma said. "I guess Mavity can be a bit vague at times."
"Aren't we all?" Charlie fetched two iced glasses, opened the bottles, and poured the dark brew down the frosted sides with care. "Mavity works right along, she doesn't grouse, and she doesn't stop every five minutes for a smoke the way Stamps does. I don't think James Stamps will be with me long."
Charlie had hired Stamps from an ad she'd put in the paper. He hadn't been in Molena Point for more than a week or two. He told Charlie he'd moved to the coast because Salinas was too dry. He was renting a room somewhere up in the hills, near to the house Charlie was cleaning, the Hansen house; she was getting it ready for new owners.
"I got all the little repairs done. Replaced the cabinet door hinges in the kitchen, fixed the leak in the garage roof. Fixed the gate latches." She sighed and settled back, taking a long swallow of beer. "Mavity and I painted the bedroom, and Stamps picked up the shelving units for the closets."
"Sounds like more than a full day."
"I had to tell Stamps twice, no smoking in the house. He said, 'What difference? They won't be moving in for a week.' I told him that stink stays in a house forever. But how can he smell anything when he reeks of smoke himself."
"Did he do any work besides picking up the shelving?"
"Under my prodding. Got the front yard cleaned up, the lawn trimmed, and the new flowers planted. But my God, I have to tell him everything. Mix the manure and conditioner in before you plant, James. Treat the flowers tenderly, don't jam them in the ground.
"It's not that Stamps is dumb," Charlie continued. "He's bright enough, but he doesn't keep his mind on the job. Who knows where his thoughts are. The cleaning and repair business is definitely not James Stamps's line of work."
Charlie glanced idly at the paper. "One day I'll find the right people. Meantime I keep on baby-sitting him. I had to tell him twice to tie up his dog. It sleeps in his truck; I guess the people he rents from don't want it in his room. I don't blame them, the beast is a monster. I didn't want it tramping around in the clean house, getting dog hairs stuck in the fresh paint."
"I thought you loved dogs."
"I can hardly wait to get a dog. A big dog. But not a beast like Stamps's mutt. I want a nice, clean, well-mannered animal. That creature won't mind, and it's mean." She grinned. "At least Stamps didn't eat lunch with Mavity and me, that was a pleasure. It was real nice to be rid of him.