"Mother, he's not going to come to me."
"He might."
I looked across the room at my husband carving the golden brown turkey, the table laden with candied yams, venison stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, and freshly baked biscuits. The smell wafted through the house. My stomach rumbled, saliva collecting in my mouth. I had starved myself the entire day so that I could eat this meal. My Bengals, being part Asian wild-cat with high prey drives and never-ending appetites, rubbed against my legs, Chewy meowing loud enough to make the ear not attached to the phone ache. He'd been looking forward to the meal as well. Spoiled rotten cat.
"Mother. It's Christmas Eve. Dinner's ready right now. I was just about to eat."
"Sure. You eat while my cat gets killed."
There was the guilt trip that always got to me. My entire body sagged. I did care if the cat were to be killed. I adored cats; I trained them for a living.
My husband would be really upset. He'd been cooking as long as I'd been starving myself. He and Mother had never gotten along, unless he was doing something Mother needed done. Though we had been together for over twenty years, Mother still hated him to the molecular level. Not that he didn't try; Mother was just very stubborn. The looks she gave him were enough to freeze up a hot tub filled with roiling water.
"Okay, Mother. Give me a few minutes. Who knows what kind of traffic I'm going to run into on Christmas Eve; everyone doing their last-minute shopping and such."
"Great. See you soon, Margo." Her voice brightened. She'd won… again.
My husband knew as I walked into the dining room. His shoulders slumped. "You have to go, huh. After all this work I put into dinner." He rubbed his face, ruminating, staring at the turkey he'd just carved into juicy slices. "What's the problem this time?"
As I explained the situation to him, his lips thinned with anger. "It's just another celebration she's going to destroy. I swear she does this intentionally." He sighed. "But, you've gotta go. I know."
Chewy sat at his feet and meowed up at him. Sorceress joined in, walking around Chewy, her tail in the air, flicking from side to side. She often copied whatever he did, especially when it came to her belly.
"Sorry, guys. Not now," he said to the hungry cats. "We've all gotta wait until Marcella Finney gets her cat back."
He looked up at me. "You need me to come with you?"
I knew he really didn't want to. I also knew my mother wouldn't want him to.
"No, Hon. You don't have to."
He visibly relaxed.
"Well, why don't you take the cats. You'll never be able to catch Beamer without Chewy and Sorceress to help track him down."
Once, when my mother had stayed with us for a week while ill, her cat Beamer had met with Chewy. Chewy attacked Beamer causing him to leave a puddle on the carpet. Beamer had to be locked in my mother's room so that cat fur wouldn't be flying around the house for a week. The entire time they had stayed, Chewy was at the door, screaming at Beamer. That, paired with my mother's demands (all she needed was a bell and the situation would've been complete), made the week a living hell.
Yes, taking my cats might be a good idea. I put on their harnesses, slipped on my heavy winter coat, and loaded us all into the SUV.
Despite some traffic, I arrived less than an hour later.
My mother lived in northwest Washington, D.C., near Rock Creek Park, a place inhabited by the kind of people she felt were at her "level"—doctors, lawyers, and diplomats. Despite the fact that she survived on her sole income as a clinical psychologist, she had bought a home in this area and now had to work hard to afford to keep it. It would've been below her station to sell her house in northern Virginia and buy a condo, giving her less work to do in many ways. No. She had to have a brick house, among the professional elite.
I shook my head every time I thought of it. For such an intelligent woman she had no common sense. But she sure knew how to lay a guilt trip. After all, here I was on Christmas Eve, an empty belly, husband at home waiting, helping her find her cat.
I went into Mother's house and called out to her. As anxious as she was for my assistance, I had expected her to meet me at the door. No sign of her. No note, not that I could've found it anyway. Clutter is a congenial means of describing the inside of her home.
Oh no, I thought. She went out looking for Beamer. Now I have to look for her.
This presented a real problem, as I had brought a dominant cat to track another cat, not a search-and-rescue dog. I went to the back door and called out. No answer.
Remembering that the police would not do anything unless a person was missing for a prolonged period of time, I gave up the idea of calling them. It was up to me. I knew Mother was likely out searching for Beamer, so I decided to do the same, hoping to run into her.
Returning to my SUV, I gathered my cats. Chewy bristled with happiness at the chance to strut outdoors.
He pulled at his leash, raring to go. Quickly, I put on Sorceress's leash as well and allowed them to jump out of the vehicle. I was pulled down the block immediately as Chewy single-mindedly headed into the cold, damp darkness; Sorceress trotting alongside him. Whenever they're on a mission, whether searching for food or general mischief, they are joined at the hip, tails up, waving in the air, big eyes peeled on the ground before them, noses quivering with delight. The hunt was on.
The Bengals weren't bothered by the wet sidewalk, the occasional car splashing through puddles, or the bright decorations covering the neighborhood houses. They were on the prowl and nothing deterred them from their goal. I raced down the sidewalk behind them, pulled by double Bengal power, calling out Mother's name.
Chewy suddenly stopped, jaw dropping, nose quivering in the air, tail stiff. He turned his head toward a Tudor-style home, the eaves covered in twinkling lights.
"Is this it, Chewy?" I asked. "Is Beamer in here?"
Chewy looked up at me and grinned as only a cat can. Instead of seeing his big blue eyes, I saw the red reflection from his corneas giving him a devilish appearance. Sorceress rubbed against him, softly mewing, tail caressing his side. This had to be the house. Chewy's nose was always accurate, especially when it concerned food, or a cat he hated. One never knew which until the time came.
Mother had once told me who lived there. Bernard Talbot. He was the doctor in the neighborhood. Part of why the house prices were so high, according to Mother. I didn't counter that the housing prices probably had more to do with the location than anything else. When Mother gets an idea in her head, no matter how ridiculous, it's real to her. This includes past events, the reasons for current world crisis, and her unreasonable hatred of her children's spouses. Arguing never accomplished anything.
I followed the Bengals to Doctor Talbot's front door. The cats slowed, suddenly apprehensive. The front door was painted the color of dried blood. I stood in the shadowy portico and pushed the doorbell—feeling like a trick-or-treater on Halloween instead of someone searching for a cat on Christmas Eve. All Talbot would have to do is answer the door wearing a sheet, say "Boo!" and I'd probably have run, screaming, to my SUV, dragging my cats behind me.
The cats circled in front of the door, Sorceress stopping to sharpen her nails on the thick rubber doormat. Chewy pushed his nose against the door, rubbing, pushing, anxious to go inside.
I rang the bell again.
I was beginning to think no one was home when the front door opened a crack. A middle-aged man, with dark brown tousled hair and a three-day beard, peeked out.