I tipped my chin in his direction. “Hey, Mr. Cheney. How’s it hangin’?”
He didn’t answer.
Mrs. Keller had told me that when her husband found out how much she had paid for Dick Cheney, he nearly had a nervous breakdown. He accused her of systematically wasting away their retirement fund, and if she didn’t get ahold of herself they’d end up living in an old refrigerator box down on the beach. To make up with him, she’d made a solemn promise: no more masks, which, I have to say, I was a little sorry to hear.
You’d think it would have been kind of creepy walking around with all those soulless faces staring out from the walls, but over time they’ve grown on me. Every time I take care of Mr. Feldman, I look forward to seeing Mrs. Keller’s latest purchase. Each mask is stunning and beautiful in its own peculiar way, and I can see why she loves them so much. I’m not sure I could live with them 24/7, but they’re wonderful to visit every once in a while.
I padded into the kitchen to get Barney Feldman’s breakfast ready, taking care to steer clear of the credenza in the hallway just in case he was hiding underneath it. Maine Coons are known for their sweet disposition, but Mr. Feldman is not your typical Maine Coon. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an angel most of the time, but just like those Vikings his ancestors used to hang out with, he’s got a mischievous streak of savagery in him.
Occasionally he likes to set up camp under the furniture and take sharp-clawed swipes at innocent passersby, which was why I had pulled my socks up, naively hopeful that they’d protect my ankles. The six-inch space under the hall credenza isn’t exactly Barney’s favorite staging ground, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As I went by, I hugged the wall.
In the kitchen, I cleaned out his water bowl and filled it with fresh water, and as soon as he heard the silverware drawer open and the clunk of the can opener on the countertop, he came running in with a couple of chirps, as innocent as can be, and greeted me with an excited, “Thrrrrrip!”
I said, “Oh, Mr. Feldman! What a coweenky-dink. I was just about to serve your breakfast.”
He trotted over and rubbed his cheek against my ankles, pointing his tail straight up like an exclamation point and wriggling it in anticipation. He’s long and muscular, with thick chocolate fur soft as velvet and ticked with undulating bands of cream and gold. All four of his paws are dipped in pure black, and his wise old-soul eyes sparkle like point-cut aquamarines.
“We’ve got a special treat on the menu today, just so you know.”
I mixed a couple of spoonfuls of tuna in the bowl with his allotted breakfast portion of kibble—about half a cup—and then laid it down on his plastic-coated place mat at the foot of the dishwasher. The place mat is there because Barney Feldman is not a tidy eater. He likes to pull pieces of food out and line them up on the floor around his dish like trophies from a hunting expedition. Then he pounces on them one by one, making a complete mess of everything in the process.
I figured while he ate I’d take a spin around the house just to make sure nothing was out of order. I always do an inspection of all my clients’ houses, even if I’m just taking care of a bowl of goldfish. You never know what you might find: a leak in the roof or a houseplant that needs a little TLC. Plus, with cats there’s always the very real possibility that they might have woken up in the middle of the night with the best idea ever, like applying a fringed edge to the arms of your favorite love seat, or maybe peeing in the middle of your pillow so you’ll always have a memento of your time away. Barney Feldman is usually on his best behavior, though, so I wasn’t expecting any surprises.
When I got back to the kitchen, he was nowhere in sight, but he’d eaten every bit of his breakfast. I took his bowl and place mat over to the sink and scrubbed them both with a soapy sponge, then I went back over to the antique cupboard and pulled open one of its heavy wooden drawers. Inside was a bundle of plastic grocery bags wrapped in a rubber band. As I loosened one of the bags, there were some lightning-fast paw swipes at the space where my feet should have been.
I said, “Nice try.”
I pictured him wearing a horned Viking helmet and swinging his paws back and forth like two battleaxes, but I was standing a good three feet away and stretching my arms out to reach the drawer, so my ankles were safe.
I dropped the tuna lid down in the bag and wrapped it up. The Kellers wouldn’t be home for a week, so I didn’t want to leave anything smelly in the garbage under the sink. The laundry room is just off the kitchen, and beyond that is a short hallway leading out to the carport where the garbage cans are kept. The side door locks automatically with a spring that pulls it shut, so I always prop it open with an old tin flower bucket that the Kellers keep nearby for umbrellas.
It’s not the best system in the world, mainly because given half a chance Barney will sprint out any open door as if his life depends on it, but also because the flower bucket is pretty top-heavy. It can easily tip over from the weight of the door, and then, click … you’re locked out. I found that out the hard way, so I always leave the front door unlocked when I come in, just in case.
I propped the door open and padded over to the garbage cans, which are enclosed in a cedar-paneled bin to fend off marauding raccoons. Keeping an eye on the door just in case Barney tried to escape, I lifted up the door on top of the bin, dropped the bag down in the garbage, and then hustled back inside, sliding the flower bucket back in place with my foot as the door pulled itself closed.
When I turned around to head back into the kitchen, I came face-to-face with none other than Dick Cheney.
The first thing I thought was, Hey, you’re not supposed to be here. But then I noticed something different. He seemed to have arms and legs. He wore a long-sleeved black sweatshirt and dark track pants. My lips formed into a W with the intention of saying, What the f…? But I never got that far. It was like watching a movie projected onto a screen right in front of me.
He raised one of his arms up over his crown of tiny bird skulls, and I saw he was holding something about the size of a softball in his black-gloved fist. It was a white stone figurine, like a Buddha, except naked, with voluminous breasts and a bald head as smooth as a river stone. It hovered in the air for a moment, and then, as if in slow motion, came down right on top of my head.
Just before it hit me, I noticed its little naked feet. The toes were painted bright crimson red.
After that, the movie screen went completely dark.
3
I could hear a faint ringing in the distance, sort of like a church bell, and the first thing I saw was Barney Feldman’s big fluffy face looming over me. I was lying flat on my stomach with my head turned to the side and my cheek smashed into the floor, and Barney was gazing at me with a slightly worried expression. He seemed to be saying, It’s a good thing you woke up because I have no idea how to use the phone.
My whole head was throbbing, and when I tried to roll over to my side a blistering pain went bouncing through my skull and right down my spine, all the way to the soles of my feet. I let out a low moan, which apparently Barney took to mean everything was fine now, because he licked one black paw and drew it daintily across his long whiskers.
I did a quick inventory up and down my body. My clothes were on, which is always a good thing, and I didn’t see blood anywhere, which is also a good thing, and except for the throbbing pain in my head and a vague ringing in my ears everything seemed okay.