Qwilleran said, “We never had rabid animals in downtown Chicago—only kids with slingshots and careless truck drivers.”
Then Qwilleran broached the subject of Koko’s sixty whiskers, and Dr. Connie said, “I can’t imagine that Koko was enthusiastic about your counting them.”
Qwilleran said, “I gave him a mild sedative that is used in the theater when cats are to be onstage.” He was the first to say he had to go home and feed the cats. The women said the same thing. As a farewell, Joe sat down at the piano and played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast!
Someone said, “We must do this again soon,” and everyone agreed.
Qwilleran escorted Polly to Unit One and went in to say good night to Brutus and Catta, as he always did.
After Joe’s fast pace at the piano and after the nonstop friendly chatter, Qwilleran welcomed a quiet evening with the Siamese. Driving home, Qwilleran remembered growing up in Chicago and hearing his mother play “Kitten on the Keys”—and marveling at how her fingers flew over the keyboard. Now Joe Bunker played it twice as fast! Where did he get his nervous energy? He grew up in the town of Horseradish, inhaling all those powerful fumes. Joe had a cousin with a Ph.D. in corvidology, and she was as wacky as he was.
Entering the barnyard, he saw Koko cavorting in the kitchen window. He knew what that meant.
Two cats—Where’s our dinner? We’re starving!
One cat—There’s a message on the phone.
The call was from Judd Amhurst, one of the three judges assigned to select a new name for the facility.
“Qwill! We’ve got the name! And it’s perfect! It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, but if you can’t wait, give me a call.”
Judd lived at the Winston Park apartment complex—just across from the bookstore where the judging was scheduled to take place.
Never comfortable with unanswered questions, Qwilleran phoned him immediately. “Judd, don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Well, Maggie, Thornton, and I met in one of the community rooms at the bookstore big table! Bushels of entries! We started reading them aloud. Most were ordinary. Some were silly. A few had possibilities. Then Thornton read one from Bill Turmeric of Sawdust City—”
“I know him!” Qwilleran interrupted. “He writes clever letters to the editor.”
“You’ll like this one! It’s complete with a motto!” Then he read: “Senior Health Club—Good for the Body, Good for the Mind, Good for the Spirit.”
“Sign me up!” Qwilleran said. “Am I old enough?”
“I thought you’d like it, Qwill. We sorted through all of them, but this was the best.”
“What’s the prize?”
“The paper’s giving two hundred dollars, and there are gift certificates from merchants.”
“Well, thanks for tipping me off. I’ll devote Tuesday’s column to the Old Hulk—Its Past and Future.”
Qwilleran started making notes for his Tuesday column:
Feed-and-seed warehouse.
Served farmers for more than a century.
Called the Old Hulk.
Typical warehouse: flat roof, no windows, loading dock.
Interior: nothing but open space with lofts for sacks of feed and seed, connected by ramps. In-town location no longer serviceable to today’s farmers, who prefer more accessible outlets located at handy locations around the county.
Property vacant for several years.
Will need public entrances, windows, five floors connected by stairs and elevators, plumbing, electricity, and a lot of paint and carpet and ideas!
Why not a roof garden?
In his journal he would write:
The Old Hulk was a piece of abandoned property on the north edge of Pickax, recently purchased by the Scottish community and given to the city as a senior center, along with a grant covering complete remodeling, redecorating, and furnishing.
In the nineteenth century, Scottish shipbuilders had come to Moose County to build three-masted schooners using the two-hundred-foot pine trees for masts. When steam replaced sail, they turned to house building and did well, as attested by their mansions in Purple Point and their support of community projects. The senior center was to be their thank-you.
As for the property chosen, it had been a feed-and-seed depot and warehouse where farm wagons came to stock up. New modes of transportation had replaced it with several small depots around the county. The Old Hulk, as it was called, became a hangout for kids, feral cats, and who knows what else. Now, architects and builders were donating their expertise and theSomething was offering the coordinating services of Hixie Rice to the project pro bono.
Later that day, Qwilleran had a phone call from Hixie Rice.
“Guess what? The dog table is back!”
Early in the year an heirloom auction had been staged to raise money for furnishing the new Senior Health Club. Old families donated prized possessions—everything from porcelain teacups to rare items of furniture.
One such was a six-foot library table of ponderous oak construction with bulbous legs at one end; the other end was supported by a life-size carving of a basset hound. It was donated by the office manager of theSomething, inherited from her wealthy father.
Everyone said: “It weighs a ton! Bet she’s glad to get rid of it. Can she take it as a tax deduction? What’s it worth?”
At the auction an unidentified agent made a sealed bid and won the table for…ten thousand dollars! It left town on a truck for parts unknown.
Now the dog table was back!…donated to the Senior Health Club by an unidentified well-wisher.
Qwilleran asked, “How will it be used?”
“In the foyer, which is quite large. It’ll be a focal point, with magazines on top, and a table lamp…. May be we should have a cat lamp! An artist could do a sculpture of a cat sitting on his haunches and holding the socket in his paws! Do you think Koko would pose? Everybody would come to see our dog table and cat lamp!”
“Hang up!” Qwilleran said. “You’re hallucinating!”
THREE
Qwilleran was half an hour late in serving breakfast to the cats on Monday morning. They attacked their plates as if they had been deprived of food for a week. At one point, though, Koko raised his head abruptly and stared at a spot on the kitchen wall. In a few seconds the phone rang, and he returned to the business at hand.
The caller was Lisa Compton, retired academic and wife of the school superintendent. She was also the chief volunteer at Edd Smith’s Place, where preowned books were sold for charitable causes.
“Qwill, a chauffeur from Purple Point just brought in a box of books that made me think of you.”
“The statement raises questions,” he said.
“You’ll love them! They’re all pocket-size hardcovers—the kind they had before paperbacks. Convenient for reading to the cats—and really quite attractive. Some have decorative covers and gold-printed titles on the spines.”
“What kind of titles?”
“All classics.Kidnapped, Lorna Doone, Uncle Tom’s Cabin …and authors like Guy de Maupassant, Henry James, and Mark Twain.”
Qwilleran said, “Don’t let them get away from you! I’ll be right there!”
“May I make a suggestion? Since the box is rather large, you should park in the north lot and come to the back door. It leads right downstairs into Edd Smith’s Place.”
Qwilleran liked Lisa. She always thought everything through—not only selling him the books but figuring the easiest way of getting them to his car.
“And by the way, Qwill, there’s some Lit Club business to discuss. If you have time.” She used a formal voice that indicated the other volunteers were listening. “Do you have a few minutes?”