down, as she does, and to stretch her legs across the opening.
But was that really Linda, that flash of fur? Mary begins to doubt her own vision. Could it, God forbid, have been a raccoon?
In her softest, most caressing voice she calls to Linda; she calls and calls, a stream of loving syllables that Linda must know (if cats know anything) and always her name. “Linda, Linda-loo, lovely Linda—” On and on, with no answer.
She would like to go upstairs and phone the nice neighbors for help; she could block the escape route while they went in and banged around, but she does not dare leave. She would also like a glass of water. But she has to go on. “Linda, loopy Lou, Linda-pie—” On forever.
At last, after maybe ten minutes, there is a sort of rattling among the boxes; an old broken bamboo table moves, so that Mary sees a glimpse, a quick tiny glimpse, of what is surely Linda.
After another five minutes, probably, of calling, and of small but increasingly certain sighting, Linda emerges into a small cleared space, a safe twenty feet from where Mary sits. Linda emerges, she stares, and retreats.
She repeats all that several times, each time flicking her tail, back, forth.
And then she emerges into another, smaller space, about ten feet from Mary. Looking at Mary, she rolls over—the first sure friendly signal, or even acknowledgment that she has ever seenMary before. She does this three or four times, each time somehow managing to roll through still poised for flight.
And so Mary does not reach out to grab her, restraining herself until she is absolutely sure of reaching and grasping Linda. Which at last she successfully does, with a firm, strong, loving, and furious grip.
“You rotten little slut, where in God’s name have you been, you little bitch?” She whispers these harsh new words, rising and clutching Linda, who is struggling hysterically to get away—away from this sudden stranger who has seized her unawares.
But this time Mary wins. She carries fighting Linda out of the basement, up the stairs, and across the deck and into her house.
Dumping her onto the rug she asks, “Oh Linda, how come you’re so
crazy?”
and, again, “Where on earth have you
been?”
No answer.
And Linda, in character, runs off and hides. She does not even seem very hungry, nor does she have the look of a starving lost cat. She has obviously done well for herself, but Mary will never know where, or how. Or
why
. Mary pours herself a glass of white wine and collapses on the old chintz sofa, thinking, God
damn
Linda, anyway.
How much, or what, do cats remember? Can anyone comprehend at all the memory of a cat? Over the next few days Mary wonders and ponders these questions, sometimes staring into the round yellow eyes of Linda as though there might be a clue. As though Linda knew.
She considers too the fact that both she and her friend Bill the biologist have chosen cats of their own gender for major loves. Could this mean that love of one’s cat is really love of one’s self? Was it she herself who she feared was lost and hungry, possibly dead?
At other times she simply holds her hands around that small warm vibrant body, the delicate strong ribcage and thedrum-tight rounded belly, and she thinks, and she says aloud, “You’re home, darling Linda. You came
home.”
Mary has had the wit not to talk much to her friends about the loss of Linda, and so now she does not make much of her return. Only to her sometime lover, who is also in a way her closest friend, she confides, “I’m embarrassed, really, when I think how upset I was. And that night when I was sure the raccoons had got her, well—”
“Mary dear, you were great,” he says. As he might have said, as people did say, of some performance of hers, which, come to think of it, in a public way it had been. No one really knew that for Mary the loss of Linda had been the end of the world, or nearly. None of her friends or her lover knew that she would have
But was that really Linda, that flash of fur? Mary begins to doubt her own vision. Could it, God forbid, have been a raccoon?
In her softest, most caressing voice she calls to Linda; she calls and calls, a stream of loving syllables that Linda must know (if cats know anything) and always her name. “Linda, Linda-loo, lovely Linda—” On and on, with no answer.
She would like to go upstairs and phone the nice neighbors for help; she could block the escape route while they went in and banged around, but she does not dare leave. She would also like a glass of water. But she has to go on. “Linda, loopy Lou, Linda-pie—” On forever.
At last, after maybe ten minutes, there is a sort of rattling among the boxes; an old broken bamboo table moves, so that Mary sees a glimpse, a quick tiny glimpse, of what is surely Linda.
After another five minutes, probably, of calling, and of small but increasingly certain sighting, Linda emerges into a small cleared space, a safe twenty feet from where Mary sits. Linda emerges, she stares, and retreats.
She repeats all that several times, each time flicking her tail, back, forth.
And then she emerges into another, smaller space, about ten feet from Mary. Looking at Mary, she rolls over—the first sure friendly signal, or even acknowledgment that she has ever seenMary before. She does this three or four times, each time somehow managing to roll through still poised for flight.
And so Mary does not reach out to grab her, restraining herself until she is absolutely sure of reaching and grasping Linda. Which at last she successfully does, with a firm, strong, loving, and furious grip.
“You rotten little slut, where in God’s name have you been, you little bitch?” She whispers these harsh new words, rising and clutching Linda, who is struggling hysterically to get away—away from this sudden stranger who has seized her unawares.
But this time Mary wins. She carries fighting Linda out of the basement, up the stairs, and across the deck and into her house.
Dumping her onto the rug she asks, “Oh Linda, how come you’re so
crazy?”
and, again, “Where on earth have you
been?”
No answer.
And Linda, in character, runs off and hides. She does not even seem very hungry, nor does she have the look of a starving lost cat. She has obviously done well for herself, but Mary will never know where, or how. Or
why
. Mary pours herself a glass of white wine and collapses on the old chintz sofa, thinking, God
damn
Linda, anyway.
How much, or what, do cats remember? Can anyone comprehend at all the memory of a cat? Over the next few days Mary wonders and ponders these questions, sometimes staring into the round yellow eyes of Linda as though there might be a clue. As though Linda knew.
She considers too the fact that both she and her friend Bill the biologist have chosen cats of their own gender for major loves. Could this mean that love of one’s cat is really love of one’s self? Was it she herself who she feared was lost and hungry, possibly dead?
At other times she simply holds her hands around that small warm vibrant body, the delicate strong ribcage and thedrum-tight rounded belly, and she thinks, and she says aloud, “You’re home, darling Linda. You came
home.”
Mary has had the wit not to talk much to her friends about the loss of Linda, and so now she does not make much of her return. Only to her sometime lover, who is also in a way her closest friend, she confides, “I’m embarrassed, really, when I think how upset I was. And that night when I was sure the raccoons had got her, well—”
“Mary dear, you were great,” he says. As he might have said, as people did say, of some performance of hers, which, come to think of it, in a public way it had been. No one really knew that for Mary the loss of Linda had been the end of the world, or nearly. None of her friends or her lover knew that she would have
Similar Books
