Cat Shining Bright

Ryan, pushing back her dark hair, reached in to stroke and love the two kittens; and Dulcie padded inside to lick their faces; but soon they left the hospital, Dulcie draped over Ryan’s shoulder. Crossing the garden, walking Ryan to the truck, Mary said, “It will be nice to have those two beautiful boys for a few days. John does love them. And Pan can go home to Kit for a while; he’s refused to leave us since his father died. I’ve told him he should be with Kit, that Misto would want him there, but talk about stubborn.” She looked at Ryan, her eyes tearing. “Pan’s been so dear. It’s been hard, learning to live without Misto. If Pan hadn’t stayed with us, the emptiness in this house would have been intolerable. Even when, sometimes, we sense Misto’s spirit nearby, we can’t touch him or hold him, we can’t snuggle him the way we snuggle Pan—and now will snuggle the kittens.”

“He’ll never leave you for good,” Ryan said. “His spirit will never leave any of us. He might be gone for a while, but he told us all, more than once, that time is different where he is. Misto has families through the centuries to be with when he’s needed, other people he loves, but never more than he loves you and John.”

“Early that morning,” Mary said, “when he passed—the glow rising above us, the echo of his voice as he moved into that next life. We know he isn’t gone.”

Ryan hugged Mary, nearly squashing Dulcie between them. She swung Dulcie into her king cab, and they headed home, Dulcie curled on the seat beside her, already missing her kittens, her chin and paw draped across Ryan’s leg. “They’re growing up fast,” she said sadly, looking up at Ryan. “They’ll want their own lives one day, and they’ll choose their own work,” she said thinking of Buffin there in the hospital and how happy he had seemed.

When they pulled into the drive, Clyde’s vintage Jaguar was there, leaving room for Ryan’s pickup. Rock, still nervous from the crashed drafting table, greeted them at the front door as if he had been standing guard. Ryan, heading for the kitchen, glanced up the stairs where Clyde sat at his desk. “Home,” she called up to him. In the kitchen, Wilma sat at the table with fresh coffee, reading the morning paper; it was so neatly folded that Wilma wondered if Joe Grey had even touched it; she was amused that she didn’t have to read around syrupy pawprints.

Clyde left his desk and came down. “Striker’s all right? And where’s Buffin?”

“Striker’s fine, and Buffin wanted to stay with him,” Ryan said, releasing Dulcie to hop down to the table. “The Firettis were pleased, they love those kittens,” she said softly.

Dulcie lay down on the table close beside Wilma. Joe Grey leaped up beside her, fixing his yellow gaze on Wilma, giving her an urgent, let’s get on with it look.

Dulcie watched him, suddenly wary and alert. From the kitchen counter Courtney watched with bright intensity. While she had napped with Snowball, her father and Wilma had had a long, whispering conversation. What wondrous thing they were planning.

But Clyde glared hard at Joe. Not for a minute did he trust that look, nor did he trust the excited amusement in Wilma’s eyes. “What?” he said. “What’s with you two?”

Wilma shrugged, and looked at Joe. Joe had started to lay out his plan when they heard the front cat door flap open, and Kit and Pan came galloping into the kitchen; smelling cranberry bread, they leaped to the table. As Ryan cut a slice for them, Clyde remained staring at Joe and Wilma, waiting for the bomb to drop. Whatever they were hatching, this was going to mean trouble.

Quietly Joe, under the gaze of his two human housemates and surrounded by the questioning cats, shared his plan.

“Charlie’s the best prospect,” he said. “The stalker might not even know her.” He looked at Ryan and Clyde. “The prowler, if he’s been watching this house, too, he knows both of you. He might have seen Charlie here, but maybe not. And she fits right in, she’s in and out of the art shop all the time, and in and out of the PD.”

“I don’t like this,” Clyde said. “It could get someone hurt, probably Officer McFarland.”

“But McFarland will be there anyway.” Joe reached a paw for another slice of cranberry bread.

“And,” Clyde added, “Charlie isn’t a good choice, she’s Wilma’s niece. He could have seen her there any time—no one could forget that bright red hair.”

“She can wear a cap,” Ryan said. “Tuck her hair under.” There was a long silence, then Wilma rose, heading for the guest room. Clyde and Ryan followed, the cats dashing past their feet.