The Third Cat Story Megapack. Damien Broderick
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“Then you don’t want an investigation?”
He shook his head. “I’d rather not. The hamper wasn’t valuable. This was.” He held up the manuscript.
“Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, Christ Church?” the station master read. “Well, sir, we’ll return the hamper to you, if it’s found. In the meanwhile, I’ll warn the carriage guard to keep an eye out for persons with a pilfering nature on the train. Will you be boarding, sir?”
“Yes, now that my reason for traveling has been restored.”
He handed the guard his ticket and took the remaining seat in the first carriage, introducing himself to the family sharing the compartment. As the train finally pulled out, Charles relaxed by the window, holding the parcel alertly and protectively against him and entertaining the young boy and his sisters with a story or two, while their parents listened, amused.
At the next station, the two men he had seen on the platform at Oxford disembarked. Shortly afterwards, in the compartment they had vacated, new passengers found an empty lunch hamper. They gave it to the carriage guard at the following station stop; he returned it to its rightful owner.
Charles, both manuscript and hamper in hand, dashed madly to the station eatery to purchase some refreshments and quickly back to reboard the train before it started up again. On the platform, the station master of that stop, an elderly man with immense white whiskers and a curious habit of wrinkling his nose, held a large, opened pocket watch in his hand, haranguing the carriage guard: “You’re four minutes late, sir! Whatever delayed you?”
Charles reentered his compartment swiftly and took his seat, gazing quietly out the window. It was then that he noticed another enormous orange-and-black-striped tomcat, sitting on that platform and preening itself. He pointed it out to the boy beside him. “There was another striped puss, nearly identical to this one, at the Oxford Station.”
“Was there? I hadn’t seen it, sir.”
The tom looked up, turned its head, and stared back at the mystified author.
The train wheels began to creak, and the cat continued to gaze at him, turning its head the other way as Charles, at the window, passed by it.
In the few seconds before the cat disappeared from Charles’s vantage point, it grinned at him.
After a moment of surprise, Charles grinned back.
“No matter,” he told the boy. “Cats like that have a tendency to appear unexpectedly. You might very well see it again someday soon.”
The train headed toward its final destination as the sun began setting, streaking colors across the sky.
FAT CAT, by Robert Reginald [Poem]
That
Cat
Sat
Pat:
Mat
At
Rat
Frat.
“Scat,
Rat!”
Spat
Cat.
Splat!
Flat
Rat.
Fat
Cat.
ALEX, by Mary A. Turzillo
When the time comes round again, She leaves her throne, walks down from heaven, and hearkens to mortal longings.
* * * *
Cara paced in the patch of sunshine on her linoleum floor, cell phone mashed to her ear.
“Tell me you didn’t,” her friend Judith shrilled on the other end. “You met this guy at an Italian-American club dance, and you invite him over. This is smart? This is safe? Cara, do you watch the news?”
“This is not a blind date,” said Cara. “He comes to the dances at least once a month and I’ve seen him at Vitello’s Deli. Name’s Alex Cacciato. He wrote his telephone number on a napkin—”
“Which you mysteriously can’t find.”
“It’s in my car. I thought I put it in my bag, but it must be in my car.” Actually, Cara had ransacked her VW Rabbit, even under the floor mats and in the seat cracks. But the guy had to be okay. Lived in the neighborhood, Mayfield and Murray Hill, Little Italy. Her territory. A local, or maybe one of the artist types who were moving in, seeking low-rent studios.
“Cara, don’t let him in. Say you’re sick and don’t let him in.”
Cara took the phone away from her ear and took three calming breaths. Then she returned it to her mouth. “Judith, I’m thirty-three. The ol’ Timex battery is running down. If I’m going to—you know—”
“Get married. Say it.”
“—to have a lover, or even any fun, I need to risk. This morning I found a spider vein on the back of my leg. Listen, he has this sexy mustache. Green eyes. Buns to die for. He’s so cute—”
“So was Ted Bundy.”
Cara rubbed her finger around the edge of the phone, torn. Judith had been her friend throughout library school, but Judith lacked Cara’s earthy touch. The minute Judith had landed a job, she had moved into a singles complex on Lake Erie. Cara had kept her old-fashioned apartment in Little Italy. Sure, Cara could afford a new place, but she liked the patch of sun on the kitchen linoleum, the claw-foot tub in the bathroom, the jungle of spider-plants she raised on the porch, the landlord’s indifference to her ginger tomcat.
Should she let Judith talk her out of the date? Alex was due—oh, God, now!
Judith said, “Don’t let him in. If he’s legit, he’ll call again—”
“What if he doesn’t? I can’t let this one slip away! After Gene—”
“Gene tried to run over your cat.”
“An accident. Also, cats aggravated his Borna-Tupaia syndrome.”
“Gene was a rat. Dumped you because he found a cat-hair in his carrot juice.”
Cara’s felt glum. “The guy probably won’t turn up, anyway.”
“He might. Creeps flock to you like rats to garbage. No, that’s mean. I meant flies to honey.”
Cara felt even worse. She looked at her nails, painted two different colors because Claws von Pumpkin had batted the Porcelain Pinkie off the dresser, forcing her to finish with Iceberry Slink. “Gotta be some nice guys out there.”
“But you keep ending up with vermin. You’re a masochist, girl.”
Judith was right. Of course, Judith didn’t date, but she read many books about relationships, such as How to Find an Almost Nice Guy and Men Who Make Fun of Woman and How to Embarrass Them.
“Judith, I gotta do it. There were sparks. Chemistry.”
Judith paused, and Cara figured she was lighting a cigarette. “Yeah, chemistry. As in chemical warfare.”
The phone felt hot, slippery as a vibrator that had been running too long.
The doorbell rang.
Without saying goodbye, Cara hung up.
Morituri te salutamus.
* * * *
He was just as hot as she had remembered. Copper-colored chest hair peeked out above the buttons of his denim shirt. “Alex! I hope you’re not allergic,” said Cara, opening the door wide. “I’m sorry my apartment is so—”
“Just like my place.” Alex squeezed past her into the kitchen.
Shit.