Chapter 33
I can’t believe she was right. I just can’t believe it, Vic thought, racing to the window.
Cal wheeled around to see what she was pointing at. Then he rushed to stand beside Vic and leaned close to the glass too, squinting into the darkness. “What exactly are we looking at?”
But Vic was still coming to terms with it herself. “I can’t believe she was right,” she repeated, this time out loud.
“Who was right? About what?”
“You don’t see the eyes?”
Cal startled. “Eyes?” He peered outside again, uneasily. “No, I only see snow—snow and shadows. Did you see eyes?”
Vic nodded.
“Like there’s someone out there? Some guy lurking around on the porch?”
“No, no. Sorry—a rat. There’s a rat.”
The tension left Cal’s face. His shoulders relaxed. “Like not a metaphorical rat? An actual rodent rat?”
“Yeah, exactly. A rodent rat.”
At the confirmation, Cal relaxed still further. He strained to see out the window again, but this time it was clearly out of curiosity. He’d turned off investigative mode. And Vic, as ever it seemed when Cal was around, was struck by how nice it was to have him there, to not face everything alone.
“Audra was complaining earlier—”
“Audra, complaining? You don’t say—” Cal interrupted his own joke. “Wait! There! Is that what you mean?”
The eyes Vic had seen—eyes glowing an eerie, almost fluorescent, green when the porch light caught them—had moved from near the door where she’d first spotted them. Now they were in the far corner of the porch. She nodded.
Cal shook his head. “Not a rat,” he said, when the green-eyed shadow moved again, jumping from the porch to become a gray streak of movement against the snow. “Too big. Plus, rats don’t move like that. Cat.”
“Oh no! It’s too cold for a cat to be outdoors all alone.”
“Nah, cats are tough. It’s probably used to it. Some feral stray or something.”
It was the first time Vic had ever felt annoyed with Cal. “It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘tough’ or feral and ‘used’ to it. That doesn’t make it right. They’re domesticated animals.”
Cal dipped his head. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. That’s true.”
“Audra says it’s been hanging around for days—and that it’s been trying to get into the house.”
“Do you want it to come in? You did tell me you were thinking of getting a cat.” Cal’s eyes crinkled, and Vic wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious.
“Yeah, but I hadn’t really moved past the maybe stage—and even then, I was envisioning a cute, clean kitten with its shots and everything.”
Vic studied the dark backyard again. The LED Christmas lights she’d strung on the porch were merry looking, but they didn’t throw a lot of light.
And it was snowing harder again, with the forecast predicting Arctic outflows.
But then again, Cal was probably right. If the cat had survived this long, it must have some sort of shelter or food source.
Maybe it was just an opportunist. One of those cats that had a home but went house to house looking pathetic, getting extra meals and spoiling.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” Cal asked. “Do you want to try to cajole him out of hiding or leave him be?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
Cal shrugged. “It’s up to you. You sounded concerned, though.”
“Despite thinking of getting a cat, I don’t have a lot of experience with them—or pets of any kind, really.”
The attentiveness in his demeanor made her continue.
“Michael would’ve loved one, but he had allergies, so we had fish. I haven’t had a pet since I was a little kid.”
“But you did have one when you were a kid?”
“Yeah.” Vic smiled at the memory. “When I was eight or so, I had a huge orange guy that I named Buffy. He was a total baby and so hilarious. He was a big bully to all the dogs and other cats in the area, but with me he was a total softie. He not only used to let me dress him up in doll clothes, he literally came running when he heard the latches click on the little suitcase I kept them in. He liked being dressed up.”
Vic giggled, remembering Buffy streaking toward her and her suitcase as clearly as if it was yesterday. She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten.
“Have you ever seen a cat in a baby sleeper? It’s the funniest, silliest, cutest thing ever.” It was something she would paint.
Cal’s eyes were warm on hers. “He sounds awesome, Vic.”
“He was.”
“What happened to him?”
A sharp pang of pain and guilt stabbed Vic.
“He got fleas, so Audra got rid of him one day when I was at school. She gave him to a friend of hers with a farm, but he wasn’t used to being an outdoor cat and he .
. .” Vic trailed off, feeling sick. This was exactly why she didn’t dwell on happy Buffy memories and had tried to forget.
“He climbed into a car engine to sleep, probably because it was warm. The driver didn’t know, and when they came out and started the car again, Buffy got hurt by the fan belt and died. ”
Cal looked horrified. His voice was hushed and raw. “Aw, Vic, no . . . I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
She nodded. “Yeah . . . and I didn’t really have the heart for another pet. Now, of course, I’m like, why didn’t she just get flea powder or something, but that wasn’t really her way.”
“Well, it sounds to me like you have your answer.”
Vic cocked her head.
“Seems like the perfect time to try again. Who knows, he—or she—might not come to the door, but they might.”
Vic scrunched her face in indecision.
Cal put his hand on her shoulder, as if he’d read her thoughts. It was heavy and warm. Comforting.
“If you manage to lure it with food, if it’s truly wild or injured or something, you can always turn it in to the animal shelter. It’s better than letting it suffer.”
Vic’s heart raced. Was she really going to do this? Then again, Cal was right. It was a low-risk venture. Besides, most likely nothing would come of trying. The rat-cat was probably long gone.
She turned her attention back to the shadows beyond the porch.
All was still. Leaving the Christmas lights on, she flicked the outdoor porch light on.
A mishmash of pawprints decorated the powdery snow that had gusted onto the porch through its railing despite its roof.
Then they disappeared over the edge, only to show up again a few feet away—a clear trail showing the animal’s rapid retreat to beneath the hedge that framed half the backyard.
“He’s gone.”
“Probably,” Cal agreed.
“Do you mind staying a bit longer, in case I can get it to come back?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She smiled up at him. He was so sweet and kind. Earnest. Yes, that was the word that came to mind.
“Okay.” She slapped her thighs decisively. If she was going to try, she was going to give it her best shot. “I suspect this guy won’t be summoned by the click of suitcase latches.”
Cal laughed.
“But what about sardines? Are they stinky enough to get a cat’s attention?”
“I think so—you have sardines?”
“Yeah, I love them on buttered toast.”
“Mm, me too. Or just out of the can.”
“Yeah! Totally. I just didn’t want to admit my savage side right off the bat.”
Vic strode back to the kitchen, Cal on her heels, and rummaged through the kitchen’s “Practical Penelope.”
“And hey, now we have insider information about how to lure each other if we’re ever lost. Just crack open a can of sardines,” she said from deep in the cabinet.
A moment later she popped up, holding a can—but not the kind she’d mentioned.
“Tuna will have to do,” she said.
“Well, the good news is that tuna’s pretty stinky too.”
“Fingers crossed it’s stinky enough.”
Vic slid into fleece-lined crocs, pulled a jacket on, then opened the door to the porch.
“Are you just going to leave it outside? It might freeze.”
Vic scrunched her nose. “I have an idea.” She felt silly saying it out loud, but it was what she was hoping, so why not?
“Maybe if I put out a couple little tidbits, it’ll follow them to the house.
According to Audra, and judging by its footprints, the cat’s been all over this porch. It seems pretty comfortable here.”
“Good thinking.”
She emptied half the tin into a bowl that she left inside the door, then walked to the porch rail with the rest and threw a chunk of tuna as close to the hedge as she could.
It wasn’t very close. Then she threw another little piece and another one.
Next, she put a few little chunks on the railing.
Finally, she sprinkled a trail of flecks to the door.
Worst-case scenario, if the cat didn’t eat them, birds would—or they’d freeze, and Vic could just sweep them off the deck.
This is never going to work, she thought.
Cal stepped into the house again, out of her way.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty,” she called tentatively, the rhythmic chant that used to bring Buffy running when she wasn’t playing cat dress-up. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty.”
You’re being ridiculous, Devil sneered. You’re such a child.
So? she snapped back and that seemed to shut the ever-critical voice up.
Vic moved to follow Cal, then stopped, shocked.
A black blur streaked up the steps—coming from the opposite direction that she’d just laid the supposed-to-be-tempting bits of food.
“What on earth!” Cal let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Is that—that’s the cat!”
It was the cat. So much for thinking it might be shy or needed “luring.”
The little beggar bolted past Vic and into the house, as if knowing the door could close anytime and racing to be on the other side in case it did.
Vic closed the exterior door softly, gathered the bowl of tuna, then followed the cat into the kitchen—a new worry on her mind. To heck with the cat being feral! What if it was demented, had rabies or something? Surely, its brazenness and the bizarre speed it entered the house with wasn’t normal.
Now that it was securely in the house, the cat abruptly stopped moving. It sat stock-still on the floor by the fridge, as if knowing that’s where food came from, and allowed Vic her first clear glimpse of it—all black and skinny as a string. It stared Vic and Cal down as if they were the intruders.