Catch as Cat Can Page 5

By Friday night Harry crawled home. She'd womanned the post office by herself since Miranda had to go to the airport. She also thought Miranda and Tracy would have a lot to talk about, so she forbade Miranda from coming back to work. The irony was that Miranda wasn't a postal employee. Her long-deceased husband had been the postmaster and she helped out now to keep busy. When George died she drifted in and out of the post office through force of habit. Harry performed many small services for Miranda but felt she could never adequately repay the older woman's boundless generosity.

  Determined to go to bed early, Harry slipped into bed by nine; Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, too.

  Just as the animals fell asleep, Pewter murmured, “I have this feeling it's going to be a big, big day tomorrow.”

  “The Dogwood Festival's always big.” Tucker rolled over on her side.

  “Something more.” The gray cat closed her beautiful chartreuse eyes.

  Mrs. Murphy, on her back next to Harry, turned her head up to look at Pewter reposing on the pillow. “Cat intuition.”

  7

  Saturday dawned bright and clear, the temperature at five-thirty a.m. being forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. The redbuds opened in full bloom, although those in the hollows where it was cooler stayed the dark raspberry color before full flowering. The apple trees still had some blooms but the pear trees were finished, as were the peaches. Tulips and pansies filled gardens in town. But the glory, the highlight, the beauty of spring resided in the dogwoods, which fortuitously chose that exact day to open. The mountains were filled with wild dogwoods. Creamy-pink flowering trees dotted bright green lawns. White and pink dogwoods lined driveways. Everywhere one looked dogwoods bloomed, and to complete the perfection, the azaleas opened, too. Hot pink, soft purple, flaming orange, pure white, and radiant pink azaleas announced their presence heralding high spring in Virginia. The wisteria swaying from doorways and pergolas added lavender and white to the unbelievable color. Old ruins, smothered in wisteria, became a focal point for photographers.

  Spring had arrived but not just any spring, spring in the Blue Ridge, the apotheosis of springs.

  Harry smiled as she drove to her old high school at nine A.M. The parade would start at ten. Her concession to this task was to apply mascara and to iron her jeans as well as a crisp white shirt. A red crewneck sweater kept her warm. The temperature was fiftyish. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, old hands at the parade, had been groomed to perfection.

  When Harry parked the old truck the temperature had climbed to sixty degrees. By noon she figured it would reach seventy degrees and stay close to that comfortable temperature throughout the day.

  Despite the jitters, everyone was smiling as they lined up on the tarmac at Crozet High School. On a day like today not smiling was impossible.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter sat on a wooden milk crate placed in the bed of the truck. As Harry had parked by the head of the parade, they had the best view. Tucker couldn't stand not being with Harry so she tagged along at her human's heels.

  “How do I look?” Reverend Jones held out his arms full-length, a blue and gold marshal's sash covering his chest.

  “A million bucks.” She smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “What do I do but wave?” The older man laughed.

  Sean and Roger O'Bannon walked up. Roger, a touch shorter than his brother, had obviously just buzz-cut his sandy hair.

  “Time?”

  “You've got time.” Harry smiled at him. “Like your new haircut.”

  “Make time.” Roger snapped his fingers, ever the younger brother, slightly rebellious. “Do you know this is the fifteenth year I've driven a float? Do I get a medal?”

  “No, Roger. It means you're a glutton for punishment.” Harry laughed at him.

  “Ever since I got my driver's license.”

  “Liar.” Sean poked his brother. “You drove before you had your license.”

  “Not a float.”

  “If Dad were here he'd settle this.”

  “Well, he's not.” Roger smacked Harry on the small of her back. “Talk to Lottie for me.”

  “Why?”

  “She's playing hard to get.”

  “Smart girl.” Sean laughed.

  Roger growled at him, baring his teeth as fangs. It startled Tucker, who growled back. “I want her to be my date at the Wrecker's Ball.”

  “You're upsetting my dog,” Harry said to Roger.

  “Same effect he has on Lottie.”

  “Sean.” Roger threw up his hands in mock despair. “What do women want?”

  “Ask us one at a time,” Harry swiftly replied.

  Roger laughed, “Good answer.”

  Sean spoke to Roger. “Be persistent and send presents. Always works for me.”

  “Oh? Since when?” Roger pulled Sean's ponytail.

  “You're driving her float. That ought to spike your hormones.” Sean readjusted his ponytail. “Make her special.”

  “Guys, would you like me to leave?”

  “I said hormones. I didn't mention his sperm count.” Sean smirked. “No help for that.”

  Harry threw up her hands. “Too much information! Go back to your respective floats.”

  “You're worse with women than I am,” Roger swirled right back at his brother.

  “Well?” Harry crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I'm going.” Roger turned on his heel.

  “I'm not.” Waiting until his brother was out of earshot, Sean whispered, “Do you think it would do any good if you spoke to Lottie?”

  “Hell, no. She's pissed because BoomBoom fixed me up with someone she wanted to go to the dance with.”

  “Who?”

  “I don't know. A friend from Washington. Lottie doesn't know him either but he's new and he has a good position at an embassy. Guess the idea excited her. Anyway, she won't listen to me. Ask Little Mim to help you, since Lottie's been working with her for the festival. Worth a try.”

  Sean smiled weakly. “Thanks, Har.” He took a few steps, then turned back to her. “He's an okay guy, a little rough around the edges. Typical motorhead.”

  “I know.” She winked as Sean set out to find Little Mim.

  Harry checked her watch, then her clipboard. She scanned the floats. The O'Bannon Salvage float was an elaborate reconstruction of Monticello made out of salvage.

  “They'll win the prize for sure,” Reverend Herb whispered in her ear, coming up behind her.

  Harry returned to her list. “Herb, you look terrific and you'll pull out in about fifteen minutes. We've got the St. Elizabeth band right behind you and the Mah-Jongg Club.”

  The Mah-Jongg ladies, most of them in rickshaws being pulled by sturdy-legged youngsters, wore Chinese clothes. The club had been running strong since the 1920s and these were the survivors, Aunt Tally Urquhart among them in an electric-blue dress.

  Harry grabbed the bullhorn as she ascended the three-foot-square wooden stand that served as her command post. “Hey, gang.” They chattered still. “Earth to parade. Earth to parade.” Slowly the assembled, perhaps five hundred strong, quieted. “We are ten minutes from blastoff. If you have to go to the bathroom, do it now.” A titter of laughter followed. “Remember, the parade always takes longer than we think it will. There are people with buckets filled with ice, bottled water, Gatorade, along the route. They are there for you. If you feel even a tiny bit thirsty, call out and they'll bring you your drink.”

  “Scotch on the rocks,” Aunt Tally hollered, her voice strong and youthful for a woman in her nineties.

  “Oh, you spoiled my present.” Reverend Herb Jones trotted over, handing her a bottle of good scotch as everyone around screamed with laughter and the news was passed down the line, with more laughter following in ripples.

  “I could use some catnip.” Pewter was grateful that Harry had put a huge bowl of water in the truck as well as crunchies but she wanted catnip, too.

  “Get in a rickshaw then. Your chances will improve.” Murphy laughed.


  “I just might.” The gray cat leaned over the edge of the truck.

  Harry checked her watch again. “Eight minutes.”

  An athletic figure jogged alongside the assembled floats.

  “Welcome home!” Harry beamed, seeing Tracy Raz.

  “Hey, girl.” He kissed her as she leaned down. “I'll catch up with you later. Cuddles is nervous. I think she's blown every note on her pitch pipe.” He laughed at Miranda, whom he sometimes called Cuddles, her high-school nickname.

  Miranda was the lead singer for the Church of the Holy Light and the choir was arranged on a float called Stairway to Paradise, which was just what you would expect.

  “Have you seen Boom?”

  “I did a minute ago. Primping.” He smiled.

  “Big surprise. Hey, you'll be at the tea dance. I'll find you there.”

  “You got it.” He kissed her again and jogged back down the line, where Miranda could be seen in her choir robes, her back turned toward Harry. The other choir members were taking their places on the stairway to paradise. A few appeared as though their Maker might call them soon enough.

  “Mom, don't forget to drink water yourself,” Tucker, ever solicitous, barked.

  Harry stepped down, lifted the dog, and climbed back up. She didn't understand a word the corgi had said.

  Jim Sanburne and Little Mim sat in an open convertible behind Herb's float.

  Harry smiled at them and they smiled back. “Little Mim, Sean's looking for you.”

  “He found me. I'll do what I can,” came the unenthusiastic reply.

  Lottie was on the third float, Daughters of Time, sponsored by the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Lottie's hoopskirt was so big a stiff wind would send her airborne. Roger was driving that float while Sean was driving the O'Bannon float.

  “Four minutes,” Harry called out.

  A tug at her jeans behind her turned her around. BoomBoom, dressed as a 1920s flapper for the Heart Fund float, said, “I want you to meet Diego before the tea. Mary Minor Haristeen, please meet Diego Aybar.”

  Harry's mouth moved but nothing came out. She was staring into the liquid brown eyes of one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen. “Uh—welcome to Crozet.”

  “My pleasure. BoomBoom tells me I should meet you at Aunt Tally's”—he said “Aunt Tally's” with a Spanish accent and a hint of good humor—“garden. She says everyone falls in love in the garden.”

  “With the garden.” Harry smiled.

  “No, in the garden,” BoomBoom corrected. “Listen, I've got to get back on my float. Diego, the two best places to see the parade are from the back of Harry's truck or on the corner of Route 240 and Whitehall Road.”

  “Try the truck,” Harry stammered. “The two cats are good companions.”

  The two cats at that very moment were laughing at their mother, who was in a state. Neither could ever remember seeing Harry like that.

  “The best friends come on four feet,” he said in his beguiling light baritone.

  “Now there's a man with sense.” Mrs. Murphy walked forward to greet him as he gracefully bounded into the truck bed.

  “One minute,” Harry called into the bullhorn.

  Reverend Herb Jones straightened up, took a deep breath. In the car behind him, Little Mim leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek. The drivers started their motors. Some band members threw back their shoulders, others licked their reeds, while the drummers spun their drumsticks in anticipation.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one—showtime!” Harry called.

  The drummers clicked their sticks in rhythm. The four different high-school bands interspersed throughout the parade marched in place. The Reverend Jones cruised first, slowly out of the school lot. The St. Elizabeth band, first with the music, initially walked out to bass drums only, boom, boom, boom; then the snare drums kicked in and within a minute they all burst forth with the ever-popular theme song from Rocky.

  Harry waved as each group passed her. She heard the roar from all the people crowded along the path. Tears sprang into her eyes. She felt as if her own life were parading before her. The sight of Tally Urquhart in her rickshaw, participating in her ninety-second parade (Tally was a star even as a toddler) brought the tears rolling down.

  What great good fortune to be where you know people, you love people, and hopefully they love you. The fact that her family had nested here immediately after the Revolutionary War, having drifted over from the Tidewater, where they'd lived since 1640, only deepened the experience of home.

  Tucker crowded next to Harry. Tucker loved music. The cats had leapt to the roof of the truck so as not to miss a single thing.

  Harry waved as friends and neighbors passed, and then she glanced back at Diego. His smile was five thousand megawatts. She smiled back at him, grateful that this small slice of Virginia pleased him. It hadn't occurred to her that she pleased him, too.

  Harry felt as though her chest would burst. The joy, as high as grief was deep, nearly overwhelmed her.

  8

  Although covering less than two miles from the high school to the town's main intersection, the route was hilly. The float builders, knowing this, had devised railings and props such as fake boulders with little handholds on them, so that the people on the floats could grab them when the floats rolled downhill.

  Lottie Pearson forgot this. When the Daughters of the Confederacy float dipped into the decline just before the fire department, she lurched off the float, saved only by the metal in her hoopskirt, which hit the pavement first. Unhurt, she was helped back on the float by friends standing along the parade route. Roger couldn't leave the truck. Lottie's skirt was bent, which meant her pantaloons showed. Each time she pushed the skirt back into place it popped up on the back side. The result drew cheers and laughter but not of the sort she hoped to hear. As she was the leading lady on the float, the one right up front, she was loath to relinquish her position. If the choice was between obscurity and showing her ass, Lottie bravely decided to show her ass.

  As the last band marched out of the parking lot, the black and red of Albemarle High, Harry hopped down from her perch.

  “Mom's got a little tan. Looks good against her white T-shirt,” Pewter noted as Harry removed her sweater with the day's warming. Pewter giggled, remembering the sight of Harry ironing her jeans and T-shirt.

  “Nobody looks better in jeans than Harry,” Tucker called out from behind her mother. “I mean, if this fellow likes a fit body then he has to like Mom.”

  Mrs. Murphy loved her mother, but she realized that not all men like natural women. Many, attracted by artifice, want lots of hair, preferably blond, boobs pushed up to the max, long fingernails, expensive clothes, and perfect makeup. In a word, BoomBoom.

  Harry actually was a beautiful woman but she had no sense of it. High cheekbones accentuated wonderful facial bone structure. Her long black eyelashes drew attention to her soft brown eyes. She rarely wore lipstick on her full lips. Her hair, short and black, curled just above the nape of her neck. But one had to study Harry to recognize her beauty. A woman like BoomBoom hit one over the head with it.

  As Harry had no vanity she was able to concentrate on whomever she encountered. She didn't think she was pretty. She didn't worry about the impression she was making. Her focus was on the other person. This quality beguiled more men than her looks once they got around to really studying her. There was an innocence about her. It never occurred to her, not once, that she might be attractive to men. She had known her ex-husband since kindergarten. The art of flirting, of luring men, seemed irrelevant to her since she had always loved Fair. When he left her she assumed she'd never love again. She didn't launch into tirades about how awful men were, how they used women and dumped them, the usual cry of the abandoned female. Harry had seen women behave execrably toward men. As far as she was concerned one gender was as bad as the other.

  Fair's attempts to reconcile touched her. She trul
y loved him but now in quite a different way. At first she felt she could never trust him again. Lately, she thought maybe she could. He'd learned and she'd learned but the difficult part was that she didn't know if she'd feel romantic about him again. Certainly she could go to bed with him. She knew his body the way a blind woman knows Braille. However, that didn't constitute romantic desire.

  She didn't share these thoughts with Susan or Miranda. Harry kept her deepest thoughts to herself, sometimes asking the animals for their opinion.

  As Mrs. Murphy watched Harry approach the truck she felt the lightness in her step, the surge of energy that illuminated her human's face.

  “How could Diego not like Mom . . . but is he good enough?” Mrs. Murphy stretched. “After all, we are better judges of character than humans. We need to check out this situation.”

  “You're right and I should have thought of that straight off.” Tucker felt guilty.

  “You would have eventually.” Mrs. Murphy hopped into the bed of the truck just as Diego, of average height and muscular, hopped out.

  “Oh, balls,” Pewter disagreed. “One human is pretty much like any other. They make a big deal out of these tiny, tiny differences but as a species they're all cut from the same cloth.”

  “Mother's better.” Tucker defended Harry, whom she loved with all her heart.

  “They do fuss over nits and nit-picking but I think they're very different from one another and that's their challenge. They are herd animals and they need one another to survive but they can't build communities to include everyone. It's a real mess. They don't understand their fundamental nature, which is to be part of the herd,” Murphy stated.

  “I'm not part of any herd.” Pewter proudly jumped down next to Murphy.

  “Of course not. You're a cat,” Murphy said.

  “Murphy, this herd idea sounds good but you once said that dogs are pack animals and here I am—not with other dogs.” Tucker waited for Harry to put her in the cab of the truck.

  “We're your pack.” Mrs. Murphy drove home her point. “The fact that we're cats plus one human is beside the point.”