“Who?”
“Mother Baker.” He nodded at the little house across the street. “That’s what we all called her, anyways. Not to her face, mind. She used to tell fortunes in the old days, reading tea leaves. Didn’t always hear what you wanted neither, but she was right more times than not. Old as the devil she was. Older’n me, anyways, and I won’t see seventy again. Guess how old I am, young lady. Go ahead — guess.”
“I don’t know. Seventy-two?”
That got him laughing again. “Eighty,” he hooted. “Eighty years old and lived here all my life. Born in that house right there” — he pointed to an immaculate Victorian house on the corner, complete with tower and gingerbread fretwork — “and I’m going to die there, too. Got my granddaughter living with me now. Her and her kids. She needs a place to live and I need the company. Whereabouts do you live, eh? Don’t recall seeing you round about, and I know everybody on this street.”
Before I could answer him, another stir swept through the crowd as a small van came up to the curb. A policeman hurried over to talk to the driver. The back opened and a young woman climbed down, carrying two pet carriers and a long pole with a loop of rope at its end.
“They’re going to catch the cats,” the old man said. “I gotta watch this.”
He tugged his dog back across the street and took up a station under one of the big maples that lined the sidewalk. I followed.
The police car pulled out of the drive and passed us. Its driver was intent on weaving a safe path through the crowd; her passenger was scribbling in a notebook with one hand while talking into a radio mike he held in the other. On the street, a uniformed officer was talking to various onlookers, taking notes as they answered his questions. The boys rode their bikes back and forth, craning their necks to peer inside the house through the open door.
An unholy screech erupted from inside. One of the men I’d noticed earlier stumbled out on to the porch, blood dripping from a hand he held so that it wouldn’t stain his pale linen suit. “Damned cats,” he snarled. “I hate cats.”
“Take it easy, Joe.” The second, younger man joined him. He was trying not to smile, but I could see that he privately enjoyed the other’s distress. “It’s just a little scratch.”
“Did you see the one that bit me? Big as a lion it was.”
“Scared of a little pussy, are you?”
“I didn’t see you trying to catch it.” Joe pulled a starched handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it around his palm. “Probably has rabies,” he grumbled. “I’ll have to get those shots. Have you got any idea how bad those shots are? I heard they give you about forty of them, right in the belly. I hate needles.”
“You think Workmen’s Compensation will cover this? Cat scratch in the line of duty?” the other man ribbed him.
Joe muttered another curse, turning his back on his partner to survey the street. I didn’t look away quickly enough. We stared at each other for a long moment. Without dropping his eyes, Joe whispered something to the younger man. He too looked at me. I decided it was time to leave.
The cat catchers came out, staggering with the weight of two boxes each, boxes that snarled and shook as the cats inside fought to escape. They slid them into the van and brought out four more empty cases. The woman sighed heavily before turning back to the house.
“They’ll be bringing them out for hours.” My old friend was back beside me again. He was carrying the little dog, which had become bored with all the action and fallen asleep.
“She had a lot of cats?”
“You bet. It was all the grocery ever delivered, cat food and milk.”
“What about her? What did she eat?”
“Regular food, I guess. She walked down to the corner every other day of the week, ’cept Sunday, rain or shine, pulling that little bundle buggy of hers. It was company for her, going to the store.”
“But the cat food got delivered?”
“Bags of it, yeah.” He nodded. “Every stray for miles around knew to come to Mother Baker’s come October. Most of ’em had kittens and most of the little ones stayed. They just burst out of that house in the evening. Mrs. Robinson,” and he nodded toward the home of the first woman I’d approached, “she used to complain all the time. But the old lady was clever. She had them all named and had the vet come and give them their shots. She even had the papers to prove it. Fifty cats she had. I know — the vet told me when she came to see Winny here, the last time Winny ate something he shouldn’t.” He rubbed his cheek against the dog’s head. Its tail thumped against his chest, but its eyes stayed closed. “Garbage mouths, dogs are! You have to love them, though. Not like cats. Can’t say I like them either, but they were company to the old woman. Only family she had, I’d say. Look,” and he nodded to the other house. “Here she comes.”
Mrs. Robinson stalked down her sidewalk and right across the street to the van. She waited for the next load of cats to be dumped inside. “They killed her, didn’t they?” she demanded. “Those cats ganged up on her, right? She fell and couldn’t feed them, right? They ate her. I told you and told you they were dangerous. I knew something like this would happen, I just knew.” Her voice cracked.
The uniformed officer had finished speaking to the last of the group on the far sidewalk, and waved them off to their homes. He hurried across to the driveway, but the scratched detective beat him to her. He put his hand on her arm and drew her away from the van. The two Humane Society officers grinned at each other. One drew circles in the air around his ear. The other shrugged and picked up two more empty cases.
“Guilt,” the old man hissed.
“What?” I was trying to hear what Joe was telling the woman, but they were too far off, their voices lowered in intimate whispers.
“Guilt,” he repeated. “She always said she wished the old lady would die and take her cats with her. She can’t stand it now that it’s happened.”
“The cats really didn’t eat her?” I shuddered at the vision.
“No. Mrs. Robinson watches too much TV. You know, those American crime shows, rescue squads, whatever. Bunch of baloney, if you ask me. Pets wouldn’t do such a thing. Not ’less they were really starving, and it couldn’t be more’n a day since the old lady died.”
“What happened to her?”
He shook his head. “Ah, it’s a sad story, sad indeed. Mr. Iannou was telling me.” He nodded toward the other old man who was now arguing with Mrs. Robinson and the cop. “He found her, you know. Lives next door, has lived there fifty years, and I daresay she’s never said more’n two words at a stretch to him. ’Good day’ — you know. Or Tine evening.’ But he kept an eye out for her, specially once that woman moved in and started on about the cats. Anyways, he realized he hadn’t seen her for two days. Regular as clockwork she was, letting the cats in and out, once in the morning, once in the evening. And today was her church morning. She never missed a morning service, not even in winter. But today, nothing. So he knocks on the door and all he hears is them cats squalling. So he calls the cops.”
Mrs. Robinson stamped past us back to her house. She was muttering, but I couldn’t quite hear what she said. I didn’t want to hear it.
“And?” I prompted the old fellow.
“And they break down the