The Catswold Portal (22 page)

The painting was beautiful, the colors warping together so rich they took her breath. She studied the line of her cheek against the red awning, her skin reflecting red. How could he have painted her from only one glimpse? She felt tremendously flattered and excited. She stood lost in his work until she heard the coffee pot start. Alarmed, she pushed quickly out onto the terrace.

S
he fled through the rain to the tool shed, and in among the garden tools. Her dress was soaked. She stood in the little earthen room shivering, straining to remember the words for changing from cat to woman. Through the crack where the door was ajar, thin watery light seeped in. She thought about Mag's cottage: the cozy little room, the cookstove, the rocker and cots. And Mag's spell book lying on the shelf. Standing inside the tool cave, leaning against the ladder, she imagined taking the heavy book down, holding it in her lap, turning the pages, and imagined an empty page. She tried to let words come onto the page, tried to let her memory open. She could smell the onions hanging from Mag's rafters. She could feel the warmth of the cookstove, could feel the weight of the heavy book, could feel the thick, rough paper beneath her fingers. Slowly, as she stared at the blank paper, the words began to emblazon themselves, rising from the whiteness as if a licking flame drew them forth.

It was there. The spell was there.

“To cat do I cleave, to Catswold cleave, called forth leaping, careening joyous from spell-fettered caverns, to cat do I return…”

She changed to cat suddenly, without pain. The simple charm seemed part of her nature.

And she remembered. She was the little calico yet she knew she was Melissa. She was so pleased she wanted to race the garden madly. But suddenly she froze, rigid. The scent of Vrech clung in the tool room. Only now as cat could she smell it.

It was not a fresh scent, but it was not very old either. She left the tool shed quickly, pushing through the door into the rain, shaking her paws in the rain.

She sat under a tree near the portal, letting memories of the Netherworld come. Only when her fur was soaked and she was shivering with cold did she leave the shelter of the tree, heading straight for the terrace. She sped across the wet bricks and clawed at the door, crying pitifully.

 

He came at once, wiping paint off his hands. “How the hell did you get out this morning? You were on the bed last night when I went to sleep.” He picked her up. “And this isn't the first time you've done that. Christ, you're soaked.” He stood rubbing her wet ears, frowning. She snuggled deeper into his arms, getting him wet, purring so loudly her whole body shook. He carried her into the bathroom and began to towel her dry. Then in the kitchen he opened a can of cat food, and dumped the chopped liver in a dish. She watched him, wanting to laugh. This was perfect, to be cat but to have her own wits about her, her own awareness.

She finished the canned liver quickly. It was really quite good. Braden had returned to the easel. She strolled past him, leaped to the model's couch and gave her damp fur another cleaning, leaving dark stains on the velvet and silks. He was still working on the tea shop painting. She flipped onto her back, looking at the painting and the studio upside down. She felt so loose, so utterly comfortable both in spirit and in body. Upside down she watched Braden, then leaped to her feet and bolted the length of the studio and back, playing. She chased her tail in circles, sliding on the bare floor until, distracted, he left the easel. As he made himself a sandwich she sat down before the painting and studied the image of herself. She was still there when he came out of the kitchen. He stopped, watching her.

“What are you? Some kind of art critic?” He picked her up and stroked her absently. “I don't know why it's so important, cat, but I'm going to find this girl. I'm going to
paint her again.” His look was so intense, so deep, she shivered.

He said, “It's going to be the best work I've done. I've got two months to come up with, say, twenty new paintings.” His excitement was infectious. She rubbed her face against him. He said, “Reflections. All reflections. Why the hell did she go off like that in such a damned hurry? And why did she stare at me like that? As if—as if she knew me.” He frowned, puzzled. “Christ, cat. Think good thoughts for me. Think that I can find her.”

He put her on the couch and turned away to clean his brushes, then went to wash. She could hear him splashing, then the creak of the closet door. When he crossed the hall to the kitchen she padded in behind him and jumped on the table to watch him. He was making a list of groceries. She wished she could add chicken and lobster, and cross off the cat food.

Well, why not make a list? What was to stop her?

Maybe not this time, but soon, she would make a list and see that he bought nothing but caviar. She wanted to shout with laughter, wanted to hug him. Now she could be anything she chose, for Braden. Cat or girl. Or both.

As he left the studio she bolted through the door ahead of him, switching her tail. From the terrace she watched him head across the lane toward the village. She would give him time to search for the girl before she introduced him to his phantom model.

She lingered in the garden, hunting. Her sharp cat's senses delighted her—her keener smell, hearing, and wider vision made every detail sharper. She could hear sounds she had never suspected as Melissa, could see the secrets within shadows that had been featureless darkness to Melissa.

She caught a bird, played with it, then killed and ate it. She caught a lizard, and turned it loose. And when she thought Braden had looked long enough for his model, she slipped into the tool room, changed to girl, and headed for the village.

She let Braden discover her outside the art store. He saw
her through the glass and came out shouting, flustered as a boy. He grabbed her hand as if she would vanish. He told her he had done a painting of her and asked her name. Sarah, she said. Sarah Affandar. He asked her to pose. He offered her union wages; he wanted her to pose for several weeks. She listened gravely. She loved his eagerness and his fear that she would refuse. It was hard to keep from howling with laughter. He told her he had a show scheduled soon at Chapman's. He said she could call Chapman's to check on him, call the Art Institute in the city where he sometimes taught. “I'm not making a pass, you're just—I simply want to paint you. I'd like the whole show of you—a series—your face caught in reflections, the planes of your face—you'll see. Before you say no, will you come back to the studio and take a look? I'm not making a pass, I promise.”

“Your wife won't mind?” she asked, delighted with the game.

“I live alone. My wife died several years ago. But she wouldn't have minded; she brought models home, too.” He grinned, making a joke. “Her models were dogs and cats.”

She looked at him, questioning.

“She was a printmaker, etchings and drypoint, lithos. Alice Kitchen—the name she worked under, her maiden name.”

She stared at him, sick, faint. The street seemed insubstantial, as if she would fall.
Alice…Alice is dead, Alice…
She saw Alice suddenly. Alice's face exploding back into consciousness so alive, her delicate features, her wry smile, her long, pale hair…She saw Alice walking up Russian Hill, her peasant skirt blowing…
My wife died several years ago…Alice—Alice died…Alice…

She was so faint, so sick, shaking with the pain of Alice's death.

 

She didn't remember clearly walking back to the studio. She didn't want to go in. She wanted to run away, curl up somewhere, and try to deal with Alice's death. He watched her, puzzled.

She moved on in woodenly, through the door he held
open, and stood uncertainly, looking around her. “You—you both painted here?”

He nodded, motioning to the left. “That part was Alice's studio, where the paintings are stacked. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“I—tea would be nice.” She wanted to sit down; she wanted to be alone; she wanted to cry and was too shocked to cry.

“Are you all right? You're so pale.” He led her to the model's couch and got her settled, then stood looking down at her, concerned.

“I'm fine. Just—just—some tea will make me feel better.”

When he had gone she touched the marks on the orange velvet where her wet cat feet had stained it. She ran her finger guiltily over the little holes she had made with her claws. One of her stiff white whiskers was caught in the velvet. She listened to Braden putting cups on a tray and tried to think about Alice, was afraid to think about her.

Her thin face, her warm, gentle eyes. Pale hair, long, pale hair. Long, full skirts. The smell of charcoal and fixative. Clear, beautiful skin.

And there had been another house. They had lived there, not here. She and Alice and Alice's parents. A tall house with jutting windows. She and Alice could see the bay from their bedroom. Her father was a painter, that's why the scent of paints and turpentine was so familiar.

Braden carried the tray out to the terrace and dried off the table and chairs with a towel. He had sliced some shortbread onto a blue ceramic plate. “Did you look at the painting?”

“I like it very much; it's beautiful. Rich.” She saw that he was pleased. She said, “It's—it makes me feel like I'm swimming in color and light, like I'm made of color and light.” But she could not, adequately, describe the way the painting made her feel.

 

He watched her, delighted with her. He thought maybe he had harbored a fear that she would turn out to be crude and unfeeling, because now he felt relieved. As the low sun
threw amber light across her hair, he thought her brown hair wasn't the right color for her skin and light brows. Her lashes were dark, though, and so thick he had thought she used a black liner. But when she looked down, he decided she didn't use any makeup. He had a strange feeling of familiarity, watching her. As of someone he hadn't seen since he was a boy: a face he had known well, but which now was so changed he could put no place or time with it. He said, “Could you start posing today?”

She had been toying with her shortbread. When she looked up, he found it hard to look away. “I—yes, I could start today.”

He left her to finish her tea while he got his sketching things together, stuffing charcoal, pastels, fixative and a sketch pad into a canvas bag.

In the village, they worked in front of the wine shop, the amber and red bottles reflected around her. He caught the quick reflection of a passing woman against her shoulder, and of a boy on a bike. Then in front of the little grocery she was mirrored against the yellows and reds and greens of the produce bins, distorted to jagged abstractions by the glass. He worked intently, feeling Melissa's response to him in her glances, in her languorous poses. They seemed caught together in a separate place, set apart from the pedestrians and occasional gawkers. Drawing the light along her cheek was like caressing her; drawing the line of her throat made him warm with desire.

As the afternoon dimmed they worked in front of the library, her image captured among reflections of the dark forest. But this sketch disturbed him. She looked, among the heavy shadows, not caught in reflections but caught in an atmosphere that wanted to swallow her, that reached out to make her vanish.

And he wondered suddenly what Alice would think of this girl. Then guilt touched him, and pain came powerfully. He closed the drawing pad and cleaned up his pastels.

As they walked back into the village she made no move to leave him. She didn't mention where she lived. At the
corner by the Greyhound station, he asked her to have dinner with him. She said she would. They had walked for some minutes more beneath the street lights, heading back to the garden, when she asked him how his wife had died.

T
he lights of the street lamps looked thin and insubstantial, as if they burned in another dimension. The evening air was chill. He told himself Melissa had asked the question casually, yet she seemed intense. She had turned pale when he had mentioned Alice. He watched her, frowning, not wanting to talk about Alice. He said shortly, “She was killed in a car accident. A truck went over the center line.”

“Where?” she said softly. “Where did it happen?” Her look was naked, hurt, and unguarded. The next instant her eyes were veiled.

“On the approach to Golden Gate Bridge. The truck hit her sideways, her car went over the cliff.” Her question had forced him to live it again: the phone call, then running to his car, barreling down Bayshore, running down the hill to her car, the fire truck hosing down the gas, men pulling at him to keep him from tearing at the rescue team.

He was sweating when they reached the garden. In the studio he left her looking at paintings while he made himself a drink and waited for the water to boil for her tea, stood in the kitchen trying to regain his composure. Why the hell had she asked about Alice? It wasn't any of her business. He heard her go into the bathroom to wash, going directly there, not searching for it. Well, it was a small house.

When he took the tray in she was curled up on the model's couch on the vermilion silk, her sandals off, looking comfortable and at home. She blushed under his intent stare, and looked down.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was seeing a painting.”

She looked up again and smiled, her eyes as green as sunlit sea. “Your wife was very young when she died.”

“Twenty-nine.” He fiddled with his drink, shaking the ice. Why did she keep asking? And yet now for some reason he wanted to tell her. “If she'd come home at a different time, hadn't been in that particular spot when the truck went over, hadn't stopped to get wine and lobster, hadn't stopped to take her cat drawings to the museum—a few seconds one way or the other, and the truck wouldn't have been there. All so useless, so damned useless.” He got up and stood at the window with his back to her. “And so damned pointless to imagine what might have been if she'd just skipped one appointment.”

“What—what were the cat drawings?”

He turned to look at her. “She'd done some drawings of a door with cat faces carved on it. It's up in the garden.” He gestured toward the terraces. “The door in the side of the hill—the gardener keeps tools there. Alice wanted to see if anyone at the Museum of History might be interested in researching the door. It looks medieval, but of course it's probably a copy.” He crossed the room abruptly and went to freshen his drink.

 

She sat looking after him, ashamed that she had upset him. But the pain was hers, too. Her memory of Alice was like pressing at a new, raw wound. Alice's deceptively delicate face, her cheek always smudged with charcoal, her funny twisted grin. The pain held Melissa in a grip like huge hands crushing out her breath.

She rose and went down the room. At the far end, above the stacked paintings, glassed-in bookcases faced the windows. Art books filled them now, but once there had been china animals. She and Alice used to play with them, mak
ing up stories. She reached beneath a glass door and slipped the hidden latch and felt the weight of the door as she drew it open. She imagined the set of white china horses they both had loved. But this was another unconnected memory; she couldn't bring it all together. She turned suddenly, sensing that Braden watched her.

“How did you know to do that? Open the latch?”

“I suppose I've seen one like it,” she said quietly. “How long were you and Alice married?”

“Four years.”

“And you lived here in the studio, and worked here together. But before that, who lived in this house?”

“Alice's aunt. We moved over from the city after she died; she left the house to Alice. We remodeled—tore out some walls to get the studio space.”

“Aunt Carrie,” she said softly, the pictures flooding back of a square, stocky Aunt Carrie, her short white hair always mussed, her thick ankles hidden in opaque stockings.

“When did she die, Braden?”

“A year before we were married,” he said quietly. “Of heart failure. She was diabetic.”

“Yes. Insulin shots.” Pale white skin, the needle.

He looked at her evenly. “You gave me the impression you were a stranger.”

“I suppose I did.” The memories were fitting together now, the memory of her childhood far sharper now than any fragmented memory of the Netherworld.

He was very still, hadn't touched his drink. “Turn your head, Sarah.”

She held the profile until he said, “All right,” as he would if he were drawing her. He stood moments more looking at her, then turned away and knelt before an oversized chest with long, thin drawers. He pulled out the bottom drawer and began to shuffle through drawings. He removed one, studied it, and handed it to her.

She looked down into the face of a child, in profile against the door of the cats. The cats' faces surrounded hers. Braden got his sketch pad and held, next to Alice's drawing,
his own drawing done an hour earlier as she had stood against the dark woods, her profile sharply defined in the library window.

They were the same. The child's wide mouth was turned up at the corners. She had the same nose, the same dark lashes and light brows. Only the hair was different. The child's hair was a patchwork of pale and dark streaks, several shades mixed together, tumbling down her shoulders.

He rose and went out to the veranda, and stood looking up the garden. She laid the drawings on the coffee table side by side, stared at them, then escaped to the bathroom.

She shut the door and stood looking into the mirror. She saw, superimposed over her present reflection, the face of the child who had, years ago, stood looking into this glass.

She and Alice used to come here to stay with Aunt Carrie for weekends. The door of the cats had been her special place. She remembered when Alice had drawn her there. “Just a few more minutes, Melissa—you can be still just a little while more…”

She remembered the last time she was alone by the door. Alice had gone into town to get something for Aunt Carrie. She had been playing and talking to the carved cats. She had been grabbed from behind and jerked into the tool room. The oak door slammed as she kicked and bit. Her screams were muffled by a hand over her mouth. A woman's voice hissed words she didn't know—rhythmic words.

The voice had been Siddonie's.

The next memory that would come was of riding double behind Mag, looking down the rocky cliff, seeing a thatched stone cottage, not knowing where she was or how she had gotten there.

 

When she came out of the bathroom, he was standing before the coffee table looking at the drawings. He looked up at her. “Melissa.”

“Yes.”

“Alice thought you were dead.”

“My memory was dead. For years I didn't know my true name—I thought it was Sarah. I didn't remember anything. I came here to try to remember. I saw you in the studio working, and I remembered this house.”

“You met me on purpose today.”

“Yes.”

“And in front of the tea shop?”

“I had started to come in, then I saw you and I was afraid suddenly,” she lied. “I knew you lived here but I didn't know who you were. I didn't remember Alice then—only the house.”

She sat down on the edge of the couch. “Maybe I was afraid of finding out more.” It was hard to tell him half the truth. She found it hard to lie to him. “I didn't even know what color my hair was. Someone kept it dyed. I…” She felt shaken because he was so angry—silent and pale and angry. “It—sounds silly but I—I would like to wash the dye out.” She looked at him openly. “It would—maybe I would feel more like Melissa. Maybe
be
more like Melissa.”

He nodded curtly. “The towels are in the bathroom cupboard, the shampoo on the shelf in the shower.”

She fled for the bathroom, chagrined and hurt. If she'd had anywhere else to run to, she would have gone. In the bathroom she dropped her dress and turned on the shower, trying with panic to remember the spell Mag had used with the dye.

And, in the shower, whispering the reverse of the spell, scrubbing her mass of hair, she watched brown dye flow away mixing with the running water.

She toweled and knelt before the little electric wall heater, drying her hair just as she and Alice used to kneel side by side, warned by Aunt Carrie over and over never to touch the heater while their hair was wet.

When her hair was dry, she rose and stood looking at herself in the mirror.

Her hair was all in streaks: shades of rust, and streaks so pale they were almost white, and streaks nearly black, all in a patchwork of colors. This, with her green eyes, gave her
such a resemblance to the calico she was afraid to go back into the studio, for fear that secret would be destroyed.

But that was silly. No upperworlder would think of shape shifting. To be Catswold would be beyond an upperworlder's ability to believe.

She dressed slowly, combed her hair with Braden's comb, and went out.

He was opening a bottle of wine. When he looked up at her, his dark eyes widened. She swallowed.

He said nothing for a long time, then, “It's beautiful. It suits you. It's the way she drew you.” He paused, then, “She loved you, Melissa. She never stopped searching for you.”

She took the wine he offered. She wanted to weep for Alice, not only with her own pain but with the pain in Braden's eyes.

She said, “When I was small, she would wake me in the mornings hugging me, her long, pale hair down around us like a tent, making me giggle.” She took his hand. “You loved her very much. I am just beginning to remember how much I loved her.”

They were quiet for a while, then she said, “There was another house, too. A tall house on a hill, with a view of the bay. I think that was where we lived.”

“The Russian Hill house.” He searched her face. “We can talk over dinner. I think we could both use something to eat. I'll wash, just be a minute.”

Before he went to wash he put food on the veranda for the cat, and stood on the terrace calling her, looking up the garden as if he might see the white flash of her face threading along through the dark foliage. And Melissa sat alone in the studio trying to reconstruct the dark time before she knew Alice.

There had been a tangle of strangers, one after another. And Siddonie had come sometimes—a handsome, terrifying young woman with strange games she wanted Melissa to play. But then when she went to live with the Kitchens in the Russian Hill house, Siddonie had not come so often. There she was happy for the first time.

Braden returned wearing a sport coat and pale slacks. His glance slid across her long skirt, making her wish she had other clothes. She said, “I think your little cat was here. Is she orange and black and white? I tried to let her in but she ran. Cats don't like me much. I guess I should have let her eat in peace. How beautiful she is, really lovely.” She hid her smile. “I expect she'll come back when I've gone.”

Walking out to the car, she wanted to look at the door. But when they stood before it, a chill touched her. He would be thinking of the drawings and of Alice's death. And again she was ashamed and sorry that she had stirred his pain.