Escape Claws. Linda Reilly
that moment, Lara noticed her aunt was grasping a cane in the hand that clung to the doorframe. Without a second thought, she cupped her hand firmly under her aunt’s upper arm and guided her to a padded chrome chair at the head of the Formica table. “Why don’t I take this little furball for a while?” Lara asked, gently removing the kitten from her aunt’s hand.
“Thank you,” her aunt said quietly. “That’s Cheetah you’re holding, if you’re interested.”
Lara felt herself bristling at the comment, but quelled her annoyance. “Of course I’m interested. Haven’t I always loved your cats?” All cats? She tucked Cheetah under her chin, reveling in the softness of the darling kitten.
Aunt Fran’s eyes misted with a faraway look. “That you have,” she said. “You’d best set him down now. If he starts to get antsy, which he will, you’ll get a sample of his razor-sharp claws.”
Very gently, Lara set Cheetah on the floor. The kitten scooted away toward the jumble of food bowls lined up near the sink.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” her aunt said, her tone slightly accusatory. “I suppose I could make some tea—”
Lara held up a hand. “Why don’t I take care of it, Aunt Fran? You sit for a while, okay?”
Aunt Fran nodded her assent. Lara stripped off her faux-suede jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.
It felt strange, rummaging through her aunt’s glass-front cabinets, the way she had as a child. She found the tea bags exactly where they’d always been—in a battered tin container advertising Hershey’s Cocoa.
Within minutes, two cups of steaming tea sat on the table in front of them. To Lara’s delight, a thin gray cat leaped up from under the table and onto her lap. “Oh my, and who are you?” Grinning, she stroked the cat’s head and was rewarded with the revving of a purr engine.
“That’s Bootsie.” Aunt Fran smiled wanly. “She’s Cheetah’s mom. Bootsie and her three-week-old babies were found by a state DPW worker on the side of Route Sixteen, tied inside a trash bag.” Her face darkened at the memory.
“That’s terrible!” Lara said. “How did you manage to rescue them?”
“The worker was one of my students, back in the day. He knew exactly where to bring those poor abandoned cats.”
He sure did, Lara thought.
“One of the kittens didn’t survive. But Cheetah and Lilybee were tough little darlings.”
Another cat strolled in to check out the commotion—a long-haired black kitty who made a beeline for her aunt’s lap. “And this is Dolce,” Aunt Fran said, stroking the cat.
“Which is the Italian word for sweet,” Lara piped in. “I live in the North End, above an Italian bakery. In fact, I work at the bakery part-time…in exchange for rent I can actually afford,” she added dryly. “My landlady owns the studio apartment upstairs.”
Lara knew she was babbling, but she wasn’t even close to achieving a comfort level with her aunt. There was a time when they’d been as close as mother and daughter.
“I see.” Aunt Fran stirred her tea thoughtfully. “I assume you’re still painting?”
“I am,” Lara confirmed. “Mostly watercolors.” She took a sip from her teacup.
For a long moment Aunt Fran was silent. Then, “So what are your plans? Are you here for any particular reason? Or is this just a casual visit?”
Her aunt’s tone stung. Lara swallowed back a lump. “I don’t have any plans, per se, Aunt Fran. I… I mean, Sherry did call me. She and her mom are worried about you. Extremely worried.”
Sherry Bowker and Lara had known each since childhood, from the day they entered first grade together at Whisker Jog Elementary. But the summer after Lara had completed sixth grade, her family moved away. She and Sherry were devastated—they missed each other horribly. Lara had been especially lonely, moving to an unfamiliar school in another state. The girls kept in touch by letter, and later by e-mail, until they both graduated from high school. It was during Lara’s hectic art school years that they lost the thread of communication. Then one day, about five years ago, Lara plunked her old friend’s name into a search engine and discovered that Sherry and her mom had opened a coffee shop in downtown Whisker Jog. She contacted her, and was thrilled to get an instant response. Every summer now, Sherry and her mom took a day off to drive to Boston for a lunch/shopping expedition with Lara.
Lara realized her mind was wandering. Her aunt obviously knew that she and Sherry had been in touch.
Aunt Fran’s gaze skimmed Lara’s face. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I don’t know what to think.”
Lara sucked in a hard breath. She didn’t want to cry. “I know, but I’m here now and I want to help with the cats. How many do you have?”
“Eleven. Two of the kittens—Callie and Luna—are afraid of people, and one adult male is feral. The kittens are young enough to socialize eventually, but Ballou won’t go near a human.”
Lara inhaled, then winced inwardly. She didn’t know how many litter boxes her aunt had, but from the scent coating her nostrils she felt sure all of them needed to be cleaned and changed. “Aunt Fran, will you rest while I check out the litter boxes and clean things up a bit?”
With a sag of her shoulders, her aunt nodded. “That…would actually be a big help. The supplies are in the utility closet, next to the bathroom.”
Lara grinned. “I know exactly where that is.”
It took Lara the better part of two hours to scrub and replenish the twelve litter boxes scattered throughout the house. Fortunately, she’d found a pair of rubber gloves under the bathroom sink, along with earth-friendly cleaning supplies, trash bags, and scads of paper towel rolls.
Her heart melted at the sight of the furry faces watching her as she worked. She would have to learn all their names, if she was here long enough.
By the time she was through, the rooms smelled minimally better. In the kitchen, she collected the myriad food and water bowls, washed them, and replenished them with kibble and kitten food. She’d been relieved to find her aunt’s cabinets well stocked with cat food. Lara wondered how her aunt shopped for supplies with her knees in such bad shape.
It was already two thirty, and she was starving. She headed upstairs and knocked softly at her aunt’s bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. “Aunt Fran?” she called.
“Come in, Lara.”
Her aunt was sitting in her padded rocking chair reading a paperback thriller. Dolce rested in her lap, looking every bit like a furry black shawl.
Lara had to swallow to keep her composure. The room was almost exactly as she remembered it, with its braided scatter rugs and white, iron bedstead, a handmade quilt folded at the foot of the bed. The white-painted dresser, its oval mirror silvered in places, sat in the same corner. From where she stood, Lara could see her own reflection.
“Come on, I’m famished,” Lara said. “I’m treating you to lunch at Sherry’s. She doesn’t know I drove up here today, so we’re going to surprise her.”
Her aunt frowned and rubbed her left knee. “I don’t think so, Lara. I walk very slowly, you know. It takes me forever to get in and out of a car.”
“I’ll help you,” Lara cajoled. “I’m not going without you.”
* * * *
Bowker’s Coffee Stop sat in the center of Whisker Jog’s downtown block, about a half-mile downhill walk from Aunt Fran’s home at the end of High Cliff Road. So far Lara had only seen photos of the place, supplied by Sherry via her smartphone or on the coffee shop’s Facebook page. The pictures, Lara realized, failed to capture the cozy essence