Cat of the Century Read Free

screech over the broken pot further confirming that opinion.
    “Do you know that all the alumnae over eighty will attend? There are forty of them. Isn’t that wonderful? Our alumnae fund is paying for those who can’t afford the airfare, and the motels in and around Fulton are giving us a special rate.”
    “Wonderful,” Harry replied tensely.
    Forking over two hundred fifty dollars plus tax was eating at her.
    Terri, not one to keep her woes to herself, would fan the flames of any discontent if Harry had balked at payment. Harry loathed that in a man or woman. But she hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. She’d learned to keep her opinion to herself unless speaking with her husband or best friends. Keep it level, keep it smooth. She tried.
    Terri, young for such a task, headed Charlottesville’s William Woods Alumnae Association. Once men were admitted to William Woods in1996, an argument arose over the word “alumnae.” Should they change it to “alumni”? The Old Girls fought that one. For most of their lives they had lived under male honorifics or terms. Let the men grapple with “alumnae.” Surely their parts wouldn’t shrivel.
    So alumnae it was, at least in the eyes of the female graduates.
    Such battles never interested Harry, but she did understand one great fundamental of life: Men had to prove they were men. Women did not have to prove they were women. This anxiety could make weak men either silly or downright dangerous. Strong men sailed right through.
    Harry focused on the basics: animal behavior, food, clothing, shelter. She zeroed right to the core of an issue, which made people who couldn’t accept brute reality nervous. Harry knew the human animal had set the natural order on its head, that among humans the weak devoured the strong. As her mother used to put it, “The squeakiest wheel gets the oil.”
    No reason to burden Terri with reality, for Terri was one of those benighted souls who believed laws were the answer. You have a problem? Pass another law.
    Liz lightened the moment. “Harry, your corgi has good taste. That was a beautiful vase.”
    Harry smiled. “Tucker has better taste than I do.”
    “Thank you,”
the dog replied.
    Garvey joked, “Bring her in my store. If she tears up an item or chews shoes, I’ll know to order more.”
    “Garvey, you crack me up.” Harry laughed at him.
    Terri, a clotheshorse, asked Harry, “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
    “Uh, well, it will probably be cold. That long wraparound wool skirt, the one I wear with the big gold pin on the front. I thought that.”
    “But what about the dinner, and, of course, there will be the choral groups. Aunt Tally will be serenaded. You need some variety in your wardrobe.”
    “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
    “No jeans and cowboy boots,” Terri smugly decreed.
    “Tell her to shut up,”
Tucker grumbled.
    “We’ll go in a minute.” Harry smiled down at her constant companion. “Terri, hope business is good.” With that, she vacated the shop, Garvey on her heels.
    “Sorry your little dog broke the pot.” He shivered, for the wind was cold; he wore only a sweater. “This sweater would look great on Fair.” He poked his own chest.
    “Would.” Harry nodded. “He’s a bit of a peacock.”
    “I’d go out of business without peacocks. See you soon, I hope.”
    He ducked into his store.
    “Jeez.” She looked down at Tucker. “It’s picked up. Wind’s got teeth in it.”
    Within a minute they reached the truck. Harry unlocked the door. It was a 1978 Ford F-150. Ran like a top. She lifted the corgi up, then slid in herself, quickly closing the door.
    “So?”
Pewter, the fat gray cat, looked at the dog.
    Mrs. Murphy, the slender tabby, said nothing but was grateful when Harry started the engine. As the truck hadn’t been parked long, the heat came on.
    All four creatures sat for a moment, just enjoying the warmth.
    Harry always left an old blanket on the seat