Cat Laughing Last by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

the artistic hunger that rose in her, a keen fascination at the proximity of this fine writer.
    Traynor’s study looked the same each morning when she entered, the desk immaculate, no paper left out. The little footstool pushed just so, to the corner of the desk against the bookcase, its loose, tasseled pillow aligned perfectly on top. She thought perhaps he used the pillow to ease his back as he worked. The books he had brought with him from New York were few, and all on California history—a row perhaps two feet long standing neatly on the otherwise empty shelves, beside a stack of photocopied research material. The bookshelf stood at right angles to his desk, close enough to be reached from his chair. It was flanked by a window directly at the end of the desk that looked out on the drive and front garden.
    Charlie’s aunt Wilma, who was a research assistant at the Molena Point library, had mailed a thick package of machine copies to Traynor nearly a year ago, all research on local California history, much of it family journals collected over the years by priests at the nearby mission, and a history of the mission itself as well as the surrounding land, which had been divided by grants into huge cattle spreads. Because of Wilma’s thoroughness in her assistance, Traynor had sent quite a nice, and welcome, donation to the library’s book purchasing fund.
    Alone in Traynor’s study, eagerly picking up the pages, Charlie had thought, Why am I doing this, why am I so interested? I’m not a writer, I have no professional curiosity . Her animal drawings were quite demanding enough of her creative skills; there was plenty to learn studying bone structure and doing quicksketches of moving animals. She had no time to divert her attention to a second discipline, no matter how much the beauty of the written word made her want to try. And yet any work of art, in a state of becoming, was fascinating stuff, seeming to her vividly alive. She had begun to read eagerly, glancing out the window in case they might return.
    She’d had no idea how Traynor’s prose would affect her—no notion of the sudden, perplexed unease that would wash over her.
    She had laid the pages down, had stood beside the desk staring out at the empty drive, confused and puzzled, not understanding why he had written this—how he could have written this.
    This was not the lyric prose she had so admired from Elliott Traynor; his sentences were awkward and confused. The experience had shocked and saddened her. There was no other explanation than that his illness had affected his work. She had turned away filled almost with a personal loss. And ashamed, too, that she had pried—and she was touched as well with a cold little fear for herself, with a sharp sense of helplessness, that creative skills might so suddenly be diminished.

8
    C lyde woke in the dark predawn when he felt Joe drop off the far side of the bed. He hadn’t slept well, had just managed to drift into sleep, and wasn’t happy to be jerked awake again. He’d dreamed of Kate, not pleasant dreams. Why did she insist on staying in San Francisco? Jimmie was safely in prison, he couldn’t hurt her now. In the dream, she’d been so—distant. So removed, darkly preoccupied, not at all like the bright, sunny Kate Osborne he knew.
    He could feel the warmth at his back where the tomcat, moments before, had been curled up asleep before he thumped softly to the wood floor, apparently trying to be silent. Why all the stealth; what was he up to? Joe’s usual departure was a four-star performance, tramping across Clyde’s stomach with those big, hard paws, dropping to the floor with all the finesse of a truckload of rocks.
    In the near-dark, Clyde watched Joe pad softly around the end of the bed, a shadow sneaking across the Sarouk rug, heading away down the hall.
    In a moment he heard Joe’s cat door slap, swinging against its metal