That evening, her husband did the same thing as the night before. Though he looked exhausted, he downed two cups of coffee and headed back out to the lab for another work marathon. Rhys was expected to visit that coming weekend, and Catherine understood that Douglas was feeling rushed to finish the project. This was, she knew, creating a cloaking device, the coveted and much discussed sci-fi inspired dream of science geeks everywhere.
With a cup of hot tea, she situated herself on the sofa to watch disc number two of the British series, covered herself with the afghan and called for Brodsky to crawl into her lap. Which he did, right on command.
“What a good, very, very smart wittle kitty,” she crooned. On impulse, she squeezed him a little, hoping for a nice meow out of him, but nothing, not a peep. He did start to purr, which of course was nice. She kissed his fuzzy head and said, “I do wish Daddy wouldn’t work so hard. I miss having more time with him. We used to go out to dinner and the movies or shopping at Home Depot, it was our favorite. But now all he does is work, work, work. I am so lonely.”
The cat stopped purring and looked at her.
“Why, you look so interested, Brodsky, but of course you have no idea what I’m talking about. But it’s so cute the way you look like you do.” She paused to take a sip of her tea before going on. “It’s that same project, the one he’s been hassling with over a year now. And Rhys is anxious for results.”
The cat shifted in her lap, and she stroked his back. No purring. He seemed to be listening even more intently.
“It’s the cloaking thing that has him wound in knots.” This was only the second or third time she had mentioned it to Brodsky. It was a relief, really, to talk about it.
The few friends that she had sometimes talked about their partner’s job issues if such things impacted their home life, but Catherine always had to keep her mouth shut. Once Karina, her best friend, came right out and asked her what he did, and she had to play dumb: “Oh, physics, you know. I don’t really understand it.”
Yeah, make herself come off as an idiot when she wasn’t one at all. In fact, she’d taken two physics classes in college and quite enjoyed them. She read whatever books Douglas tossed her way, and they sometimes had stimulating discussions. He wouldn’t have married her if she was totally stupid on his favorite subject!
She explained all this to Brodsky. “And I am interested in the cloaking thing, who wouldn’t be? It could revolutionize our world. Of course, the military will try to get their hands on it immediately, if they don’t already have something like it. But you can bet that Rhys will secure himself every patent on the planet.”
Brodsky kneaded her leg. She was about to click the series on when she thought of something else. “Interesting how Douglas said something about sound and not light when he ran out like that.” She sat up straight. “I wonder how sound could be used to cloak? You’d think it would need to be light, to bend the light around something so that people can’t see it. But sound? How on earth would he do that?”
She thought for a moment, gave up and started the show. Soon she was deep into the Nineteen Century and the familiar young women in reduced circumstances striving to acquire wealthy husbands. Ah, Jane Austin. Brodsky slipped off her lap and, giving her a significant look, trotted to the front door. It was annoying to have to get up just when the hero was giving the troubled young woman a smoldering look, but Catherine let the cat out.
Forty minutes passed before she realized she had not heard the drumming of his paws on the door, so she opened the door and looked out. He was nowhere in sight. She checked out the side windows, but still no sign of him.
She walked through the dark kitchen and looked out the back door. It was September and very warm. The workshop lights glowed from a hundred yards distant. She heard a distinct meowing, an even chatty form of it. Sort of “meow, yeow, coo-coo-coo, yeow, meow.” What the hell? Had Brodsky attracted another cat somehow? She wasn’t aware of any others in the area; the closest neighbor a fourth of mile away had a dog.
Something off kilter by the edge of the side yard at the woods line caught her eye. It was a cat and, from the familiar shape of it, Brodsky, but what on earth was he doing?
It was a moonless night. The back of the house was cast in shadow, any reflected light from the workshop showing on Brodsky and not herself. A few feet from the back door stood a stately maple which further covered her, and to this she crept as silently as possible. The grass was still thick and soft. She gripped the trunk and strained to see.
Her heart thumped hideously. Brodsky was communicating (or whatever) with a figure part way back in the foliage. Was it Douglas? If so, how bizarre.
She crouched and did a zigzag creep to the lilac bush further down. Brodsky stopped his odd meowing and looked up. She held her breath. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to whoever he was “talking” to. He had never, ever, made noises like that before, at least not within her hearing, and she spent a lot of time with him.
Agitated, she glanced at the workshop. Her heart again leaped when she saw Douglas’ familiar shadow moving past one of the windows. Her eyes shot back to Brodsky and his mysterious friend. Just then, the “friend” lifted an arm to wave about for some reason, and she thought she might faint. If that was a human arm, it was severely deformed. Considering where it started, only about 3 feet up from the ground, it would reach much too far for a normal arm. And did she just imagine it or did the hand look skeletal?
Oh, my God, all she wanted now was to get back to the house, but how? If she moved, they might see her, and she realized by “they” that she meant the creepy “friend” and her cat! Suddenly, Brodsky, that once adorable little friend, had morphed into a monster. Every pore in her body sweated. Her heart thudded so loudly, it was distracting when she needed all her wits about her.
Brodsky’s associate backed into the foliage while the cat turned his little head toward the house. She ducked further behind the lilac bush, which was a bit sparse now, not very good cover at all. She watched Brodsky pad steadily toward the back door, then stop and turn in her direction. Her terror was overwhelming. What was she going to do? Brodsky would be thumping his paws at the door unless he now knew where she was and if he did, she was surely cooked.
The workshop seemed so far away. If she made a run for it, would that horrible creature, whatever it was, suck her off with some kind of ray, some machine or unearthly power? For by now, she had figured out that Brodsky’s friend was definitely not from around here and then what did that make Brodsky?
About Margaret Karmazin
