Scratch the Surface

copy of Felines in Felony from one of the piles that Ronald Gershwin had stacked on the table next to Felicity’s armchair.
    The next woman in line was not buying Felines in Felony. Rather, she wanted Felicity’s signature on a paperback copy of Out of the Bag, which had just been released in what publishers referred to as the “mass market edition.” The term always struck Felicity as a wild overstatement, at least in the case of her own paperbacks, which sold well enough, she supposed, but could hardly be said to have “mass” sales.
    The three remaining women turned out to be major fans who’d come to Felicity’s reading together and deliberately waited at the end of the line for the chance to talk with her. Mindful that her readers irrationally persisted in seeing themselves as individuals and preferred, albeit unrealistically, to be so viewed by their favorite author, Felicity took careful mental note of their names when she inscribed their books. She subsequently made a point of addressing each of the women, Linda, Melody, and Amy, at least once by her first name. Although mnemonic devices had failed her in the past, she nonetheless tried envisioning Linda, who had a dark and mottled complexion, with ashes smudged on her face: Linda the Cinder. In the Boston accent that Felicity had labored to banish from her speech, the words rhymed. Melody, who wore a round-collared white blouse, was easy to see as a choir girl, her mouth open in song. Amy meant beloved. The association posed a challenge, since this Amy had a pinched face and a sour expression, but Felicity still succeeded in imagining her in the arms of a Hollywood leading man from a thirties movie, his dark hair slick with grease, his eyes heavy with passion.
    Amy immediately ruined the image by digging into a large purse and producing a fat little album packed with snapshots of her three cats, whose names Felicity made no effort to remember. “And Tabitha,” said Amy, pointing to a blurred picture of a black kitten, “is my baby. She came from a shelter, but I’m pretty sure she’s part Siamese. She has that look, doesn’t she?”
    “Definitely,” said Felicity. “She definitely looks part Siamese. And is she named for Prissy’s Tabitha? If so, I’m very flattered.”
    Amy blushed and nodded. “I got my other two cats before I discovered your books, or one of them would be Morris.” Linda—Linda the Cinder—then asked what Felicity had come to think of as the second of the Two Inevitable Questions, the first being, “Where do you get your ideas?” The second was: “Do you have a new cat yet?”
    Lowering her eyes, Felicity gave her Inevitable Answer. “I’m just not ready yet. My Morris was... my own Morris was irreplaceable. All cats are, of course. I know that it seems as if my grief is prolonged. But the fact is that I’m still in mourning for Morris. He was the inspiration for my books, you know, and, really, writing about Prissy and her Morris and Tabitha is my way of keeping my own Morris alive.”
    Felicity had repeated the myth of her very own Morris so often that by now, her grief for her fictional muse was genuine, as was her fondness for Prissy LaChatte’s Morris and Tabitha, who were adorable, intuitive, and frolicsome. Best of all, when Felicity had had enough of the creatures, she was free to turn off her computer or to set aside her manuscript. Prissy’s cats were thus, as Felicity had often written, utterly purr-fect. Indeed, from Felicity’s viewpoint, the perfect pets were those who existed only in her mind, on the pages of her books, and—a matter never to be overlooked— in the hearts of her devoted readership.
    Linda stooped to wrap a consoling arm around Felicity’s shoulders. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”
    Never, Felicity thought. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I will. Thank you. And, of course, Prissy’s cats are mine, too, really.” With an arch look, she added, “Prissy is very generous about sharing them with me.”
    The three readership representatives gave gratifying chuckles.
    “That’s why Morris and Tabitha are so real to us,” Linda said. “Because they’re real to you. We like the other cat mysteries—especially Isabelle Hotchkiss—but you’re our favorite.”
    “Thank you,” said Felicity, who didn’t trust herself to comment on Isabelle Hotchkiss, author of the Kitty Katlikoff series and Felicity’s principal competition.
    “Have you ever met her?” asked