Scratch the Surface

isn’t Isabelle Hotchkiss.”
    “I know,” said Felicity. “I know.”
     

 
    Edith is a mentally healthy cat: Her love of order is just that, a love, and does not constitute an obsessive-compulsive neurosis. For example, she happily tolerates a messy physical environment and was thus content to live in Quinlan Coates’s slovenly apartment. Now, late on Sunday evening, she has no objection to the bottles of shampoo and conditioner, the can of shaving gel, and the disposable razor that Felicity has left at the edge of the bathtub. Edith does, however, expect her fellow creatures to be where they belong when they belong there. In particular, a person who goes to bed at night is supposed to remain there, thus leaving cats free to enjoy bathtubs undisturbed. The occasional quiet trip to the bathroom is permitted, but these prolonged visits are unacceptable, especially, as in this case, when marked by fits of groaning and gagging so loud and annoying as to suggest that the person is afflicted with a hairball the size of a litter box that she can’t manage to bring up.
    Edith’s discontent begins at the tip of her tail. She flicks the tip with a sharp movement that travels to the base, radiates up her spine, and reaches her head, where it makes her ears flatten and puts a sour expression on her face. Abandoning the bathtub, she runs out to the hallway and is halfway down the steep, uncarpeted stairs when she is assaulted by Brigitte, the spirit of chaos, who has been lurking in the hope of a good ambush. Just as Edith is on the verge of trouncing the fluffy little aggressor, large feet stumble into the fray, thus ending it, and both cats vanish.
     

 
    Felicity’s years in the classroom had made her an expert on the minor illnesses transmitted to teachers by young children. On Sunday evening, she responded with a sort of negative nostalgia to the first wave of nausea, but within a half hour, she had decided that the cause of her acute suffering was not, after all, a stomach virus; rather, it was something she had eaten. Staggering back to bed, she felt an enraged sense of the unfairness of her plight: She hadn’t touched the pudding, which had looked revoltingly like glue. The image triggered yet another bout of misery. After once again stumbling back to bed, she curled up on her side and worried about Uncle Bob’s hidden money and the evil possibility that the hundred-dollar bill she’d put in the MSPCA donation box could be traced back to her. Had anyone noticed her as she’d slid the bill into the slot? Her thoughts then turned to Detective Dave Valentine and the fool she’d made of herself by distorting the facts of Uncle Bob and Aunt Thelma’s fatal accident, which had been no accident at all, but Uncle Bob’s fault.
    She eventually realized that the nausea was abating. Her great need now was to avoid dehydration. Ginger ale just might stay down. She dragged herself out of bed and put on a heavy robe, but once in the hallway, couldn’t find the light switch and decided to make do with the light from her open bedroom door. Weak and lightheaded, she clung to the banister. Consequently, when her right foot landed on fur instead of wood, she lost her balance for only a moment and was surprised to discover that the presence of the cats was comforting; she was sick, but at least she wasn’t sick and alone in this big house. By the time she reached the kitchen, Edith was perched on top of the refrigerator. Felicity thought of opening a can of food for her, but the prospect of smelling one of those vile kitty dinners was unbearable. Ignoring Edith, she poured herself a half glass of ginger ale from a large bottle, stirred out the bubbles, and took a trial sip. Yes, she was ready for liquids. Carrying the glass and the bottle back upstairs, she realized that she was too dizzy to walk a straight line; the bottle, the half-filled glass, and her faltering gait probably made her look like a drunk.
    Collapsing in bed, she left the reading light on, but felt too ill to read and, in particular, didn’t feel like reading any of the Isabelle Hotchkiss books that she’d stacked on her night table. Chilled and weak, she lay in bed hoping that the cats would show up to keep her company, but Edith would probably be too shy to jump on the bed while Felicity was in it, and Brigitte was obviously playing with something in the bathroom. Through the open door, Felicity heard the soft sound of an object being batted here