Flying Changes Read online

  Apparently I'm going to have to work on that. It doesn't produce a kitty, and my tongue gets tangled in the back of my throat.

  I crouch down and peek in. The liquid crystal orbs still float in the blackness.

  After spending nearly a quarter hour trying to entice the latest member of our family to please get the hell out of Harriet's crate, I get desperate, pick it up, and turn it over.

  Cat and towel come sliding out--Freddie splays his wide feet, scrabbling desperately to remain inside, but even his million toes can't get purchase on the smooth plastic. The instant he touches the floor, he scampers off, flush with the wall.

  I stare ruefully after him, because I had sort of hoped the little fellow would like me.

  When Sunday morning finally rolls around, I pack Harriet into Mutti's truck and head for Columbia.

  I follow a Ford Explorer with a trailer hitch through the wrought-iron gates, down Wyldewood's long drive, and park beside it in front of the barn.

  "You picking up your kid?" says the large-bosomed redhead who climbs out.

  "Sure am," I say.

  "Which one's yours?"

  "Eva Aldrich," I answer. "I'm Annemarie Zimmer. I'd ask which one's yours, but I don't know the rest of the girls yet."

  "Ah, Nathalie's new star student. I'm Maureen Sinclaire, Colleen's mom. So how did you survive your first week?"

  "Ech," I say, shrugging. "Actually I hated it. I hated it so much I think I got a cat to compensate."

  "I felt the same way at the beginning. You'll get over it."

  "I hope so. How long has Colleen been here?"

  "Eight months and I'm loving it. The peace. The quiet. The good grades. And the manners!"

  "Really? You've seen a difference?"

  "I love this place," she says, clasping her hands together and looking skywards. "All the advantages of a boarding school--and best of all, Colleen thinks it was her idea."

  I follow Maureen through the spotless barn, the freshly dragged arena, and out the other side.

  As we approach the girls' house, the front door opens. A girl and her mother come out.

  "Hey, Mrs. Sinclaire," says the girl. "Colleen's still drying her hair. Maggie busted my hair dryer."

  "Well, thank you, darlin'," says Maureen. She throws her arms open and greets the other mother with a bear hug. "Ellen! Girlfriend! Meet Annemarie Zimmer."

  The other mother's eyes widen. "Ah, yes! I've heard all about you," she says, shaking my hand. "Maureen, you know who this is, don't you?"

  "Yeah, Eva's mother."

  "No, I mean, you know who she is, right?"

  Maureen looks confused.

  "Remember that striped horse? Last year? In the papers?"

  "Oh! Yes!" Maureen's eyes widen. "Of course! I thought the name rang a bell."

  "I...uh...think I'll go find Eva now," I say, slinking away as a familiar burning sensation creeps across my face and neck.

  "Nice meeting you, hon--I'll see you next week at the show!" says Maureen, waving enthusiastically.

  Just as I'm reaching for the door, it swings open. The girl behind it takes one look at me and shouts over her shoulder, "Heads up, Eva! Your mom's here." Then she and her mother pass, joining the noisy group that's gathering in the area between the house and the barn.

  Eight or nine girls mill about the house in various states of dress. Some are already slinging backpacks, some are still wrapped in towels. As one, their heads spin to look at me. I see a collective widening of eyes.

  "Oh hey, Ma."

  I spin, smiling, toward Eva's voice. Then I shriek, clapping a hand over my mouth. "Eva! You're bald!"

  "I am not," she says, scowling and running a hand across her naked scalp.

  "Why, Eva? Why? Why would you shave your head?"

  "I didn't shave it. We used clippers."

  "Clippers?" I repeat weakly.

  The other girls skulk away, giggling, sliding into hallways and bedrooms. I hear the click of an interior door, and then an explosion of muffled laughter.

  "We were trimming Joe's whiskers and talking about hair and Karen said mine looked like Ashlee Simpson's, and I hate Ashlee Simpson, so I went back to blonde."

  I blink stupidly, trying to comprehend. "You shaved your head because you're going back to blonde?"

  "I didn't shave it, Mom. I used clippers. Turns out once you dye your hair black, it's black until it grows out. Who knew?"

  "Well, I did, actually," I say.

  "Then why didn't you tell me?"

  "What? After you dyed it?" I exclaim in righteous indignation, because of course she didn't consult me before the fact.

  "Well, anyway," she continues breezily, "I definitely didn't want to look like Ashlee Simpson, and since Margot didn't think two-tone hair would go over very well with the judges at Strafford, we buzzed off the black part," she says.

  "Margot thinks they'll like bald better?"

  "I'm not bald!" she says, clearly exasperated.

  And she's not--exactly. She's got about half an inch of hair, which stands straight up and shines almost white against her pink scalp. Fortunately, her head is a nice shape. She's also pretty enough to carry it off. She looks delicate and birdlike, like Sinead O'Connor.

  I wonder if she's even heard of Sinead O'Connor. I like her, but decide not to mention it in case Eva lumps her in with the out-of-favor Ashlee.

  "What?" says Eva, frowning and running a hand across her head from back to front.

  "What do you mean, 'what'?" I say. "It's a bit of a shock. I think I'm entitled to have a look."

  I circle my frowning daughter slowly and come to a stop in front of her. She looks up from beneath knitted brows.

  "Can I touch it?" I say.

  Her face brightens. "Sure!" She leans over and offers me her head.

  I run my hand across it. It's soft and bristly all at once, and each hair springs back as my hand passes over it. The effect is addictive.

  "Mom! Stop it! You're going to rub my hair off!" she giggles, because before long I'm rubbing her head like a genie's lamp.

  "What hair? Got your stuff?"

  "Yeah, let me grab it from the bedroom. Wanna see it?"

  "Sure, but quickly. Harriet's in the truck."

  Harriet pounces on Eva as soon as she gets in the truck, standing on her hind legs and licking her face.

  "Seat belt," I say, backing out.

  Eva puts Harriet on the bench beside her and buckles up.

  "So you've been working hard this week?" I say, putting the truck into gear and heading up the drive.

  "Unbelievably. Oh my God, Mom--I'm so tired. I thought I was going to die the first couple of days. But you should see my thighs! I've lost five pounds!"

  I glance over. "Huh. Maybe I should come here. I can't quite fit into my blue dress and I have a big date next weekend."

  "You haven't gained weight, have you?"

  "Not really. But it's migrated."

  "So what's the big date?"

  "My birthday. Dan's taking me somewhere special."

  "Oh. Right," she says. "Hey, is he coming with us to Strafford?"

  "I dunno," I say, glancing over at her. "Do you want him to?"

  "Yeah, sure. Dad and Sonja are going to be there too. And Jeremy, of course."

  "Ah," I say, taking a deep breath. "Well, I'll ask him. So how's Joe?"

  "You mean Smokin' Gun?" she grins. "He's great. He's a dream. A big, Nokota jumping machine. Oh, and it's the funniest thing! He's like Seabiscuit--he likes to sleep lying down, and there's this little gray barn cat who comes into his stall and curls up with him."

  "We've got a cat," I say, pulling onto the highway.

  Eva squeals in delight. "Really?"

  "Yup. Picked him up day before yesterday."

  "Is he a kitten?"

  "No, he's about two."

  "What's his name?"

  "Freddie. And he's got a million toes. Seven on each foot."

  "That's...weird. And what does Madam
think of him?" she says, suspending Harriet in front of her so they're nose to nose.

  "I don't think they've crossed paths yet."

  "How can that be?" she says, setting my long-suffering dog back down.

  "He's made himself rather scarce since I got him home."

  Which is my way of saying that I haven't actually laid eyes on the beast since releasing him from the crate. If it weren't for the disappearing cat food, I might think he'd left for greener pastures.

  "She doesn't sniff him out?" says Eva.

  "He's a barn cat. And you know Harriet--she only goes into the barn when absolutely necessary, generally on her way to bed."

  "Barn cat schmarn cat. He's coming into the house."

  I look over at my happy bald daughter, who is bobbing her head to whatever schlock she's found on the radio, and decide to fight that battle later--if at all.

  No sooner do I stop the truck than Eva jumps out and disappears into the stable. I watch her recede from between dog's ears, because Harriet is standing with her feet up on the dash, also staring in disbelief.

  When I catch up with her at noon, she's lunging Flicka at the far end of the arena.

  "Eva!" I shout, standing in the doorway and cupping my hands around my mouth. "Lunch is ready!"

  "I'll be there in a minute," she says, adjusting the lunge line and clicking her tongue. She clicks again, urging Flicka into a trot.

  "She looks good," I say, trying to jumpstart a conversation.

  "Uh-huh," replies Eva. "Trot, Flicka! Trot! Good girl."

  After a while I give up and go back to the house.

  I enter the kitchen just as Mutti sets a plate of sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella down on the table. The food is beautifully arranged--alternating slices of cheese and tomato separated by basil leaves, with balsamic vinegar drizzled over top.

  "Where is Eva?" she says.

  "Lunging Flicka. Said she'd be here in a minute," I say, washing my hands. "Oh, have I mentioned that she's now bald?"

  Mutti stares at me for a moment. Then she goes to the table and sits.

  Fifteen minutes later, Eva bursts through the back door.

  "Hey, Oma," she says.

  "'Hey, Oma?' You don't see me for five days, and all I get is 'Hey, Oma'?"

  Eva peels off her boots and drops them by the back door. Then she walks to Mutti and plants a kiss on her cheek.

  "That's better," says Mutti.

  "What do you think of my hair?"

  "I hate it. Anyway, you're late for lunch. I thought you told your mother you'd be just a minute."

  "I was! I had to put Flicka away. Besides, I'm here now," she says, slipping into a chair.

  "Uh! Uh!" says Mutti, wagging a finger. "Your hands!"

  Eva sighs, and heads for the sink.

  Mutti goes to the counter to slice a loaf of bread.

  Eva slides behind her plate, and stares at it. "Oh," she says. "I don't eat cheese anymore."

  Mutti stiffens. She turns slowly with widened eyes. "I beg your pardon?" she says.

  "I'm a vegan now."

  "You're a vegan now," Mutti repeats flatly.

  "Yup!" Eva says happily, separating tomatoes and basil leaves from the cheese. "There are four of us. Most of the other girls are also vegetarians, but we're, you know, more hard-core."

  Mutti stares evenly at Eva. Then she says, "Are you sure you don't want me to wash those for you, seeing as how they've been contaminated by the cheese?"

  "No, that's okay." Eva puts her napkin in her lap, and picks up her knife and fork. She holds them European style, the fork upside down in her left hand and her knife in her right.

  Mutti blinks at Eva another couple of times, and then goes to the fridge for wine. I happily accept a glass, because while I'm musing about Eva's new table manners, I'm also wracking my brains for knowledge of vegan food. Other than tabbouleh, I can't think of a single vegan dish. And I'm not entirely sure about tabbouleh.

  In the middle of the afternoon, I take a load of clean clothes up to the stable apartment and find Eva sitting cross-legged on my bed. She's feeding Freddie tuna from a can.

  "Eva!" I say, propping the clothes basket on my hip.

  She looks up in surprise. "Oh, hi, Mom! Look, I found Freddie."

  "So I see. What on earth are you doing?"

  "Making friends."

  "You're feeding him tuna? On my eiderdown?"

  Her eyebrows raise ever so slightly, daring me to be angry. She runs a hand down the cat's back, scratching him near his tail. His back end springs upward.

  "Couldn't you have used a plate? Is that packed in oil or water?" I say, inching closer.

  She holds the can up and reads. "Water," she says. She reaches into it and tweaks off another little piece for Freddie. He nibbles it from her fingers and then walks in front of her, purring, leaning into her with the length of his body.

  "Well, thank God for small mercies."

  "You don't have to worry. We've been very neat. Look," she says, letting Freddie lick a smudge of tuna from her fingertips. "It never gets near the bedspread."

  "I thought you were vegan."

  "I am. Why?"

  "Tuna doesn't offend your sensibilities?"

  "Pffffffft," she says, waving her hand at me. "Cats aren't vegans. Besides, fish is practically a vegetable anyway."

  "And how do you figure that?" I ask.

  "Their brains are tiny."

  "So by that token, does your brand of veganism include turkey?"

  "Mom!"

  I set the laundry basket on the floor by my dresser and join her on the bed. The springs squeak under our combined weight.

  Freddie rolls around in delight, showing his surprisingly taut belly off to its best effect. Tufts of long gray fur stick from between the toes of his enormously wide feet.

  "If you keep feeding him tuna, he won't bother with rats," I say.

  "I'm going back tomorrow," she says. "You can feed him rats all week, but I don't see why he shouldn't have a treat when I'm home."

  When I'm home.

  My eyes prick with tears. I try to contain them for a few seconds and then decide the hell with it. I lean over and hug her.

  "I missed you," I murmur into what would be her hair if she had any.

  She twists and wraps her arms around me, tuna can and all. "I missed you too, Mom."

  I sniffle into her shoulder.

  Freddie meows and walks behind me. A moment later I feel padded feet climbing up my back as he seeks the remainder of the tuna.

  While I'm exceedingly grateful for the moment of bonding with Eva, feeding Freddie tuna on the eiderdown has spawned several problems.

  The first is that now he's had tuna, dry cat food no longer passes muster. His downstairs bowl has gone untouched for days. However, apparently he still finds rodent heads palatable--heads, not bodies--which leaves me in a bit of a quandary. Catching rodents is his raison d'etre after all, but I had naively hoped he'd dispatch with them altogether, not just crunch off their heads and leave them in the aisle. The first time I found a headless corpse with its nasty pink twig-like feet yanked up against its body, I screamed and leapt backward--to the great amusement of the stable hands, I might add.

  The headless rodents are everywhere--which of course proves my point that we really did need Freddie--but now I can't decide whether I hate the headless bodies so much that I'd rather feed Freddie tuna and let the rodents keep their heads or continue with Operation Anti-Rat.

  For the time being I'm staying the course and simply watching where I step. I'm also eternally grateful to the stable hands, who take the horrid little bodies away to I-don't-want-to-know-where. So grateful, in fact, that I've started to keep a supply of donuts in the lounge.

  I try to forget all of this when Freddie is turning circles on my lap, rubbing his weapons of mass destruction against my cheek and sticking his prickly-pear paws into my thighs.

  But the second--and larger--problem resulting from the tuna on
the bed is that ever since Freddie discovered the eiderdown, it's the only place he wants to sleep.

  It started on Sunday night, only a few hours after the tuna incident. The howling began shortly after Harriet and I crawled into bed and continued for a full forty-three minutes--I know, because I kept looking at the clock thinking that surely it would have to stop eventually.

  I was wrong.

  I tried ignoring it. I tried covering my head with a pillow. I tried gritting my teeth and pounding the mattress and praying to the Great Goddess of Cats. But then he began clawing and raking, using every one of his gajillion claws to try to dig his way through the door. And to think!--the extra toes seemed charming when I picked him. The screeching was so caustic, so penetrating, that Harriet turned circles of despair, whimpering and trying to bury her head beneath her paws.

  Eventually I did the only thing I could. I let him in.

  He trotted straight into the bedroom, leapt onto the bed, and settled quietly at the end--after giving Harriet a gratuitous swipe on his way past. Harriet grumbled and closed her eyes and then all was still. I stared in astonishment, and then slipped beneath the eiderdown, moving my feet from warm lump to warm lump, savoring the silence and wondering why I didn't do this forty-two minutes ago.

  But my relief was short-lived. It seems Freddie is nocturnal and naps only for short periods at night, when Harriet and I are trying to sleep. The rest of time he's on the wrong side of the door. If he's outside, he howls to get in. If he's inside, he howls to get out. And when I get out of bed in the middle of the night to open the door because I JUST WANT IT TO STOP he sits on his strangely attractive pear-shaped hips, sweeps his thick tail across the floor, and stares placidly across the threshold. For the first few days I picked him up and tossed him into the hall, but that was pointless because within minutes he was on the wrong side of the door again.

  Dan stayed over last night and witnessed this firsthand. And that is why he is coming over in just a moment to install a cat flap.

  I'm waiting on the couch--one of the leather ones the previous trainer sold us when he returned to Canada--with Freddie turning circles in my lap, purring like a buzz saw, butting my face with his and leaving long silver hair all over my sweatshirt. I'm not encouraging him--I'm simply too tired to push him away. There's no point anyway, since I don't think he'd make the connection between my grumpiness and his having prevented me from having any REM sleep in four days. And so he purrs and rubs and kneads while I try to catch a nap.

  Harriet sulks at a distance, staring daggers at the fuzzy usurper. She's so upset she doesn't even bother to announce Dan's arrival.