It is said that anyone can believe seven impossible things before breakfast. What if they are served up with breakfast?
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Chapter Three: Impossible things
Lyddia stared at the little old woman in disbelief. In her human form, she still showed the effects of her wild dash across town. The hem of her gown was ragged and dirty; there were cuts on her hands and bare feet, scratches on her arms and face. Her hair, which was a soft, pearly gray, tumbled about her face in improbably beautiful curls that were tangled and full of sticks. Somehow, the young lawyer managed to close her mouth and usher her husband and son inside the house.
She swallowed, moistening her dry throat. In all her wildest imaginings, she had never envisioned such a client as this. Still, she had graduated from her school with honors. She had faced hostile student debaters, censorious promotional panels, hostile teachers. This was not a moment to back down from her first real client.
“Dan, I think the first thing we need to do is get pictures of the scratches and other injuries. My digital camera is in my bag, I’ll get started on that. I think we need to have a slightly lower profile than having our car parked right out front.” She turned to her new client. “Is there a garage or parking area in the rear of the house?”
“There is a carriage house at the back of the drive. It was meant for horses, but mayhap it will house your horseless carriage.”
Lyddia nodded. “Dan?”
“I’ll see to it,” he said.
As soon as her husband was out the door, Lyddia sat her son on a low stool, telling him to stay there. She then got out her digital camera and began taking pictures from all sides of her client. “As soon as I have a record of how you look this morning, we should get a doctor to see at you.”
“NO! No doctor!” Panic made the tiny woman’s voice tremble.
“It’s ok, I won’t call one if you don’t want,” Lyddia soothed. “It’s just that I think there should be witnesses besides my family and I.”
“Witnesses. Oh, no, there should not be witnesses. People can’t know–mustn’t know. This is dreadful, so very, very dreadful. I have lived here nearly seventy years, and we have had no trouble.”
“Seventy years? How? I am amazed. How were you able to pay the bills and take care of yourself?”
“My dear, you must find this all terribly strange…but it used to be very easy. The cats are very skilled at many things; they would do work at night–how, I shall never know. My great-aunt, who was their care-taker before me, told me such tales…I never knew what to believe. What I do know is that each night they do their work and stack it beside my chair…Oh! Just look at this!” The little woman was nearly crying in distress as she noticed for the first time how the pile of piece-work had been scattered and trampled. She picked up a child’s night-dress, its fine linen showing the clear print of a large foot; then reached for a rugged little pair of overalls that had been dotted with someone’s blood.”
“This is your merchandise?” Lyddia asked. “You sell these?”
“Yes,” the woman replied, “to the local clothing stores. I don’t get as much money as I used to, but I can still keep the taxes paid, feed us, and buy the material to make more. Time was, the workmanship of the fabrics and laces were better, but if I am careful I can maintain standards.”
“Let me get pictures of those also,” Lyddia said quickly. “I think we have a clear situation here–one of breaking and entering, if there was no search warrant; certainly one of unlawful abuse of authority at the very least.” She took many pictures of the mess that had been made of the living room and of the mangled remains of what had clearly been fine merchandise. She then pulled a notebook out of her bag, and began writing.
“What is your name?” Lyddia asked. “I will need something to put on the records and on the lawsuit.”
“Lawsuit? I am not so certain we should…but as to my name, you can call me Dulce. It isn’t the name I was born with, but the one I was given when I became the caretaker. Please come out to the kitchen and talk with me; it is past time for the cats’ breakfast. Bring your son along; I am sure he must be hungry, too. Boys that age so often are.”
Dulce picked a gray-flannel robe up from a chair and pulled it over her bedraggled night-gown. “Such a thing! It is well past day-break, and I am still in my night-rail! Well, it cannot be helped. My dear loves must be fed.”
So saying, Dulce led them out to the kitchen. Lyddia was amazed by what she saw. Every wall was adorned with candle sconces. A large gas range that looked as if it might have been made in the 1920’s stood against one wall. Beside it was a double sink with a hand pump. On the sunny south side of the room, a long padded shelf stood under the window. On the north was a bank of tubs, one of which appeared to be equipped with a sort of burner beneath it, making it into a wash boiler. The floor under their feet was gray flagging stones such as one might normally find in a garden. Everything in the kitchen was immaculate–or would have been. Signs of the struggle were apparent here, as well. Tags and scraps of cloth, fur, and drops of blood were everywhere. Lyddia quickly got her camera into operation again while Dulce swept and scrubbed in great haste.
Dulce then opened the double doors on an old-fashioned ice box. She heaved a sigh of evident relief as she checked the ice bins, and noted that the contents had not been disturbed. Lyddia switched her digital camera over to video and taped this remarkable performance, saying not a word and making sure her son stayed out of all the shots.
As soon as Dulce began mixing the eggs, cats began to slip into the kitchen. They yawned and stretched as if nothing in their world had ever been disturbed. Some hopped up into the sunny window, some ensconced themselves in the various cat-cozies that were strewn about the kitchen. The kittens bobbled and hopped about. Some of them attacked Junior’s shoelaces, to his great delight. Dan came in just as Dulce began dishing up. She gave him a sweet, dimpled smile such as can only be seen on the face of the elderly when they are able to care for those younger than themselves.
“My goodness,” she said, “It’s a party, isn’t it, darlings?” (She addressed the endearment to the cats.) “I usually eat at the kitchen shelf, and then hurry on with my chores, but I do think we could eat at the table today.” So saying, she reached up on the west wall of the kitchen, and tugged on an ornate embroidered pull. Lyddia had assumed it was merely decoration, but when Dulce pulled on it, a tidy little picnic table folded down and out of the wall. Dulce busied herself setting out bowls for cats and humans and filling them up. Lyddia and Dan, still full from their own recent breakfast, declined anything but drinks–which turned out to be a spiced milk, with an odd, but delicious flavor. Junior, in true boy-style, was delighted to sample a second breakfast, especially one as novel as the one laid out before them.
They were just getting up from the table, and Dulce was clearing away the dishes, when a knock came on the door. “Whist! Away now,” she said to the cats, “I will be safe. I have friends come to help.” In seconds flat, the cats had vanished as if never been.
“Let me answer that,” said Lyddia.
Chapter Four is in the works!
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