snorted. “Now there’s a high-class name. You think of it all by yourself?”
Billy remembered the comic books. “Yes,” he lied.
The girl narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you’re the one that took down my artwork,” she challenged. “Those drawings are my property. What was the matter? Did they hurt your eyes?”
Conga started rearranging her bed. Billy watched the cat prod the folds of his bathrobe. “This place isn’t just yours,” he said carefully. “It’s a church. Everyone has a right to be here. Even cats. This place belongs to … to God.”
The girl hooted. “God moved out of here a long time ago. Now the city’s in charge. And the mayor wants to givethis chapel a makeover. Your cat’s only got a few weeks at most to hide out before that happens.” She sat down on the crate and picked up her charcoal.
Billy watched the burnt stick scrape across the paper. “A few weeks is all I need,” he said. “I’ll figure out something else by then.”
“Humph!” grunted the girl.
Conga let them argue. She finished inspecting her nursery and began to nose the perimeter of the loft. The dust in the corners made her sneeze. When she came to the stairway, she padded down to the main floor. Her claws clicked over the tiles of the altar platform. It was a good while before she came back up to her nest and burrowed into Billy’s bathrobe.
Billy went over to her. He rubbed a pink ear. “Conga,” he whispered. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back in the morning — as soon as I can.”
Conga closed her eyes. Her kittens needed the rest.
“Fine friend you are,” the girl sniffed. “Ditching your cat in a strange place in the middle of the night.”
Billy got up and turned to face the girl. “My folks get up early and I need to be there for breakfast,” he said. He thought for a minute, wondering whether to say what was on his mind. “I know you. Your name is Salome. You workat the pet supply store. Maybe you can stay and watch my cat.”
Her stick of charcoal snapped in two. “I can’t help you, kiddo!” Salome scowled. “I need to check in with the law before six in the morning, from my grandma’s phone. Otherwise, I’ll be a jailbird.”
Billy edged closer to look at Salome’s sketch. She had drawn the chapel colony. In the picture, the cats bent their heads to the food dishes, their tails tucked close. The tom chewed blissfully, his eyes closed. Scat squatted alone in one bowl with a full mouth. Above them all, the stained-glass window of the chapel hung like a morning sun.
“The lady next door to my folks says that cats are a sign of the devil,” Billy said. “She says that the cat is so evil, it isn’t even in the Bible. You make them look like saints.”
“Not a saint or a sinner,” Salome scoffed. “But part of God’s glory.” She switched off her light. “Let’s get out of here. Your cat needs some peace.”
The two of them left as the sun came up for air. By the time the light broke free of the horizon, Billy was pulling up the covers to his bed. And Salome was climbing through a window of her grandmother’s house.
In the choir loft, Conga yowled.
Her kittens were done. They wanted out.
SIXTEEN
T he birthing took an hour.
Conga shifted Billy’s robe into a backrest. She squatted against the folds and strained. Her gut contracted. She pushed. She pushed again. Finally a steaming mess of mucus and muck plopped out. Life squirmed inside the silvery sac.
Conga knew what was needed. She cleaned her new kitten front and back. She swiped at the sticky bits with her rough tongue. The young one was nothing but a scrawny scrap of syrup shaking in the dawn air — nothing but a clammy hairball. Still, it mewled for milk as if it was made of noise. Conga nudged it close and pushed again.
Another hot handful of slop landed between the folds. Again Conga licked swiftly at the closed eyes and a bit of pink nose. When she was done, the lump gleamed like wet coal. She
Billy remembered the comic books. “Yes,” he lied.
The girl narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you’re the one that took down my artwork,” she challenged. “Those drawings are my property. What was the matter? Did they hurt your eyes?”
Conga started rearranging her bed. Billy watched the cat prod the folds of his bathrobe. “This place isn’t just yours,” he said carefully. “It’s a church. Everyone has a right to be here. Even cats. This place belongs to … to God.”
The girl hooted. “God moved out of here a long time ago. Now the city’s in charge. And the mayor wants to givethis chapel a makeover. Your cat’s only got a few weeks at most to hide out before that happens.” She sat down on the crate and picked up her charcoal.
Billy watched the burnt stick scrape across the paper. “A few weeks is all I need,” he said. “I’ll figure out something else by then.”
“Humph!” grunted the girl.
Conga let them argue. She finished inspecting her nursery and began to nose the perimeter of the loft. The dust in the corners made her sneeze. When she came to the stairway, she padded down to the main floor. Her claws clicked over the tiles of the altar platform. It was a good while before she came back up to her nest and burrowed into Billy’s bathrobe.
Billy went over to her. He rubbed a pink ear. “Conga,” he whispered. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back in the morning — as soon as I can.”
Conga closed her eyes. Her kittens needed the rest.
“Fine friend you are,” the girl sniffed. “Ditching your cat in a strange place in the middle of the night.”
Billy got up and turned to face the girl. “My folks get up early and I need to be there for breakfast,” he said. He thought for a minute, wondering whether to say what was on his mind. “I know you. Your name is Salome. You workat the pet supply store. Maybe you can stay and watch my cat.”
Her stick of charcoal snapped in two. “I can’t help you, kiddo!” Salome scowled. “I need to check in with the law before six in the morning, from my grandma’s phone. Otherwise, I’ll be a jailbird.”
Billy edged closer to look at Salome’s sketch. She had drawn the chapel colony. In the picture, the cats bent their heads to the food dishes, their tails tucked close. The tom chewed blissfully, his eyes closed. Scat squatted alone in one bowl with a full mouth. Above them all, the stained-glass window of the chapel hung like a morning sun.
“The lady next door to my folks says that cats are a sign of the devil,” Billy said. “She says that the cat is so evil, it isn’t even in the Bible. You make them look like saints.”
“Not a saint or a sinner,” Salome scoffed. “But part of God’s glory.” She switched off her light. “Let’s get out of here. Your cat needs some peace.”
The two of them left as the sun came up for air. By the time the light broke free of the horizon, Billy was pulling up the covers to his bed. And Salome was climbing through a window of her grandmother’s house.
In the choir loft, Conga yowled.
Her kittens were done. They wanted out.
SIXTEEN
T he birthing took an hour.
Conga shifted Billy’s robe into a backrest. She squatted against the folds and strained. Her gut contracted. She pushed. She pushed again. Finally a steaming mess of mucus and muck plopped out. Life squirmed inside the silvery sac.
Conga knew what was needed. She cleaned her new kitten front and back. She swiped at the sticky bits with her rough tongue. The young one was nothing but a scrawny scrap of syrup shaking in the dawn air — nothing but a clammy hairball. Still, it mewled for milk as if it was made of noise. Conga nudged it close and pushed again.
Another hot handful of slop landed between the folds. Again Conga licked swiftly at the closed eyes and a bit of pink nose. When she was done, the lump gleamed like wet coal. She
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