Brooke: Rosemary

Rosemary

The second night that scraggly tabby Finn was left out in the cold to scratch and meow and catch finches with his paws, Beulah finally decided the matter was worth investigating. She’d been watching him carefully; he kept cropping up in the strangest places. Sidling under the low wooden fencing that separated the Whitaker property from Mrs. Schneider’s—he would root about the bushes, crouch low watching the birds and chipmunks with a murderous glint in his eye. It all seemed very strange to Beulah. Usually the endearing little tabby cat would stay well within the confines of his own yard, and she had never seen him attack so many poor little animals before.

“Mom,” Beulah breathed, watching Finn’s tail as it twitched lazily and he weaved once again through the bushes that led to Mrs. Schneider’s yard.

“Mmmm?” Beulah’s mother was flicking through her 6^th grade test papers and scribbling notes hastily in the margins with her favorite red ballpoint.

“Have you seen Mrs. Schneider out in her garden lately?”

“No dear.” Another flick of a paper, another scribble.

Beulah squinted into the adjoining yard. “The raspberry bushes are getting heavy…”

“Are they?” She wasn’t listening; she frowned down at her papers.

Beulah stood up, pushed through the back screen door and began to follow after the cat. Hurriedly she reached the bushes and low gate that separated the two yards and located a place sparse enough to wedge a foot into the wooden planking and hoist herself up over the divider.

She came down with a light thump and found herself in Mrs. Schneider’s heavily decorated yard. It was like something from a picture book—a delightful mess of wicker lawn chairs, and elegant metal end tables, little stone birdbaths and pretty white lattices sprawling with Mrs. Schneider’s treasured grapes. It was chaotic. Bushes and vines bearing fruits and flowers of all kinds encircled a mossy courtyard. Although there appeared to be no rhyme or reason to the way things were laid out, Mrs. Schneider had always been vigilant in ensuring they were well pruned and tended to.

Finn was perched now atop one of the many ornamented birdbaths licking his paws lithely. The bath held only an inch or two of murky green water in its basin; the rest appeared to have evaporated in the summer heat.

“What ya doing Finn?” Beulah questioned lightly, nodding her head to the cat. Finn stared back at her unblinkingly, giving the impression that he knew exactly what she was saying and simply chose not to condescend and respond. Beulah felt slightly reprimanded, as if she needed to explain herself and what she was doing.

“I just…I came to see Mrs. Schneider,” she said. She paused and then added, “Rosemary” as an afterthought.

As if in response, Finn leapt down from the birdbath and began to slink off towards the side of the house. Without knowing exactly why, Beulah followed him again, edging her way around the house to the front door. Finn paused there, sitting upright and gazing fixedly at the sliver knocker. When Beulah caught up, he let out a soft meow.

“Yeah? What is it?” Beulah asked. He began scratching loudly at the paneling of the house, like he’d been doing the past couple of nights. Beulah reached out to stop him, the noise was obnoxious and it seemed destructive—but then he was gone, dashing away from her touch. Beulah stood alone on the doorstep. She glanced at the knocker, reached out and knocked.

No answer.

She knocked again, “Mrs Schneider?!”

She listened hard for any sounds of movement, for any rustling or footfalls deep within the house. She knocked one last time, and then her hand reached out instinctively and gripped the doorknob. She twisted the handle, leaned into the door, and with a heavy shove, it groaned open. It was always unlocked.

“Mrs. Schneider?” She called again. This time her voice was soft, hesitant. The air was still. It was heavy. It made her feel like anything much above a whisper was irreverent, disruptive. The house was hot with trapped summer air, but Beulah shivered. She had never felt such stillness. It frightened her. She turned on her heel and quickly dashed back through the open front door, pulling mightily to get it shut.

    Things began to connect as she sprinted back to her house—the piled newspapers, the heavy raspberry bushes, the empty birdbaths, the starving cat. Oh God. How long?