What Curiosity Kills (15 page)

  Mrs. Wrinkles flicks her tail back and forth, back and forth, like a hypnotist's pocket watch before Mr. Charles's eyes. His eyes don't move. This man is blind.

  He says, "Even if I could see, I wouldn't say a word. Librarians never judge. We've sworn the same oaths as priests and doctors, but we keep our promises. Whatever is discovered here will remain confidential."

  I lean forward and whisper to the sphynx, "Tell me about the turning."

  Mrs. Wrinkles leaps onto a shelf packed with coverless books, their spines aligned according to height. There's an inch of space on the ledge, and she nails it. She doesn't wobble. Her balance is effortless. She leaps to a higher shelf on the case to the right, where larger books are crammed willy-nilly. She doesn't rustle pages hanging loose from poorly glued spines of what I'm guessing are atlases and maps of our bodies, ourselves. She springs to a higher shelf on the case to the right, this time landing on a book jutting out. The shelves get messier the higher she goes. More bird than cat, Mrs. Wrinkles flies from shelf to shelf, spiraling up and up and up.

  Mr. Charles says, "My lady knows every inch of her house, knows where to find anything inquiring minds want to know."

  The sphynx looks down and meows. The sound echoes down the shaft. She's so high that her head is a postage stamp. Octavia gazes up and shades her eyes as if this will help her focus.

  Mrs. Wrinkles ducks out of sight. I hear her claws sink into books as she climbs up the crawl space between the case and curved wall. Silence. She's stopped. Specks of dust glisten in the sunlight as they drift down three stories. A book nudges toward a shelf lip as Mrs. Wrinkles head-butts and paws at it from behind.

  Octavia marvels, "I've always wondered, if she really was real, how she does it. You leave a question for her—"

  "—and when the library closes," Mr. Charles finishes her thought, "Mrs. Wrinkles goes to work. This morning, we found your debate books laid out on the floor in the main Cellar room. My lady can ferret out anything, anywhere, no matter how small or how hidden."

  Octavia says, "She's a hunter."

  "For knowledge," says Mr. Charles.

  Octavia nods, and although Mr. Charles can't see her, I think he senses a puncture in the air. I feel it. Since we got here, Octavia's fear has clogged this well like a fog. We all breathe easier because Octavia is slightly less afraid. She sees a bit of herself in Mrs. Wrinkles: a smart girl who finds comfort in the truth.

  Books next to the one the sphynx has chosen for us jostle and threaten to fall. I duck and cover. Octavia presses her back against the shelves. Mr. Charles doesn't uncross his legs. His front foot keeps on bob-bob-bobbing along. Mrs. Wrinkles's book flaps as it falls three stories all by its lonesome. Mr. Charles sticks out his hand, as long and narrow as his shoe, and catches it.

  It's a miniature—the size of one of those moving-image cartoon books you flip through to watch a stick figure slip on a banana peel. Mr. Charles holds it out to us between his index and writing fingers.

  Octavia accepts it, opens it, and we peer inside.

  In addition to the book's cover being torn off, the title page and table of contents have been ripped out. My sister turns the book over. The index is intact, but the words are made up of horseshoes, triangles, and pitchforks.

  "It's in Greek," says Octavia.

  She snaps the book shut.

  The shadow of another cat's head drifts over the skylight like a storm cloud. The shadow is gigantic, imposing. One ear is missing a chunk. When the head turns to profile, a gaping mouth shows off shadowy canines as long as my arms. The room grows cold. We are eclipsed. Fear drapes my sister's face like a funeral veil.

  Mr. Charles says, "Damn that tomcat always coming around! He thinks our lady is getting old. He wants us to adopt him as soon as she passes on to that great litter box in the sky. But we hate that tomcat, and our lady isn't going anywhere anytime soon, are you, Mrs. Wrinkles?"

  Mrs. Wrinkles rolls onto her back and braces her paws on the shelf above. She shimmies out so her hips balance on the flatness of a book. Her stomach muscles support her top half in midair. Her ribs rumble like a purr, but a purr it is not. She thrashes the air beneath the Great-and-Powerful-Oz–sized shadowy head. Her anti-purr sours into a challenge.

  
Mrowl! Break the skylight. Mrowl! Spatter me with broken glass.
Mrowl! Jump! Come and get me. I dare you! Mrowl! I wish you would!

  The tomcat bellows. I don't get meaning from him. I get sheer meanness. He sounds like a dragon. I expect to get cooked. At any second, the skylight glass will melt, pour down the well, and solder me to the floor.

  Not Octavia. She's squeezed out of the well. Books topple from the Old English graveyard bookcase that blocks the doorframe. I hear her apologize to Miss Gibbs and then she is gone.

  I have to go after her. She has the Greek book.

Outside, braced against the handicap ramp railing, Ben's got Octavia.

  Wait,
what?
Yes, here he is with crazy, coincidental timing straight out of the movies.

  Octavia had been running and, I guess, ran right into him. He'd caught her. They both look surprised. There is distance between their bodies, but his hands are secured to her shoulders. Octavia doesn't pull away. She clutches the lapels of his camelhair coat, which he now wears instead of his poker parka. They aren't looking at each other. They aren't looking at me either. In light of what's looming above, I guess Octavia's forgiven or momentarily forgotten Ben's eating a mouse.

  From the library roof, a mammoth tomcat hangs, gargoylestyle, over the edge.

  The tomcat is bigger than Yoon when he turns. He sets to stalking the ledge to show off his length and muscles. He cracks his tail like a whip. His yellow eyes narrow. His face is flattened as if he's taken more than his share of punches. His right ear is half-eaten by mites, but he's healthy now. His fur is glossy and undefiled. He is entirely one color.

"Meet Country Club," says Nick.

  "Wait,
what?
" I actually say it aloud this time. Again, a boy has seemingly stepped out of nowhere. The boy. MY boy. I ask him, "What are you doing here? Are you with Ben?"

  Nick says, "I owe him."

  "Poker?"

  Nick cocks his head at me. He hasn't washed his hair since last night. His curls are stiffer and stand on end. He gently takes hold of my wrist as if he does it all the time. He twirls me into his chest so that my back aligns with his front. Sill
y
Mary.
How can I talk about something as trivial as poker at a time like this?

  We look up at the tomcat, who glowers down at us. Nick rests his chin on my shoulder. His warmth radiates up my neck and pinches my earlobe. The sensation is familiar and heady. Momentarily, I don't care about the tomcat like I didn't care about Ling Ling when Nick held me this exact same way on the terrace last night. I could turn my head and kiss him—but I want to know what's going on.

  I ask, "Why Country Club?"

  "Earth to Rosa Parks," says Octavia. "That cat is white-only!"

  Country Club bellows. There is no mmm in his mrowl. His mouth opens, and a dark noise issues forth—a menacing, guttural, unending roar. His canines are swords. If he bit you, those teeth would hit bone. He'd take out your ankle with one lock of his jaw. He is prehistoric.

  Strangers stop in the cold to look up at the beast. Country Club is the closest thing to Godzilla these real-life Upper Eastsiders have seen. Babies are clutched and wheels of $1,600 strollers put to the test. Coffee sip-tops pop off and scald trembling hands. People trip and curse the sidewalk. Earpieces are pressed, calls made to 911 for the fire department and 311 for animal control. Some dumbass throws a rock.

  The tomcat takes no notice.

  Nick clasps his hands around my stomach and hugs me. He burrows his face into the side of my neck. His curls tickle. This may read as a protective gesture—impassioned, even— but that is not how it feels. I am not being snuggled. I am being restrained.

  Oh.

  I get why.

  I am tingling.

  From neck to knees.

  With rage.

  I want to bait and switch Country Club within an inch of his life. How dare he threaten Mrs. Wrinkles? Who is he to bellow at me? This is MY library! MY neighborhood! MY sister! MY…boyfriend? Is that what Nick is? And what exactly is Ben to me? Never mind now. It doesn't matter. Country Club is nothing but a bunny. I want all four of his feet on a key chain.

  I wriggle and buck.

  Nick secures me in place. His breath on my neck is as hot as a hair dryer.

  I hop, raise my knees, kick back, and jam my heels into his shins. Nick exhales sharply but doesn't let go.

  Strangers filter off the library sidewalk, covering their mouths as they report our obnoxious behavior into their cells. New Yorkers will stick around for a gargantuan cat, but they're not getting sucked into a couple of dumb kids horsing around. They think we're asking for it. That tomcat's going to jump and then we're really going to be sorry. I laugh at their stupidity. I jerk and writhe and strain to break free from Nick's tight hold. I'm going to tear that tomcat apart!

  "Are you crazy?" exclaims Octavia from her resting spot on Ben's coat lapel.

  "I don't know," I admit.

  Country Club sits stoically and studies me. His eyes are yellow slits, his breathing controlled. If you didn't know he was there, you might not even notice him. If you did, you'd mistake him for a fake owl that people put on their fire escapes and roofs to scare away rats. He antagonizes me with his composure.

  I kick Nick again.

  "Damn it, Mary! Quit!" Nick grips me with such force that he bends backward over the handicap railing and pulls me along with him. The toe bumpers of his red Chuck Taylors steady us on the cement ramp, but my feet are in the air. I bicycle my legs! I kick, kick, and kick! I scream to be released. Nick whispers, "It's the orange."

  I feel it, tingling, sprouting, bristling: a stripe from my shirt tag up the back of my neck.

   He whispers, "You can't help it, but you have to. Orange means you could take him, but you're too little now. If you touch him, you'll turn. He'll kill you if you turn."

  "Just let me go!"

  Octavia takes her hands off Ben and grabs at my flailing ankles. Ben sticks his hands between me and her to try to protect Octavia from getting booted in the face. She gets hold of a calf, drops to the ground, and drags me with her. My butt hits cement. For crying out loud, how quick was I to forget that I'm still in my wrinkly, stinky, school skirt from yesterday? Through the children's reading room windows, slack-jawed first graders are still gaping from getting a gander at my drawers.

  Sirens blare in the distance.

  Well, what do you know? Even in Manhattan, a wild cat gets a one-alarm fire department response. Animal control wheels up behind the laddered truck. Tranquilizer guns are drawn. A fireman cranks the big bolt on a hydrant. The long, flat hose is unwound and aimed. Two firemen storm into the library. Weighed down by fifty pounds of gear, their footfalls land heavily on the stairs as they pound their way up through adult fiction and nonfiction to get to the roof.

  Country Club doesn't look nervous. Perturbed is more like it. I've seen that expression before on Yoon's deli cat face. On Yoon, it was appropriate. He'd escaped falling into my toilet and then the plastic slats on the twins' terrace lounge chair. Country Club has a hard rush of water, semi-poisonous darts, and ax-yielding firemen coming his way. But he glances back at me as if these are minor distractions at best.

  "Let her rip!" shouts a fireman. The hose fattens with water.

  The animal control people aim their tranquilizers and pull their triggers. They look even more frightened than the pedestrians. Feathered needles arch toward the roof. Every shot misses.

  Country Club pays the ammunition as much mind as he paid the dumbass's rock. He turns and holds his tail high so we can all see his insubordinate butt.

  But I notice that something is missing. Two things are missing really. What's round and white and fuzzy all over? Nothing on this cat. If there was ever a doubt in my head that Country Club is more than a cat—something like Nick, Yoon, and I are—that doubt is snip-snipped.

  Country Club flicks his tail as the stream from the firemen's hose, raised toward the roof, splatters the building. When the stream hits the ledge, it explodes and makes a rainbow. Country Club is misted but saunters out of sight before he gets a full blast. The roof door bangs open. There's shouting, but the arriving firemen are too slow to catch him as he springs to freedom on neighboring roofs.

Nick skims the tiny Greek book Octavia took from the library. He says, "I can't read this. It's in ancient Greek."

  Ben asks, "What are you looking for exactly?"

  "It doesn't matter. If Mary wants help and I can help her, I will. We'll go to my house and have Papou translate."

  I say, "Your grandmother's not going to be happy to see me."

  Nick says, "Why, because you got me in trouble at school? Once she finds out how much we're alike, she'll forget all about the principal's office."