Live weight, he thought with a kind of sick excitement. He weighs what he did before he was hit. This is live weight. He was heavier in the bag. He was heavier when he was dead.
His heart took a bigger jog this time-almost a leap-and for a moment the garage seemed to swim in front of his eyes.
Church laid his ears back and allowed himself to be held. Louis carried him out into the sunlight and sat down on the back steps. The cat tried to get down then, but Louis stroked him and held him on his lap. His heart seemed to be taking regular jogs now.
He probed gently into the heavy ruff of fur at Church's neck, remembering the sick, boneless way Church's head had swiveled on his broken neck the night before. He felt nothing now but good muscle and tendon. He held Church up and looked at the cat's muzzle closely. -What he saw there caused him to drop the cat onto the grass quickly and to cover his face with one hand, his eyes shut.
The whole world was swimming now, and his head was full of a tottery, sick vertigo-it was the sort of feeling he could remember from the bitter end of long drunks, just before the puking started.
There was dried blood caked on Church's muzzle, and caught in his long whiskers were two tiny shreds of green plastic. Bits of Hefty Bag.
We will talk more about this and by then you will understand more.
Oh Christ, he understood more than he wanted to right now. Give me a chance, Louis thought, and I'll understand myself right into the nearest mental asylum.
He let Church into the house, got his blue dish, and opened a tuna-and-liver cat dinner. As he spooned the gray-brown mess out of the can, Church purred unevenly and rubbed back and forth along Louis's ankles. The feel of the cat caused Louis to break out in gooseflesh, and he had to clench his teeth grimly to keep from kicking him away. His furry sides felt somehow too slick, too thick-in a word, loathsome. Louis found he didn't care if he never touched Church again.
When he bent and put the dish on the floor, Church streaked past him to get it, and Louis could have sworn he smelled sour earth-as if it had been ground into the cat's fur.
He stood back, watching the cat eat. He could hear him smacking-had Church smacked over his food that way before? Perhaps he had, and Louis had just never noticed. Either way, it was a disgusting sound. Gross, Ellie would have said.
Abruptly Louis turned and went upstairs. He started at a walk, but by the time he got to the upper hallway, he was almost running. He undressed, tossing all of his clothes in the laundry hamper although he had put them on fresh from the underwear out that morning. He drew himself a hot. bath, as hot as he could take it, and plopped in.
The steam rose around him, and he could feel the hot water working on his muscles, loosening them. The bath was also working on his head, loosening that.
By the time the water had begun to cool, he was feeling dozy and pretty much all right again.
The cat came back, just like the cat in the nursery rhyme, all right, so what, big deal.
It had all been a mistake. Hadn't he thought to himself yesterday evening that Church looked remarkably whole and unmarked for an animal that had been struck by a car?
Think of all the woodchucks and cats and dogs you've seen strewn all over the highway, he thought, their bodies burst, their guts everywhere. Tech-ni-color, as Loudon Wainwright says on that record about the dead skunk.
It was obvious now. Church had been struck hard and stunned. The cat he had carried up to Jud's old Micmac burying ground had been unconscious, not dead.
Didn't they say cats had nine lives? Thank God he hadn't said anything to Ellie!
CHAPTER 11
She wouldn't ever have to know how close Church had come.
The blood on his mouth and ruff... the way his neck turned.
But he was a doctor, not a vet. He had made a misdiagnosis-that was all. It had hardly been under the best circumstances for close examination, squatting on Jud's lawn in twenty-degree temperatures, the light almost gone from the sky.