As she and Wilma moved along among the cages, she saw no cat like herself and Joe, no cat who brightened unnaturally at her appraising look. Just dear, homeless cats and kittens, mute and frightened.

And though she and Wilma spent an hour at the pound, Wilma talking to the kittens and making a fuss over them, Dulcie found none that suited her. None seemed bold enough, healthy enough, pushy and strong enough for her purpose.

She felt a twisting guilt at leaving the homeless kits, and she knew Wilma would bring one or several home if she wanted, but it was a big job raising kittens, and Wilma did not seem eager to be responsible for another cat. And Dulcie herself hardly knew yet what her own life was about. As they turned away, she prayed the youngsters would find someone to love them. It was not until they had driven back to the village and gone to see Dr. Firreti, that they found the right kitten.

The black-and-white kitten was from a litter of seven that had been left on the clinic doorstep. Too often unwanted animals were dumped on Dr. Firreti. He found homes for a surprising number of orphans.

He had already given this kitten his shots, and the little male was wildly healthy, a big, strong youngster with a black mustache beneath his nose, big floppy paws, a broad head. This was a kitten who would grow into a big, powerful cat, a cat who could hold his own against Varnie Blankenship. By the time Varnie got out of prison, the kitten would be maybe two years old and quite able to stand up for himself.

But the youngster was cuddly and sweet-tempered, too, and when Dulcie licked and snuggled him, he was delightfully huggable. She played with the kit for a long time, teasing him, testing him, learning about him. Her antics amused Dr. Firreti, but he was a tolerant man. He said animals never ceased to amaze him.

When she slapped at the kitten and prodded him, he came right up at her, spitting and snarling, sank in his teeth, showing more than enough spunk to take care of himself in the Blankenship household. She just hoped that when he got older he would remain a lap sitter and not go rampaging off on his own, leaving the old lady lonely. She was surprised at how much she had grown to care for old Mrs. Blankenship.

Leaving Dr. Firreti's, they drove straight up into the hills toward the Blankenship house. The kitten sat on the seat beside Dulcie, erect and observant, looking up through the windows at the treetops and sky with a wide, delighted gaze, lifting a paw now and then as branches whizzed past.

Wilma parked a block from the brown house and waited in the car while Dulcie directed her charge down the sidewalk beside her. He seemed thrilled with the warm wind and the fresh smells, with the blowing leaves and the tender grass, but he stayed close. Though six months was a silly, defiant age, he minded her very well. He gamboled and pranced, but he didn't bolt away on his own. She led him up to the shabby brown house, straight to the old woman's window.

Leaping to the sill she found the window open as if, all this long time, day after day, Mama had continued to wait for her. Inside, Mama sat dozing in her chair.

Dulcie looked down at the kitten, and mewled.

He tried to jump up to her, made a tremendous leap, and fell back. Tried again, then tried to scramble up the wall. After his third fall she jumped down and took him by the nape of his neck.

The kitten was heavy, she hardly made it herself carrying the big youngster. She landed clumsily on the sill to find Mama awake.

Mama's face registered joy, surprise, confusion. She stared at the kitten with a strange uncertainty.

Dulcie nosed the kitten toward her, urging him on over the sill. He looked up at Dulcie, puzzled, then stepped right on in, waded across the cluttered table, placing his big paws with care among the bottles and china beasties, stood at the edge of the table looking intently into Mama's face.

Mama scooped him up and cuddled him against her flowered bosom-but she was watching Dulcie. "I missed you, sweet kitty." She frowned, her pale old eyes looked sad. Holding the kitten, she reached to the table, began absently to rearrange the little china animals. When she looked back at Dulcie, she said, "He wasn't as strong a son as I'd hoped, my son Varnie." She shook her head. "He won't like it in jail. He was real mad when I went to the police, when I did what Frances wanted, what that attorney wanted. Varnie was real mad. And then," she said sadly, "this other thing happened, and he got arrested." Mama sighed. "I guess, kitty, that I didn't do a very good job with Varnie.

"But that young man in jail, he's free now. That Rob Lake. And he didn't do anything wrong. Strange how things turn out." She cuddled and stroked the purring kitten, and looked hard at Dulcie.

"You're not going to stay, are you, kitty?

"But you've brought me a kitten who will-maybe a kitten who needs me?" She looked carefully at Dulcie, then looked into the youngster's pansy face. "A little black-and-white kitten. Black mustache and blue eyes." Unceremoniously she turned the kit over on his back and looked between his hind legs.

"Little male cat. Well, that's fine. He should be a match for Varnie-when Varnie gets out." Righting the kit, she cuddled him again, looking deep into his eyes. "I'll call you Chappie. I had a cat once named Chappie-for Charlie Chaplin. Chappie stayed with me for fifteen years. Funny," she said, looking at Dulcie, "I never did give you a name, did I, kitty?

"Maybe I knew," she said, and her old voice trembled. "Maybe I knew, all the time, that it was just a visit.

"But Chappie," she said, stroking him, "Chappie's come to stay, hasn't he?" She cocked her head, watching Dulcie. "Strange thing for a little cat to do, to bring me another kitty, someone to take your place.

"But then," she said, "cats are strange little folk. Aren't they, sweet kitty?" Reaching across the table, she stroked Dulcie gently.

Dulcie nudged her head beneath Mrs. Blankenship's hand, and gave her a long, happy purr. She let the old woman pet her for a while, but at last she turned away. Crouched on the windowsill, she gave the old woman one last look, then leaped to the lawn.

And she ran, racing down the street to Wilma's car and in through the open door.

She did not take her usual place on the seat. She slipped under the steering wheel into Wilma's lap and stayed there, close, as Wilma drove home.

27

Leaving her old van parked in front of the Aronson Gallery, Charlie walked down to Jolly's Deli to take delivery of the picnic hamper Wilma had ordered earlier in the day. She liked the deli, with its clean, whitewashed and polished woodwork, its tile floors of huge handmade tiles glazed pale as eggshells, its hand-painted tile counters decorated in flower patterns; she loved the smell of the deli, a combination of herbs and spices and baking so delicious it was like a little bit of heaven reaching out into the street, pulling in passersby. The tiny round tables set before the windows were always full as villagers enjoyed Jolly's imported meats and cheeses, homemade breads and delectable salads.

She liked old George Jolly, too. He was always happy, seeming sublimely satisfied with the world. She imagined him in his old truck making early-morning trips to Salinas to buy the best produce, imagined trips to some exclusive specialty wholesaler for his fine imported meats and cheeses. She wondered if he did all the baking, at perhaps three in the morning, or if he delegated that task to one of his efficient assistants. She knew Jolly did his own roasting of hams and sides of beef, in a large brick room behind the deli kitchen. She wondered if he had grown up consciously striving to live up to the name of Jolly, or if his name was only coincidental. Too bad he couldn't dish out to others some of his optimism, dish out helpings of cheerfulness as he dished up Greek salad and salmon quiche.