And the lady did know how to stroke a cat. She rubbed gently behind Dulcie's ears, then held out her fingers so Dulcie could rub her whiskers against them. Next came a nice massage down the back, her strong hands rubbing in all the right places. With this, Dulcie abandoned her shyness, purred extravagantly, and padded right on in over the sill and onto the dressing table, stepping carefully to avoid the clutter of little china animals, small framed photographs, medicine bottles, and half-empty juice glasses. She could hardly find room to set a paw. She just hoped she was doing the right thing. Hoped this old lady didn't turn out to be some kind of serial cat killer.

The table had been dusted without moving anything, so that around each little china dog and pill bottle shone a thick circle of grime. The stuffy, too-warm room smelled of Vicks VapoRub. Mrs. Blankenship did not close the window. The old lady seemed to understand that a cat with an escape route open behind her was far braver than a cat locked suddenly in a strange house. Dulcie smiled, giving her a dazzling green gaze and another loud purr.

"That's it, pretty kitty. Come on, sweet kitty." The old woman patted her lap by way of invitation. As Dulcie oozed down off the dressing table onto that ample resting place, Mrs. Blankenship's round wrinkled face broke into a smile of delight. "Did that old tomcat hurt you? Let me see, kitty. Let me have a look."

Dulcie lay limp and cooperative as the old woman examined her, her fingers exploring carefully for battle wounds inflicted by the tomcat, her mumbles of endearment meaningless and soothing, words which she had perhaps employed one time or another with countless other cats.

"I can't find a scratch, kitty. Not a sign of blood." She looked so puzzled that when she touched Dulcie's shoulder, Dulcie deliberately flinched.

She examined Dulcie's shoulder, but, "Nope, no blood. Maybe a bruise or two. Otherwise, you look just fine, kitty. I think you were only scared." She settled back comfortably, with Dulcie curled in her lap, Dulcie taking care to keep her claws in. Mrs. Blankenship petted her, and dozed, and woke to mumble, then dozed again, seeming truly content to have a little cat in her lap.

But after some time in the hot room, pressed against Mrs. Blankenship's round stomach, Dulcie began to pant. The room was not only hot, but the smell of Vicks made her nauseous. Maybe she should have encouraged Joe do the spying.

Not that he had volunteered.

Mrs. Blankenship's sweet talk and little snoozes were interrupted only when a younger, dark-haired woman entered the room carrying a neatly folded stack of clean towels and sheets.

She stopped in the middle of the room, stared at Dulcie, stared at the open screen. "Oh, Mama. Not a cat. You haven't brought a cat in here."

"It's hurt, Frances. And starving. Go get it something to eat."

"Mama, this is a stray. Why would you let a stray cat in the house? It'll be full of fleas. It could have rabies, ringworm, anything. Why did you let it inside?"

"Where else would I bring a hurt and starving cat but inside? The poor thing needs food. Go get it some of that steak from last night."

"It doesn't look starving. It looks like a mangy freeloader."

Dulcie lifted a soft paw, gave Frances an innocent smile, her green eyes demure. The woman stared back at her with no change of expression.

Well the same to you, lady. Go stuff it.

Frances Blankenship was sleekly groomed, her short dark hair perfectly coiffed. She was dressed in tailored white pants and a pink silk blouse, and pale lizard pumps, probably Gucci's, over sheer hose. Dulcie let her gaze travel down the woman's length, and up again to that smooth, unsmiling face. Very sleek. But not likable. This was a woman who would throw a sick cat out in the freezing rain and laugh about it.

"Go get the steak, Frances."

Sighing, Frances went. Dulcie watched her retreat, wondering what power the old woman had over that cold piece of work?

She could hear Frances in the kitchen, heard the refrigerator open, then a thunk, thunk, as of a knife on a cutting board. In a few minutes Frances returned carrying a small portion of cold steak cut up on a paper napkin. Dulcie hoped she hadn't seen fit to lace it with oven cleaner or some equally caustic substance. Frances put the little paper with its offering down on the floor, stood studying Dulcie with a new degree of interest.

"Give me the napkin, Frances. I'll feed her. Couldn't you have managed a plate?"

Frances passed over the napkin. Dulcie, in the old woman's lap, sniffed at the meat but could smell only the rare steak and the scent of what was probably Frances's hand cream.

Mama held out a little piece of good red steak.

Here goes nothing. Dulcie snatched it from her fingers as if she were truly starving. And as she wolfed the meat, Frances watched her with what Dulcie now read as a definite increase of attention.

The steak was lovely, nice and red in the middle. Obviously the Blankenships had a good butcher; probably the same meat market Wilma frequented, the small butcher shop up on Ocean. The little repast could only have been improved by privacy. She didn't mind the old woman's presence as she ate, but Frances's intent stare made her nervous. When she had finished eating, Frances wadded the napkin, threw it in the wastebasket, and looked down benevolently at Dulcie. "I guess you can keep the cat, Mama. If it makes you happy."

Dulcie watched her warily.

But maybe Frances was only considering what a nice diversion a cat would afford. If Frances was Mama's only caregiver, maybe she was thinking that if Mama had a cat to entertain her, Frances herself could enjoy more freedom. Hoping that was the answer, Dulcie settled back again, against Mrs. Blankenship's stomach.

She remained in the Blankenship household for four days, missed four days of the trial, and endured increasing claustrophobia in the hot, crowded dwelling. Four days can go by in a blink or they can drag interminably. She soon learned that Frances was Mrs. Blankenship's daughter-in-law. The first thing she learned about the old woman's son, Varnie, when he came shouldering in from work the first night, was that he did not like cats.

Varnie Blankenship was a short, square man, sandy-haired, with peculiarly dry, pale skin reminiscent of old yellowed newsprint. He worked at the nearby harbor, at a pleasure boat rental, tending the small craft. He arrived home smelling of grease, sweat, and gasoline.

Varnie was fond of a large, heavy supper. Frances cooked his meals, but she ate little. During the time Dulcie was in residence, Varnie read no books. He read only the daily newspaper, then folded it up into a small packet and stuffed it in the magazine stand. His spare time was taken up with television, with some activity which he performed out in the garage, and with submissively dusting his mother's curio collection, his broad hands clumsy but patient.

The entire house was crammed full of bookcases and little shelves and tables, and every surface, shelf, and tabletop and cabinet top were crowded with china animals and other assorted knickknacks. The china shop atmosphere did not fit Frances, and certainly it didn't fit Varnie. Yet Varnie seemed resigned to caring for the clutter, moving among his mother's curios and dusting away like an uneasy and oversized servant. Maybe Frances and Varnie had moved in with his mother, not the other way around. Maybe the old woman had willed the house to them, provided they cared for her collection. Who knew? Maybe Varnie's subservience was generated by some propensity in the old woman to abrupt changes of mind.

Whatever the Blankenship family arrangement, the crowded house made Dulcie feel increasingly trapped. She didn't dare jump up onto any surface for fear of sending hundreds of little beasties shattering to the floor; she padded around the rooms as earthbound as any dog. She was unable even to rub her face against a table leg for fear of tipping it, of knocking down an armload of china and porcelain curios in a huge landslide. The rooms were a fireman's nightmare, and a mouse hunter's paradise. There were a thousand places for mice to hide, and their scent was heavy and fresh.