Flight Dreams (16 page)

A loaded silence falls over the car, and Manning wishes he had not mentioned Neil’s departure. The early return to Phoenix has been prompted by a web of emotions that confuses and frustrates all three of them.

“I had my doubts,” says Neil, breaking the tension, “but this whole cat-show business is starting to sound interesting. I wish I knew more about the breeds, but then, this is probably the best way to learn.”

The car plunges into a dark tunnel that leads to the parking garage. Roxanne removes her big Jackie-style sunglasses. As her eyes adjust to the indoor lighting, she tells Manning, “I might have known. While I appreciate the chivalrous offer of your jacket, I
thought
it came too quickly.”

It is nearly noon, and the show is well under way, so the lot is almost full. Many of the parking spaces are occupied by vans with out-of-state plates, driven there by breeders with their cats, cages, and exhibit paraphernalia. Manning finds a spot, helps Roxanne stow the lynx in the trunk, and removes his sportcoat, which she dons like a cape, its arms hanging limp.

Neil cracks, “Broad shoulders become you, Rox.”

Grinning, she assumes the lead to the elevators and swaggers off
à la
Joan Crawford, heels snapping at the cement floor.

The threesome enters the hall, paying admission in the lobby. Each gets the back of one hand rubber-stamped with a paw print that allows its wearer to leave and return without paying again. Manning buys a copy of the show catalog—a daunting booklet of computer-printed lists—and gives it to Neil, asking him to try to figure it out.

Roxanne sneezes.

The exhibit hall itself is a single vast room, a utilitarian space with no pretense of decor. The main expanse of its floor is set up with row after row of numbered tabletop cages. Neil notices that these exhibit numbers are also found in the catalog, which lists each cat by lineage, owner, and breeder. The people who are showing the animals stand near the cages or sit on lawn chairs. Some listen to radios. Some drink or eat. Others groom their cats or fuss with cutesy decorations within the cages. The general confusion is compounded by the constant milling of spectators up and down the aisles. The animals make little if any noise, and the room is surprisingly odorless—for a space containing three hundred cats.

Roxanne sneezes again.

Along the far wall are five judging rings—not really “rings” at all, but called that by tradition. Each consists of a long judging table with a raised platform at its center. In back of the table are about a dozen numbered cages; in front are two rows of folding chairs to accommodate onlookers. A droning loudspeaker calls cats by breed and number to each of the rings. Each cat will eventually be seen by all judges. Owners and breeders whisk cats in their arms from the cages in the aisles to the cages in the rings, announcing, “Cat coming through,” parting the crowds.

Again Roxanne sneezes, this time with a blast that makes her nose drip.

“Are you okay?” asks Manning, remembering Roxanne’s history of allergies. “Do cats bother you?”

“Afraid so,” she answers, fingering a blurry gum from the corner of one eye. “But I brought my pills. I’ll be shipshape in a minute. Excuse me,” she says, taking her leave, wandering off in search of a ladies’ room.

Neil tells Manning, “Rox never mentioned that she was allergic to cats. Why on earth would she want to come
here?”

“Because
we’re
here,” Manning says without comment.

Neil nods, enlightened.

The loudspeaker dryly calls the numbers of seven Abyssinians to one of the rings for judging. “Come on,” says Manning, jerking his head in the direction of the ring. “I’d like to see this.”

They jostle through the crowd and arrive at the judging area as the owners deposit their paged Abyssinians into the numbered cages. The two rows of chairs are already filled, so Manning and Neil stand.

The judge, Mrs. Ripley, is a buxom lady with stiff silver hair. She chats with her two assistants—a younger man and woman who sort through a pile of carbon forms that will record results of the judging. Ribbons of different colors and sizes are arrayed along the front edge of the table. Manning assumes that these ribbons will be awarded throughout the weekend’s show—there are seemingly far too many for the seven cats now assembled.

“What utterly beautiful animals,” Neil says
sotto voce
to Manning, beguiled by the cats.

With cats, spectators, and carbon forms assembled, the judging begins. Mrs. Ripley goes to the first cage, opens its door, and pulls out the cat. She holds it like a big sausage, one hand between its forelegs, the other grasping its hindquarters. Manning has never seen a cat held this way, but the animal doesn’t mind—in fact, it seems content and docile. The matronly woman looks into the cat’s eyes, coos at it, then clutches it affectionately to her chest—the way any layman would hold a cat. She places it on the little platform in the center of the table. A gooseneck lamp shines on the animal at close range. Still holding the cat with both hands, Mrs. Ripley runs her fingers through the fur, examining the quality of the coat as she parts it to reveal the vivid apricot of the undercoat near the skin. When satisfied that the animal will not bolt, the judge lets it stand freely on the platform, displaying its stance, its “conformity to type.” She picks up a peacock feather and waggles it before the cat. With eyes following it alertly, the animal paws and snaps at the gaudy plume. The judge again picks up the cat in the strange sausage-hold, displaying the animal at different angles to herself and to the onlookers. She deposits the cat back into its cage and returns to the table, where she makes a few brief notes on one of the forms. Without comment, she plucks a ribbon from the table and hangs it on the cat’s cage; there is no discernible reaction from those watching. Mrs. Ripley spritzes her hands and the platform with disinfectant, wipes up with paper towels, then goes to the second cage and begins again.

Manning and Neil look at each other with quizzical glances.

The judge works her way through all seven cats, exhausting the supply of ribbons while her clerks record the results. Some cats receive as many as three ribbons; two receive none. Occasionally Mrs. Ripley chuckles with her audience when one of the animals engages in some antic or another, but the whole proceeding is otherwise carried out in silence. Finally, one of the clerks announces, “The Abbies can return now,” and their owners step forward to retrieve their cats and booty.

Manning and Neil are about to leave in search of Roxanne when Manning notices Margaret O’Connor rising from her seat in the front row.

“Margaret!” calls Manning. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”

“Why,
Mark,
” she says, bustling toward him, “I didn’t think for a minute that I’d see
you
here.”

After introducing Neil, Manning says, “You got me interested in Abbies, so I wanted to check out your competition. Are you showing today?”

“I’ve brought a pair of kittens, but I’m also here to see old friends—one in particular.” She crosses her arms in a satisfied pose. “Timothy Chatman, president of the FCCA,” she says in a tone intended to impress. In response to Manning’s inquisitive gaze, she explains, “Timothy Chatman is one of the country’s most respected authorities on Abbies. He consulted with Helen often during the early years of her breeding program, then went on to write the federation’s Abyssinian standard—largely on the basis of Helen’s cats. He’s here to judge the finals, which is a real honor for the club. I’ll introduce you later, if you like. He’s over in ring five.”

Manning peers across the room toward the last judging ring. Through the bobbing heads, he can see a figure who he assumes to be Chatman. He tells Margaret, “I’d like that very much, but first, why don’t you show Neil and me your kittens?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says with a playful smile, leading the two men down a nearby aisle.

As they approach the cage that houses Margaret’s kittens, Manning is surprised to see Roxanne already standing there, peeping at the animals while checking details in her own copy of the show catalog, which she must have bought while returning from the rest room. He tells her, “I see you’re one step ahead of us.”

“Mark,” says Roxanne, turning, “look who’s here today.” She points to the cage with one hand and holds out the open catalog with the other. “These are Carter’s sister’s cats.”

“And
this,
” says Manning, ushering Margaret forward, “is Carter’s sister.”

Roxanne blushes, stifling a laugh, while Manning introduces her to Margaret O’Connor.

“That-a-girl,” Margaret tells her. “I’m glad to see you know how to use your catalog. Want to meet my babies?”

“Of
course,
” Roxanne answers, mustering a show of enthusiasm to offset an allergy-inspired wariness. She traces her index finger down a page of the book. “Let’s see,” she says, all business, “one is Carter-Cat Abby Albert, and the other is Carter-Cat Abby Abbot. They’re five months old.”

“That’s right,” says Margaret, opening the cage. “But we just call them Al and Abbot. The long titles are their registered names; ‘Carter-Cat Abby’ is our cattery prefix. Here we go.” She pulls one of the kittens from the cage and hands it to Roxanne. “This is Abbot.”

Roxanne holds the kitten awkwardly at arm’s length.

Margaret coaxes the other kitten from the cage and hands it to Neil. “This is brother Al.”

“Hello, baby Al,” Neil tells the kitten with a delighted, paternal grin that surprises Roxanne. “Ya bringin’ home lots of ribbons this weekend?” The little cat looks at him with sleepy gold eyes, purring in the nest of his hands. Al’s ears are enormous; his coat glistens; his body is lithe and long as a mink’s. “I’d say you’ve got a little champion here,” Neil tells Margaret while trying out Mrs. Ripley’s sausage-hold on Al.

The kittens’ cage already sports an impressive variety of awards. Manning says, “I’m confused, Margaret. What do all these ribbons mean? In the judging we watched, it looked like everyone won—some of them several times over.”

Margaret laughs. “The ribbons always confuse newcomers. You see, of the seven Abbies you watched, six were ruddies and one was a red—the colors are judged separately. Of the ruddies, four were toms and the other two, queens—they’re judged separately too. So a cat can place for best of breed, color, or sex, as a first, second, or third. But the only award that really
counts
is this one,” she says, fingering a bunting-striped ribbon that hangs among the others on Al and Abbot’s cage. “This is a winner’s ribbon. A judge can award it to any particularly fine specimen. In the FCCA, a cat’s status is determined by how many winner’s ribbons the animal accumulates from show to show. Before a cat receives one of these, it’s called a novice. After the cat gets its first winner’s ribbon, it’s known as an open. Four ribbons make it a champion, sixteen a grand champion, four-times-sixteen a quad-grand, and so on. Few cats get that far, only those that are seriously campaigned by their breeders. Abe—one of the cats that disappeared with Helen—was a champion many, many times over. Abe was the greatest Abby on record.”

“Who got this winner’s ribbon?” asks Manning. “Al or Abbot?”

“That one went to Abbot.”

Neil says to the cat in his hands, “It must have been rigged, Al. We’d better demand a recount.”

“Don’t worry about Al,” says Margaret. “He’ll do just fine. These kids have four judgings left.” She puts the kittens back into their cage, where they curl into a single ball of ruddy-colored fur. Then she suggests, “Why don’t you folks make yourselves at home and take in the rest of the show? I’m going to track down some missing friends. But don’t forget, Mark—I’d like for you to meet Timothy Chatman later.”

“I won’t forget,” he assures her as she trundles off in search of old acquaintances.

Neil tells Manning and Roxanne, “Let’s work our way up and down each aisle. That way we’ll be sure to see everything.”

As the three of them begin strolling past the first row of cages, Manning remembers Roxanne’s attack of sneezes. “How are you feeling?” he asks her.

“Much better, thanks. I took a double dose for starters—my trusty antihistamines never fail me.” She pats her purse.

Manning thinks it’s risky to tamper with the dosage of a potent drug, but he keeps the opinion to himself, unsure of Roxanne’s mood today. Besides—what’s done is done.

As they round a corner and begin to plod through the crowd in another aisle, Neil stops in his tracks. “Mark,
look,”
he says, pointing to the back of a rotund man leaning forward to fuss within a cage.

Manning and Roxanne stare, incredulous. Gaping back at them is a corpulent rump sheathed in burgundy polyester. Roxanne, now pointing too, squeals, “It’s the Hump!”

Humphrey Hasting does not hear her over the din of the exhibit hall. He continues fussing with something in the cage.

“My God,” gasps Manning, perturbed, “what the hell is
he
doing here? I wonder if he’s
on
to something. Just look at him—snooping around like he owns the place.”

“Relax, Mark,” says Roxanne, holding forth an open page of the catalog. “Believe it or not, Hasting is here to exhibit a cat. See”—she points to an entry on the page—“he’s showing a blue-point Himalayan.”

“What’s
that?”
Manning asks testily.

Roxanne states the obvious: “One way to find out.”

Manning doesn’t relish the idea, but admits, “I suppose it would be childish not to say hello.”

Neil tells him, “I really dislike that man. I’ll just keep my distance.”

“Oh no you won’t, kiddo,” Manning chides him. “We’re all in this together.” He motions for the others to follow as he steps up behind Hasting. As if taken by surprise that very moment, he says, “Well, Humphrey Hasting! What a small world.”

Hasting gapes at them, astonished. “Why, Manning …” he stammers, “of all people.” He breaks into a sweat, wondering whether Manning heard his accusations on the radio a few days ago. Then, recognizing Roxanne, “Miss Exner, so nice to see you again. And your college friend—Mr. Waite, I believe. Do you attend these shows often?”