Patty Patten Tiffany

Disappearances at the Hemingway House

 

 

  

        Something gray, no maybe blue, was floating through the dense bushes along the path... I tiptoed behind following more by instinct than sight. Straining my eyes to slits, now I caught only movement. Why didn't the moon come out from behind that cloud?

          Was it Greta Garbo or Elizabeth Taylor perhaps? “Here, Kitties,” I whispered.

          No answer.

          I stood statue-like. The presence I felt was moving away, almost evil as it slipped into the shadows.

          Nightwatchperson at The Hemingway House was a great job for Key West, and as a true night person, it suited me. The house was a period piece frozen in the 30's, when Hemingway had lived here, loving the wild life and marlin fishing equally. And no one had loved cats more than he.

          But they had been disappearing steadily over the past few months. First Rita Hayworth. Then Mae West. Next Carol Lombard, Marilyn Monroe, and Bette Davis—all of the lady cats at the House were named after screen sirens, you see.

          So the cat kidnaps became a scandal that shook Key West to the core, since Hemingway’s six-toed cats were rock stars here. His passion for them so long ago was now matched by the thousands of fans, tourists and townspeople who doted on these funky felines. Even the New York Times picked up the mystery: “Kid-Cat-Naps continue in Key West.”

          In my job only a few weeks, I felt the burden of the public outcry. As an Iraqi combat veteran, and a lanky six feet in flats, I was sure I could handle myself and whatever was out there. No more cats had vanished on my watch, but my mace and stun gun were at the ready if I saw anything.

          The trouble was, no one saw anything. No tuft of fur, no sign of struggle. No blood. Thankfully, no blood. Just no clues at all.

          What perpetrator could be afoot? A kinky cat collector? A homeless thief trying to make money? I pondered the possibilities.

          Soon, light started to peek through the wrought-iron fence, and dawn was at hand, golden at first then bright blue as the sun crept into sight. How I loved this quiet time of morning and the feeling that all was well again. You see, nothing bad ever happened in daylight.

          “Hi, Shelly,” called Mark, the caretaker who came at 6 a.m. every day. “How was the night?”

          “Quiet, but creepy” I sighed.         

          “See anything?”

          “Just the usual—slithering smoke with no real shape.”

          “Well,” he offered, “at least no one, including you, got eaten.”

          There was a sense of job security in that, I suppose.

          “See you tomorrow, Mark,” I called as I packed my thermos, put my empty snack bags away, and trudged to the gate. Another long night and still no answers.

 

# # #

 

          So I went home to my own cat, Tonic--from catatonic--because I found him exhausted and bedraggled near a sewer grate a few years back. Once recovered with a plump tummy, he showed his true talent—a preternatural sense of things around him whether he could see them or not. He found my missing watch behind a cupboard and hissed and spat at any strange passersby, animal or human. And he definitely knew normal from weird, which ran about fifty-fifty in Key West.

          “Hi, my angel,” I said, as I bent down to rub his cheek when I came through the door to the cottage. He meowed an appropriate greeting and levitated up to the counter top to march a hello. I always marveled at Tonic’s balance and beauty—a tuxedo cat with long, silky fur.

          After filling his bowl, I headed for the bedroom, shedding clothes as I went to snuggle up to nature's perfect man, Patrick. There aren't many saints out there, but I had finally found one. St. Patrick. Gentle features belied the gentle soul, with just a dash of edginess. When we met, he was a barker in a carnival, just passing through, who wooed me with pig-Latin and ebullient charm. He didn't mind my height either, claiming he liked to be at boob-level.

          “How'd it go, Babe,” he rasped, sleepily.

          “The same. Something's there, and it seems either evil or seriously weird, but it's not getting close enough to show me.”

          His hand ruffled my long, red locks, and he said, “Get some sleep, then, and we'll talk later. Love you.”

          “You, too, Sweetheart.” I was a stranger to affection, reared in a family famous for dysfunction, but he'd converted me from mistrustful to hopeful with unwavering kindness and romance. I was as lucky as my rescue cat.                                                                             

          Before I rose, Patrick left for the hotel he worked at, and as ever, I had the sultry hours of the day to ponder the problem of the cats.

          Then it occurred to me that I could use a decoy, Tonic, to tease the aura out of the bushes. After all, I'd be there on guard and he could spot trouble at a hundred yards. And Tonic was no meek kitty—his eighteen pounds of muscle was not to be trifled with. We could handle anything together. OK, Bad Guy, here we come. I couldn't wait to get back to the House that night.

          Unlike the average puss, Tonic loved to ride and jumped into the basket of my scooter around eight. I put him in his carrier when we arrived at the house to wait out the early evening hours. Normally, poised and relaxed, Tonic was clearly agitated.

          I did the usual walk around the perimeter, petted the remaining kitties and plopped down near the gorgeous pool to listen and watch. What a boondoggle that pool was! Pauline, Hemingway's second wife, had paid $20,000 for it in the 30's, a revenge move perhaps after one of his philandering escapades. Still luscious, it was unique then as a saltwater pool, the first on the island and for a hundred miles.

          Since nothing really ever happened until midnight, I waited until my watch beeped to open  Tonic's carrier. Time to get to real surveillance.

          Stretching his back and switching his tail, Tonic, the watch cat, seemed ready for the task. We moved slowly, stealthily through the lush gardens with traveler palms, orchids, and firebush in full bloom. Sweetening the night air, the gardenias and jasmine filled my nostrils. It was springtime, when Key West 's skyline explodes with colorful frangipanis in pink, magenta, and white, and the royal poinciana trees catch fire in orange-red blossoms.

          Suddenly, the feeling. The blob thing was out there, but where? Tonic's hair stood on end, and his meow was a growl. Air went out of my lungs.

          The blob took shape, and we cringed. I whipped my stun gun out of the holster.

          First, it was black, then gray, then very blue in the night. And it was large. I was at eye level with a very, very large cat. With a mustache and six toes, I noted as my eyes flicked up and down.

          It meowed a small roar, and fixed its gaze on us. I felt my blood pressure surge.

          Then it spoke. “Shelly, I presume?”

          Am I dreaming? No, I had heard it. “Uh, yes, that's m--me,” I stuttered.

          “And the furry friend?”

          “That's Tonic, my attack cat,” thinking of a good offense.

          Could a cat cackle? It did.

          “And a handsome little kitty it is,” he condescended. “My name is Ernest.”

          “Are you serious,” I asked?

          “Just as the name says. And I have work to do.”

          I looked down to realize that Tonic was frozen, in awe, or neutralized. Did Ernest have that power?

          “I'm on a mission to rescue these cats and return them to their natural state. We all live on Geiger Key now, just north of here, an island where time somehow stopped--before the highway and air conditioning. Other than the nudists who shouldn't be nude, it's a very nice place to catch dinner and enjoy the moonlight.”

          “Why you and why now?” I asked trying not to let my voice shake.

          “Many reasons, but I was Hem's favorite, and he made me promise to protect the them from captivity. Once the Feds decided, after millions of dollars wasted, to fence us all in, I had to act.” 

          “That was in the last ten years, right, when several federal agencies focused on regulations for cats in captivity?”

          “Right, Shelly, and now it's time to return to our wild roots.”

          “And what about your size, and er, color?”

          “I am from a place between imagination and reality, just like a good novel. My master called me back to this world. Hemingway loved freedom more than life, and so do we.”

          I couldn't argue about freedom. No creature needed it more than a cat. Ernest and I both glanced up at the barbed wire top to the once-elegant fence.

          “And you said, Hem...I always heard Papa?”

          “Why follow the human way? After all, our relationship was unique--he always carried hidden kibbles in his pants' cuffs for us...and painstakingly taught us our names and even circus tricks like jumping through hoops and building pyramids on each other’s backs. He spent more time with us than he did with most of his wives! Hem was our sweet pet name for him. Oh, such happy days!

          But I must be on my way. Tonight is Vivien Leigh's night. Vivien, oh Vivien,” he began to call.

          Soon, out she trotted out with her charcoal fur, four dainty white stockings on six toes, and jumped light as air onto his back.

          “Goodnight, Miss Shelly, and may you join us in our joy.”

          With that, his image began to fade, and I could hear them mewing happily as they both dematerialized. Just then, Tonic came out of his trance, howling in the direction of their disappearance.

          Buzzing slowly home on the scooter the next morning, both Tonic and I were exhausted and collapsed in bed with Patrick, who didn't wake. My dreams were bizarre with happy cats cavorting together on beaches in the moonlight.

          When Patrick got back to the cottage after work that evening, I explained my strange night to him, and he interjected, “Really? No way.” But, as eccentric as he was doubtful, he said, “Cool, let's go join them. This I've got to see.”

          We decided to make it a celebration, and I packed champagne and cat delicacies, including pate, Fancy Feast, and catnip. As the darkness took over, we piled into our Bug convertible for an evening among the stars.

          With the full moon ablaze, it wasn't hard to find a six-foot, blue cat on the Geiger Key beach, surrounded by a pride of pretty kitties, enjoying their freedom. Ernest was holding court, it seemed, and with paws in the air upright on his hindquarters, his height was even more imposing. The escapees seemed to follow his gestures with pirouettes in the air and leaps over each other's backs.

          When he saw us, he smiled ear-to-ear, twitched his mustache, and called, “Welcome to our free-range wonderland!” His entourage chorused a loud meow hello as well.

          Patrick couldn't pet fast enough, and since felines know cat people immediately, he was quickly surrounded by purring, undulating cats. My Tonic was in his glory--so many females to brush whiskers with, nuzzle, and chase. I saw a big family in our future.

          “So, not to be rude, but why can you talk,” asked Patrick, as we shook Ernest's proffered paw, “and the others can't?”

          “Thousands of years ago, we gave up talking, since humans didn't seem to listen. It was just easier to purr and rub their legs for what we wanted. But I've been thinking we should give it another try.”

          Just then, Bette Davis padded forward, and said, “Hallo, Dahlings.”

          “You see,” said Ernest, “they're learning.”

          So began one of many magical nights. We cracked champagne and nibbled on snacks, while all enjoyed the glory of freedom and the sparkle of the sea. Just before dawn, Marilyn Monroe gave me her paw-tograph and Ernest grabbed us for a big cat hug goodnight. He pecked my cheek with a little tickle of mustache.

          And, the next day, I quit my job.

 

 

 

Patricia Patten was born in Appalachia, descendant of the infamous McCoy clan. Daydreaming and books allowed her to travel the world as a child, while her first real travel came through college study abroad in Austria.

 

Her master’s in German was a great fit for a career in higher education, and she retired in 2013 after 30-plus years, mostly as a dean of admission in Virginia.

 

She has called Mexico, Canada and Germany home and just completed a three-month western sojourn in an RV with her husband, a puppy, and a very strange cat.