American Curls by Nancy Springer Page A

hospital said Sam was in stable condition, but what if she didn’t get well? What would happen to the kitties? What would happen to them now , poor babies lost in the cold?
    “How many cats did she have?” a detective demanded.
    “Ninety some.”
    “Good lord.”
    “You see it all the time,” said the other one, who was shorter and stockier. “Little old lady with too many cats.”
    “Whacked on the head?”
    “Okay, so this one’s a little old lesbian. Running a cathouse.”
    Cindy felt every overweight muscle tense. Samantha was not little, and not much older than 50, and as for her being a lesbian, so what? Sam ran a cat shelter , for mercy’s sake, fully accredited, with records, volunteers, adoptions…these cops were jerks. Cindy slammed her poop scraper into the sink and grabbed the scrub bucket.
    “You’d know,” the taller detective called to Cindy. “Who was her lover?”
    Filling the bucket, Cindy just stared at him. She knew nothing of Sam’s personal life and didn’t care to.
    “Okay,” he tried again, “did she have a live-in?”
    “Nobody else lived here.”
    “Any frequent visitors?”
    Cindy stared again, wishing she could do it more like a dragon and less like a cow. Luckily, just then one of the volunteers, the retarded girl, came in roaring softly to herself. Apparently this made the detectives uncomfortable. They retreated, ambling back into Sam’s house. There wasn’t much detecting for them to do, anyway. When Sam woke up she would tell them who had hit her.
    The retarded girl set down an armload of snow-powdered cats. Cindy plopped herself on the floor, gathering kitties onto her lap to warm them and comfort them. And herself.
    From time to time other volunteers tramped in, almost all middle-aged women like Cindy. Stamping and sniffling, they talked to the cats in their arms. “Watcha think you’re doing out there? Doncha know how cold it is?” Only one of them was a man, an odd, silent young fellow who said nothing as he turned his cats over to Cindy.
    “It looks like every volunteer on the list came running,” Cindy blurted at him just because she was uncomfortable with his silence.
    He nodded, but didn’t say a word as he headed back outside.
    “I lied,” Cindy told the kitties purring in her arms, nestled against her ample chest. “Devon’s not here.” Which was not surprising. Devon was a fair-weather volunteer. Didn’t like to take her brand-new Beemer convertible out of the garage in anything less.
    Another middle-aged woman stumbled in from the snowy night with a cat under each arm. “Padiddle and Rapunzel,” she announced, setting down a one-eyed feral and a yellow longhair. “Has anyone found Queenie and the kittens?”
    “No! Where in the world did she get to?” How far could the little gray tabby have gone with a litter of six? Cindy bit her lip. “I can’t understand it.”
    * * *
    Much later, Cindy got home—her home for the time being, anyway. A rather impressive Tudor in the best old neighborhood. Mrs. Heckmaster was sitting in the front room working on one of those memory books with the fancy pages and the stickers and lettering from the craft store. “My goodness,” she said, glancing up as Cindy stamped snow off her feet in the entryway, “what’s the matter, dear? You look like you need a cookie.”
    Mrs. Heckmaster was a little old lady with blue poodle curls, and Cindy did not like her. But she didn’t need to like her, just keep an eye on her and run errands for her. Living with Mrs. Heckmaster earned Cindy her room and board while freeing Mrs. Heckmaster’s family, which happened to consist of Devon, the fair-weather volunteer from the shelter. Devon Heckmaster, back to her maiden name and getting richer by the day off alimony; whereas, Cindy felt herself getting poorer. When Mrs. Heckmaster graduated to a nursing home or croaked, Cindy would have to find some other person to live with as a nanny or a pet sitter or a