American Curls by Nancy Springer Page B

caregiver.
    Forty-six years old and homeless. But in Cindy’s experience, it was people like her, the ones with the least, who did the most for animals. Well, with the exception of Devon…but Cindy volunteered for the SPCA, the horse sanctuary, the Dalmatian rescue and the Humane Action League, and she knew Devon was an anomaly. She knew of no other rich country clubbers who tried to help animals. Just ordinary folks. Like Samantha.
    “It’s Sam,” Cindy told Mrs. Heckmaster. “Somebody hit her and let all the cats out.”
    “ What? What are you talking about?” Mrs. Heckmaster leaned forward, predatory, an old vulture feeding on other people’s excitement. But Cindy so badly needed to talk that she stuffed her butt into one of Mrs. Heckmaster’s armchairs and told her all about it.
    “We got most of the cats back inside by the time I left,” she concluded, “but there’s a few ferals still missing. And the one with kittens.”
    “I thought they spaded all those useless cats.”
    Spayed , Cindy thought. Or neutered . “They do. But Queenie was knocked up when she came.” Yet another dumped pet. People like Mrs. Heckmaster thought they should be killed. They didn’t understand.
    “And the doctors think that sentimental fool Samantha is going to be all right?”
    “That’s what I heard.” According to one of the volunteers, the doctors were keeping Samantha in a coma until her brain swelling went down.
    Mrs. Heckmaster returned her attention to the memory book she was working on, a gift for her daughter, featuring news clippings about Devon’s honors at various cat shows. Devon was a cat fancier who raised American Curls, which was a weird new breed of cats with the ears bent over backwards. Cindy vaguely remembered hearing Devon talk about how the breed started with a mutation, like all those wooly Rex cats and those ugly hairless Sphinx ones and some others Cindy couldn’t remember. But Devon knew all about them. Which kind of explained her involvement in the cat rescue…no, it didn’t. None of the other cat fanciers seemed to give a doo-diddle-dah about the strays Samantha took in.
    “Do they know who hurt her?” Mrs. Heckmaster asked.
    Cindy shook her head, silent, thinking about the retarded girl; could she have hit Samantha, maybe not understanding the consequences? Or what about that one male volunteer, so silent, so expressionless?
    “I bet it’s got something to do with her being light in her loafers,” said Mrs. Heckmaster with relish.
    Good lord, the old biddy reasoned just like the cops. Cindy got up to fetch Mrs. Heckmaster’s bedtime meds, and as soon as her back was turned, she rolled her eyes.
    * * *
    Ten minutes before visiting hours the next day, Cindy lumbered into the hospital Ladies’ Auxiliary Gift Shop.
    “Why, hello, Cindy,” said a familiar voice. “Have you come to see Samantha?”
    Cindy blinked at Devon, who was speaking to her from behind the counter. Devon, with sleek blonde hair that had never been flattened by a scarf, every curl in place. Devon, so slim she made Cindy feel like a garbage can on feet. Devon, in a sage green wool dress so simple it must have cost five times what Cindy made in a week.
    Cindy blurted, “I didn’t know you worked here!”
    “I volunteer here. I like to volunteer,” said Devon with a little too much emphasis.
    “Maybe you’ve heard, how’s Samantha doing?”
    “They say she’s stable.” Whatever that meant. “Did you want something to take to her?”
    Cindy looked around the shop at pretty, useless stuff that made her yearn to have money: silk pansies in hand-painted country flowerpots, votive candles in cut-glass holders, miniature stuffed animals, winsome crockery kittens and puppies holding “Get Well” signs. Stalling for time, she asked, “Is she still in the coma, or did she wake up?”
    “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been to see her yet.”
    “Devon,” called a woman from the shop’s back room, phone in