Cat in Glass by Nancy Etchemendy

kindly toward Etienne after so many years of wonderful Wednesday lunches in his establishment.
    “Here we go, Nicky,” she said. And she opened the back door.
    The gray snow was still falling, and it was even colder outside than inside. A gust of raw wind stung her cheeks.
    “Oh, poor Nicky, dear!” she cried, suddenly remembering that she hadn’t been able to find his coat, and his legs were bare. She opened her own coat, pressed him close, and wrapped it around him as well as she could, wishing fiercely that she hadn’t been so vain, that she had worn the warm Russian sable instead of the velvet.
    She blinked at the sun, nothing more than a light gray spot in the heavy gray sky, and tried hard to suppress a quite involuntary shudder. “There are times,” her mother had always said, “when a person of good breeding must overlook conditions, behave with good humor, and rise to the occasion.” She turned as smartly as she could on the buckled sidewalk and started down the street toward Etienne’s, stepping over a downed power pole and making a wide detour around the first heap of rubble.
    She waved as she passed the Sutherlands’ house. The front wall had fallen down, and there was Mrs. Sutherland, sitting on the sofa, rocking back and forth with a large bundle in her arms. Something gray and brown and tattered. Marion couldn’t quite tell what it was.
    “Halloo, Mrs. Sutherland,” she called. “How’s little Alex these days?”
    Mrs. Sutherland stopped rocking, stared at her, and said nothing, absolutely nothing. Her face went stiff as wood. She wasn’t looking well.
    “I say, how’s Alex doing?” Marion repeated.
    Just as if Marion weren’t there at all, Mrs. Sutherland started rocking again.
    Marion frowned and continued down the street, thinking that Mrs. Sutherland, who seemed of good quality otherwise, must have a serious deficiency in her upbringing. Obviously, no one had ever taught her about rising to the occasion.
    She passed several other people on her way and smiled and nodded at each one, but no one smiled in return. In fact, one fellow, wrapped up in a soiled wool overcoat with the lapels pulled together as if his life depended on it, started weeping and ran away from her. By the time she reached Etienne’s, she felt rather out of sorts herself.
    The front doors at Chez Etienne, made of heavy oak with weathered brass fittings, were stuck. Marion had to perch Nicky on a tilted bus stop bench while she cleared away a tangle of rubbish and tugged the doors open. She grabbed Nicky up and went inside. She could hardly see anything. There was only one window, which, Etienne had once explained to her, made for a cozier atmosphere. Remembering the matches in her pocket, she lit several of the candles that always stood in crystal holders on the tables.
    As the light in the room grew to a warm glow, Marion found her way to the quiet table in the rear where she andIrene usually sat. Some plaster from the ceiling had come down, and the chairs were quite dusty. While she was wiping them off with her handkerchief, she spied Irene, sitting against the wall in the corner.
    “Irene! How wonderful to see you. I was afraid you might not make it, with everything in such a state.”
    Irene had a surprised look on her face. Her hat, a Garbo-style felt, was tipped at a jaunty angle on her head, and powdered plaster frosted the shoulders of her jacket.
    Marion settled Nicky in a chair and scooted him up to the table. Then she rushed over to Irene. “Here. Let me help you up. Really, it’s so wonderful to see you,” she said, and grabbed Irene under the arms.
    It was a little awkward getting her into a chair, but Marion managed. As she stopped to catch her breath, she noticed the unpleasant odor again. She sniffed the air, wondering if it was Nicky. But this time, the odor was definitely coming from Irene. She shrugged it off. It wasn’t important, after all, and at any rate, it wasn’t the sort of thing one