Her Last Flight(5)

The kitten yawned. Irene shifted her weight, because the surfboard was heavy and dug into her shoulder, but she made no move to leave. The sight mesmerized her, the frail calico belly encompassed by those bony hands, the thick nose caressing the minuscule feline nose. Kitten in relief against dark serge bathing costume, tanned surfer’s skin. From the look of that wet, heavy hair, this man had already encountered the ocean this morning. The drops still rolled down his temples and neck and forearms; the sleeves of his bathing costume were rolled to the elbows.

“He’s awfully fetching,” she said.

“Yeah, a real heartbreaker. What am I going to do with you, fella?”

“Can’t you just take him home with you?”

“I just might.”

The kitten leaned into his cheek and closed its eyes in a delirium of relief. Irene’s foot began to slip; the sand dissolved beneath her. She scrabbled a bit and the kitten opened its eyes to regard her.

“Oh,” Irene said.

The eyes were lighter than Irene expected, pale amber. The kitten blinked and gathered itself. In a single athletic spring, it soared from the man’s grasp to the sand next to Irene’s left foot and wound itself around her bare ankle.

“Well,” the man said.

“Oh, he tickles!”

“That’s gratitude for you.”

Irene choked back a giggle.

“Say. You all right? Let me give you a hand with that board.”

“No, thanks. I’m perfectly—perfectly fine—”

“You sure?”

Well. The board was heavy. The path was steep. The man was attractive. On the other hand, while he had that kind of face that stuck in your mind, it was also the kind of face that said he might be trouble. Irene couldn’t say why. He seemed straightforward enough. Kittens adored him. His chin was sturdy and all, his smile was sincere. His voice made an easy California rumble. Behind him, the waves roared in from across the Pacific, keeping time to the beat of the universe. The kitten rubbed its cheek on the round bone of her ankle.

“I guess I’m all right,” Irene said. She pulled her leg free from the kitten, swung forward again, overbalanced the eighty-pound surfboard on her shoulder and toppled back into the sand at Trouble’s feet.



Trouble had a name, it turned out. “Mallory,” he said, sticking out his hand, when Irene’s surfboard was safely secured to the roof of the Model T and they had both visited the huts to change into dry, respectable clothes. The kitten now nestled in the crook of Mr. Mallory’s arm, purring like a motorboat. Irene stuck out a finger and rubbed its forehead.

“Irene Foster,” she said.

“You know, you’re the only girl who comes out here mornings.”

“I’m no girl. Twenty years old last month.”

“Still and all. Who taught you to surf like that?”

“My father.”

“You don’t say. Surfs out here too?”

“No,” she said. “Just me.”

Mr. Mallory squinted his eyes a little, like he was trying to figure out what she meant by that. He wore a newsboy’s cap over his damp hair, and he grabbed the brim and pulled it lower on his forehead, while his face turned away to observe the western horizon, the grand Pacific. He tickled the kitten’s chin, and it stretched out obligingly, eyes closed.

Mallory, she thought. He had a name, Mr. Mallory, and as she repeated the words in her head, some bell dinged. Some ring of familiarity.

She nodded to the kitten. “What’re you going to name him?”

“I don’t know. Sandy?”

“I guess that makes sense. My father used to say you should never forget where you came from.” She reached out again and smoothed the fur between its ears. “Besides, it’s practical, isn’t it?”

“Practical? How so?”

“Why, if he turns out to be a she, you can keep the name.”

Mr. Mallory looked a little shocked. He held up the kitten and peered underneath. “I’ll be damned. You might be right.”

“Just a hunch.” She glanced to the car, because her cheeks had turned a little warm. “I’d better be off.”

Mr. Mallory tucked the kitten back into his left elbow and touched the brim of his cap with his other hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Foster.”

“Likewise, Mr. Mallory.”

“Suppose I’ll be seeing you around, some morning.”

“I’m here most mornings. When I can get the car started, anyway.”

Mr. Mallory stroked the kitten with his large, bony fingers. He squinted at some point over her shoulder, toward the ocean. Irene shifted her feet.

“Look, Miss Foster. I . . .”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Glad to meet you at last, that’s all.”

Irene opened her mouth to say Likewise and realized she was only repeating herself, the same bland word. Instead she said, “I suppose we were bound to meet sometime, both of us surfing here like this,” which wasn’t exactly true.

But Mr. Mallory nodded, just as if their meeting were indeed inevitable, and said, “I guess you’re right.” He turned to his car, a handsome Nash Six, canary yellow, four or five years old in Irene’s estimation. Took a step or two. Stopped and turned and touched his cap again, and for some reason this image of Mr. Mallory stamped itself on her brain, tanned and sober, touching his cap while the rising sun tinted everything gold, so that ever after, when she thought of him, or when she sat in the dawn, he made this picture in her mind.