Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

Lilian Jackson Braun - The Cat Who Went Into The Closet

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THE WPKX RADIO announcer hunched over the newsdesk in front of a dead microphone, anxiously fingering his script and waiting for the signal to go on the air. The station was filling in with classical music. The lilting "Anitra's Dance" seemed hardly appropriate under the circumstances. Abruptly the music stopped in the middle of a bar, and the newscaster began to read in a crisp, professional tone that belied the alarming nature of the news:

"We interrupt this program to bring you a bulletin on the forest fires that are rapidly approaching Moose County after destroying hundreds of square miles to the south and west. Rising winds are spreading the scattered fires into areas already parched by the abnormally hot summer and drought conditions.

"From this studio in the tower of the courthouse in Pickax City we can see a red glow on the horizon, and the sky IS hazy with drifting smoke. Children have been sent home from school, and businesses are closed, allowing workers to protect their families and dwellings. The temperature is extremely high; hot winds are gusting up to forty miles an hour.

"Traffic is streaming into Main Street from towns that are in the path of the flames. Here in the courthouse, which is said to be fireproof, preparations are being made to house the refugees. Many are farmers, who report that their houses, barns, and livestock are totally destroyed. They tell of balls of fire flying through the air, causing fields to burst into flame. One old man on the courthouse steps is proclaiming the end of the world and exhorting passersby to fall on their knees and pray."

The newscaster mopped his brow and gulped water! as he glanced at slips of paper on the desk. "Bulletins are coming in from all areas surrounding Pickax. The entire town of Dry River burst into flames an hour ago and was completely demolished in a matter of minutes... The village of New Perth is in ashes; thirty-two are reported dead... Pardon me."

He stopped for a fit of coughing and then went on with difficulty. "Smoke is seeping into the studio." He coughed again. "Pineytown... totally destroyed. Seventeen persons running to escape... killed as the flames overtook them... Volunteer firefighters who went out from Pickax are back. They say... the fire is out of control."

His voice was muffled as he tried to breathe through a cupped hand. "Very dark here! Heat unbearable! Wind is roaring!... Hold on!" He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward, and crouched over the mike with a gasping cry: "Here it comes! A wall of fire! Right down Main Street! Pickax is in flames!"

The lights blacked out. Coughing and choking, the announcer groped for a doorknob and stumbled from the studio.

Music blared from the speakers - crashing chords and roaring crescendos - and the studio audience sat motionless, stunned into silence until a few started to applaud. The initial clapping swelled into a tumultuous response.

Someone in the front row said, "Gad! That was so real, I could feel the heat!"

"I swear I could smell smoke," another said. "That guy is some actor, isn't he? He wrote the stuff, too."

Most of the onlookers, gripped by emotion, were still speechless as they glanced once more at their programs:

The Moose County Something present

"THE BIG BURNING OF 1869"

An original docu-drama based on historic fact.

Written and performed by James Qwilleran

Produced and directed by Hixie Rice

The audience is asked to imagine that radio existed in 1869, as we bring you a simulated newscast covering the greatest disaster in the history of Moose County. The scene on the stage represents a broadcasting studio in the tower of the county courthouse. The action takes place on October 17 and 18, 1869. There will be one intermission.

PLEASE JOIN US FOR REFRESHMENTS AFTER THE

PERFORMANCE

The audience, having struggled back to reality, erupted in a babble of comments and recollections:

"I had an old uncle who used to tell stories about a big forest fire, but I was too young to pay any attention."

"Where did Qwill get his information? He must have done a heck of a lot of research."

"My mother said her great-great-grandmother on her father's side lost most of her family in a big forest fire. Makes you want to hit the history books, doesn't it?"

More than a hundred prominent residents of Moose County were attending the performance in the ballroom of a mansion that Jim Qwilleran was renting for the winter months. Most of them knew all about the middle-aged journalist with the oversized moustache and doleful expression. He had been a prize-winning crime writer for major newspapers around the United States. He was the heir to an enormous fortune based in Moose County. He wrote a much-admired column for the local daily, The Moose County Something. He spelled his name with a Qw. He liked to eat but never took a drink. He was divorced and thought by women to be highly attractive. His easy-going manner and jocose banter made him enjoyable company. He was a close friend of Polly Duncan's, the Pickax librarian. He lived alone-with two cats.

The townspeople often saw the big, well-built man walking or biking around Pickax, his casual way of dressing and lack of pretension belying his status as a multi-millionaire. And they had heard remarkable stories about his cats. Now, sitting in rows of folding chairs and waiting for Scene Two, the spectators saw a sleek Siamese march sedately down the center aisle. He jumped up on the stage and, with tail importantly erect, proceeded to the door where the radio announcer had made his frantic exit.

The audience tittered, and someone said, "That's Koko. He always has to get into the act."

The door, upstage right, was only loosely latched, and the cat pawed it until it opened a few inches and he could slither through. In two seconds he bounded out again as if propelled by a tap on the rump, and the audience laughed once more. Unabashed, Koko licked his left shoulder blade and scratched his right ear, then jumped off the stage and walked haughtily up the center aisle.

The house lights dimmed, and the radio announcer entered in a fresh shirt, with another script in his hand.

"Tuesday, October 18. After a sleepless night, Pickax can see daylight. The smoke is lifting, but the acrid smell of burning is everywhere, and the landscape is a scene of desolation in every direction. Only this courthouse and a few isolated dwellings and barns are miraculously left standing. The heat is oppressive - 110 degrees in the studio - and the window glass is still too hot to touch.

"Crews of men are now fanning out through the countryside, burying bodies that are charred beyond recognition. Because so many families lived in isolated clearings, we may never have an accurate count of the dead. More than four hundred refugees are packed into the courthouse, lying dazed and exhausted in the corridors, on the stairs, in the courtroom and judge's chamber. Some have lost their feet; some have lost their eyes; some have lost their senses, and they babble incoherently. The groans of badly burned survivors mingle with the crying of babies. There is no medicine to ease their pain. Someone has brought a cow to the courthouse to provide milk for the youngest, but there is no food for the others..."

Before the dramatic presentation of "The Big Burning of 1869," the historic calamity had been quite forgotten by current generations intent on land development, tourism, new sewers, and the quality of TV reception. Qwilleran himself, playwright and star of the production, had never heard of the disaster until he rented the old mansion on Goodwinter Boulevard and started rummaging in closets. The furnishings were sparse, but the closets were stuffed to the ceiling with odds and ends - a treasure trove for an inquisitive journalist. As for his male cat, he was cat enough to risk death to satisfy his catly curiosity; with tail horizontal he would slink into a closet and emerge with a matchbook or champagne cork clamped in his jaws.