Whither, ‘midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosey depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
—William Cullen Bryant
There are not many vestiges left to Isabel of the human being she had once been: a random word or two, the coquettish way she behaves when in sight of anything male, a gold bracelet that she keeps simply because she has forgotten how to release the catch. She lost her bearings long ago, though she still circles the Waldorf Astoria (but of course avoids the Plaza; she has that much sense). She still looks in Altman's and Lord & Taylor's windows, and can often be found around three am drinking from the fountain at Lincoln Center (popular watering hole for many of the female creatures in the early morning hours). Sometimes she balances on her hind legs, showing off her black fur coat and the white patch on her chest. If anyone approaches, lured by her sporadically provocative behavior, she warns them away with a show of teeth. Touchy, suspicious, always alone, but now a creature-mildness shows in her eyes. She will kill, but only if cornered. When she was more human, one was never quite sure what she was capable of. The temperament of a wolverine has made her, if anything, a little less wild—for the first time, willing to let well enough alone. In her present state, no one would wish harm to her in spite of what she has done, but only that she should be removed safely to Montana or upper Michigan.
Isabel usually sleeps until noon, as was her habit before all these changes began, but today something has awakened her earlier than usual. A rustling in the trees and on the ground, twitterings and laughter. She sees all sorts of female creatures gathering in small groups and combining into larger ones. Everyone is heading south. Isabel follows, keeping a safe distance. It is clear that she still has vestiges of that insatiable human trait, curiosity.
Valdoviccini, consumed with longing not only for the throaty baying voice he had heard from the top balcony a few weeks ago, but also for Chloe—especially for Chloe—has spent the night wandering in the vicinity of his Village pied-à-terre. He has found that he has more feelings for Chloe than he had thought. In fact more feelings for her than he has had for anyone in a long time, perhaps ever. Unlike all the women he has known before, she never minded his idiosyncracies, was neither afraid of him nor condemned him. Always she remained aloof, always sinuous and elegant, always dignified in any position. He remembers her curled up on the windowsill as though waiting for him. She would blink at him. Then stretch. Such a voluptuous stretch! In the garbage, for she cleaned up after herself (another aspect he liked about her: always impeccable), he would find the empty cartons of cream, the empty jars of caviar, the shells of the frozen shrimp he'd bought her. She was a voluptuous eater, and he liked that about her, too. Voluptuous in other ways—in all ways (like him in that) for, now and then, she would be so sexually turned on that she would roll on the floor and yowl. He knew she was disturbing the neighbors, but he didn't care. That black face! Those blue eyes! He doesn't want any other face than that one. Even the way they fought, a childish bickering they both enjoyed. And yet he has never told her that he liked her ... loved.... But she must have seen that. Though why should she, when he hadn't even seen it himself?
Now he is wondering—and the thought terrifies him—if she could have been rounded up and taken to the Academy to be inseminated. If it's not too late, maybe he can persuade them that he should be the one to father her child. He is, after all, well known in his field. Also he is well paid. He will go, now, to the Academy and see if she is there and, if she is, he will do anything to get her back or, if that can't be, to father her child. He does not let himself think that she might have been taken instead to the pound, though in the back of his mind he knows that, if she is not at the Academy of Motherhood, he will rush to the pound. He hopes they are still required by law to keep the inmates seven days. Before he leaves he puts that cryptic note in his pocket: “I am she whom you seek."
The streets are full of policemen and Rosemarys—probably exactly what Rosemary had in mind when she brought down the masks and uniforms from the attic. Some of the Rosemarys are very large indeed while many of the policemen are quite small and have rolled-up pants legs that keep coming down and tripping them. Now and again there is a car that has hit a lamppost or fire hydrant and has not yet been towed away, or that has stopped right in the middle of the street. None of the policemen pays the slightest attention to them.
Rosemary, the doctor, Pooch, and the baby have no sooner hurried away from the police station than they see a group of Rosemarys on the opposite street corner looking at them and speaking into their walkie-talkies. Rosemary leads Pooch and the doctor in a quick right turn down a side street, but the other Rosemarys make that same turn and follow, half a block behind. Pooch is too busy to think about this, though; she is having a great deal of trouble keeping the baby from biting the doctor again. He tells Pooch, “That baby should get out of your sphere of influence before it is damaged irrevocably.” He has called her Isabel twice and 107 three times already.
Again Pooch is wondering how (or if) the doctor got to be on their side. He had represented the essence of evil to her because he thought only of ends and never seemed to consider means or meals. She is wondering how it came about that they are trotting down the street together as though the dreadful testing that went on in the laboratory had never taken place. But Rosemary seems to have him under control.
In answer to the doctor Pooch shakes her head vigorously, but he isn't looking. Then she manages to bark out a fairly clear “No,” which the baby reiterates. In the same barking fashion, she stutters, “Not, not, not, not.... “And at last she gets out a fairly clear “Isabel.” Barks, yes, but a “Not Isabel” nonetheless. But the effort is wasted. She is walking a bit behind the other two, for the safety of the doctor, and just as she manages to get the words out, she trips on her unrolling pants and falls down. Since she is behind them, the others don't notice and hurry on.
Behind Pooch come those other Rosemarys. Quickly she slips completely out of her hopelessly entangled policeman pants. Thank goodness the policeman's jacket comes down almost to her knees. With the baby in her teeth again, she runs off down an alley as fast as she can. One of the Rosemarys leaves the others and follows her. It seems to Pooch that the Rosemarys could have easily caught up with her when she fell, but apparently following her is more important than arresting her. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to leave the police station. Perhaps they were let go on purpose.
It happens that in this particular alley a kazoo, tom-tom, and tambourine band has been gathering, getting ready to march up Fifth Avenue. There are several Rosemarys as well as several policemen in the band. Also many females in various states of change, the most impressive being a large, kazooing condor-woman. What's left of her orange hair (it is clear she will soon be completely bald) blends in with her orange head. Her arms are covered already with black feathers, a strip of white ones on each side. Pooch thinks how nice that such endangered species can now augment their ranks with changing females.
The kazoo band is about to move out. As Pooch and the Rosemary near them, the kazoo players accept them into their ranks and hand them (the baby, too) kazoos and invite them to line up. There is really little else to do, since the alley has turned out to be a dead end.
The baby is delighted and so is Pooch, because here is a way for her to sing again, however harsh the sound. And so Pooch and the baby, side by side with the Rosemary who has been following them, march out with the others toward, Pooch hopes, whatever it is that Rosemary said they should hurry up for.
Then, right in the middle of all this new-found pleasure, she catches sight of Isabel, crouching behind a pile of plastic trash bags. How not stop and greet her, even though Pooch would rather go on marching with the kazoo group? Clearly Isabel had not gone to the master as Pooch had advised, though that is probably just as well. Now no way to ask her, nor has Isabel the means to reply.
The Rosemary has stopped also, but stands at a discreet distance as Pooch approaches and squats down, holding out her hand, palm up. Isabel moves forward cautiously and touches the tip of her nose to the tips of Pooch's fingers. She is looking at Pooch's collar as though once again her salvation lies in that. To her it must mean freedom, as it did back at the pound.
To Pooch the collar has come to mean a sort of slavery. Disgusting thing! Why had she not taken it off at the first opportunity? Now, in her eagerness to do so, she lets go of the squirming baby and it toddles off as fast as it can after the kazoo band, calling out, “Mine, mine.” Falls down. Gets up. Falls....
Pooch hands the collar to Isabel, who takes it tentatively, making little grunts of pleasure. Then Isabel turns back to the nearest doorway and begins to chew on it. Pooch thinks that now the collar is being used as it deserves to be.
Pooch turns to find the Rosemary making off with the baby, and she rushes after them. But no need to hurry, for the baby, it seems, has learned, in just this half day, to defend itself. The Rosemary yells and drops it and the baby crawls off as fast as it can, still after the kazoo group, having for the moment given up on walking.
Pooch grabs the baby with one hand and then turns to see where the Rosemary was bitten. It is quite a bad bite on the hand. Pooch looks closely at the baby, trying to see any changes toward the animal in the set of its jaw or its teeth, but they seem the normal chubby chin and sharp little teeth of any human baby. “Mine,” it says again, reaching after the kazoo band and waving its fingers. It is quite flushed, and Pooch thinks perhaps she should look for some water for it, but there is the bite to deal with first. There is a handkerchief in the top part of her policeman's uniform that could be used as a bandage. She holds back her instinct to lick the wound (though she once read that that is a good thing to do) and carefully wipes away the blood with the cleanest part of the handkerchief.
"That is Isabel,” the Rosemary says in a gravelly, bass voice. A nice voice, actually. Pooch is drawn to it. The Rosemary is nodding toward Isabel, who is still chewing away noisily.
"I'm the detective who was called to the Plaza. I expect that is the real Isabel. That's the one that killed the cook, not you."
Pooch can see the detective's eyes behind his Rosemary mask. They are blue and have little wrinkles at the sides, and she can even see dark circles underneath them. They are performing the wound-binding like a ritual; he is helping her with his left hand since she must hold the baby, and she is as gentle as she can be. Each using just one hand, they tie the knot at the end.
Perhaps the kazooing has loosened something in Pooch's throat. Or perhaps it was the giving away of the collar, as if: There goes home and all it stands for. No turning back. Rely, now, only on yourself. (She wonders, does she have the courage?)
"I have not spoken for several days, though I have felt the need,” Pooch says as their fingers touch. She had not thought that she was about to speak. Her voice takes her by surprise. It is soft and pure and full of humanity, and there is no trace of a stutter. One could say it's better than ever.
"You know you shouldn't have confessed to all those crimes back at the police station. You shouldn't have signed that statement."
"My voice was taken from me by a mad scientist who, though he conceived of himself as kindly and no doubt still thinks so, used me viciously, trying to wrest from me secrets I never possessed."
"No doubt,” the detective says, “he was concerned about the future of motherhood. We all are, you know."
"I have always hoped to be a mother one day.” The baby, suddenly worn out, is leaning against Pooch's shoulder, breathing quietly into its kazoo. As though to illustrate her feelings, Pooch gives it a little lick on the cheek.
"Mothering well, as you seem to be doing, is all well and good,” the detective says, “but the state of motherhood in general involves the entire planet."
"I know I must not think that ‘una voce poco fa,'” says Pooch.
"But come, let's get you some decent clothes. You look disgraceful in that policeman's jacket and almost nothing else. You'll give the force a bad name."