First, and this is the big one: I’ve been going away more often. It happens when I’m stressed. What if I go away one day and I don’t come back? Lauren and Olivia would be alone. I need stronger pills. I’ll speak to the bug man. The beer is cold in my palm and hisses like a snake as I pull the tab. I take three dill pickles from the jar, slice them in half and top them with peanut butter. Crunchy. It’s the best snack and it goes really well with the beer, but I can’t enjoy it.
Second worry: noise. Our house is by the dead end; beyond, there’s only forest. And the house on the left has been empty since for ever; the newspaper taped to the inside of the windows is yellow and curled. So I have relaxed my guard over the years. I let Lauren shout and sing. That needs thinking on. The Chihuahua lady heard her.
There is a black scatter of droppings under the kitchen table. That mouse is back. Lauren is still crying faintly but she’s getting quieter, which is good. The music is doing its work. Hopefully she’ll sleep for a while and then I can get her up for supper. I will make her favourite, hot dogs with spaghetti.
Third worry: how long will she like hot dogs and spaghetti? How long can I protect her? She needs watching all the time. Children are like a chain around your heart or neck, and they pull you in every direction. She’s growing up too fast; I know every parent says this, but it’s true.
Calm down, I tell myself. After all, Olivia learned to be happy with the situation in the end. When she was a kitten she would run for the door whenever I opened it. She could never have survived out there, but still she ran. Now she knows better. What we want isn’t always what’s best for us. If the cat can learn that, Lauren can, too. I hope.
The day draws to a close and after supper it’s time for Lauren to go.
‘Bye, kitten,’ I say.
‘Bye, Dad,’ she says.
‘See you next week.’
‘Yup.’ She plays with the strap of her backpack. She doesn’t seem to care but I always hate this part. I have made it a rule not to show how upset I am. I put on the record again. The woman’s voice winds through the hot dusk.
When I have a bad day, now and then get slippery. I catch Mommy and Daddy’s voices in certain places around the house. Sometimes they’re arguing over who goes to the store. Sometimes it’s the ding and the whir of the old rotary phone in the hall, and then Mommy talking to the school, telling them I’m sick again. Sometimes I wake to her calling me for breakfast. It’s clear as a bell. Then silence falls and I remember that they are both gone. Only the gods know where.
The gods are closer than you would think. They live among the trees, behind a skin so thin you could scratch it open with a fingernail.
Olivia
I was busy with my tongue doing the itchy part of my leg when Ted called for me. I thought, Darn it, this is not a good time. But I heard that note in his voice, so I stopped and went to find him. All I had to do was follow the cord, which is a rich shining gold today.
He was standing in the living room. His eyes were gone. ‘Kitten,’ he said over and over. The memories moved in him like worms under the skin. There was thunder in the air. This was a bad one.
I leant into him with my flank. He picked me up in shaking hands. His breath made roads in my fur. I purred against his cheek. The air began to calm, the electricity subsided. Ted’s breathing slowed. I rubbed his face with mine. His feelings flooded into me. It was painful but I could take it. Cats don’t hold onto things.
‘Thanks, kitten,’ he whispered.
You see? I was busy when he called but I went to him anyway. The LORD has given me this purpose, and I do it gladly. A relationship is a very delicate business. You have to work at it every day.
The lady ted is singing, mournful. I know each song by heart, the little hesitations in her voice, the tiny wrong note on that song about prairies. Her songs play on repeat, day and night, when Lauren isn’t here. Ted seems to need the company. He thinks a cat doesn’t count, I guess. If I were so inclined I might find that offensive. But teds are all needy and you can’t take it personally. I’m speaking in general. I don’t know any teds except Ted. And Lauren, I suppose.
I’ll tell it from the beginning. About how he found me in the storm, the day the cord bound us together.
I remember being born. I wasn’t there, and then I was, just like that. Pushed out from the warmth into the cold, kicking weak paws, tangled in strands of sticky membrane. I felt air on my fur for the first time, my mouth opened for the first time to cry. She bent over me, big as the sky. Warm tongue, warm mouth about my neck. Come, little kit, we’re not safe here. Mamacat. The others we left in the mud. They hadn’t survived the passage. The soft shapes I shared the dark with during all those months, now still and pelted by rain. Come. She was frightened. I could tell, even as little as I was.
The storm must have lasted for days. I don’t know how many. We moved
