Tuesday, December 1, 2020

A TALE OF TWO KITTIES

           From the instant Merton slipped it from behind himself and pushed it into her hands Berta loved the little ball of fur. It snuggled in her hands against her chest emitting little kitten purrs and closed its eyes. Brownie, she named it. From the start, Brownie was adventurous, prowling the house, getting into mischief, climbing everywhere, clawing fabrics, and knocking objects off of shelves. Merton fixed Brownie up with a crawl hole so that he could do his business outside. Having come from a union of Havana Brown and yellow tabby, Brownie grew into a handsome cat, sometimes a house sitter, other times sleeping near the house by the driveway. Merton was fond of Brownie too, with Berta claiming full proprietorship inside the house and he bonding with him when meeting up in the yard. He kept mum on the friendship with Brownie because he did not wish to appear to compete with Berta for his affection.  

          Despite the strictures of a lukewarm marriage, he believed he loved his wife. The marriage of Merton to Berta was a long quiet one. She, the extrovert, had chosen Merton the introvert for his compliancy and willingness to earn as much money as she required to keep a nice house and allow herself to entertain friends and family. She had not expected that Merton would repel the lot of them with his standoffish ways and snobbish book learning. What made it worse for her, the constant badgering of Merton that she administered, exhorting him to be social, had uncovered a stubbornness even he had not known he possessed. Their lives became two separate camps under the one roof. In small domestic ways, such as meals and house cleaning, they were civil, sharing, and working together. Leisure sent them to their own rooms, with Merton reading or watching television mostly, and Berta exercising when not playing games with friends on online media. 

          They both left home to work each weekday. His work took Merton to midtown to serve inside the great bank building that replaced Evanston House nearly twenty years ago, meaning each morning he had to drive out in his grey compact car a few minutes before she took to her maroon SUV. Her job took place inside the supermarket, about ten streets over. When Merton came down the steps, briefcase in hand, on this particularly bright and sunny morning, he little suspected how life was about to change. He was preoccupied with the fact it was nearly the couple’s anniversary. He wanted this year to buy her something nice because their life had been going smoothly of late; he felt she deserved a reward.

          The car kicked to life and he threw it in reverse. He tromped on the pedal and the car swung in an arc, positioning to drive forward to the street. But in the process, he had hit a bump where there ought to be no bump. He put the car into park and climbed out to investigate. The object that caused the bump was a small animal. He recognized Brownie, covered with blood, body crushed, breathing a few final breaths. Grief flooded his senses, while at the same time his practical mind envisioned Berta finding out. He didn’t know whether to hide Brownie from her or bring her from the house to see what he had done. Instead of acting, he remained standing over the body until Berta looked out and asked why he had not yet gone to work. She came on the porch and peered down at the blood-covered brown fur with glazed over eyes and contorted face. She gazed at it in horror. “You killed my Brownie,” she cried in anguish.

          “He was asleep against the passenger wheel,” Merton said lamely.

          He called work to excuse himself for the morning. Work gave him the day. His first impulse was to embrace his wife and try to console her. He instead moved to deal with Brownie’s broken body, certain any attempt to embrace his wife would be rejected. He found a sturdy box that had been designated for trash in the laundry room. Then he selected a gold-colored towel to wrap him in. As the towel was spread beside the corpse, Berta broke down further and lurched back inside the house, bellowing her heartbreak in full-throated sobbing. Merton’s own heart was breaking as he boxed Brownie and took him to the small flower garden to be buried. He selected a soft spot where daisies often were planted in another season and let the box down while he fetched a spade. The hole required more digging than was expected, but Merton persevered until the job was properly done. He eased the box to the hole’s bottom and carefully covered it all over. There were metal fence stakes behind the gardening shed. He selected a clean one to wire a crosspiece to and when it was done pounded it into the earth to mark Brownie’s grave. He cut a square of cedar to attach to the cross, after carefully painting on it, “Lie in Peace, good cat Brownie.”

          Merton entered the house by the back door, bypassing the living room, feeling her presence on the sofa as he went, getting a drink of water in the kitchen. After the digging, he needed a full ten-ounce glass. He gulped a few swallows, but finished it off slowly, wishing he had put in ice. When at last he set the empty glass in the sink, Merton considered approaching his wife. Failing to screw up the courage, he went instead to his room and sank in his soft chair. He would miss Brownie. He regretted what the loss was doing to his Berta. He leaned down to remove his shoes. He had gotten the first one off and was pulling down the sock when a decisive impact from something small and hard smacked against his head. Berta with a belt stood like a comic book character before him.

          He was able to discern through successive indiscriminate flogs by Berta the cloth belt with a hard buckle from one of her favorite ensembles. Her rage played out, with Merton making no effort to defend himself. “You killed my Brownie,” she raged. 

          Not moving, he cried throughout the entire thrashing, accepting the welts as welcome punishment. When her strength and rage could carry no more, Berta lowered her hands, letting the belt drop to the carpeted floor. She sagged before him, spent. Merton stood. He awkwardly put his hand on her shoulder. “I loved him too,” he said. “He was our family.”

          She was still, passively allowing Merton to press himself to her. 

          The warmth of their joined flesh rekindled, a little, feelings he had known in an earlier day, of courtship leading to marriage. They disengaged, she to return to the living room couch and he to reclaim the chair to resume the uncladding of his feet. After, he left the room. Without conscious thought, he wandered in the direction of the living room. He peered in. With no light burning and the curtains pulled to it was dark enough that Berta’s form on the couch was nearly lost in shadow. He approached slowly, allowing Berta the opportunity to send him away. Unable to determine that she was aware of his presence at all, Merton spoke softly. “Want some company?”

          Berta shifted her body and made room for Merton to scoot in and hold her close with her head resting on his chest. She was soft and comfortable against Merton. He realized how deeply he needed such contact in his life. They sat without speaking or moving for a very long time. At last, he said, “I’m going to make us a meal. A salad with everything on it the way you like, including chives. I have a large avocado to eat in chunks. Unless you want guacamole?”

          “Make it to suit yourself. You always do a fine job with the food.”

          “We don’t need avocado, but it’s an addiction with me,” he said. “Stay comfortable here if you like. I can call you when it’s ready.”

          In the kitchen, Merton pulled out nearly every fresh vegetable from the crisper. He started the salad with a bed of iceberg lettuce, torn to small pieces with his fingers. Then he grated carrot, radish, and just a few smidgeons of beet and turnip. He chopped a sweet onion, tomato, celery, and a portion of bell pepper. Then greens, cauliflower, and broccoli. Chives last. He tossed the salad and moved it to the table. Albarino wine. Crackers, vinegar, croutons. Salad dressing. She liked salad dressing. He was setting the dinnerware down when Berta came in and poured the wine. She put napkins beside the plates. 

          As she settled at the table, she said, “I would like some cheese on top of it, please.”

          Merton had purposely forgotten it. He hated cheese. He nevertheless passed her a packet of grated cheese before pulling up his chair and seating himself. Watching his wife fill up her bowl, he sipped on the wine a bit too much and so refilled the glass to the top. Soon he had his own food. They ate in silence until Merton asked if she would like to have a get together on the weekend? An outdoor cookout. 

          Visibly surprised, Berta said she might think about it.

          They concluded the meal, cleaned the kitchen, and went to their respective rooms to spend the evening. Merton wanted her close but had not the imagination what to do about it. So, instead, he would try to occupy his mind with his normal daily routine. Alone in his chair, Merton, trying to read, ended reflecting how it seemed that his vision appeared to be weakening. It was this minute a supreme struggle to read his chosen novel. Discouraged, he set it aside after failing to re-insert the bookmark. The poor man idly clicked on the TV. At least he could make out the images on there well enough. But the fare on the dozens of channels failed to capture his interest. Falling into somewhat of a stupor, he sat until it was Berta’s normal bedtime. After preparing himself for sleeping, he felt dissatisfied to be considering sliding beneath the sheet and falling asleep alone. Berta’s warmth and their newfound closeness drew him to her room.

          Finding his way by the glow of the night light, he chose the side of the bed with the most room. Uttering no words, he lifted the sheet and slid in next to Berta. She turned to face him and they hugged briefly. Merton slept as secure and content as ever in his life. In the morning at six, he was moving around the kitchen, fixing the coffee. His heart was light; his steps were if not spritely less sliding of feet across the floor. He bit into a cinnamon roll, a huge bite, before pouring up the hot liquid and sweetening, slightly, hers. 

          Stepping into her room, coffee held before him on a saucer, he said, “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

          She, sitting in a slip on the mattress edge, looked at him sourly. “I want my Brownie,” she whined.

          He set the steaming cup near enough for her to reach it. “Of course you do,” he soothed. “I would do anything to bring our boy back. I hurt so much for causing the accident -”

          Merton quickly went from the room to fix his breakfast. Two poached eggs. Buttered wholewheat toast. Small spoonful of jelly on one of the toast slices. Two microwave heated sausage patties. More coffee.

          He was seated at the bar, eating in small measured bites when Berta came in to get more coffee. “Good thing it’s our days off,” she muttered. “I don’t think either of us is ready to do our jobs.”

          She put the cup on the counter and carefully poured her coffee. Looking over the counter for the sweetener, she said, “I’m sorry I carped at you. We really should work to get along.”

          He swept up the sweetener packets and handed her one. “I think we are making a start. I’ve enjoyed getting close physically and I think we made a small breakthrough otherwise.”

          Stirring the sweetener into the coffee. “We don’t laugh. We don’t see other people.”

          “Hence me inviting us to have a cookout,” Merton said brightly.

          “I don’t know,” she complained. “You never talk to my friends. They all feel unwelcome. That’s why I quit asking them over.”

          He set his cup down, a little too hard. Having taken the complaint as a challenge, he spoke in a stronger voice than he could normally muster. “Thomas badgers me with his politics. His wife, what’s-’er-name, tells me poetry is for sissies. Then smirks. It’s no different from the others. I’ve tried a few times -”

          “When did you really try?” She rid herself of the coffee, prepared to storm out. “You know books. You don’t know people.”

          Merton could have followed, apologizing, explaining, but that never did work in the past. He had to get out. Let the air clear before engaging her again. “I will be back,” he said.

          He slipped into a light jacket and grabbed his driving glasses before stepping out onto the porch. With one hand in his pocket to grab the keys, he went down the steps.  

          Merton approached the car with the experience of Brownie’s fate still raw in his mind, so he looked behind each tire before climbing behind the wheel. There were now no pets on the premises, but regret prevailed on him to be overly careful. The exit was smooth, with no unexpected bumps. He drove out of the neighborhood with no thought about where he should be heading but brisket entered his mind and he turned in the direction of his favorite supermarket. The street he turned on had recently been a leftover from a rural time, but progress from the city had caught up to it, transforming the length of it into a supposed paradise of retail outlets and restaurants. So many familiar chain stores competed for one’s attention. He noticed a brand new store about a block away from the supermarket. A pet store. He failed to catch the store’s name but was captured by the sign in the big window: RESCUE ANIMALS. 

          To cheer himself up, he went inside to play with a few dogs and cats.

          It was like a supermarket of pets in there. He wandered slowly down lanes of birds, fish, and rodents. In the very back were shelves of feed and remedies, before a complete clinic. In between were dogs and cats. Fifteen dogs of varying backgrounds and sizes, each one an individual with hopeful eyes whenever he approached one. He managed some smiles to mask his sorrow, feeling wet noses, and tongues through the cages. There were dozens of cats. He nearly feared to approach them. 

          But one particularly pugnacious cat drew him to the cage it occupied. On the tab it declared this one to be AMERICAN BOBTAIL. Although still a kitten it showed to be a pretty big breed. Through the cage, they made contact and became friends. Against his will, he became attached enough to enquire of an employee the procedure for adopting Richard, as his name proved to be. The store insisted he buy a carrying cage and advised him to not let Richard out of doors for at least a few weeks. He signed up to employ a store vet before leaving, cat in a cage, a bag of litter under the other arm.

          Richard rode quietly, alert, and absorbing the details of all that transpired. Once inside the house, he waited expectantly, certain he was about to be set free. Merton rested the cage atop the card table. He closed off the hole to the outside. When he eased the cage open Richard walked into his hands. He picked up the big kitty and made sure he was calm and seeming friendly. Then he went slowly to Berta’s room. “Sweetheart,” he said gently. “I’ve brought a friend.”

          Looking to be puzzled at an act so out of character for Merton, she answered, “You did? What kind of friend?

          Instead of speaking he walked to her and pushed Richard into her arms. Richard was amenable and he pushed his head against her cheek before settling to be cuddled. Berta’s face of shocked resentment at Merton for bringing in another pet transformed to joy. “He’s gorgeous,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

          Merton nodded his acceptance and smiled, dreaming of the warm bed they would share tonight. 

    

                

               

                         

                       






             


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INDEX OF THIS BLOG

INDEX OF STORIES AND VERSES

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