Widow

by Martha Miller

  “I’ve always been too busy to take care of one.”

  “What about a cat?” Jerry asked, sitting a plate of warm peach cobbler in front of her.

  “Grandma had cats too, until I was off to college, and she was too old to take care of them alone. I think she missed them, but she never complained.”

  Alvin said, “Cause for Paws is having a thing in the park Saturday. They’ll have cats and dogs there for adoption. They require a waiting period while they run a check, and I think they do a home visit afterward.”

  “Cause for Paws?”

  “It’s a no-kill shelter.”

  Bertha shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m gone for long parts of the day. I couldn’t leave a dog alone all that time.”

  “A cat then,” Jerry said, like it was settled.

  “I don’t think so. Doree will be coming home soon. She’s a big responsibility. I don’t think I’ll need a pet.” She picked up her mug of coffee and plate of cobbler and headed toward the family room. It was almost tip-off time. She could hear them whispering behind her. She listened carefully, but all she heard was “…won’t let the kid come back.” After that she deliberately shut them out.

  *

  Most of the trees were bright colors of red and gold on the dry Indian-summer day; the smell of burning leaves hung in the air. Bertha stood next to the Jeep and looked for the boys. A long line of adults, children, and anxious dogs snaked its way between picnic tables. At the front of the line were two children’s wading pools and volunteers busily washing dogs. She spotted Alvin and Jerry coming toward her. Bertha couldn’t believe they’d talked her into this.

  “The cats available for adoption are over there.” Jerry pointed toward a group of people across from the dog wash. “They’ve got some kittens too. But if you want a kitten, you have to hurry. They’re going fast.”

  Bertha could see several pens stacked three or four high. When she was in front of the cats, she could still hear the dogs barking. She started to say something to Alvin, but he’d moved away from her. He and Jerry were standing over a pen containing some kind of long, low dog. Bertha turned to the cats again. In all the commotion, two of them were sound asleep. Maybe that meant they had calm dispositions.

  A volunteer opened a cage and removed an orange short-haired cat and handed it to a young black woman, who stroked its head. “Listen to him purr.”

  Bertha smiled.

  The woman smiled. Then a couple of kids came running toward her. The cat laid back his ears and hissed.

  The volunteer said, “This isn’t a cat for children. Have you seen the kittens? They’re over under that tree. I think we have two left.”

  The woman surrendered the cat and herded her kids toward the kitten tree. The volunteer sat the big orange cat back in his pen and said, “You looking for a cat?”

  It took a moment for Bertha to realize she was talking to her. Bertha shrugged. “If I can find one I like.”

  With a disarming smile, the volunteer squinted in the sun. “What kind are you looking for?”

  “Independent.”

  “You have other pets in the house?”

  “No.”

  “Kids?”

  Bertha said, “No,” and then remembered Doree. “Oh. One very independent sixteen-year-old.”

  “You independent too?”

  “Huh?”

  The volunteer had fastened the orange cat’s pen and was shading her eyes. Of course she had to look up. She was maybe five three or four to Bertha’s six feet. Gray hair. Plump. “Name’s Maggie,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Bertha.” They shook.

  “Well, Bertha,” Maggie said, “this old guy is pretty independent, but he’s also very discerning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t like most other cats or dogs or children. We’ve got a gray-and-white longhair. The mother of the kittens for adoption. She’s got a calm disposition. She’s a good cat.”

  Suddenly Jerry was beside her, holding a long-haired dachshund. “Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  The animal had brown hair and a long nose and a big black spot on her side. It gazed at her with big brown hopeful eyes, but Bertha said, “I don’t want a dog.”

  “I know, for us.” Jerry turned toward Maggie. “We want her. What do we need to do?”

  Maggie pointed toward an official-looking picnic table where a woman, who stood over a small cat carrier, was filling out papers. “Over there. Put him back in the kennel for now and go fill out some papers. We need to check your references. There’s a fifty-dollar adoption fee when you pick him up.”

  Bertha could see Alvin motioning to her. She said to Maggie, “Nice meeting you,” and strolled toward the dog kennels.

  Alvin asked, “Did you find an animal?”

  “No, but I see that you guys have.”

  “Jerry’s never had a dog.”

  “And you think this is a good time to start?”

  Alvin shrugged. “She’s perfect. I had a beagle when I was a kid. A dog this size is perfect for us.”

  “Well, at least she’s not a poodle.”

  “You fill out paperwork over there.” This came from a teenage boy behind them. His hair was dark and his face scattershot with acne.

  Alvin stammered. “We can’t take her home today. We aren’t ready.”

  “That’s good, because she can’t go today. Fill out the paperwork and come to the shelter in a couple of days. The boy pulled a ropy four-foot lead seemingly from nowhere. “Let’s walk her a bit before she goes back in the kennel.” And with that Alvin, the dachshund, and the teen boy strolled toward the bike path, leaving Bertha standing there with both hands in her pockets.

  A breeze rustled the leaves above Bertha, and several fell. She started toward the picnic table where Jerry stood, his wallet in hand. Beyond him the volunteers were still washing dogs, and the line didn’t seem much shorter. She could hear a baby crying from somewhere in the crowd. Maggie was at the business picnic table talking to a man who had some kind of large, freshly bathed long-haired dog on a leash. They were smiling at each other the way a straight man and a woman do. Then the dog pulled him away. He waved and Maggie called, “See you.”

  As Bertha came near, Maggie looked up and said in a cool whispery voice, “Did you find one you liked?”

  “Yes. I’ll take the orange male.”

  “I thought so.” Maggie beamed at her. “The independent cat. Will he live inside?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Fill out these papers, and you can pick him up at the shelter later in the week. Have you had cats before?”

  “When I was a kid.”

  “Well, you’ll need some dry food. We give them mostly dry food at the kennel, and I recommend the scoopable litter.”

  “Should I be writing this down?”

  “Ah. No. Just do what makes sense.”

  The call came on the following Friday, and that evening Bertha stopped at Cause for Paws on the way home. Some puppies in an outdoor kennel were tumbling and playing. Next to the puppy kennel was a grown black-and-white pit bull who stared at her forlornly. Bertha wanted to rescue all of them, but she tore her eyes away from the dog kennels and walked toward the front door. Inside, one wall was covered with cages for cats. The big orange cat was in a cage sitting next to a desk. At the desk was Maggie.

  “Did you bring a kennel?”

  “No. I guess I thought I’d manage without one.”

  From somewhere behind her, Maggie pulled a misshapen piece of cardboard. She dropped it on the desk and started folding. “This is a temporary one. It’ll do for the trip home—I think. It’s twenty-five dollars for the cat and five for the carrier.”

  Bertha reached for her wallet and pulled out three tens. Above the sounds of barking dogs came growling so loud it startled her. Then Maggie was next to her with the cat, its claws dug into her shoulders—her face and neck were flushed. She said, “Hold on to the kenn
el.” Bertha complied. Maggie tried to disentangle herself but couldn’t. Bertha let go of the carrier and pulled one claw loose and at one point had both of them loose, but not for long.

  “Try getting him by the back of his neck,” Maggie said.

  Bertha reached for the cat’s neck but was scared back as the cat showed his teeth.

  Maggie called, “Need some help over here.”

  The kid with acne came running. He held out his hands and said, “Give him to me.”

  Maggie tried, but the cat didn’t want to go. Instead he got tangled in her hair. Another volunteer got involved. The orange cat was making noises that Bertha had never imagined could come from a cat. As it fought like a flock of taloned hawks, she felt budding fondness.

  “I’m going to get him around his middle,” Bertha said. “Everyone else take a claw.”

  Maggie said, “Be careful.”

  Six hands, each holding on to one part of the cat, pulled him loose from Maggie and quickly stuffed him into the temporary kennel. Maggie yelled, “Someone get the lid.”

  The cat was only in the kennel for a second. He was half out of the box before they could close it. Bertha and the kid with acne pushed his head back in, and the container was secured.

  Bertha realized that Maggie was standing next to her saying something. “What?”

  Maggie’s gray hair was going every which way. She brushed it back with her fingers. The clip was hanging near her left ear. “I said, are you sure you don’t want that gray female?”

  “No,” Bertha said, “I like this one.”

  “Okay. His name is Snuggles. Good luck with him.”

  “Snuggles?”

  “If things don’t work out with him, you need to bring him back to us,” Maggie said. “Also if your tetanus isn’t up to date, you probably should see about getting the shot.”

  For the first time Bertha realized that both of her wrists were scratched. What could have been teeth marks on her knuckle were bleeding a little. “Do you have a tissue?”

  Maggie shook her head. “We have some hand sanitizer that might kill some of the germs. It’ll probably sting like the devil.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Well, good luck with him then,” Maggie said. “He’s a tough one to place, so I hope it works out.”

  Bertha could see the cat’s yellow eye at one of the holes in the cardboard. He looked like he was plotting her demise. “We’re going to be fine, aren’t we, Snuggles?”

  The cat growled.

  On the way home, Bertha stopped at a drug store to get some antiseptic and Band-Aids. Snuggles seemed to have calmed down. She left him in the carrier, which sat in the passenger seat, and when she returned with the items, plus some Little Debbie Snack Cakes and a cat toy, the carrier was turned over onto the floorboard. Snuggles was loose in the Jeep somewhere. She threw the stuff into the back end and closed it quickly, then got herself into the driver’s seat the same way. As she pulled back onto the street she heard “Meow,” from beneath the seat. Then he was on the seat next to her, looking out the passenger window.

  She didn’t touch him but said, “What do you think of the Jeep, Snuggles?”

  He didn’t say.

  Bertha waited until the garage was closed before she tried to get out. She left the door to the kitchen open as she unloaded. On the second trip, something at her side startled her. A closer look revealed an orange tail straight up in the air. Snuggles walked beside her into the house, and she closed the door. Although she put food and water out for him and readied the cat box, she didn’t see him again until the middle of the night.

  The phone woke her and she reached for it. Her feet were tangled in the blanket and she tried to kick it off as she said, “Hello?”

  “Hello, Bertha. Did I wake you?”

  “Who the fuck is this?” No one could physically hurt her on the phone, but she flinched when she recognized the whisper of the caller.

  “So you’re alone now?”

  She didn’t respond, but asked herself, how he knew that? Then again, he’d said he knew everything.

  “Are you there, Bertha?”

  She hung up, turned on the light, and tried to pull her feet from the covers. Snuggles protested. The weight across her feet was the cat. She reached for the steno pad and logged the call.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday morning, a thin, fine rain came, misty and dull. Bertha rose early, filled the cat’s water and food bowls, and went into the pantry to scoop the litter. The cat had used the box during the night, and she counted that as a good sign. After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a Key West sweatshirt. Coming home the day before, she’d been so distracted by the cat that she couldn’t remember where she’d tossed her keys. She patted her pockets and checked the kitchen counters. She found her purse on the floor near the door to the garage but no keys. Back in the bedroom, even though she’d never put her keys there, she checked the nightstands with no luck. She finally found them on the dresser in the flat ceramic ashtray where she often threw change. Doree’d made it for her in the fourth grade—a Mother’s Day gift.

  Bertha grabbed the keys, then stopped for a moment. Beneath them, mixed with several quarters, was Grandma’s storage-unit keys and Toni’s pinky ring. She reached for the ring and the dish fell off the dresser. While it didn’t break, things scattered on the carpet, and Toni’s ring rolled into the heat vent. She squatted, her knee joints popping with the effort, and brushed the change aside. She lifted the cover of the vent and reached into the darkness. Her hand came back covered with dust and cobwebs. On all fours, she crawled three feet to her nightstand, opened the little drawer, and found a flashlight. The phone rang and she pulled herself up to answer it.

  “Are you running late?”

  Bertha checked her watch. “I am. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Hurry. I’m waiting to order and I’m hungry.”

  “Okay, Pop, I’m walking out the door as we speak.”

  Bertha quickly washed her hands and grabbed her purse. The mess would have to wait.

  When she pulled up in front of the I-Hop close to twenty minutes later, she found the parking lot was puddled and slicked up with rain, reflecting light from a flickering fluorescent sign. The “p” in “hop” was burnt out. The rest of the world was gunmetal gray. The hiss of tires on wet pavement called from the street behind her.

  The usual noisy Sunday-morning church crowd was lined up waiting to be seated. She scanned the room and found Pop Wilson in a booth to her right. Moving toward him, she had to squeeze between the tables. A kid in a high chair caught her arm and left a sticky trail with his fingers.

  Pop poured coffee from the carafe into her cup.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I got sidetracked.”

  “You? Sidetracked?” Pop chided her.

  Bertha shrugged. “Sorry.” She picked up a napkin, dabbed the tip in her water glass, and started working on the syrup spot.

  Pop waved it off. “It’s nice to have a few moments to myself. I get very little of that these days. Being retired means I’m with the wife 24/7. After forty-six years, that’s too much togetherness. Plus, she babysits the grandkids. It’s not so easy to love them unconditionally when they’re hanging on to you day in and day out.” He’d been retired for more than five years now and had picked up a few pounds.

  Bertha asked herself when he’d started talking so much. He’d said more about his home life in the last thirty seconds than she’d heard in the thirty years she’d known him.

  A white girl in a waitress uniform, who had a cleft chin and a face that would have been pretty if it hadn’t been so empty, appeared next to them. “Y’all ready to order?”

  Pop smiled up at her. “Give me the blueberry pancakes and bacon—well done.” He motioned toward Bertha and added, “These are on one ticket.”

  Bertha said, “Same for me. But skip the bacon.”

  The waitress picked up the menus and
departed.

  Pop wrinkled his nose. “You got to tell them to cook the bacon in this place. They don’t do it otherwise.”

  Bertha nodded sympathetically. She’d worked a grill, in a little coffee shop near campus, her last year of college. She knew how long it took to cook bacon once the heat had been sucked out of the grill by several other orders.

  “Did you notice her Adam’s apple?”

  “You’re kidding.” Bertha strained to see her walk away but could only see her back.

  Pop said, “If she has an Adam’s apple, she must be a he, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I could be wrong.”

  Bertha wasn’t so sure.

  Pop freshened their coffees and set the carafe to the edge of the table. He did the cream-and-sugar thing while Bertha watched. At length he looked at her and asked, “So. How you doing?”

  Bertha shrugged. “One thing you can say about life is that it keeps coming.”

  Pop nodded. “Analisa is worried about you.”

  Bertha blinked. “Really?”

  “All of us are.”

  “You speaking for your family at home or your real family?”

  “Both.”

  “So you’re still in touch with the guys downtown?”

  “Mostly retirees like me,” Pop said. “We have a Facebook page where we plan get-togethers and the like. A handful of us eat at Bob Evans on Monday mornings.”

  “Facebook?” Bertha was surprised. Pop was probably in his eighties. Most people that age had decided they’d lived this long without Facebook and could manage a little longer.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Bertha asked, “What was that?”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Grandma has a new boyfriend. He’s in his fifties and white.”

  “White? Are you kidding me? She’s a bigger racist than George Wallace.”

  “Who?”

  “Governor George Wallace, from Alabama. You remember.”

  “Stood on the school steps—I was a little kid.”

  “That’s right. As a black woman, it’s your duty to know who he was.”

  “Give me a break. I’ve had a lot to think about lately.”