Something Worth Saving

by Sandi Ward

  “What?” Dad flinches. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me. I said knock it off. This isn’t your mess to clean up. This is our house now. You moved out, remember? We’ll deal with it.”

  Dad gawks at his oldest son, just for a moment, and then his face relaxes. “That was not my idea. To move out. That was not what I wanted.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just—I just worry about you guys. I don’t want you to have to deal with any problems. That’s all. I’ll go.” Yanking open the car door, he climbs in and pulls his door shut. The car immediately starts to back out of the driveway.

  Charlie and Victoria stand there. They half-heartedly wave good-bye to their dad, who nods back. Charlie finally walks through the garage and goes into the house. Victoria bites her lower lip, waiting for a moment to see what her mom and brother have to say.

  Mom grabs Kevin’s elbow. “What was that about?”

  “He’s in a bad mood,” Kevin grumbles. “He had a few beers. Whatever. He’s not your problem anymore. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Kevin yanks his arm away from his mom, picks up his duffel bag, and heads inside.

  “Kevin,” she tries one last time. But it’s too late. He’s gone. Victoria shrugs, and follows her brother inside.

  Mom’s eyes water up as she looks over the garage, high and low. She hesitates, and then pulls her phone out of her back pocket. She puts one hand over her stomach, as if she doesn’t feel well.

  “Vincent,” she says, voice trembling, hand gripping the phone too tight. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but were you here today? What? What’s his name? Mark? Well, he left a terrible mess. It’s a disaster. Yes? It’s really not . . . Okay, you’ll call him? Right now? Okay. Thank you. Sorry again.”

  Mom is always saying sorry about something.

  She finds a broom, shakes the dust off it, and props it against the side of the garage. Then she turns back to the car and takes in a load of groceries. She makes three trips, back and forth. Usually Kevin helps her, but not today.

  The whole time, Mom’s lips move as she talks silently to herself. I think she is preparing what she is going to say to the man to express her disapproval.

  Oh dear. I wait outside. I want to see the man when he arrives. I wish I could warn him!

  Eventually, a black truck pulls up and parks at the curb. Yes, it’s him. He gets out and comes up the driveway cautiously. From the look on his face, I suppose he knows he has done something wrong and Mom is mad about it. He looks into the garage. Both doors are wide open. I watch his eyes light up as he looks around, thumbs in his jeans pockets. His left hand is wrapped in a bandage. Finally, he nods in understanding. Seeing the broom, he grabs it and starts sweeping the floor.

  I wander out and sit in the driveway, careful not to get in the way of the clouds of dust he creates as he sweeps. He works quietly, head down.

  When he stops for a moment, he rests his head against his hands on the broom. He looks exhausted, and I assume it’s not from sweeping. His eyes flicker up, and he sees me.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he says again, in a weary voice.

  I think I must remind him of someone or something. Crouching down, he extends a hand to me.

  I’m not as desperate for human attention as Gretel is. Normally, I’d walk away. But in this case, I make an exception. I feel bad for the man. He did make a terrible mess, but he also seems very unskilled at building. I’m not sure why Vincent hired him.

  I get up on all fours and walk over to him. The sawdust makes me sneeze again. I shake my head and then continue my approach. I put my wet nose up to his fingers, carefully. They are dusty, but it is a pleasant scent. I go ahead and rub my head and body against his knee, looking up to study him. When he crouches down, I put two paws right up on his leg and stretch to get closer.

  Here is one thing I like about the man: his posture. Unlike Charlie and Kevin, who often walk hunched over as if they are hoping no one notices them, this man holds his head up and his back straight.

  If he were an animal, I can see this man would be a stag. Fearless, alert, and curious. I can almost imagine the antlers sprouting up from atop his head.

  He is just picking me up with two hands when Mom swings the door open, hard and with purpose. She stands in the doorway to the house, her forehead creased and mouth half-open as if ready to address him.

  The man is already in the motion of lifting me to his chest, and he holds me there. But he does a very funny thing. Usually when Charlie carries me, he hoists me up onto his shoulder. And when Mom needs to move me, she puts a hand under my chest and one under my haunches, so I can face forward and look around at where we are going. But this man does it differently.

  He flips me upside down, so we are face-to-face. He is holding me the way a human holds his baby.

  Seriously. He is cradling me as if I were a baby!

  How strange. I’ve never had a person hold me like this before. It’s not bad. The man has a firm grip, and I feel secure.

  I sense the man’s heart beating through my fur. I look up at his hair, at the way it waves, and a few strands stick out here and there, and I have half a mind to bat at it with my paw. But I decide to leave it alone. I’m cozy right where I am, and if I get too squirmy he might put me down.

  Here is another thing I like about the man: He holds me with ease, as if he’s done it a million times before, as if his arms were made for holding someone just my size. I feel comfortable in his hands, not skittish. I am sure he will never drop me.

  I wait for Mom to say something. But she just frowns when she sees the man has me nestled against his chest.

  Well! This is awkward for me. I don’t usually allow a stranger to hold me like this.

  I wait another moment. Mom’s eyes soften. Her mouth quivers, and whatever she was planning to say dies on her lips.

  Ah. It is the same reaction I had. I can see this man is not at all what she was expecting. Perhaps it is that he’s not like Vincent, weary with responsibilities. There is something innocent and expressive in this man’s face.

  Mom takes four steps down into the garage, and now instead of looking down at the man, she must look up at him. She stops suddenly, as if there is an invisible wall between them. “You’re Mark . . . ?”

  “Yeah. I’m really sorry about the sawdust on everything. I wasn’t really thinking about it, and I should have cleaned up. I’m taking care of it now.” He pauses, and bends to gently place me back down on the cold cement floor.

  When he straightens back up, Mom is still standing there staring at him, as if there is something she was meaning to say but can’t remember what it is. Mark reaches for the broom to show he’s ready to get back to work.

  Mom glances down at me, puzzled, then back at Mark. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” She seems suddenly flustered. “I’m sorry to make you hurry back here. It’s not really a big deal—”

  “No, it’s okay,” he interrupts. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have left a mess.”

  The man seems genuine in his concern. I turn to look at Mom. She is pale, and her hair needs brushing. To me, she appears fragile. Mom is easily upset, and not the kind of person you want to see suffering, because it is so plain on her face.

  “Still. I didn’t mean you had to hurry back here right now, on a Sunday. I don’t know why—I mean, I did tell Vincent I needed it cleaned up, but—I’m sorry you had to rush back here just to sweep up. It seems so silly and pointless, now that you’re here.”

  Her eyes go right back to his face. Perhaps she is as surprised as I was to see that he has so many freckles with such dark hair.

  “It’s fine.” I notice he does not mention that he hurt himself. Perhaps he does not want Mom to know that he’s not very good with the saw.

  Mom gives him a nervous nod. “Thank you for coming, anyway.”

  “No worries. I’ll leave it like I found it.”

  Enough already, I want to say to Mom, you’re talking
in circles now. He feels bad. He’s fixing the problem. Your job is done.

  It is unfortunate that humans feel the need to talk so much, to fill every silence. They should hear themselves talk sometimes. They would realize how much energy they waste.

  Mom’s mouth opens, but no words come out, almost as if she has read my thoughts. She reaches down and snatches me up, as if she’s afraid Mark is going to steal me away. I relax in her arms as she turns to head back into the house. But she spins at the door, making me dizzy. “I’m Kate, by the way. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself.”

  “Kate,” he repeats.

  Okay, I think, he’s got it under control now. Let’s go inside.

  It still takes her a moment. Finally, she reaches over, and misses the doorknob on her first try, probably because my big furry body prevents her from seeing what she’s trying to grab. On the second try, she opens the door.

  And in we go.

  Chapter 8

  Rocking Chair

  The next time Vincent comes over, he has a brown bag in his hand. Mom greets Vincent with a pat on his shoulder, and he hands her the bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “We brought you breakfast.”

  Mom places one hand on her heart. “Thank you so much, Vincent,” she says. Looking in the bag, she reaches in and pulls out a plump muffin topped with crumbs.

  “Don’t thank me,” Vincent says, his cheeks rosy from the cool morning air. “It was Mark’s idea. He felt bad about the mess.”

  “Oh.” Mom frowns at the memory. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I felt terrible about making him hurry over here.”

  “Nah, you kidding me?” Vincent shakes his head. “He shouldn’t have left without cleaning up. His head is in the clouds sometimes, as they say.”

  Vincent goes back out to the garage and I hear him talking to Mark. The two of them are probably setting up their sawhorses. Mom goes upstairs and I hear her start the washing machine. I lie down on the kitchen floor. I find the sound of the water running in the pipes upstairs very relaxing.

  When Gretel suddenly trots into the room, I look around to see what she has sensed that I do not. She has such good hearing that she seemingly anticipates things before they happen.

  Sure enough, I hear a door swing open and Mark comes into the kitchen from the garage. He looks around to see if anyone is in sight.

  When he realizes that it is just Gretel and I who greet him, Mark approaches the kitchen sink and refills his water bottle. On the way back out to the garage, he stops at the entrance to the study and surveys the wall where the bookshelves will go. Gretel moves past him into the room and he follows her, stopping in front of our family photos. I remember he looked at these photos before. He gives Gretel a scratch between her ears when she looks up at him with her big brown eyes.

  There is something about the way Gretel looks at humans that makes them respond. She always looks a little bit sad, I think. Like she needs them to acknowledge her. But I don’t think that’s how she actually feels. I think she’s just interested and perhaps suspicious. Always trying to determine who is a friend and who is not.

  Feeling a little jealous, I run forward and push my wet nose into Mark’s leg to put my scent onto him. I’m not surprised when he reaches down with two hands and scoops me up.

  Look, this is not a competitive thing, but—no one can pick up Gretel. She’s huge. I’m the right size for a cuddle.

  Taking a few steps backward, Mark sinks into a rocking chair, taking care not to jostle me. As he did before, he flips me over so he can rest me in the crook of his arm and look me in the eye.

  “Sweetheart,” he says, and his voice is a deep rumble. I like it. I can feel the vibrations in his chest when he speaks. “Aren’t you a good girl? Yes. You’re a good girl. You have big eyes.” He rubs my tummy gently, swirling around my fur, and I blink with gratitude.

  I feel incredibly secure. Mark holds me tight, and I can tell he will not put me down until he is good and ready.

  He speaks slowly, as if I don’t understand English very well. “Your eyes are so big. You’re a pretty baby and so soft. You’re a very good kitty.”

  Why yes, I am.

  I love the scent of him. I carefully poke my nose forward so it bumps against his T-shirt. It’s very soft and smells like the cinnamon Mom shakes into her coffee. It is not something I would eat, but it is familiar, and therefore pleasing to me.

  There is a slight sound—an almost imperceptible hum—and it causes my ear to twitch. I watch Mark raise his head, mouth open. I turn my head to see what he’s looking at.

  It’s Mom. She stands in the open doorway, arms crossed, leaning her head against the doorframe. A smirk twitches at the corner of her mouth, and I can see she finds this very entertaining.

  Goodness! I’ve been caught cuddling again. With the same man.

  I check back with Mark to see if he is as embarrassed as I am. But I don’t think he is. Instead, a smile grows on his face, the same wide, lopsided smile I saw before. It lights up his entire face, opening it up like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He looks happy. Almost glowing.

  His smile is an amazing thing to see, and it intrigues me. No one in my family smiles quite like that.

  Not one of them.

  Ever.

  “You like cats?”

  Mark chuckles. “Sure.” He shrugs. “Who doesn’t?”

  Mom hums again. Just a little “mmmm.” It’s a funny sound. Almost as if she wants to purr.

  I start purring myself, at that silly thought. I just can’t help it.

  Gretel turns in a circle and sits back down, looking from human to human. I suspect she’s a little jealous.

  Too bad. Get over it.

  Mom stares and rubs her elbow with one hand absentmindedly. I suppose she thinks it is funny to see someone sitting in the old wooden rocking chair. Grandpa gave it to our family a few years ago, when Grandma died. No one in our family actually ever uses the chair. I have tried to jump up on the seat, but I find the polished wood slippery and uncomfortable. Yet Mark seems perfectly fine in the chair, possibly because he is sitting up straight and leaning back into it. He has found the right balance to make the chair work.

  “Do you have kids?” Mom suddenly blurts out. “I can tell you do. You have a baby at home, right?”

  And with these words, his smile diminishes. Mark’s eyes are still friendly, but the cheerfulness fades. He looks a little confused.

  “Me? No.” He clears his throat. “No kids.”

  “Kate!” Vincent bursts into the room. “Did I tell you they said Caroline could come home from the hospital this weekend? I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

  Mom spins to face Vincent, pushing off from the door frame. “Oh, that’s great news,” she gushes. “I’m so glad. Tell me what the doctors said.”

  She and Vincent talk excitedly in the kitchen. I am glad Vincent has some good news to share.

  Mark looks down at me, and I back at him. I give him a quick wink. I think we have a bond.

  “You’re a very lucky cat,” he murmurs to me, relaxing and lowering his arms so I can settle myself on his lap. “You have a nice home.” I sense that he wants to get up from the chair. I can usually tell when a human needs me to jump down because I feel their leg muscles tense. So I oblige, and hop to the rug.

  Sure enough, the next thing I know Mark is on the move and headed back out to the garage. I slink over to Mom in the kitchen, and rub my face on her ankles. I can’t believe she caught me with Mark again. I hope she understands that my interest in him does not diminish my love for her.

  “Is Jeremy doing okay?” I hear Vincent say in a low voice.

  It takes me a moment to realize that Vincent is not talking about his wife anymore. Now he is asking about Dad.

  “Sure,” Mom says. “You know. As well as ever.” She shrugs. “Same as always. No change. But it’s okay.” She tucks her hair behind her ears.

  Vincent looks at her
over his glasses, which slip down a bit on his nose. “All right.”

  “He’s fine. And I’m fine. Honestly.”

  “Okay, Kate. If you say so. Just thought I’d ask.”

  She pats his arm. “Thanks for asking.”

  Mark steps back into the kitchen, the red toolbox in his hand. “Thought I’d bring this in, just in case you need it.”

  “So . . .” Mom leans against the kitchen counter and looks Mark up and down. “I’m glad you found an assistant.”

  Vincent smiles. “Well, I needed the help, and Mark happened to be available.”

  Vincent and Mark start talking about the plans for the new bookshelves, and Mom makes coffee. Vincent outlines some of the details of the project to Mark, who nods and asks a few questions. Mom brings a cup of coffee over to the kitchen table, where she sits and cuts her muffin in half.

  Gretel sits patiently but watches Mom’s every movement. She knows that food is being prepared.

  “Oh, Gretel, it’s just a muffin.” Mom sighs. “It’s not really for dogs.”

  I remember when Dad first asked Mom about bringing a dog home. I was the only family pet at the time. Dad talked to Mom several times about a working dog who had been injured. He said she was a beautiful, loyal dog who was still young and deserved to retire early with a nice family. Dad had worked with this dog himself for over two years, and he loved her and wanted to bring her home.

  Mom was nervous about it. She was afraid the big dog would hurt someone accidentally. She wondered if the dog might turn vicious when she got excited.

  Mom asked many questions, including:

  1. Doesn’t this dog attack people at work? Isn’t that what you trained her to do?

  2. What if she attacked someone here?

  3. What about Lily? Will this dog be good with a cat? Has she ever even met a cat?

  These questions got my attention, believe me.

  I see dogs around the neighborhood, and I avoid them without a problem. For the most part, they are stuck on leashes. And the two times I’ve been chased, I managed to outrun and outsmart those dogs. Despite my limp, I have long powerful legs and an ability to dart through small spaces. I don’t say this to brag. It’s just a fact.