Strays

by Matthew Krause

  “What about her?” Kyle asked. He could feel the muscles in his legs tensing, coiling to spring him from his seat and challenge Tom to battle. He glanced over at Strawberry and Trudy, who seemed to be inching back from the table with every word spoken, clearing the way for a makeshift arena where he and Tom could settle this like men.

  “You think you get her when all this is said and done?” asked Tom. “Is that what’s in it for you?”

  “Who says anything’s in it for me?” snapped Kyle. “Maybe this isn’t even about me.”

  “It’s always about you!” Tom’s fingers were tightening, kneading against the table. “Your kind doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for yourself.”

  Kyle noted Tom’s arms, firm and cut and trembling with an effort to restrain. At any moment, he might pounce over the table and make the first move if Kyle did not chose his next words carefully. With great care, he reached down and removed Molly’s hand from his leg. He then lifted both hands, offered them both palm up and open. Dad had told him once—

  Never lost a fight because I always found a way to stay out of them.

  —that the idea for the friendly wave came from primitive man raising a hand to show that he had no weapon. He might as well allow himself to be unarmed right now.

  “It’s none of your business why I’m here, Tom,” he said, “and I don’t feel I’m required to tell you. Nevertheless, I will … if it will un-bunch your panties a little bit.”

  Kyle heard a snort to his left, and he glanced over at Strawberry, who was covering her mouth to suppress a laugh. Well, why not? The annoyed look on Tom’s face was priceless.

  “Speak,” Tom said. “I’m all ears.”

  Kyle folded his hands on the table next to his cup of coffee, stared at his intertwined fingers a moment. “I don’t know what it’s like for you cat-people—”

  “Don’t call us that,” Tom interrupted. “We’re not a bunch of freaks out of a comic book.”

  Kyle nodded. “My apologies. I don’t know what it’s like for you … for your kind, but for my kind, for … for humans—”

  “Strays,” Tom corrected.

  “For us, the world doesn’t add up most of the time. It’s like your whole life is spent being told you’re supposed to be something you never can be. Does that make sense?”

  Tom’s face was confused, but it also seemed to soften. “No, not really.”

  “We’ve got these things called movies,” Kyle continued. “You heard of movies, Tom?”

  Tom grinned. “We’re not living with the Amish here. I’ve heard of movies.”

  Kyle smiled back, and the first real moment of understanding seemed to pass between them. “These movies,” he said. “They show us things. Men behaving the way men are supposed to behave. Women looking the way every woman wants to look but no woman possibly could.” He looked at Molly and smiled. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  Molly met his gaze but did not smile back.

  “You go through life being told by these movies what you should be,” Kyle went on, “but where I come from you never get a chance to be it.” He stopped to reflect on his own words, as if they had appeared in front of his face without his summoning them. In that moment, something fell over him, he was back in time, rising in the early morning hours to roll and deliver his newspapers, over and over, every morning without fail, like the eternal rolling of the stone up the hill.

  “You do the same thing, day in, day out,” he muttered, “and no one outside your little town knows if you live or if you die.”

  He glanced up at Tom to see if he was getting this. He clearly was not—how could anyone with his powers possibly get it?—but it looked as if he was at least trying.

  “It’s like this,” Kyle said. “When you’re a guy like me, living in that place, and a pretty girl like Molly comes along and tells you you’re made for something else, that you have something special to do, well …” He paused and looked at Molly again, and this time Molly found a smile to give back to him. “A guy like me doesn’t ask questions. He just goes, you know? He trusts his heart and goes.”

  He looked about for more words, drumming his fingers on the table. He found nothing, so he looked at Tom and nodded. “Any of this making sense?”

  “Maybe,” Tom said. “Maybe.”

  * * * *

  Even if the window hadn’t been open to let a breeze pass through the house, Sarah would have caught every word Kyle said. She wanted to ignore it, to shut out his voice (which was about as pleasant to her as squeaky hinge), but his words—his thoughts—had loped after her, hanging around in her brain like a lost puppy. It wasn’t so much that she consciously heard what he was saying, but there was a sense of his essence now, sort of clinging to her like dust, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Sure, what he had just said was kind of nice, and maybe a part of her—the part that had tried to get lost in the magical high school of Grease so many years ago—felt the same way. But still, there was something off about the guy, something that didn’t seem to fit with anything in the world, least of all with her.

  She was grateful, at least, that the fight was diffused, not so much because she had worried for Tom’s safety (Tom could have taken Kyle out blindfolded, and he wouldn’t have to bare his claws to do it) but because she had no need for more violence. Her whole life had been violence, be it a flying boot to her ribcage or something much worse, and she had run away from the Nightmare House to find a peaceful place. Watching Tom engage in another fight, this time with someone who was claimed to be a friend, would not make such peace come to pass.

  And then she saw the Datsun making its slow grind down the hill.

  There was no mistaking that weathered old truck, its hazy blue-gray finish that always reminded Sarah of the rainy skies of Tacoma. It was as if a piece of that sky had fallen to earth and followed her here, a bitter reminder of the world she had just managed to escape.

  Faux-Dad, she thought. I knew you’d come.

  In a way, she was almost relieved that the constant fear of Big Buddy finding her had now passed. No more looking over her shoulder, no more nightmares of his thunderous gray boots. Big Buddy Faux-Dad had bullied his way into this world, and in minutes he would be here, standing in the yard and demanding she return to the place of very bad dreams.

  She reached over to one of the posts supporting the roof over the porch and pulled herself to her feet. She did not take her eyes off the road to the west as she eased over to the side of the house and tapped on the sill of the window. The people in the kitchen stirred.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  There was a noisy shamble of scooted chairs and footsteps as everyone bolted from the table and came tumbling onto the porch as if emerging from a clown car. She could hear their feet tramping about, and Tom was at her side at once, hands upon her shoulders.

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sarah.

  They all stood in silence on the porch as the blue-gray Datsun pickup rolled across the culvert and into Trudy’s large gravel drive. Sarah could make out the shape of two people in the truck, the swollen head like a rotted watermelon that was Big Buddy, and a second person, possibly female but not Sarah’s mother because Mom’s hair was not as long and wavy. For a moment, Sarah wondered if Big Buddy had taken up with another woman … and then she remembered the forest two days earlier and realized it was not a woman at all.

  The Datsun’s croaking engine grumbled and died. The driver-side door opened. A pudgy, calloused hand Sarah knew all too well reached up and grabbed the edge of the door.

  And then out into the Oregon morning stepped the man Sarah feared most, the bulky, lumbering mass of a monster called Big Buddy.

  Face-Off

  “What’s the plan?” Kyle whispered. He stood behind Tom and Sarah, peering between their heads and above their touching shoulders at the thing in the yard.

  Tom turned his head slightly, never letting his e
yes leave the creature. “You tell me. It’s your call now.”

  “My call?” Kyle asked. “I’m the last per—”

  “I’m not interested in your excuses,” Tom interrupted. “You’re calling the shots now.”

  “I can’t do that,” Kyle insisted. “You’re the one that got Sarah here in one piece. Shouldn’t calling the shots be your job?”

  Tom let his hands drop from Sarah’s shoulders and stepped back until he was alongside Kyle. He nudged Molly back so he could draw close, and he spoke in low tones. “I’d like nothing better,” he whispered. “But you’re here now. We take our cues of you.”

  “No,” Kyle muttered. “I can’t.”

  “It’s the way that it is,” Tom said. “This is your battle.”

  He took the hem of his own t-shirt and peeled it up, flipping it over his head and tossing it on the floor of the porch. He stood bare-chested and pale, every inch of his torso knotted with thick cords of muscle. He reached down and unbuckled his belt. A strange, buzzing electricity trembled in air.

  “What are you doing?” Kyle asked.

  Tom ignored him, letting his pants drop to his ankles. He stood in a pair of blue boxer shorts and nodded in the direction of Trudy. “Apologies, Miss Trudy, it’s no time for modesty.”

  “No problem,” Trudy said, turning her head away. Tom slid the boxers down to his ankles. Kyle moved forward, shielding Tom’s naked body from Sarah’s eyes, but she did not see, her face transfixed by the thing in the gravel drive.

  The spirited buzz in the space about Kyle’s head was like a hive of bees. He heard someone shuffle behind him. He placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, and Sarah started, glancing back at him. He knew then what had to be done.

  A voice in his ear then, no more than a whisper … Molly’s voice: “We can help you if you want, but you have to ask for it.”

  “No,” Kyle said. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Tom’s right. This is my battle. I’m just not sure how to beat him.”

  “It isn’t about beating anyone. It isn’t about winning.” He felt Molly’s face nuzzle against his neck. “You’re fighting something else, and what’s more, you’re fighting for something else. Don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We’ll stay out of the way unless you ask for our help … or if he hurts one of our own. If he attacks one of us, all the bets are off, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Kyle said.

  He felt Molly move away, and the air shimmered with her static now, so great that Kyle thought his heart might stop. He glanced out in the yard at the gathering of cats, dozens of them packed together on the grass like campers at an outdoor concert. From between his feet, a new cat bounded off the porch to join them, heavy and strong and covered with a short coat of ginger fur the color of Tom’s hair. The ginger cat slid into the front of the feline ranks, and then a second cat, this one more of a reddish-blonde long-hair (has to be Strawberry, Kyle thought), performed an acrobatic leap into the yard and stood at the ready, sidling up next to Tom.

  At last, the third cat appeared at Kyle’s feet, pressing her head against his shin and rubbing the length of her body against it. She was black as a raven’s feather, her ample coat full and billowing in the morning breeze. She looked up at Kyle with blood-red eyes, blinking once before turning and jumping off the porch to join the others. That cat, of course, the damned cat that had pulled Kyle into a life shackled to Seby Lee all those years ago. Kyle watched as Molly took her place next to Tom, puffing her fluffy chest and tilting her chin to the sky.

  When the final gathering of cats and cat-people (Kyle had no other name for them, and he rather enjoyed that the term aggravated Tom) were grouped in the yard, Kyle knew his moment had come. With his hand still on Sarah’s shoulders, he gave a gentle squeeze, then took the three stone steps down from the porch to the yard. He allowed himself three more steps toward the gravel drive, keeping the cats in formation on his right, placing himself between the porch and the thing by the Datsun truck. He glanced through the pickup’s windshield and saw the shape of a passenger, someone with long wavy hair, possibly the driver’s girlfriend. Whoever she was, she was not getting out just yet.

  “Morning,” Kyle said. It was best to start things slow, he decided. Regardless of what these people wanted, it was unwise to blunder in blindly. Kyle took another step, arms loose at his sides but palms visible to show they were open. “What can I do for you today?”

  The thing that had emerged from the Datsun stood a full head taller than Kyle, its broad shoulders declining out from its neck in twin harsh slopes, the way the side of a hill looks after a rock slide. Heavy dark slacks sagged around its abundant belly, and dirt and oil darkened its weathered cowboy shirt as thick pools of sweat-stain formed under each armpit. Kyle looked the creature over, top to bottom, and for some reason his eyes settled on its boots, what looked to be size 16’s or larger, massive mud-caked boats that reminded Kyle of the cumbersome weighted feet of Boris Karloff in those old Frankenstein films.

  “Name’s Smallhouse,” the thing said. “Bud Smallhouse. Folks call me Big Buddy.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Kyle replied. “Kyle Winthrop, at your service.”

  Big Buddy flashed an easy smile and tucked his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. He tugged his slacks upward, and his eyes darted to the porch, where Sarah and Trudy watched from the shadows.

  “That there’s Sarah,” Big Buddy said. “She’s my girl.”

  Kyle nodded and realized he was mimicking his father a bit. He could almost feel Dad—

  My son.

  —pulling the strings just now. Dad with his easy, agreeable demeanor, listening with that affable nod to let you know he heard you. Kyle even felt Dad’s ornery grin flickering across his face, and he kind of liked how it felt. Go ahead, Dad, he thought. You’re a part of me. You run the show.

  “My girl there,” Big Buddy said, “she run away from home last week. Got her mother worried something awful.”

  A chill wriggled down Kyle’s neck, settling between the shoulder blades. Where had he heard that one before? He knew well enough, and he could see by the way Big Buddy’s fat brows hunkered down as he squinted that he was trying to make his eyes smaller, masking the lies behind them.

  “Her mother okay?” Kyle asked, working as much genuine concern into his voice as he could. “She’s not sick or anything is she?”

  Big Buddy shook his head. “Nah, she’s not sick, just worried.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Kyle. “Well, as you can see, Sarah’s just fine. If you’d like, we can call her mom and put her mind at ease. Would you like that?”

  One of those heavy sloped shoulders convulsed and contracted, the way a batter might recoil to avoid contact from an inside pitch. Whatever Kyle said, Big Buddy did not like it.

  “That ain’t necessary,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just get my girl and take her on home.”

  Kyle looked back over his shoulder at Sarah, who had shrunk further back in the shade of the porch roof. Trudy had taken a position in front of the girl, one shoulder overlapping, offering herself as a last line of defense. Kyle locked onto Sarah and made sure she was looking at him, and then he offered her the nod, his father’s nod, assuring her that everything would be all right.

  “I guess that would be okay,” he said, turning back to Big Buddy. “Provided you’re who you say you are.”

  Big Buddy took his thumbs out of his pocket and let his arms poke out like a gunslinger’s. “What do you mean who I say I am? That’s my girl. I’m her father. And unless you want a world of trouble, you’ll let her go home with me.”

  Big Buddy took a step toward the house, coming within a couple of feet from the edge where the gravel drive ended and the yard began. Kyle did not move, did not even allow his body to flinch. “I can’t just let her hop in a car and ride off with any old stranger, can I?”


  “I’m not a stranger,” Big Buddy snarled. “I’m the girl’s father.”

  “I believe you, sir,” Kyle replied, lifting his hands in his favorite placating gesture. “I truly do. But I need to have proof, you know? If I turn her over to you, and it turns out you’re not who you say you are, well … you see the dilemma I’m facing.”

  Big Buddy’s brows arched, and he rolled his eyes. “I’m her father. Dammit, boy, don’t make me say it again.”

  “There’s an easy way to settle this,” Kyle said. With palms still out, he turned his head to the porch. “Sarah? You’re hearing all this?”

  Silence hung in the air for a good five seconds before he heard her voice, soft and fighting to suppress a tremble. “Yes.”

  “So you know what I’m going to ask you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me, is this gentleman your father?”

  More silence, this time even longer. Kyle lowered his hands and turned full toward the porch, offering his back to Big Buddy. If the older man was coward enough to attack him from behind, well, so be it, but Kyle didn’t think it would come to that yet.

  “It’s okay, Sarah.” he said. He met her eyes and provided her with the soothing nod again. “You’re safe. You know that, right?”

  Sarah did not speak, but he could see her nod from the dimness of the porch.

  “So is he, Sarah?” Kyle repeated. “Is he your father?”

  Sarah met Kyle’s eyes. It seemed as if every bolt and nut and washer holding her together from the inside had been tightened an extra quarter-turn, hardening her jaw. Not the coldness Kyle often saw in the faces of girls back when he roamed the halls of Landes High with Seby Lee, but something stronger, unyielding.

  “No,” she said. “He’s not my father.”

  “Now just a damned minute,” Big Buddy barked. “That’s a lie and you know it, Sarah.”

  “He’s not my father,” Sarah repeated. “I don’t know who my father is. That’s just some man who married my mom.”

  “Okay, sure,” Big Buddy admitted. “We’re not flesh and blood, but I’m as good as her dad. I’ve been with her mother since she was a little girl.”