The Kitty Committee

by Kathryn Berla

  “Call you what?” she asked.

  “Lil’ sis,” I said. “It bothers me when you say that.”

  “Awww. Then prove you’re a big girl like us,” Carly said. It felt mean-spirited, and it hurt the way that Carly could pivot so quickly from nurturer to tormentor. I reached for the flask she was holding. I gulped. Once. Twice. Realizing too late that a sip would have been better than a gulp, my throat felt as though a fork was scraping down its length. I wanted to spit it out or puke it out or run for a glass of water or just open my mouth and scream. But I held onto my composure as tightly as I’d ever held on before while the fermented juice made a beeline for the command center of my good judgment.

  “Happy?” I stared defiantly at Carly.

  “Rule number two,” she said without losing the smile on her face.

  “One for all and all for one.” Maggie called out gaily from her position laying on her back, arms stretched over her head and lifting the hem of her shirt to reveal naked flesh. Jane sat beside her, head cocked as though listening for the thrum of the universe. The moonlight washed out any semblance of color from her hair and bathed the lovely planes of her face. She picked up a handful of sand and drizzled it onto Maggie’s bare belly.

  “Exactly,” Carly said, smiling. “And don’t ever forget it.” And then softer, so only I could hear. “I’m sorry I called you lil’ sis. I promise I won’t do it again.”

  By then I was already plenty buzzed. I warmed from the inside out to combat the cool of the night. I was loved. I was accepted. Life could never be the same.

  “So, there’s the one for all rule, the no drugs rule—what else did I sign up for?” Jane asked no one in particular. “Tell me before it’s too late.” She had a peculiar but endearing half-snort-half-laugh that made her seem like a big goofy kid.

  “The real rule number one,” I said.

  “Members of the Kitty Committee come before anyone else,” Maggie and Carly said in unison with me.

  “Before anyone? Can Leann be in the Kitty Committee too?”

  Maggie, who was in current possession of the flask, passed it to Jane who took a sip. And then another one. All of a sudden it struck me how rules number one and two were vastly different in intent. Carly had questioned the necessity of rule number two when Maggie first suggested it. But rule number two was positive, supportive, inclusive. Rule number one was exclusive.

  “Oh, sorry.” Carly belched loudly, cushioning what was to come next. “Rule number five: absolutely no one else will be permitted to join.”

  “Awww, that’s sad,” Jane said. “I love you guys, but I love Leann too. And I don’t think anyone should come before my sister, do you?”

  “It’s okay, Jane,” Maggie said. “This is only really for school, and Leann will be at St. Mary’s.”

  “I guess,” Jane said. “What else is there?”

  “Rule number six: no one member is above the others,” I said. It seemed like something Jane couldn’t possibly object to.

  “C’mon, get up,” said Carly, who was the only one still standing. “Let’s go check out the boats at the marina.”

  Maggie was the first to rise. She extended one hand each to both Jane and me and pulled until she fell backward herself. Then another round of giggling while Jane and I got Maggie to her feet.

  “I feel ridiculous out here in my bathrobe,” Jane said. “Go on, what are the other rules? So far, I guess I’m okay with them.”

  “Rule number five,” Carly said as we trudged through the cold sand in the direction of the pier. “No boys should ever come before or between members of the Kitty Committee.”

  “That’s really just the same thing as rule number one,” Maggie added quickly.

  “Like, come between how? Are we even allowed to date?”

  I wondered if Jane had ever dated before. Or Carly and Maggie? I didn’t think so because it had never come up the way you’d think it would as a topic worthy of discussion. Why would Jane care, I wondered, if she’d never had a boyfriend or seriously dated? But then I decided she might be planning for the future, and I wondered if I should be too. I also wondered why Jane was questioning every single rule, and I had only questioned one, the last one. Even then, I hadn’t questioned it so much as remarked on it.

  “It’s just like guys do,” Maggie, who seemed to have appointed herself as explainer-in-chief, continued with her mission of making the Kitty Committee palatable to Jane. “Like guys say ‘bros before hos.’”

  “Yeah, loser guys,” Jane snorted.

  “Yeah, loser guys,” Maggie agreed, too quickly I thought. “But it’s like that. We’re not going to let any guy stop us from being friends.”

  I noticed Carly hadn’t offered an explanation for any of the questionable aspects of our rules.

  “Well, of course not,” Jane said. “Why would we?”

  “Exactly,” I piped in, buoyed by the alcohol. I took the flask from Maggie and drank a much smaller sip than my first two. “We wouldn’t. So that’s easy.”

  Carly smiled at me, and I was proud that I’d explained it so well.

  “Okay, please tell me that’s it,” Jane said. “I don’t know how many more of these rules I can take.”

  “Rule number seven,” Carly said. “If you leave the Kitty Committee, you’re dead to the others.”

  I felt the air leave my lungs as if, in that moment, everything rested on Jane’s acceptance of a rule even I’d had trouble accepting. My feeble protest had been summarily dealt with by Carly, but Jane wasn’t me. Jane had confidence in her opinions. I never contemplated the place where rule number seven came from, but would Jane?

  “Oh my God!” She pulled the bathrobe tightly around her as if overcome by a sudden chill. “That is so . . . heartless.”

  “Again,” Maggie said, handing the flask to Jane. “You can’t take it at face value. It just means that if you’re a real friend, you won’t turn your back on your friends.”

  “And if you do,” I added. “You weren’t really a friend to begin with.”

  Even to myself, this sounded like an inane explanation. You’re a real friend, and then you’re not a real friend, and something about not being a friend in the first place. Who was I kidding? It couldn’t be any clearer. Carly had spelled it out exactly the way she intended. Rule number seven bound us in no uncertain terms, and it gave Carly permission to emotionally punish anyone who defied her will. Of course, we knew it didn’t mean “dead” in the true sense of the word. But it may as well have.

  I believe if the liquor hadn’t impaired her better judgment, rule number seven might have been a deal breaker for Jane.

  But by then, the rules were clear to everyone and, by her refusal to denounce the Kitty Committee, Jane had signed on. We’d arrived at the marina where the boats were docked and, since this was the outer limits of our walk earlier on, Maggie, Jane, and I turned back in the direction of home.

  “Wait,” Carly said. “Who’s up for a boat ride?”

  “We don’t have a boat, but Dad says we’re gonna get one before next summer.”

  “What’s wrong with one of those?” Carly gestured toward the row of boats bobbing on the water like moon ducklings tethered to the dock.

  “Um. They’re not ours,” Jane said.

  “Who’s going to know if we bring it back and leave it where we found it?”

  Maggie and I exchanged uncertain glances. The flask was almost empty. Maggie handed it to me as if offering the necessary courage to proceed. I tilted my head and opened wide. I made a big show of shaking out the last drops, even though there were only drops left to begin with.

  “Wooh! Grace, look at you.” Carly said, apparently unaware I was only swallowing fumes. And I was not about to disavow her of the image of the hard-drinking Grace. “So? Shall we?”

  “How about that one?” Jane point
ed to a metal canoe that had been dragged up on the beach and was only tied down with a rope. Most of the others on the beach had been chained to trees or metal stakes driven into the ground.

  “Uh, don’t you need oars to make it go?” Maggie asked.

  Finally, an area where I had some actual knowledge, having canoed many times down dark and still rivers canopied in veils of green. It was a favorite pastime of my parents, exploring a country from within via its most intimate arteries, its rivers. In the jungle, you had to be careful, knowing you shared the water with creatures who were happy to eat you or, at the very least, bite you should you remove yourself from the protection of your steely cocoon. I knew how to row. How to drag a canoe in and out of the water. How to get in and out without tipping it over. It didn’t take a lot of knowledge, and most of it was obvious, but at least I felt comfortable, although my comfort didn’t extend to being in the actual water without the benefit of a canoe.

  “It’s not to make it go, Maggie.” I chuckled as kindly as an elder aunt. “It’s to steeeer the canoe.”

  “Okay, well there aren’t any oars to steeeer the canoe,” Maggie came back at me, and I wilted a bit under her rare sarcasm.

  “How about these?” Jane pulled a pair of oars from underneath the seats of a nearby chained canoe. “These’ll work.”

  With Jane figuratively on board, we were given the tacit approval to steal, or as we preferred to phrase it, borrow the boat. Maggie and Carly stripped off their jeans and jackets. I was wearing a shortie to begin with, but Jane removed her bathrobe and left it on the beach with the rest of our clothes, shoes, and slippers. We pushed and pulled the canoe, which was much heavier than it looked, until the last shove into the lake where it finally yielded to our will, obedient to the pressure of even a pinky finger. It was only then I was reminded of the bitter iciness of this high mountain lake, fed by melting snow. Earlier in the day, with the sun bearing down on me, the water had seemed refreshing, even invigorating, to my bare legs and feet. Now it telegraphed a warning I did not heed.

  Once we climbed aboard, I picked up the oars and maneuvered away from shore. The water was smooth and glossy like a black opal. On the beach, it made a playful lapping sound, but out there a hush descended from above. I sliced the oars into the water to preserve the stillness the lake seemed to demand at that most private hour, and even the other girls felt it, at least for a while. The night sky was mesmerizing—an explosion of gold dust. A universe with no end.

  “Don’t go out too far,” Jane warned. So I turned the canoe toward the shore and kept it no further than fifty yards away. I steered in the direction of the jetty, not feeling entirely myself, but still lucid enough to properly steer the canoe. Maggie was most far gone, already half-lying, half-sitting on the bottom, her chin resting on her chest. Jane was quiet but watchful, keeping her eye on the shoreline. Carly was quietly composed—I would never have guessed she and Maggie had the same head-start on drinking that night, such different worlds were they inhabiting by then.

  As we rounded the jetty, my arms shook from effort and perhaps from the cold as well. The muscles below my shoulders ached from exertion. Even the back of my neck felt stiff from the awkward shifts in position that rowing demanded. I recalled the sensation and knew I’d be feeling it plenty the next day. I turned in a wide arc to go back to the marina and nobody objected. Maggie was already snoring.

  “I can’t row anymore,” I said. “My arms feel like they’re gonna fall off.”

  “I’ll take over,” Carly said, and the last thing I remember thinking was how quickly she offered and how kind she could be. In order to make room for her, I stood higher than I should have on legs that wobbled more than I realized. My bare foot hit a slick patch of wet and over the side I went.

  When I was five years old, our family lived in Haiti. As one of the poorest countries in its hemisphere, the people suffered greatly. Food and medicine were scarce and scarcer still for dogs. Most dogs were feral, surviving on their own from whatever small rodents they could hunt and any scraps they could scavenge. One such dog took to hanging around our house, and before long, he became the Templetons’ dog.

  He was orange in color with a black muzzle and pointed ears. His eyes radiated innate intelligence. But his skin was scabby, and he most likely had mange because there were patches of missing fur on his body the size of my fist. He scratched relentlessly from a combination of his skin ailment and fleas. Mom said she would try to find medicine to help him, but until then I could only pet him with the bottom of my shoe, and I should never touch him with my bare skin. He wasn’t allowed inside our house. Luke and I named him Tramp, and most nights we filled our pockets with leftover scraps from dinner and shared them with Tramp when Mom wasn’t looking. Like Mary’s little lamb, Tramp followed us everywhere, even waiting for Luke and me while we were in school. At night, he slept outside our front door and barked when other dogs came near. He viewed himself as our protector, and his loyalty never wavered even when scraps of food weren’t forthcoming.

  Then for two days Tramp was missing. I asked Mom, and she said he’d probably found a new home. A new family. But I never believed that was true. We were his family, and he would never abandon us. The next day we drove into town, which was about ten minutes away. On the street by the side of the road was Tramp’s lifeless remains. He’d been hit by a car or a truck, probably three days earlier. Somebody most likely had dragged his dead or dying body to the side of the road. Mom said Tramp was in Heaven, and we’d see him again one day.

  And although my faith had diminished and nearly disappeared by the time I went overboard that night in Lake Tahoe, I thought of Tramp in that deep, dark, cold, and watery place.

  What I learned about that night, I learned later from Carly and Jane. Maggie, who wakened from Jane’s cries, didn’t have an accurate recollection. But I hit that cold water, probably no warmer than sixty degrees, and experienced what they call the cold shock response. The panic of hitting the water caused an involuntary gulp which sent water rushing up my nose, into my mouth, and straight to my lungs. I felt myself slide beneath the surface of the water, unable to control my arms or legs. They say you see your life play out in front of you, and I did. But not like an old movie reel. Like a peaceful passage where I stopped along the way and snagged that memory of Tramp. And then I continued on to my destination, where I was able to imagine the end and peacefully say goodbye to my family. All of this happened in less than two minutes.

  The equal and opposite reaction resulting from my plummet into the lake was to send the canoe further away from me, perhaps about ten feet. And then Jane dove, without a thought for her own safety, toward where she’d last seen my head bob to the surface, mouth agape. Calling out to Carly and Maggie to throw the life jackets overboard, life jackets that none of us were wearing, she held onto one and, pulling me up by the hair, got me to lean on the other. Somehow, they pushed and pulled me into the canoe without overturning it. We were only twenty yards from shore so Jane swam, holding on to the side, while Carly rowed us to the beach.

  I remember retching terribly and shivering so violently that I thought my teeth would crack. Carly and Maggie pressed me between themselves to warm me. They rubbed my arms and back. Gave me their own dry shirts, one on top of the other. They carried me between them while Jane ran ahead to bring up her own body temperature. When we reached the pile of clothes, Jane was still shivering but warming up in her dry bathrobe and Carly’s jacket, which she took off and put over my shoulders. Our night had turned into an adventure, just like Carly promised.

  I fell on my hands and knees and vomited another few times before we got up and went home. There were so many hands touching me, caressing me, gently pushing the wet hair from my eyes. I felt loved, unlike the time I’d passed out at the swimming pool. I didn’t think Carly would find anything about this to be hilarious in hindsight.

  Back at the cabin, Leann was aw
ake, waiting downstairs for us with all kinds of questions. Angry that we didn’t include her in our moonlight adventure. We didn’t tell her what happened. Only that we’d taken a canoe out for a ride and left it where it didn’t belong. Only that we’d had a little to drink and taken a little dip. Leann shook her head, but there was a hint of admiration in her eyes. A hint of disappointment that we hadn’t included her in the fun.

  “All for one and one for all,” Carly whispered as she helped me up the stairs.

  The Kitty Committee had come through for me that night, she was letting me know. And they had.

  But it was Jane who had acted to save my life.

  Chapter Eleven

  After Lake Tahoe, I had nightmares for months. Nightmares of being powerless, buried alive, wrapped inside a blanket so dark and cold that I couldn’t breathe. I developed sleep paralysis that rendered me unable to speak or move while still observing the external waking world around me. But as time went on, it became more and more rare. And life continued, mostly unremarkably.

  With Luke gone, I had a bathroom to myself, except when he arrived home for a weekend, always bearing several duffel bags full of dirty laundry. His monthly visits were something I began to look forward to more than anything else. For two days, my parents and I were inoculated against the normal gloom of our household with the dose of sunshine Luke injected into our lives. On those weekends, I stuck around, basking in revived family memories—ghosts that Luke stirred from their graves. The hours of belonging to each other again were worth everything to me. For two days, which sped by far too quickly, we were no longer strangers living under the same roof. We were a family that shared happiness in an entirely believable way.

  When Sunday afternoon rolled around, and Luke returned to school, the rest of us scattered like billiard balls. I sought out the familiar comfort of the Kitty Committee and the diversion it brought from home and school. Mom turned her focus back to church, Dad, and work. The TV went on again, its constant background drone a mournful mantra marking the passage of wasted time.