I tasted that sourness that goes with about-to-vomit. “He had this tattoo, a Marine bulldog. He hadn’t changed much. He recognized me. The bartender started blabbing bullshit about my two tours and a Purple Heart for being shot in the back, point man in a recon platoon. Falco just kept swallowing those tequila shots.”
“Yes, and he’d tell someone,” Stella said. “Falco could destroy the only shred of yourself worth respecting. So you stopped him, or punished him.”
“It wasn’t me,” I managed to croak. “You’re wrong.”
“No, it all fits. I wondered when you botched the evidence collection in Sam Klinkevals’s garage. Then, too conveniently, Falco’s wallet turned up the first place you looked. By the way, you didn’t get any anonymous informant call that noon in the barbershop. We checked your cell phone records. You must have set the alarm to go off so you could fake a call.”
She didn’t miss a damn thing. The day after Falco’s death, I’d found his wallet and car keys in my jacket pocket. I didn’t have a fucking clue how they got there. Had I picked them up in the bar? Chief Jerry didn’t need to know I had the wallet and keys, it would only confuse things. “Finding” them in Turk’s house made sense to me.
Adding her two cents, Chief Jerry said, “Edie Lacker says you visited her and Ben, and you were alone with Ben’s suitcase. You planted the knife, right?”
I shook my head, no, but she was right—I’d found the bloody knife in my car after the mayor’s murder. I thought someone was planting evidence on me. I needed to get rid of the knife, and I knew Ben wouldn’t be convicted.
The EMTs arrived and loaded me onto a stretcher. “Good work,” Chief Jerry said to Stella, and gave her a hug. It almost made me throw up, the sight of those two heads pressed together, a dark shiny braid and a bleached blonde helmet. A couple of know-it-all broads hugging over my almost-corpse.
THE SHRINK’S GOT a chin patch, like a tarantula. It really gets on my nerves. He makes me talk until I remember. Heart-pounding, sweat-dripping flashbacks. Klinkevals’s beady eyes, his cheeks flattened by duct tape, as he writhed in the trunk of his car. The glistening pool of blood under the mayor’s body. Falco’s drunken smirk just before I knocked his lights out. It’s horrible when these memories appear.
What calms me is thinking about Momma. I recall the day she died, right before Falco came to town. She was nothing but skin hanging on bones, and she couldn’t talk. Still, it was like her to keep busy, and she was crocheting a snowflake for the Christmas craft sale at the church. I was reading the newspaper to her, about the weddings and babies, when she put down the hook and thread, rested her knobby hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and passed away.
I held together until the funeral. They say I recited Psalm 34 over Momma’s coffin. That day I’d like to remember but the shrink isn’t interested in respect for the dead. He wants me to open the coffin and hop right in with garages and knives and duct tape. I can’t hold him down and rip off his chin patch like I want to, so I rattle my cuffs.
It makes him jump.
Gone Gone Gone
CELINE IS OUT grocery shopping, leaving me alone with her faithless lover. Brian squats on the fire escape as he talks to his latest girlfriend. He’s surrounded by his swirly yellow aura, the color of self-regard. I crouch in the doorway, enjoying the evening breeze, the smells of the city. I’m thinking about Mom until I realize he is talking about me.
“Damn thing makes me sneeze. Cat hair everywhere. Tomorrow he’s going for a ride. . . Yup, the Pound . . . Never did like cats, they belong in barns, not my bedroom . . . She’ll get over it.” He shoves me into the apartment with his foot.
I jump onto the top of the refrigerator to gather my thoughts. The Pound? The POUND? I can hear Mom’s breathy hiss. Where murder of our species is sanctioned. Her aura had glowed red as fresh blood: the color of fear.
After I was born, Mom washed me clean and fed me from her teats. She carried me to a place of safety, a corner near a warm-air grate in an apartment building courtyard. There, knowing that my siblings and I would be adopted by the residents, she taught us basic survival strategies and the management of humans. She explained that most difficulties—an empty food dish, long-overdue cuddling, and distasteful litter box—could be resolved by a patient gaze, a judicious paw pat, or a quiet mew. And, of course, even the most oblivious human responds to an enthusiastic purr. But none of these lessons prepared me for Brian and his talk of the Pound.
Once, Celine and I lived together in utter contentment. I love Celine. She is kind, and her lap is warm. She buys the type of canned food I like, shreds. (The bits are too chewy and the pâté too, well, pasty.) Then Brian moved in. Right away I noticed his aura’s sickly green fringe, the rude tone of his loud voice, his joking threats to turn me into a pair of slippers. His first night here, as I lay curled behind Celine’s knees, Brian literally booted me out of the bedroom, an act of unnecessary violence that would have humiliated a less self-assured cat. I stifled a howl and found an alternative location, the top of the refrigerator. Which is where I am now, washing my soft fur. I am very clean. As I wash, I plot.
I am no victim. Mom instilled in me a sturdy feeling of self-esteem. Even though I am ordinary in my coloring—solid black except for a white heart-shaped patch on my chest—I am lifted above the common feline by the soft texture of my fur, my pale green eyes, and my imperturbable manner. Furthermore, I am blessed with unusual precognitive abilities, though should I be caught exercising them . . . well, one need only refer to the terrible history of atrocities visited on the cat, the result of ignorant superstition and myths. Centuries of persecution drove our species to disguise our powers, to express them with subtlety.
They think we are lower beings, Mom warned, inadequate and limited. Let them believe that. No displays of cunning, ever.
Mom would be proud. I have never allowed Celine to realize my gifts. She makes a fuss of my minor tricks—when I bring her one of Brian’s balled-up cigarette packs for a game of fetch, or pull down on the handle to open the bathroom door. But does she notice that I distract her with playful jumps when Brian’s on the fire escape phoning other women? My rumbly purr celebrating his absences? My leap onto the refrigerator one minute before he walks through the door? She does not, at least consciously.
Celine has returned from grocery shopping. Her aura is pale blue, reflecting a calm state of mind. Not for long, I fear. She changes into faded draw-string pants and a sweatshirt. She used to have more self-respect. I miss seeing her dance, fluidly gliding and twisting to the drums, the sweet thready flute. The one time she danced for Brian, he laughed unpleasantly, and she hasn’t picked up her finger cymbals since.
The apartment is so tiny I can watch both of them from my perch. Admiring himself in the bathroom mirror, Brian sings along with the radio tuned to his favorite oldies station. “You’re just too good to be true,” he croons. He smiles at his mouthful of pure white teeth. He tilts his head this way and that, touches his slightly spiky gelled hair. “Can’t take my eyes off of you.” His singing makes my head hurt.
Celine sits on the couch and flips through the mail. She opens a credit card bill. “I thought we were going to try to save,” she says without energy. “What’s this four hundred dollars at Barney’s? And the two-fifty?” Her aura is gray with streaks of green: sad with flashes of frustration.
He leans through the bathroom doorway. “Babe, Celine, the wing-tips, remember? And those Etro shirts you liked?”
“But we agreed. No needless spending. Especially on clothes. I’m not working double shifts to pay for shirts.”
“Gotta look good in sales, Celine. You know that.” Brian lies down on the bed as a ballad about fading love comes on the radio, inspiring him to sing along, “ . . . cause it’s gone, gone, gone.” He punches the pillow with each “gone” and his aura momentarily pulses brown, then back to yellow. I slip into the bedroom and take one of my favorite spots on a pile of dirty clothes in the corner.
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On the radio, an announcer says, “Stay tuned. Jackpot drawing coming up. Twelve million dollars, folks, and someone’s gonna win, I have that feeling.”
I’m feeling drowsy but a little tense. Something’s going to happen. The air is charged.
Celine comes into the bedroom. “I need these clothes, mister.” I submit limply to her kiss as her aura glows pinkly with affection. When she puts me down, I arch my back until every inch of my spine gets a good crack. She heaps the dirty clothes into a basket and I wander behind her to the closet where the washer and dryer are located. She sorts the clothes into two piles, lights and darks.
Feeling an impulse to stretch, I sprawl across the pile of lights—sheets, Brian’s boxers and tee-shirts, dish towels. The pile makes a nice background for the striking blackness of my fur. Celine laughs and loads the machine with the other pile, emptying pockets of tissues, coins, and receipts.
I swipe at the trash basket until it tips over and spills its contents onto the floor. My attention has been caught by a bit of paper that must not be discarded. I bat it underneath the throw rug for safekeeping, then jump onto the dryer and wait.
The radio announcer sounds excited. “Now here’s what you’ve been waiting for. Meet Sarah, the newest member of the Draw team. The jackpot tonight is twelve million greenbacks, folks. Someone’s gonna win, I have that feeling. Here’s Sarah . . .”
Brian listens intently as the balls fall and Sarah from the Draw Team recites each number. His aura has mutated from yellow to teal, the color of curiosity, and for an instant I feel a pang of loss. Teal was Mom’s aura, except for the rare occasion when I was immature and she would flash purple with annoyance. It was a beautiful color combination.
“Thirty,” Sarah begins.
“Good start,” he mutters.
“Twenty-five.”
He nods. “Cool.”
“Sixteen.”
He coughs and leaves his hand over his mouth.
“Thirteen.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Fifty-four.”
He pounds on the bed. “I don’t believe it! A quarter million dollars!”
The announcer comes on. “One more ball, the Mega Ball. Tonight’s Mega Millions—twelve million dollars. What’s the number, Sarah?”
The sound of the rolling ball, then Sarah chirps, “Eleven.”
“Hallelujah!” Brian whispers. “I’m rich! I’m rich forever! Woo hoo!” He stands and fist-pumps the air. His aura pulsates orange. It reminds me of the time Mom clawed the nose of a Rottweiler and sent him flying down the street yipping with fear. The aura of power and conquest. Brian opens the bedroom door and heads toward the fire escape.
Celine’s lying on the sofa with a book and a glass of wine. I curl onto her warm lap. “Brian,” she says, stroking my soft thick fur, “I need my credit card back. You’ll have to get your own.”
“Huh?” He looks at her distractedly then pulls out his wallet and hands her a card. “Yeah, sure. Listen, work’s killing me. They want me on the West Coast. I’ll be there a couple weeks. Where the hell are my new jeans?”
“I did wash. Maybe they’re in the machine.”
He stands still and stares at her for a beat. Then he turns and digs around in the washing machine until he finds a pair of soggy, twisted jeans. He holds them to his forehead as if saying a brief silent prayer, slips his fingers into a back pocket, and pulls out a small square of damp paper. It dissolves into fragments as he tries to unfold it. The ink is gone, it’s unreadable. He searches in all the other pockets but comes up with nothing. He looks around, taking in the piles of clothing, the litter box, Celine in her wrinkled sweatshirt with me sprawled across her lap. “Friggin’ unbelievable, a slob like you doing the laundry,” he says. “Man, I’m outa here.”
“To LA?” Celine asks.
“For good, baby. It’s not working out for me.”
Celine frowns and sits up, dislodging me from her lap. As her soggy gray aura pulsates, a line of silver—for hope—appears around its edges. I’m worried she’ll beg him to stay. I remember his harsh words, kicks, threats to turn me into a pair of slippers. The Pound.
When Brian steps onto the fire escape and takes out his phone, I follow, winding around his legs, right there with him, affectionate-like, until he shoves me aside. I crouch next to a pot of dead marigolds. He closes the door and punches his phone. His aura is a cloudy black, streaked with gray. Odious.
Mom’s martial instructions ring clearly in my head. The eyes are defenseless. Go for the orbital sockets.
I bound onto the railing then leap at his face, hooking a claw into each eyeball before he can react. My back claws dig into his neck, my teeth sink into his scalp. The furies of centuries possess me. Brian chokes out a shriek but quickly I tear into his throat to stifle it. When he knocks me away from his face I jump onto his leg, holding on with all twenty needle-sharp claws. He staggers, kicking, and I ride his foot as he lurches away, stumbling against the railing, then blindly down the wobbly metal stairs, losing his balance, somersaulting over the railing as I leap gracefully away to let him fall, down, down, down. Twelve stories. He lands on the sidewalk, inches from a sleeping drunken man. The two of them lie head to bloody head.
I take a deep breath and howl triumphantly, only once because Celine has opened the door. “Brian picks this time of night to leave?” she asks, frowning. “Oh well, good riddance. At least I got my Visa back.” She picks me up and takes me inside.
My fur is awry. I hope up next to the sink and begin to wash my face, a displacement activity that calms my emotions. After a moment I am myself again. Celine has poured herself another glass of wine. Her aura is muddy brown swirled with a livid chartreuse, the colors of pessimistic befuddlement. She’s thinking, “what’s next?” and not seeing anything good. Time to fix that.
I retrieve the bit of paper that I’d hidden under the bathroom rug, and drop it at Celine’s feet. She always exclaims how cute I look playing fetch, but this time, in her funk, she ignores me. I jump into the couch and drop it on her lap. She studies the paper, frowns, then her aura brightens. Glowing soft gold, she looks at me in wonder, a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Kissing the slip of paper, Celine places it on the desk. She lights a candle, stands, and strips off her uniform to reveal a black bra and panties. She puts on a long red skirt embroidered with black flowers, slides a CD into the player and takes a pair of finger cymbals from her desk drawer. I hear the tickety-tock of drums, the sigh of a flute, and relax onto the floor to watch. Her aura is a brilliant aqua, the color of happiness, and I send a pulse of gratitude to Mom. Wherever she might be, she’s proud of me tonight.
Lady Tremaine’s Rebuttal
Castle-on-Wycks, Cardigan
MY LIFE IS bittersweet these days. Now that Ella, Anastasia, and Drizella are married and living in their own castles, it’s quieter, even a bit lonely at times, though I’ve learned to cherish my solitude and enjoy special moments to myself like Sunday afternoons in my chamber, stretching out on the couch with the London Times. The dogs snore on the hearth, their feet twitching as they dream of chasing rats. Lord Tremaine’s in his turret and won’t descend until suppertime. The peacocks have wandered down to the pond, far enough away so their screams are muted. It’s a lovely time for me, sipping my tea, nibbling a scone, alone with an excellent newspaper.
But today, when I pick up the Literary Supplement (leaving it for last, like dessert) I see, to my disgust, that the front page is devoted to my stepdaughter Ella’s memoir, Out of the Cinders. Bile rises in my throat, burning and sour. Yes, the story’s a classic: an inscrutable beauty, distant father, abusive stepmother, two ugly sisters. Rescue by a Prince, happily ever after, blah blah blah.
I am appalled that the Times has given credence to her pack of lies.
I wanted to love her. She was cute as a button, and motherless. She needed someone to pick the lice out of her hair and feed her something other than r
oast pigeon and watered-down mead. Her father is a dear man but the silent type, not one she could talk to. He spent most of his days in the southwest turret trying to prove Fermat’s Last Theorem. If she’d given me half a chance we could’ve been friends.
It wasn’t easy being Lady of the Manor. The castle was a crumbling wreck: tottery staircases, broken windows, a rat infestation that even our swarm of flea-ridden Jack Russells couldn’t control. It was cold, and leaked in the rainy months. Blue fuzzy mildew grew on the tapestries. Drizella coughed all winter, and Anastasia had migraines. The servants weren’t being paid and most of them had left, except the gamekeeper, a one-armed good old boy who made a tidy living selling the salmon out of our stream. The Lord and he nattered on for hours about nothing. It drove me crazy. To say I was disillusioned with my situation is an understatement. But as a wife and mother—my role, my lot, my choice—I did my best to make everyone comfortable and happy. I didn’t complain, I tried to be fair.
The whole cinders thing is a complete fabrication. Ella had her own room, with a fireplace. On windy days a gust would come down the chimney and blow the cinders around. So she woke up with a dusting of ash now and then. We all did, but only Ella had the imagination to turn it into a pitiable moment.
She whines about her clothes. Well, there was too much to do, and no money. The girls had to pitch in, and that’s where Ella and I clashed. She wouldn’t do her chores. She slept late and mooned into mirrors and wept under the trees. So she didn’t get her allowance. And, honey: no allowance, no dress! I couldn’t afford a new ball gown every week! And the girl was mad for shoes. She wouldn’t patronize the shoemaker—no, they had to be gold and copper and glass. I told her, you want shoes, you work for them. She screamed at me, called me a four-letter word. It wasn’t l-a-d-y.
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