Love Saves the Day

by Gwen Cooper

  The day may have felt long, but I can still tell that it’s much earlier than usual when I finally hear Laura’s key in the lock. It isn’t even dark outside yet. I knew Laura was anxious about tonight, but I didn’t realize she was so anxious that it was worth leaving work early for.

  Laura and Josh did something this morning to the dining room table to make it long enough to fit seven chairs. Now Laura reaches up to the highest cabinet in the kitchen for cloth mats (which are much nicer than the rubber mat she put underneath my food and water bowls and don’t have insulting cartoons of smiling cats all over them). Then she goes to the front-hall closet and drags out two huge, heavy boxes. From these she starts taking out fancy plates and glasses that are nicer than the plates she and Josh usually eat off of. Laura’s hands move slowly, and she lingers to look at each plate as she sets it out. Once everything is on the table, she looks out the tall windows behind the table and watches the coffee-colored pigeons across the street. She stares at them so long that I turn to stare, too, but as usual the pigeons aren’t doing much of anything except flying in pointless circles.

  It isn’t very long until Josh comes home. He comes up behind Laura to give her a big hug. “I can’t believe you got home so early!” he says happily.

  “Pass Over is a time of miracles and wonders,” Laura tells him, using her “dry” voice.

  Josh goes upstairs to wash his hands, and when he comes back he starts helping Laura, pulling platters down from the higher cabinets and taking bottles out of the refrigerator while Laura turns the oven on. “Do you think your mother will be offended we got all the food from Zabar’s instead of making it myself?”

  Laura sounds worried, but Josh laughs. “She’ll respect you for it. Zelda hasn’t cooked voluntarily in years.”

  The air in front of the oven isn’t even hot yet, which means it’s still going to be a while before the food is ready. I decide that napping in the closet upstairs is the best way to make the time shorter between now and when I can eat. As I’m leaving, I hear Josh tell Laura, “I’m going to vacuum in the spare bedroom. I was noticing this morning how dusty it is in there.”

  “Sounds good,” Laura says, in a distracted-sounding voice. My Prudence-tags ring softly against my red collar as I climb the stairs, and I hear the dull thud of Josh’s footsteps following me.

  I’ve just settled down comfortably in the back of the closet when Josh flicks on the light in the ceiling. There’s so much extra light all of a sudden that I can’t see much—just the blurry shape of Josh standing in the doorway, pushing what looks like a tall triangle with a handle at the top and a flat square thing on wheels at the bottom. It’s attached to a leash, which Josh plugs into a socket on the wall right next to the door.

  My eyes adjust to all the new light, and now I see Josh leave this strange object so he can walk over to the Sarah-boxes. He starts moving them around and pushing them into arrangements different from the one they’re supposed to have—the arrangement I’ve spent days memorizing. I rush out from the closet to leap onto the boxes, thinking that maybe the extra weight of my body will make them too heavy for him to move. But I don’t slow him down at all. He just says, “Come on, Prudence, out of the way,” in what he probably thinks is a friendly voice, nudging me gently on my backside with his foot until I’m forced to jump out of one box after the other.

  Once the boxes have been lined up in two rows on either side of the floor next to the rug, Josh goes back to the strange thing standing in the doorway. He kicks its base and a white light comes on. Then it begins to scream!

  It screams and screams without stopping even to catch its breath. It doesn’t scream like something in pain, but like something that’s vicious and wants to hurt somebody. Maybe even a cat! It’s a monster—just like the monsters I’ve heard about in TV movies that everybody says aren’t real. Except this one is! It roars in anger because Josh holds tight to its neck and won’t let it get free, even though it gnashes and pushes itself back and forth trying to break away from him—glaring fiercely right at me from its one awful eye that lights up near its mouth. It gobbles up all the spilled litter from my litterbox and the little bits of my fur that have rubbed off over the last few weeks. It has to move over the litter a few times before it gets it all, but it sucks my fur right up. It’s trying to find me! It’s not satisfied with just the scraps of my fur—now it wants to eat a whole cat!

  I knew Laura didn’t like having all the Sarah-boxes up here, but I never thought she’d send Josh to kill them—and me at the same time. I try bravely to defend at least one row of Sarah-boxes from this terrible monster. I puff up all my fur, to make myself look much bigger than I really am, and I hiss at it and rake its smooth head with my claws as a warning. Humans are usually intimidated by this, but The Monster is obviously much stronger than any human—except Josh. He just says, “Shoo!,” waving his hand in my direction as if I were a dog he was chasing away. That he can control this horrible beast with only one hand must mean he’s the strongest human in the entire world. Finally I give up and run to hide deep in the closet, my heart racing. I can hear The Monster roaring near the closet door, but it doesn’t come in after me. Probably it can’t see very well because it only has the one eye. Still, I don’t know how well it can hear, and my heart is beating so loud! I concentrate on trying to quiet my heartbeat, and soon I hear The Monster’s roar get fainter and fainter, until I know it’s gone to look for cats in another room.

  I wait until I can’t hear it at all anymore before I dare to creep out of the closet again. None of the Sarah-boxes seems to be hurt, although everything’s in the wrong place.

  I crouch in my upstairs room for a long time, so long that the sun is coming in low through the windows the way it does when it will be dark soon. The aroma of meat cooking in the oven is what finally draws me down the stairs again.

  I walk cautiously through the living room and dining room. The meat-smell in the kitchen is so powerful that I hardly know what to do with myself.

  I’m usually in perfect control of everything I do, but today the meat’s will is stronger than my own. It uses its scent to pull me to the spot right in front of the oven and hold me there, with so much power that I couldn’t resist it even if I wanted to.

  So this is where I curl up and fall into only a half sleep. I want to stay at least a little alert, because as soon as that meat comes out of the oven, I’m going to demand that Laura or Josh feed some of it to me. Otherwise I won’t get any, just like with the eggs.

  I had thought that I’d be able to circle around the food until it was ready, the way all my instincts are telling me to do. But it turns out that I won’t get to. That’s because the moment Josh’s family finally gets here, I’m forced—most rudely—out of the kitchen.

  Josh’s family are his mother and father. They’re older than any humans I’ve seen in real life (other than on TV, I mean). They drove a car here from a place called New Jersey. Josh’s sister also comes and brings her litter with her, a small girl and an even smaller boy. They’re the youngest humans I’ve ever seen up close and not on TV. They took a train here from Washington Heights. I know this because when Josh opens the front door, everybody says how funny it is that they all got here at the same time, even though they came from different places.

  “Chag Pesach,” Josh says as he kisses them all on their cheeks. Then he says to the little girl and boy, “That means Happy Pass Over in Hebrew.”

  The little girl says, “I know,” in a voice of such offended dignity that, for a moment, I think I’m going to like her. “They taught us that in Hebrew school. Actually,” she adds, “you’re supposed to say, Chag Pesach sameach.”

  “Duly noted.” Josh sounds amused. “I keep forgetting how smart ten-year-olds are these days.”

  I decide the little girl is like me—somebody whose intelligence is underestimated by humans just because she’s small. But when she and the little boy walk past the kitchen and spot me guarding the food, they squea
l, “Oooh, a kitteeeeee!” Then they both run at me with their hands outstretched, not even giving Josh a chance for an introduction. And when I turn and flee from this attack, the little wretches chase after me! I race for under-the-couch as fast as I can. The two of them kneel and plunge little hands that smell like fruit juice and snack chips after me, trying to grab at my tail and bits of my fur!

  I’m in so much shock from this display of horrible manners (has nobody bothered to teach these littermates anything?) that I can think of no better way of handling the situation than to hiss and swipe at their hands with my claws. My breath becomes loud and rapid as my fur twitches, what Sarah called “chuffing.” I don’t like reacting this way, but the whole thing is simply more than dignity or patience can bear. Finally, Josh’s sister says, “Abbie! Robert! Leave the kitty alone. She’ll come out and play with you when she’s ready.”

  Not likely, I think, twitching my tail back and forth as I try to calm down. “I’m sorry,” Laura tells Josh’s sister. “Prudence isn’t really a ‘people cat.’ ” Hearing Laura try to pass this story around again just makes me madder. If she was telling the truth, what she’d say is, Prudence will only play with humans who have good manners.

  Josh’s parents come into the living room where Laura stands in front of the couch pouring wine into glasses. “There’s my gorgeous daughter-in-law!” Josh’s father says in a loud voice. They each hug her, and Josh’s mother murmurs, “We’re so sorry your mother couldn’t be here with us tonight.” Laura hugs them back a bit stiffly and says, “Thank you,” in a polite but brief way that means she doesn’t want to talk about Sarah right now. Then she and Josh’s sister kiss each other on the cheek.

  The couch has a long side and a short side, and I’m crouched beneath the shorter part. The littermates come to sit right above me, kicking their legs and playing with a kind of small black plastic box that has buttons and moving pictures all over it. Sometimes they try to grab it away from each other, saying things like, You’re taking too long, or, It’s my turn now.

  Josh and his father sit all the way on the other side of the couch, where I can just see their faces if I peek out far enough. Josh’s father wears shiny black shoes with laces on top and black socks that slide down his ankles when he crosses one leg over the other. Laura is sitting between Josh’s mother and Josh’s sister on the other side of the coffee table. Josh’s mother is sparkly all over with more jewelry than Sarah ever wears. The rings on her hand catch the light as she keeps grabbing Laura’s arm while she talks, which makes Laura look uncomfortable. Sarah once said that Laura and I were alike, because neither one of us could stand being petted unless it was our idea first.

  I notice how carefully Laura is watching everybody. It’s like she wants to make sure nothing happens that she isn’t prepared for or doesn’t know how to react to. I realize that Laura grew up in Lower East Side with Sarah, where holidays were celebrated differently than they are in Upper West Side. Laura’s an immigrant, like I am. She must also be trying to understand the way things are done in this country.

  Not that I feel any sympathy for her. She did, after all, send Josh upstairs with The Monster to try to destroy me and the Sarah-boxes.

  I’ve never been in a room with so many humans at one time, and with everybody talking at once it’s hard to hear everything. I can’t tell what Josh’s mother is saying, but I do hear Josh and his father talking about Josh’s work. Josh’s father sighs and says he never understands what young people do anymore, so Josh explains (in a voice that sounds like he’s explained this to his father already) how he does something called “marketing and public relations,” which means he talks to reporters and writes sales presentations for humans called “advertisers” and helps create awareness so other humans know they should buy the magazines his company makes.

  “Eh,” Josh’s father says. “That’s too complicated for me. I still don’t know what it is you do all day.”

  Josh laughs a little and says, “You know, your job seemed pretty complicated to me when I was a kid.”

  “What complicated?” Josh’s father answers. “I sold electrical supplies. I had the electrical supplies, I sold them, and then the other guy had supplies and I had money.” Josh’s father sighs again. “That was when you could describe a man’s job in one word. Salesman. Contractor. Accountant.” From underneath the couch, I can see the tips of his fingers as he gestures in Laura’s direction. “Now, a lawyer,” he says. “That’s a job I can understand.”

  “Really, Dad?” Josh sounds amused, but also exasperated. “You know what lawyers do all day?”

  “How should I know what a lawyer does all day?” Josh’s father replies. “If I knew that, I’d be a lawyer.”

  If Sarah had ever talked to Laura like this, Laura’s face would have gotten tight, and she would have left Sarah’s apartment without saying another word. But Josh bursts out laughing and says, “One of us sounds crazy right now, and I’m honestly not sure which one it is.”

  “It’s your mother,” Josh’s father says. “She always sounds crazy. I think we should rescue Laura.”

  “What’s that?” Josh’s mother calls from the other side of the coffee table. Her voice is loud and what Sarah would call “raspy.” “Are you two talking about me?”

  “We were just wondering what the ladies were talking about,” Josh’s father says.

  “I was telling Laura and Erica about Esther Bookman. She’s getting married again, you know.”

  “Ah, Esther Bookman!” Josh exclaims. “The sexual dynamo of Parsippany. What is this, husband number five?”

  “Oh, stop,” his mother says. “You know perfectly well this is only her third marriage.” Turning to Laura, she adds, “Do you see how they make fun of me?”

  “One time, when I was nine or ten, I had to call Mrs. Bookman’s son Matt about a school project,” Josh tells Laura. “Mrs. Bookman answered the phone and I asked to speak to Matt. After I hung up, my mother said, Did Mrs. Bookman answer the phone? I said yes, and then she said, Well, did you say hello, Mrs. Bookman, how are you? I said no, and she told me, You call her back right now and apologize for being so rude.” Josh laughs again. “I really didn’t want to. I begged and cried, but Zelda was relentless. Finally, after an hour of fighting, I called Mrs. Bookman and said”—Josh pretends to sound like he’s crying—“I’m s-sorry I d-didn’t say hello, how are you, Mrs. Bookman.”

  Laura laughs, too. “At least I know why Josh is so polite,” she tells Josh’s mother.

  Humans aren’t nearly as good at being polite as cats are. But even I have to admit that it was very smart of Josh’s mother to try to teach him the proper way to greet someone by her name. I wonder why he didn’t remember that the first time he met me.

  “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Josh’s mother says. “He’s making that up.”

  Laura just smiles. “Would anybody like another glass of wine? More soda?”

  “You don’t need another glass of wine, Abe,” Josh’s mother says, before his father can answer Laura.

  “It’s a holiday,” Josh’s father says. “I can live a little, for God’s sake.”

  “A seventy-five-year-old man shouldn’t drink so much,” she tells him.

  “Mother loves reminding me how old I am.” I see his hand reach for the bottle on the coffee table. “As if she wasn’t only five years behind me.”

  “Five years is five years,” she says. I wonder why some humans, like Josh’s mother, like to talk so much that they think they have to point out perfectly obvious things.

  “How old are you, Mom?” It’s the little boy who asks this.

  “I’m forty-two,” Erica answers.

  “And how old is Uncle Josh?”

  “Thirty-nine,” Erica says.

  Now Abbie speaks up. “How old is Aunt Laura?”

  “A lady never tells,” Josh’s mother says. But the corners of Laura’s mouth twitch into a smile, and she says, “That’s okay. I just turned
thirty.”

  With everybody talking about their ages (I had no idea they were all so old—I’m only three!), this seems like the perfect opportunity for me to creep out from under-the-couch and into the dining area without the littermates noticing me. The food smells unbearably delicious, and everybody else must be able to smell it, too. I even hear the sound of a human stomach growling. It can’t be too much longer before they eat.

  Laura must be thinking the same thing, because she puts her glass of wine down and says, “Why don’t we head over to the table?”

  “Hooray!” the littermates yell. They run over so fast that I have to crouch down into the shadow next to the couch to keep them from seeing me. Josh’s father and mother struggle a little when they stand up from the couches, but soon everyone is at the table. My mouth has so much water in it that I have to lick my whiskers a few times while I wait for the eating to begin.

  I was sure that, once everybody was sitting in their places, the food would come out of the kitchen right away. Any smart cat knows you should eat the food you like as soon as it’s available, because who knows what might happen later to prevent you from eating?