The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  “Good. That’s good.”

  And Jake smiled up at the darkness, feeling better than he had in weeks and weeks, pushing away the caustic thought that he had now sunk to the level of taking advice and comfort from a cat who brings home dead mice.

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen, right, Petey?”

  Petey chirped a reply, obviously understanding Jake’s misguided attempt at humor in a mostly humorless situation.

  “That’s assuming I was mighty in the first place.”

  Startled, Jake sat up straight in bed. It was the middle of the night. He must have felt something out of place, something unusual.

  Petey, on the floor between the bed and the doorway, stared hard at something, in the darkness, in the hallway. His eyes fixed on it.

  Jake squinted hard and did not see anything move or hear anything move. “What is it, Petey?” he whispered. “What do you see?”

  Petey did not move, just kept staring at some hidden spot, lost in the darkness, just beyond human sight. He did not move. He appeared to be hardly taking a breath.

  Jake tried to slow his rapidly beating heart. He did not want to get up and face whatever it was that was out there. After a long moment, Petey softened, and the tension in his shoulders appeared to melt away in an instant. He turned to face Jake, then meowed, as if to say, “What are you doing up at this hour?”

  It would be the first of many such discoveries that Jake would have—learning the intricacies and the secrets of the domesticated cat. Some of them completely inexplicable to humans.

  The discoveries would never end.

  And Petey was far from an ordinary American domesticated cat.

  3

  Tassy Lambert, short for Thomasina, a name she had disliked intensely from childhood, watched the silver Camaro as it sped off northward, on Route 44, heading toward the New York state line. She would have shouted out some choice words as Randolph tore off, but he wouldn’t have heard her above the static-filled din of the radio, nor did she have the energy to battle with him one more time.

  “Good riddance,” she muttered, then shouldered her backpack, trying to get comfortable with the weight. “Jerk.”

  She did not want to follow him and didn’t want him to follow her. She knew that she should not have trusted him, but she had had little choice. So instead of heading north, as they had planned, through New York and maybe Niagara Falls and stopping at all the outlet malls along the way, she instead turned south and began walking. A road sign a hundred yards farther along pointed due south, with an arrow, and in bold, block letters, it read: COUDERSPORT: 5 MILES.

  It’s as good a place as any, she said to herself. She was used to talking to herself, since Randolph was not the most scintillating or prolific conversationalist. As she walked, she gathered her longer-than-ever mass of glowing, dark brown curls and slipped an orange scrunchy around it.

  People told her she had beautiful hair—an assessment that she never agreed with. She did have deep-set, large brown eyes. Liquid. Those, she considered an asset. She hoped, one day, someone would call them “penetrating.” So far, at least in the last nineteen years and four months, no one had.

  A slight girl with a slight frame, she nearly bowed under the weight of her backpack, carrying with her nearly all of her earthly possessions. Hitchhiking was out of the question—especially on lonely and desolate roads of central Pennsylvania.

  She would walk. Five miles was not that far.

  “Maybe Coudersport will have a cheap hotel. For a day or two. To get my bearings.”

  Her money, all $267.45 of it, would not last all that long.

  A semi whooshed past, carrying a load of TrueValue hardware. The wind pushed at her back, almost making her stumble. But she caught herself at the last moment, running for a few steps. She straightened up, readjusted her backpack, and once more, refused to cry.

  Actually, she thought, I feel really good today. And for no reason. Strong. Solid.

  She looked up to the cloudless blue pellucid spring sky. Everything happens for a reason, she thought, then remembered it had been Randolph who had last said that to her. And instead of crying, she smiled, beamed, almost. He was right about that. He was right about one thing—and that may be the only thing he was ever right about.

  She hitched the backpack again, feeling it dig at her shoulders.

  The jerk.

  Jake woke with a start again. The room, the bed, the windows, the chest of drawers—they were all strange and new and slightly off kilter. He glanced at his watch.

  What time do the stores around here open?

  He shook his head, clearing the sleep from his thoughts.

  And where are the grocery stores around here?

  Petey stood and stretched on the bedroom chair, one of several nighttime sleeping spots.

  I need to get a litter box . . . right? A cat needs a litter box.

  Jake did not have a litter box, and instead, let Petey go outside. Petey slowly meandered toward the back of the graveled lot, still limping, but much improved from yesterday. Jake was certain the cat would return on his own, and in short order. While he waited, he fixed a cup of coffee and made some toast.

  Maybe I’ll use honey instead of jelly and peanut butter. Experiment a little. Be brave.

  He wondered if there was a local morning newspaper in the area. In Butler there was the staunchly conservative Butler Eagle and the Pittsburgh papers if he wanted them. He followed the news, not religiously, but he wanted to know about the culture of the day. It would be important to know about cultural events, famous people, Hollywood, and the rest, if and when he encountered non-churchgoing people, so he would have some knowledge in common with them. He seldom, however, encountered non-churchgoing people, unless you counted the few people he interacted with in stores and gas stations.

  He drank his instant coffee and tried to clear his thoughts. Big transitions often caused this sort of thought turmoil in Jake. The cat’s insistent and loud meow moved him from his daydream. Jake opened the door. Petey was walking up the sidewalk to the kitchen door of the parsonage. The second that Petey saw Jake and the open door, the cat slowed down, as if walking through molasses. Each step carefully considered, each sniff, perfectly timed.

  “Come on, Petey,” Jake called, not impatient, not yet, but not willing to watch a cat walk in slow motion either.

  The cat moved even slower, and Jake found it hard to imagine that Petey’s slowness was nothing short of intentional.

  Maybe he’s trying to teach me patience.

  “Come on, Petey. Get inside.”

  The last three steps were the slowest yet—as if the cat was part tree sloth. And once inside, Petey sauntered past, back to normal speed, meowing in a most friendly and conversational manner, almost as if he were asking, “Where is breakfast?” Jake responded by opening another can of food and letting it slop out in a single, semi-gelatinous clump onto Petey’s plate. The cat made a deliberate move to first sniff at it, carefully, then to taste it with a delicate lick of his tongue, all before deciding to eat it.

  Jake watched him eat and had a second cup of coffee.

  When he was finished, he found a light jacket in the closest, and when he went to the door, he turned to the cat and said, “I’m going to the grocery store. You have to stay here. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  He opened the door, and Petey set off like a scared rabbit, running fast on three legs, scrabbling at the door of the truck, waiting for Jake to open it.

  “No. You have to stay here.”

  The cat cried, and if Jake had been asked, he would have described the cry as a practiced, pity-me cry.

  He took a ride yesterday. I guess he likes riding in cars.

  The cat scampered up onto the passenger seat and situated himself perfectly in the middle, with room for his tail, his four paws neatly fitting into the rounded depression in the bench seat.

  Jake drove toward town. Coudersport was a small town, but it still was a town. H
e was certain there would be a grocery store nearby. Doug’s Surplus Food looked like it was a viable business and would be open this morning. Jake told the cat to stay in the truck while he shopped.

  “Maybe Big Dave will let you shop in his store, but I don’t think they would be so understanding in there—you know, at a regular store.”

  Petey appeared content to remain truck-bound, and Jake lowered the windows enough for air circulation, but not enough to allow an escape. He didn’t really think the cat would attempt to leave, but Jake was always happier being safe than sorry.

  Jake grabbed a cart and headed through the automatic doors. As soon as he stepped in, he imagined himself in one of those cheap, and badly made, 1960s horror movies, where some mutant alien virus took over the townspeople and they would glare virulently at any newcomer or stranger. Virtually every person in the store pivoted to face Jake when he entered, mouths agape. The only thing they didn’t do was gasp in fear and point.

  Maybe I’m imagining this a little.

  A short man in a green apron who stood at the first checkout lane waved at Jake.

  “Pastor Jack, we wondered whose grocery store you’d go to first. And I guess we won.”

  Jake waved back and veered his cart a little closer.

  “It’s Jake . . . Pastor Jake.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Jake. Not Jack. I have a cousin named Jack. Lives in Port Allegheny. He’s on disability. Got his foot run over by a bulldozer. The two names must be confusing me. And I’m Doug. Doug Olmer. I work here. I own this place. And I work here. I guess that is pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I don’t go to your church, but I know a lot of people been expecting you. So welcome to Coudersport and all that.”

  “Thanks. Nice meeting you, Doug.”

  Does everyone know about me coming to town?

  “And how’s the cat doing? I heard you got a cat with a bum paw. Doing okay?”

  Of course he would know about the cat.

  “Much better. He’s actually in the truck, waiting for me.”

  “You made a cat ride in a car? You’re a brave man, Pastor Jake. I had a cousin in Smethport—Tilly, that’s her name—and she tried that with her cat—Mr. Wiggles or Mr. Snuggles or Mr. Softee or something like that, and then she wound up with twenty-three stitches on her face. Twenty-three. The plastic surgeon had to work overtime to get her to look normal again. And she kept the cat. If that ain’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”

  “No, actually, this cat seems to like being in the truck. He just sits there and looks out the window.”

  “Don’t that beat all,” Doug replied, ignoring the two people who were standing in line, waiting to check out. They didn’t seem to mind the wait, since they were both intently eavesdropping on the conversation.

  “You’re calling the cat Petey? That’s what I heard. That’s a good name for a cat. I had an uncle named Pete. He got killed in a car accident back in ’84 down near Johnstown. Where they had the flood. He was a drunk, so everyone expected it to happen sooner or later. Ran into a concrete wall.”

  The two ladies waiting in line nodded at this fact. Obviously, Uncle Pete had been a well-known figure in Coudersport.

  “Well, I need to get busy and buy some food. Again, nice meeting you, Doug.”

  “Okay. You have any trouble finding anything, let me know.”

  Jake headed into the first aisle, trying to compose a list in his head. He knew he should have written it down, but for a first shopping experience, whatever he purchased he would need.

  He made his way through the store, and by the time he was in the next to the last aisle, his cart was near to overflowing with all manner of groceries and canned goods and paper towels and salt and pepper and crackers and condiments. He looked at the bewildering display of spices and wanted to buy a bottle of mace because it had an interesting name, but he had no idea of how to use it, so he didn’t.

  A tiny woman, dwarfed by a large floral scarf and a long blue coat with what might have been a fur collar at some point, stopped him between the pasta noodles and the pasta sauce, grabbing onto his forearm with a bewildered, amazed look in her eyes.

  “Pastor, how do you know what to buy? You’re a man.”

  It was mostly an amazed look. Jake had heard the question, or variations of the question, before.

  “I’ve lived on my own for a while. I have to eat, so I learned.”

  The tiny woman shook her head, as if in disbelief.

  “If my husband were to come to a grocery store, first off, I’d faint dead away, and second off, all he would buy is beer and pretzels.”

  She leaned in a little closer.

  “He’s not a churchgoing man. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  Jake had not been prepared to offer dispensation so early in the morning.

  “Ma’am, if you two get along and love each other, then it must be working.”

  The tiny woman offered a knowing smile and smirk in reply.

  “Well, I’ll guess that’s it. Pastor, glad to see you. I go to another church in town, so I’m pretty sure I won’t hear you preach. But you seem like a regular fellow. Any man who knows how to get around a grocery store is special in my book. And you have a cat, so I’ve heard. And that’s a good thing. I like cats. I have three of them, Daisy, Susie, and . . . and well, another Susie. They don’t mind the names. Don’t listen, anyhow. Like my husband.”

  And with that, she released his arm, grabbed her shopping cart with both hands, veered around him, banging off one side of the aisle, almost dislodging a box of mostacciolli noodles, and rattled down the aisle, past the beans and the canned fish.

  In the few short hours Jake and Petey had been together, Jake had discovered that cats have an entire vocabulary of sounds. It was not just a simple, plain meow. There was that, of course, but much more. Jake had already heard Petey’s chirps—like a mouse chirp; churrs—like the sound of a small motor; the growl—like the rumble of a small lion; a curious chattering—where his jaws would vibrate with a vibrato sort of meow; softer chirps—spoken to himself; a low meow-growl combo; a high-pitched whine—like air escaping a punctured tire; and a sharp, staccato sort of chirrup—vocalized when Petey was walking with a hurried purpose.

  Jake wondered if Petey actually determined what sound fit which activity, or if he was simply toying with Jake and amusing himself.

  It could easily be a little of both.

  Tassy trudged on, estimating that she must have traveled at least five miles. Growing up in inner-city Philadelphia offered her no experience in guessing distances out in the country. Mentally, she still estimated distances in city blocks.

  She was walking along the Grand Army of the Potomac Highway. Why it had that name, Tassy had no idea. The whole thing sounded old to her and history was not her favorite subject in school. On one side of the road was a small stream. Though she saw a sign reading Allegheny River Public Launch, she didn’t believe it was really a river.

  Rivers have to be bigger than this, don’t they?

  Tassy wondered where the town of Coudersport might be. She passed a few buildings and even one hotel—the Hotel Crittenden—that did not appear to be a going business. The front windows were empty and dusty. But none of what she saw and passed appeared to be a real, proper, honest-to-goodness town. She turned the corner and a few blocks down, she spotted a familiar sight: bright yellow arches. Even though she had eaten two cold strawberry Pop-Tarts this morning, Tassy felt her stomach grumble.

  An Egg McMuffin sounds really good. And orange juice.

  She reached for her cell phone to check the time, then remembered that it no longer functioned. The phone bills had not kept up with her travels, and even if they had, she wouldn’t have had the money to pay them. She looked to the left. The sun stood halfway up the eastern sky.

  It doesn’t feel late. I bet they’re still serving breakfast.

  She hitched her backpack again, wish again that she had one with a frame instead of one that was just
big. It would have made it easier to carry so much. These narrow straps were not designed to hold a heavy load. Inside she carried three pairs of jeans, two pairs of shoes (sneakers and black flats), two sweaters (one green, one black), a dozen T-shirts, a sweatshirt from the Community College of Philadelphia (which she attended an entire semester before running out of money), the second of the Twilight books (a paperback), three tubes of lipstick, an assortment of makeup, two bottles of nail polish, lip gloss, a toothbrush, a travel-size tube of Crest toothpaste, a round hair brush, a handful of underwear, a handful of socks (some matched, some did not), a down jacket scrunched tight at the bottom of the pack, a Phillies baseball cap, a knitted cap with blue and green stripes, a half-empty bottle of Paris Hilton perfume (that Randolph either bought or stole from a CVS drugstore), three long scarves, a gold necklace with a cross stored in a tightly knotted velvet bag, a small flashlight, an address book, a very wrinkled white blouse and a navy blue skirt (in case she had to interview for a job or something), a windbreaker, a short fold-up umbrella, a black polo shirt (that she bought for a quarter at a Goodwill store in Reading), $1.87 in assorted change lying loose underneath it all all, plus a half-used tube of lip balm, and two packs of Wrigley’s spearmint gum.

  She had a half-empty bottle of water in a side pocket and a handful of hair scrunchies and hair bands in the pocket on the other side.

  Everything she owned. She pushed the thought away. No time to be sad.

  She stepped inside the McDonald’s and blinked. The sun was shining outside but it was twice as bright inside the restaurant. She ordered her Egg McMuffin and orange juice and was then persuaded to get the meal package “because the hash browns come with it—like you’re getting them for free,” the young man behind the counter said.

  Tassy considered asking him about a motel in the area, but he looked all of fourteen.

  He wouldn’t know.

  Instead, she took her tray, slid off her backpack, sat in a booth in the far corner, overlooking the street out front, and wondered what she should do next. She was hoping for some sort of sign, some sort of divine revelation as to what her next move might be. But apparently there would be no signs today. Instead, she simply ate very slowly and debated if she should also get a cup of coffee.