The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  A cup of coffee is good for at least an hour in here. And it’s a lot more comfortable than walking to someplace I don’t know exists.

  I should get a haircut . . . but I have frozen corn in my bag and frozen waffles . . . so maybe tomorrow.

  Jake loaded up the back of the truck with his groceries, using bungee cords to hold the load in place and prevent blow-aways. He was used to doing this, not having a trunk to safely transport his purchases.

  But I am sort of hungry. Maybe if I see a coffee shop . . . I could get a croissant and a latte or something. I didn’t look for a Starbucks on my first visit; I hope there is one in town.

  Petey sat with a contented look on his face as he watched Jake load up. Jake had purchased a litter box and litter and kibble-type cat food and a dozen extra cans of the beef ’n’ liver variety, plus a few other varieties. The litter and litter box were probably more expensive than they would be in a large pet supply emporium, but Jake was more than certain that Coudersport could not boast of having a large pet supply emporium.

  There’s probably a lot that Coudersport doesn’t have. I wonder where people go to really shop? I wonder if there is a Walmart around here? Probably in Bradford. But that’s at least fifty miles away.

  He backed out onto the highway.

  I’ll head toward town. For just a minute. There’s got to be some sort of coffee shop.

  Tassy decided on a cup of coffee . . . and as she stood at the counter, she changed her mind and ordered tea instead.

  I don’t even like tea. But it’s like . . . healthier, right?

  The purchase would guarantee her a comfortable seat for a while longer.

  When you have nowhere to go, having a place to sit for a while is nice.

  She opened three packets of honey and poured them into the cup, dunked the tea bag a dozen times, up and down, and tried to squeeze it dry with the plastic lid and without burning her fingers.

  She wondered if Randolph would come looking for her. He’d never said he would. She did not think he would. Once done with something, he would simply look away and move on. No, he would not put the Camaro in reverse and come searching for her, tears in his eyes, admitting that he had made a hideous, stupid, jerk-faced mistake in tossing her out of the car.

  No.

  Randolph was not that sort of person.

  She actually did not know what sort of person he was. Five months together and she had no real idea who he was on the inside. Most of the time, he was more blank than filled in. And she had no choice—she had to get away from her disastrous home life and her crazy, leering new stepfather. But she had no money and no tuition, and Randolph just happened to show up, with a smile and a car and an attitude that was tailor-made for a would-be runaway.

  I think if you’re older than eighteen you are not a runaway. I think that it’s just making a decision to leave.

  And that’s what they did, staying at Randolph’s brother’s house for a month, then at a cousin’s house, and then at a house of a friend of that cousin. To Tassy, it felt nomadic and romantic and free—“like we’re poets or something,” she had said to Randolph’s blank stare.

  At their last residence, they had their own room and bathroom. At least they did until Randolph’s cousin’s friend went and got arrested for resisting arrest.

  I think that was why he was arrested. Resisting is a great way to wind up in jail.

  Randolph’s story about the arrest had changed over time—from being all the cousin’s fault to the current interpretation that the police just had it in for him . . . since the friend was such a free spirit, and the police hate free-spirited people, who use drugs, but only once in a while.

  That meant there was no longer room in the basement for them. So Tassy packed up one more time and they headed west. “California,” Randolph said. “It’s warm in California. Like in that oldies song. By that group—you know the ones—that old group. With the two guys and the two chicks in it. You know the one. California something or other.”

  Tassy didn’t know the group. But she did sort of remember that song. And Randolph did head west for a while.

  Until the final argument. It had been one of many. And they had been escalating in pitch and venom.

  Now Tassy, on foot and alone, had a long journey ahead of her if she ever wanted to get to the warm California sun.

  As soon as I’m done with this tea. Then I’m moving on.

  She watched the traffic roll past.

  Maybe I’ll ask for a refill. For tea, this tastes good. Maybe it’s because of the honey.

  Jake drove through town and out of it again and saw nothing that resembled a coffee shop. He noticed a restaurant or two, but no in-and-out, grab-a-latte sort of establishment.

  Maybe on a side street somewhere.

  On his way back toward church, he saw a McDonald’s. He sighed, slowed down, and pulled in.

  They do have that new coffee bar thing. Better than instant.

  “You stay here, Petey,” Jake warned. “I’m just getting coffee. Be back in a minute. Okay?”

  Petey meowed in reply. He remained seated and calm, giving no indication that he planned on bolting for freedom at the first opportunity.

  “Good cat,” Jake said. Petey’s face indicated he felt he warranted the compliment and perhaps had anticipated it as well.

  Jake stared at the coffee menu, then ordered a medium latte.

  “What flavor do you want?” the young man behind the counter asked.

  “Flavor?”

  “Flavor. Like hazelnut or caramel or mint or whatever. We have like a dozen of them.”

  “Do I have to add a flavor?”

  The young man, now a bit confused, replied, “Well, I guess not. But everybody gets a flavor. It’s like, free.”

  “But I just want the coffee . . . or latte.”

  “No flavor?”

  “Just the coffee,” Jake reassured him.

  The clerk took his money, apparently quite certain that Jake was both foolish and overlooking a large dollop of free syrup to boot.

  As Jake took the coffee, he heard his name called out.

  “Pastor Jake.”

  He turned and there sat Emma the Vet with an older woman who had the remnants of an Egg McMuffin meal spread out in front of her on a smoothed-out sheet of yellow wrapper.

  “How’s the cat?” she asked.

  “Much better,” Jake replied. “He’s in the truck waiting for me. Seems to like going for rides.”

  “Cats are most curious creatures, aren’t they? It’s almost like they can understand what we’re saying.”

  “I think so, too—but this is the first cat I’ve ever owned.”

  Jake looked at the other woman, just for a second. There was a resemblance.

  “Jake, this is my mother, Rebecca Grainger. Mom, this is the new pastor of the church on Dry Run, Jake Wilkerson.”

  Her mother smiled, a crackling of wrinkles deepening at the corners of her eyes.

  “You’re the single one, aren’t you? Betty told me about you.”

  Jake ran down a quick mental list of all the folks he’d met since his first interview, searching for Betty. “Betty Bennett? Jimbo’s wife?”

  “The same,” she replied. “Small town, you know.”

  “I guess. Everyone in the grocery store already knew I had a cat.”

  Shaking her head, Emma said, “It is so sad how starved we are for news up here. I figured the cat story would get around, but it should have taken longer than twenty-four hours.”

  Emma’s mother almost stood, but didn’t. “Emma isn’t married either. You know that, Pastor Jake? Just like you.”

  Jake had never been good at reading people’s expressions. It was a big reason he had sometimes felt inadequate as a pastor. But this was one instance where he was sure what both women were trying to say—both nonverbally as well as verbally.

  Emma’s mother appeared so earnest and hopeful, as though she expected Jake to ask her daughte
r out, right then and there.

  Jake thought that Emma probably wanted to either die right then or simply melt into a puddle on the floor—of embarrassment, of course.

  “I didn’t know, Mrs. Grainger. But I guessed at it. Neither of us is wearing a ring.”

  “Mother, could you be any more obnoxious right now? Seriously. Or more embarrassing? Why don’t you start measuring him for a tuxedo right now?”

  Emma’s mother appeared wounded.

  “I was simply making conversation, honey. Pastor Jake wants to get to know people in town. Right, Pastor Jake? And I know you wouldn’t mention it. Like it’s a crime to tell the truth now. Put me in jail, why don’t you?”

  Jake could tell that it was a familiar argument or discussion between mother and daughter.

  “It’s okay, Dr. Grainger. Don’t worry about it. But I have to get home before my waffles defrost.”

  And with that, he waved and stepped away.

  As he did so, he heard the older woman remark, a little too loudly, “He’s cute.” Then she added, “What does waffles defrosting mean? Is that some sort of new slang thing?”

  A perfectly nice day for a walk, Tassy thought. In the past, like even a few weeks ago, Tassy would have scoffed at the thought of walking farther than from the car to the door of the restaurant or mall. But today felt different. Today, Tassy felt energized. Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the honey. Maybe it was the bright sunshine on her face after several weeks of gray, end-of-winter weather. Today feels good. I feel good. Energized. Like I could walk to California. Maybe it’s because I’m free from that stupid jerk, Randolph.

  She walked another mile or so, thinking that Coudersport must lie just up ahead, or just around the next bend, unaware that she had already walked through Coudersport. The Grand Army of the Potomac Highway skirted the very southern edge of town and if you did not look closely, you would miss it all.

  Tassy had not looked closely.

  Up ahead, perhaps a little less than a mile away, Tassy noticed a small stand of billboards.

  Maybe that’s Coudersport there. I can walk that far easy.

  She hitched the backpack again, adjusting the straps a bit, bunching the shoulders of her light jacket to provide more cushioning.

  The air, with still a hint of chill, felt clean and Tassy thought that whatever toxins were still in her lungs from Randolph’s smoking were being scrubbed out of her insides. She felt cleaner and stronger than she had felt . . . since forever, maybe.

  She was on her own, with very few resources, yet she felt more whole than she had ever felt.

  It’s as if something is about to happen and I just have to pay attention to it. Like life is changing and I need to catch it just right. Like a surge . . . or something. A surge? Is that the right word? I think it is. A surge, like a rush.

  She stopped and held onto a speed limit sign, slipped off her left shoe, and shook out a pebble.

  Or something like a surge.

  And as she readjusted her shoe, a truck motored past her, honked its horn, heading upriver, east, and she smiled and waved back, something she had never done . . . well, at least not since she was a little girl hoping to get a semitruck driver to honk his horn.

  This time it was simply enough to wave.

  It felt good.

  A second food dish had been placed in the cat’s dining alcove—a deep cereal bowl that Jake filled with the “original flavor” Meow Mix kibbles.

  I wonder if they made a new and improved kibble and got complaints from cats, so they had to go back to the original formula?

  Petey carefully investigated the new food source and delicately chewed on a few of the newly added kibbles, making a very loud crunching noise as he ate. Jake installed the litter box in a pantry/mudroom space by the back door to the kitchen. The space would be out of sight and allow the cat a certain amount of privacy. Jake was pretty sure that cats didn’t really need privacy, but he felt better about not having any of it in plain view.

  Then he went to work on unpacking the groceries. Some food destinations were obvious. Perishables went into the refrigerator. Frozen whole kernel niblet corn went into the freezer. Cereal went into a tall cabinet next to the refrigerator. Pretty sure that he wouldn’t remember all the locations, he tried to keep storage relegated to two cabinets and the pantry.

  Jake looked at his watch.

  11:30.

  He had decided early that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bowl of soup would be a great lunch. It took all of five minutes to prepare. He sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly. This time, Petey sat on the floor and watched him eat. Occasionally, the cat would lick a paw and comb it against his face. But mostly, the cat simply watched.

  I need to come up with a sermon for this Sunday.

  Jake had a file folder filled with previously given sermons, none of which now felt anywhere suitable for a first-time-as-the-pastor-in-the-pulpit sort of message.

  I should start to work on it soon. It is already Tuesday afternoon, almost.

  His shoulder twitched again. Sometimes carrying things made it sensitive. Perhaps the groceries were cumulatively heavier than he thought.

  He put the dishes in the sink and walked into the living room, the cat a few steps behind. He sat on the couch and stretched out.

  Just for a minute. I’ll relax for just a minute.

  Perhaps ten minutes passed. Perhaps it was longer. Jake had not paid attention to the time when he first shut his eyes.

  Petey was up, standing on the chair, eyes alert, ears back.

  Why did I wake up?

  Then he heard it. A soft rapping at the door. A soft feminine rapping, he imagined. He wasn’t sure what a feminine knock sounded like, but somehow this knock sounded like it came from the hand of a woman. Petey carefully jumped from the chair and made his way toward the door, then sat and waited, a furry welcoming committee.

  Jake pulled at the doorknob, but it stuck, just like it had for Jimbo.

  Maybe there’s an easy fix for this.

  He used two hands and pulled harder and the door squealed open. Standing there, shouldering a very large, and apparently heavy, backpack, was a young girl—or rather, a young woman, with a thicket of wavy brown hair framing her delicate face. Sort of angelic. Pretty. Innocent and pretty.

  The two eyed each other for a moment. Or, really, the three of them eyed one another. Petey walked a few steps into the living room, and peered at their visitor. His tail stood up at attention.

  The young woman spoke first.

  “You a preacher?”

  Jake had asked himself that same question many times.

  “Yes . . . I am a pastor. I’m the new pastor here. Jake Wilkerson.”

  If the young woman had been aware of the conflict in his response, she paid no mind.

  “Hi. I’m Tassy Lambert. I heard somewhere that if you were ever in trouble, a church would be a good place to go if you needed to find your way.”

  Jake’s agreed with her statement, but he had no idea if she was expecting a response.

  She continued, “Where am I? And is there a cheap motel anywhere around here?”

  And the twinge went off in Jake’s shoulder once again. This time he blamed too much coffee.

  “Jimbo, you have to call him and tell him Vern is coming. What if he’s out buying groceries or something?”

  Jimbo didn’t want to call the pastor.

  “No. He’ll think I’m checking up on him.”

  “He will not,” Betty insisted. “If it was me and Vern was on his way over, well, mister, I would want to know about that. Vern can be . . . cantankerous, you know.”

  Jimbo sighed and wished he were drilling a well right about now.

  “And his wife is coming as well. Her . . . I don’t like, even if she is old.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll give him a heads-up. You’re probably right.”

  And he took the phone as if it had recently been on fire and just now extinguished.


  “A hotel . . .” Jake’s thoughts were in a whirl.

  I didn’t stay overnight last time . . . the only time I’ve been here. I don’t think I saw any hotels. There has to be one in Bradford but that’s an hour away.

  “You know, Miss . . .”

  “Tassy.”

  “Tassy, you know, I don’t really know. It’s . . . well, it’s only my second day on the job and I’m not from around here originally.”

  Tassy’s face darkened. No, not darkened; she looked more crestfallen.

  Do I invite her in? Jake wondered, his thoughts in even more of a whirl. She’s not wearing a wedding ring. I’m a pastor. This is a church. What’s proper here? What do I do?

  Such decisions never reached his desk as an assistant pastor in a very large church with twenty staff members . . . His responsibilities seemed mostly to entail getting a full complement of ushers lined up for the services. This young woman posed a new problem to Jake—one he was not prepared to deal with.

  Friendly. Outgoing. Works turn to faith.

  Petey stepped toward the girl and rubbed against her leg, purring and meowing softly.

  “What a cute kitty,” she said. “What happened to his paw?”

  She bent and picked him up. The cat made no effort to stop her. In fact, he more or less snuggled into her cradled arms.

  “He had a thorn in it. And he showed up at church the same time I did yesterday. So I guess we’ve both started at the same time.”

  Tassy smiled.

  Jake decided to err on the side of hospitality.

  “Come on in. At least for a little bit. I guess I could make a few calls. Maybe there’s a place in Coudersport. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  She hesitated with her answer.

  “I do have some tea,” he said. “I just bought it. I never heard of the brand before, but the box looks nice.”