The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  “Okay. I’ll be honest. We went out once. Just to the movies.”

  “At least now you’re prepared. I don’t know about you, but dating an atheist would be a big no-no to me. I talk about this in my video. If you don’t believe you can win a beauty pageant, then you shouldn’t enter. You have to have faith in yourself. If Jake didn’t have faith, then he should have steered clear of the ministry—and me. Would have saved me a whole year of dating the wrong person.”

  “Well, Barbara, again, thanks so much.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Grainger. By the way, Ms. Grainger, would you like a copy of my video? I have a lot of VHS ones. They don’t sell very well these days.”

  “I would love one, but seeing how as my veterinarian job takes most of my time, I don’t think I’ll be entering any pageants.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. It’s got loads of good advice on beauty and self-confidence and all sorts of good, positive things. I’ll send you one for free. Okay? Seeing as how we both know Jake. Okay.”

  “Okay, if you insist. That would be very kind of you,” Emma said, wondering if she still owned a VCR that would play a VHS tape.

  8

  Jake walked out of Jubilee Foods with two bags of groceries. His cat food supply was already low. Petey must be making up for lost time of not having enough food to eat for so long by eating a full can of tinned food every day, plus nibbling on dry kibbles all day. Jake thought that level of consumption was a lot. He made a mental note to ask Emma about the proper amount to feed a cat the next time he saw her.

  He loaded the groceries in the front of the truck. Petey had stayed at home this morning, barely raising his head from his morning nap position on the chair in the living room. It was his first stop on a standard rotation: morning nap—living room chair; midmorning nap—windowsill in office; after lunch nap—sofa in living room; predinner nap—the unused pillow on Jake’s bed; and prebedtime nap—one of the kitchen chairs. The variety of sleeping spots Petey selected and how quickly he fell asleep and woke up fascinated Jake. And how varied his sleeping positions were: the prone cat, the cat on his back, the cat curled into an impossibly tight ball, the cat with his head upright and eyes closed, the cat with his head on his paws, the cat with a paw on his face, and the cat stretched out to twice his length.

  As Jake walked around his car with his groceries, he spotted a tall, very thin, younger man walking toward him, with very long blond straight hair, worn well past his shoulders. A full beard flowed around his face and chin—a long beard, full and bushy, a bandana covered his head. He also wore torn jeans and a very tattered jean jacket. It appeared that he was coming straight at Jake. Granted, Coudersport was out in the country—well out in the country. And there were folks who lived even farther out in the country—miles away from even a small town and miles off any main road, and some, miles off even a bad, semi-paved road. Almost off the grid, if the truth be told.

  One of these wilderness-looking men attended Jake’s church. He heard him referred to as a “mountain man,” a person who simply wasn’t comfortable living in close proximity to anyone. He lived in a small cabin deep in the nearby Susquehannock State Forest, virtually hidden from view. His name was Mylon Fedders, and he slipped into church as it started and exited as they sang the final hymn.

  The man approaching him was not Mylon but apparently went to the same barber and clothing store as the church’s mountain man.

  “Hey there, you the new pastor fellow, right?”

  Jake extended his hand. “I am. Jake Wilkerson.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I saw you with Doc Grainger the other night.”

  “At the movies?”

  “Naw. I got no use for movies. I was heading out of town and saw you walking. Me and Doc Grainger go way back. We went to high school together. She was real smart back then. Well, I guess she still is. Sorry. Let me introduce myself. Where are my manners? They call me Speedy Davis. Don’t ask my real name. Doc Grainger may remember it, but I hope she don’t. Anyhow, I hear tell you let a cat come to church. That right?”

  If Jake was worried about becoming the “cat pastor,” this may have confirmed it.

  “I guess. The cat, my cat . . . yes, he did show up in church the last two Sundays. Apparently he likes to hear me talk.”

  “Don’t that beat all? Animals—they do have a special sense, you know. They understand things. They know. I sort of live out there in the woods. Animals all around. Deer. Raccoons. A couple a bears, recently. Spiritual creatures, them bears.”

  Speedy pushed his hair behind his ears, using both hands, then shook his head to straighten the flowing locks on his shoulders.

  “Anyhows, Pastor Jake, I was wondering.”

  Jake waited.

  “I don’t do church. I don’t like being inside with all those people. Get real nervous, you know. Miracle I made it through school, you know?”

  “I can understand that, Speedy. Really.”

  “But that don’t mean I ain’t interested in God and all that. But I was wondering. Maybe sometime you and I could talk. Not here in town. I’m sort of already itchy and I only been here a few minutes. Maybe you could come out to my place and we could talk. I got questions, and them bears—well, they do have a spirit, but they ain’t much help with my questions.”

  He was asking for a pastoral visit?

  “Well, sure. I could do that.”

  Speedy looked like he had just dropped a large weight onto the ground.

  “Okay, then. I’ll mail you a map. You couldn’t find me without a map. Hey, even I have trouble finding home sometimes.”

  “Sure,” Jake replied. “I would like a chance to talk. Anytime.”

  “That’s righteous. Any man who preaches to a cat . . . well, that’s a righteous man, you know?”

  Jake didn’t know, but for today, he took Speedy at his word.

  Jake moved quietly in the kitchen. After years of apartment living, he kept his morning footfalls soft and the clatter of cups and coffeepots to a minimum. He knew he did not need to worry now—since Petey nearly always woke with him—but old habits and tendencies, deeply ingrained, are hard to ignore.

  He stood at the kitchen sink, finishing his first cup of coffee, and saw headlights swing into the church parking lot.

  “Maybe they’re lost or turning around,” Jake said aloud, as if Petey had been interested, which apparently he wasn’t, being occupied by the half-filled bowl of kibbles at his feeding station. Jake had learned that Petey did not like his canned food early in the day. That meal should be served at lunch. Kibbles were enough for a morning snack.

  But the car in the lot did not turn around or back out. The lights came closer to the church, the car stopped, the lights switched off. It was a truck, not a car. And the lumbering form that exited looked familiar. As it came closer to the light above the steps, Jake recognized his very early morning visitor.

  “Jimbo Bennett,” Jake said with some cheer as he opened the door. “What brings you here so early? Is there a predawn elders’ meeting that no one told me about?”

  “If there is, I make two people who haven’t heard about it.”

  “Come on in. Want some coffee?”

  “Sure. I pulled in just to see if your light was on. If it wasn’t on, I wasn’t going to stop. But I’m headed out to do a little fishing. No work today. One of the hydraulic lines on the drill unit we use busted yesterday and it won’t be ’til tomorrow that we get the right part to fix it. I could have gone in and swept up the shop or something, but Lloyd—he’s the owner, Lloyd Cummins—well, he said it was fine if I took off. So I’ve tossed my fishing poles in the truck and thought I would drown a few worms this morning. And the Missus is always saying how I don’t have any men friends, so I thought I would ask if you wanted to come with.”

  Jimbo looked near exhausted after his dissertation. Jake had never heard him use that many words at one time before.

  Jake ran through a quick mental calculation. He had never
been fishing. He was pretty sure that he wouldn’t like fishing. He was pretty sure that he would not like the feel of a real fish, slimy and flopping and jumping, in his hands. But he was also just as certain that this was probably a huge decision for Jimbo.

  “Sure. If you have a pole for me, I’d love to go.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  Petey looked up and meowed very loudly.

  “You want to go, Mr. Petey?” Jimbo asked.

  Petey meowed again, the same insistent tone.

  “Can he?” Jimbo asked. “Maybe you don’t want him to go with us.”

  “No. It’s fine. He likes riding in a truck. Seems to like being by the river. We walk down there a lot. He sits and looks at the water. So, if you don’t mind, he can go.”

  “Never had a cat in my truck before. Never had a pastor in my truck before. A lot of first times today.”

  Petey sat in the middle of the bench seat, though it was obvious he wanted the window seat instead. He complained loudly when Jake picked him up and plopped him down in the middle, moving a tackle box to make room for him.

  Petey sniffed at the orange plastic box and wrinkled his nose, in obvious distress at the long-lasting odor of fish and worms and whatever else Jimbo handled when he picked up his tackle.

  They drove a few miles past Big Dave’s.

  “There’s a bend in the river here. Easy to get to. Lots of rocks for fish to hide in. Current isn’t too strong. Usually a good spot.”

  Jimbo pulled off into the field and into the scrub grass and brush for one hundred yards or so, bouncing and rattling as they went. Even sure-footed Petey lurched back and forth a few times when the truck came upon bigger ruts.

  “Right here. Shady spot, too. Should be good fishing today.”

  Jake accepted the pole Jimbo offered him.

  “You want worms or a lure?”

  Jake answered in a hurry. “A lure.”

  “I got a couple of Red Devils that always do well. I’ll set it up for you.”

  “Thanks.” Jake really meant it.

  Jimbo showed him how to cast out, to hold the release just so and to let it go at the top of the cast, and where there might be fish beneath the silvery water.

  “I’ll use some fake worms. They say fish don’t know the difference.”

  Petey climbed out of the truck with them, watched intently as Jimbo set up the rod and reels, and when Jake first cast into the water, almost made a jump after the lure.

  “No, Petey. We’re not playing catch. This is for fish.”

  Obviously disappointed, the cat sat glumly on a small rock at the river’s edge.

  The sun peaked above the small ridge that bordered the river valley, the water glistening red and gold.

  For a long time, the only sound was the rippled water, and the occasional sounds of either Jake or Jimbo casting again, the whir of the reel and the hiss of the line and a small, indistinct splash when the lure hit the water’s surface.

  “Any bites?” Jimbo asked.

  “I don’t think so. I can sort of feel the lure move a little, but that’s probably just the flow of the river.”

  “Probably. A fish bite is a sharp, little tug. Sometimes they hit it and spit it out. Sometimes they taste it first. That’s what they say, anyhow. Never seen a fish eat, so I go by what they say on the fishing shows on TV.”

  “You do a lot of fishing?” Jake asked as he cast once more.

  “Some. Not as much as some of the other guys. I like fish okay. I am not too crazy about chopping them up and all that. Most of the time I just toss ’em back in.”

  “I’ve heard that. Catch and release, right? The fun is the catching.”

  “Yep,” Jimbo replied. “You know what kind of fish I really like to eat?”

  “Trout?”

  “Yuck. No. I really like them fish sandwiches at McDonald’s. If I could catch those out here, I’d be here every day.”

  Jake laughed in reply.

  After another longer period of silence, and after Jimbo cast out again, he spoke, his words measured.

  “This is nice, isn’t it? Gives you time to think. That’s what I like about fishing. You don’t have to pay attention all the time. Hunting, now, with a loaded gun and all—you have to be alert. Fishing, not so much.”

  “I have never been hunting. But I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Yeah, I like fishing. I like sitting out here, by myself,” Jimbo said. “Not that being with you is bad, Pastor Jake, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “I can think about things out here. Like what’s going to happen in the future. What we’ll do when we retire. Stuff like that. Where I would want to go if I didn’t have to work anymore.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Beats me. I like it here fine. The Missus wants to move to Florida. Or Hawaii. I don’t think that would happen. Maybe Florida. I guess I could swing that for a week or two—but I’m not sure if I could move there.”

  Jimbo cast again. Petey flinched as he did, wanting to chase the worm.

  “Where would you go, Pastor Jake? To retire.”

  Jake shrugged.

  “Haven’t thought about it. I have more than a few years until I need to answer that question.”

  “You pastor guys have all the luck,” Jimbo said. “I know you’re busy all week with sermons and meetings and visiting people and stuff like that—and everybody is happy to see you. You have a lot of connections. Us regular guys, not so much. I like the guys at work all right, and at church, but there aren’t many that I would want to take fishing with me. I always feel like I’m being evaluated. Or judged. Like I’m not the smartest guy. I know that, but still.”

  “I don’t think they’re doing that, Jimbo. Not at church anyhow. Everyone seems to like you fine.”

  Jimbo brightened.

  “Really? You think so?”

  Jake could hear the insecurity in his voice.

  “Sure. You’re the church treasurer, right? That’s a hard job. They wouldn’t give that to you if they thought you couldn’t handle it.”

  Jimbo tilted his head, considering the thought.

  “I guess that’s right. Maybe I’m just being . . . I don’t know . . . too sensitive or something. Maybe it’s because of the way I was brought up.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I was the last of four. Everyone had real good grades in school. I didn’t. I couldn’t seem to concentrate. So I got laughed at a lot. Funny, I don’t think I ever told this to anyone before. Not even Betty.”

  Jake cast again.

  “That’s good. To talk about things. You ever want to talk, I’m here.”

  Jimbo stopped reeling in his plastic worm.

  “Why, thanks, Pastor Jake. Thanks a lot.”

  Wednesday found Jake polishing his second sermon from the book of Ephesians. Later on in that book there are problematic verses on submission and obeying and wives and husbands and slaves. Jake was pretty set on their meaning and implications, but many pastors regarded that section of Scripture as a live hand grenade. Regardless of the interpretation, somebody was bound to be a bit ruffled at the end.

  Jake did not mind ruffling people when they needed ruffling, but as a realist, he knew that a few weeks into his position as a senior pastor—or only pastor—might not be the best time to start pulling the pins on theological hand grenades. Time enough for that, he thought. Let me focus on the things we can all agree on first.

  The phone rang. Jake did not bother looking at the number on caller ID. He was a pastor, assigned to serve, and that meant answering the phone when it rang. It was the least he could do, rather than let calls disappear into a voice mail abyss.

  “Pastor Jake Wilkerson here. How may I help you?”

  Pastor Wilkerson . . . it is still hard to get used to answering that way.

  “Well, Pastor Wilkerson, you could start by calling your mother more often than once a week. That’s
for starters.”

  Jake sat up straighter.

  “Hello, Mother. You surprised me. You never call during the day. You always call in the evening. You say it’s cheaper at night.”

  “Well, Mr. Smartypants, you are not the only one who is ‘with it.’ Your aunt said it doesn’t matter when I call. They don’t have evening rates anymore, with all these cellphones and crazy new gizmos. She said I can you anytime at all.”

  Jake winced, just a little.

  “So, to what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “Jake, do not take that tone with your mother.”

  “I’m not. I just asked what you want.”

  “And I can’t call just to talk to my only son? Is that so wrong now?”

  “No, Mother. Not at all. It is not wrong to call. I’m happy you called. I am always happy to talk to you.”

  Jake’s mother paused for a very long time before she responded.

  “I am calling to let you know that your aunt has graciously offered to drive me from Meadville the whole way to Coudersport. That’s a five-hour drive, Jakey. I offered to pay for gas, of course.”

  “Mother, the drive should only take three hours. I looked it up on MapQuest.”

  “MapQuest? That’s smarter than your aunt now? Your aunt said five. She knows these things. You have to respect your elders, Jakey. She’s been driving a long time.”

  Jake felt a small headache forming at the base of his neck, working its way up, tiny little fingers of tension clutching at him.

  “Okay, Mother. Five hours.”

  Neither spoke for a long time.

  “When were you planning to come?”

  “Well, that’s just it, Jakey. I would like to see your new church. Next week is just terrible, your aunt says. She has a hair appointment on Tuesday and a doctor’s appointment on Friday, and I have my Lady’s Circle on Thursday morning and I can’t miss that, of course, and your Aunt Harriet doesn’t like to drive that far on Mondays. She says there are too many trucks on the road trying to get back to work or something. So that doesn’t leave us a lot of options. Saturday is out. And Sunday . . . well, of course, we cannot drive on Sunday. Other than to church, of course. And maybe to a restaurant. So, we don’t have a lot of options, as you can plainly see. And the rest of the month is even worse. Next month, Harriet has a cruise planned—so it’s out, of course.”