The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  A few degrees less than hell, I imagine, Jake thought, then scolded himself for being petty.

  The energy level in the congregation felt low, even sluggish—probably because of the heat. Even so, he thought the sermon had gone over well. Not too many people appeared to be dozing.

  Jake dismissed everyone with a benediction, wished them a good week, and walked to the outside door to shake hands. He noticed that Petey had as many visitors as he did. There seemed to be, as of recent Sundays, a pool of people gathering around the cat, petting him, asking how he was doing, laughing at his inability to shed his fur coat in the summer.

  Not everyone said much as they made their way outside. Sometimes it was “Good preaching, Pastor,” or “Liked it a lot,” or “Spoke to me today, Pastor.” Today, he heard, five times, “Start up an air conditioning fund,” and “Do it while it’s hot,” and “People will give more while it’s hot outside.”

  Jake made a mental note to bring up air conditioning for discussion at the next elder’s meeting.

  The church had already grown some since he had become its pastor. Some of the faces could just be people coming back to their home church after such a long absence of a senior pastor, but some were entirely new faces—people who had never come to a church, and those who had not darkened the door of one for years.

  If we want to keep them, we need to make everyone feel comfortable.

  And it was at that moment Jake felt most uncomfortable.

  Comfortable. Like that’s what I need to work on. Like the Bible needs to have an air-conditioned audience.

  Jake scolded himself again.

  Just who am I to be so self-righteous Mr. Empty Inside.

  One of the newer attendees at church, Glenda Davis, waited until everyone else had departed or at least had left the building. Usually, since Jake had been preaching, there would be one person, or a couple, or a family, who would hang back, waiting until everyone left. That’s when they would come and present their problem or ask for a prayer or lay out an improbable, or unsavory, situation they hoped a pastor could deal with and make better.

  Jake’s seminary training now seemed terribly light and trivial considering the small number of interpersonal counseling classes required in a four-year course of study.

  Maybe Emma was right. Some people are good at it. Some aren’t.

  Jake obviously did not consider himself a skilled counselor or mediator or problem solver.

  Good problem solvers solve their own problems first.

  “Pastor Jake, I’m Glenda Davis.”

  “Hi. I remember you. You introduced yourself a few Sundays ago. It is so nice to have you with us.”

  Glenda appeared flustered, as if she hadn’t imagined that any pastor would have taken the time or effort to remember her name—an occasional visitor.

  By this time, Petey had grown impatient, jumped down from his chair, and slowly walked down the aisle, chirping to himself, apparently complaining to himself about the heat.

  “I love that Petey is coming to church. Gives me hope, you know?”

  Jake waited. He did not know.

  “I like the way you tell stories. And the way you listen, Pastor Jake. You listen a lot for a preacher. In the past, all they did was talk at me. But you seem to listen real good.”

  “Why, thank you, Glenda. I appreciate that.”

  “You met my son. That means a lot to me, too.”

  “Your son? Was he here this morning?”

  Glenda’s face showed happy and sad at the same moment.

  “No. But he talked to you in town a while ago.”

  Jake screwed up his face, puzzled.

  “Speedy Davis. He said you promised to talk to him. He told me in a letter. He doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Oh, sure. I remember. I got his map in the mail yesterday. He asked if I would come next Friday. He didn’t have a return address, but I plan on going.”

  Glenda put her hand on Jake’s forearm.

  “Thank you, Pastor Jake. Sidney—or Speedy—really needs help, Pastor. He’s just . . . well . . . he’s lost. His father was arrested ten years ago last February. He’s in prison down at LaBelle. Attempted murder. It was the alcohol that did it. Since he left, Sidney went off the deep end. Lives out in the woods all by himself. Does odd jobs now and then. He might even be growing some weed for all I know. You know—marijuana. But when his father left, it was like a light went out inside, and he’s been hiding out by himself ever since. I know you don’t promise miracles, but the fact that he found you means a lot. Maybe he’s coming back.”

  Petey circled Glenda’s legs in a figure eight. She bent down to pick him up, obviously used to having a cat around.

  “And thank you, Petey. I bet Sidney heard about you and figured Pastor Jake was a good man. Right?”

  Petey meowed in the affirmative.

  “Anyhow, Pastor Jake, I just wanted to thank you for listening. And for helping my Sidney.”

  Sometimes, more often than not, it seemed, Jake had nothing to say that fit the moment.

  Petey spoke instead, offering a long, low, rumbling meow, followed by a loud purring.

  Glenda’s smile indicated that a cat’s purr was enough.

  Emma clipped the leash on Winston, who did not to want to go for a walk.

  “It’s not that warm, Winston. You need the exercise.”

  And obviously Winston disagreed with her assessment, since once they were both on the driveway outside the house, he sat down heavily, with an audible “worf,” and looked as if he had completed his required exercise by simply waddling down the stairs.

  “No, Winston. Not enough. We’re walking to the river. Maybe to Mitchell Park.”

  Winston groaned as he stood.

  “It’s no more than a mile. You can do a mile. Right?”

  The dog snorted, not agreeing with the good doctor, not at all.

  Emma walked slowly because of Winston’s short legs, poor condition, and general aversion to anything remotely athletic. Traffic in Coudersport on a Sunday remained light. The main road carried some traffic, but Emma and Winston stayed on the sidewalks and took three short breaks on their trip to the park.

  Once there, she walked to the river’s edge, found a nice grassy spot shaded by trees, and sat. Winston sat next to her, then rolled onto his side as if exhausted, his tongue lolling out, his eyes closed.

  “Good acting, Winston. It was only twenty minutes. A dog your age should be able to run for an hour without problems.”

  Emma could have sworn that Winston closed his eyes even tighter, as if not wanting to hear what she just said.

  “You can rest for a while. I don’t mind sitting here. It’s a nice day and this is a nice view.”

  The view featured a wide area on the yet-small river with smooth, clear water. The park was nearly empty and the flowing water produced a pleasant, calming sound.

  I might as well spend some time thinking about it. Since I’ve been avoiding the thought all week. So here it is: I like Jake. I think he likes me.

  Emma grinned at herself.

  It’s like I’m in ninth grade again, isn’t it? I should start writing his name on the cover of my notebook.

  “What do you think, Winston? You have a say in this as well. Remember Petey? The cat with the thorn in his paw? Did you like him? Think you could get along with him? Do you like Petey the cat?”

  Winston responded with a snort. Emma thought it sounded dismissive, but Winston had never been a deep-thinking, intuitive dog. Some dogs were, Emma had discovered in her practice. And cats as well. Cats like Petey. If she asked Petey that same question, she would get an answer that was clear and decisive.

  Some animals have a sense about things. You can tell what they’re thinking. Winston, not so much. Of course, it might just be that he doesn’t think at all.

  She watched a duck glide down, quacking furiously as he landed, not very gracefully, on the river.

  Winston is like a very young chi
ld. Sleep. Eat. Sleep. That’s all he thinks about.

  She stretched her legs out, kicked off her sneakers, and touched the water with her toes. Despite the warmth of the air, the water felt chilled—cold, actually.

  “Winston, I know more about Jake than I should, I think. And what do I do with this information? It all has to do with faith, right? He doesn’t have it. I don’t think I ever had it. The big difference is that Jake probably had faith and lost it. I don’t think I ever believed, and now . . . well, I guess I still don’t. We both have questions. We both have doubts. That’s a good reason to be together, isn’t it?”

  As she said the words out loud, she realized that it was a truly foolish reason to be together.

  Having faith—or belief—would probably be a good thing. Maybe not having it will draw us together—both of us looking for the same thing. Maybe.

  Emma reclined back, cradling her head in her arms crossed behind her, staring at the sky.

  Well, he would be looking for it. Me, not so much.

  “Do I tell him what I know? What Barbara Ann said about him? Do I tell him that I don’t mind that ‘he doesn’t believe’? Would that make it easier for him?” Her face tightened in response to her own questions.

  “Maybe that’s it. We cancel out each other’s doubts.”

  She closed her eyes.

  That doesn’t make sense either. But what do I do next? What do I do?

  Jake had all but decided that he would buy a window air conditioning unit. But he would have to wait until tomorrow and take the drive to Bradford—the closest town with a Walmart Superstore, and the closest town with an inexpensive air conditioner.

  “Hey, Petey, let’s go for a walk.”

  Petey raised his head. He enjoyed being in a deep sleep on the living room chair, stretched out on his stomach, his back and front legs splayed out. He opened his eyes and blinked. Give me a second to wake up, okay?

  He watched Jake lace up his shoes, and noticed that Jake would always carefully make sure the tension on each lace was the same as the other. He stood up and checked the fit and the tension.

  “Okay, let’s go. We’ll go down to the river. It’s cooler down there.”

  Once they entered the field, the air actually grew hotter, still, almost as if an invisible cloak of hot air had been drawn over the area. He listened and heard only the sporadic call of a bird or two. There were no avian squabbles this afternoon, no territorial battles. Jake forged ahead, Petey a few steps behind him, placing his paws down with care.

  Once they arrived at the river’s edge, Jake picked up a handful of smooth pebbles and began tossing them into the middle of the stream. The first time, Petey charged toward the edge of the water, giving chase to what Jake had thrown.

  “No, Petey. These are not for retrieving. I just like to see the little splashes they make.”

  Petey stared up at him. What? Watching splashes? What sort of fun is that?

  Petey sniffed at the water and gently nicked at it with his right paw. Then he splashed a bit deeper, drawing his paw back and licking at it, testing the water, as it were. He then retreated and jumped up on a smooth, flat rock, shielded from the sun by a large willow.

  Jake remained until his handful of rocks was gone, tossing them in at random, his eyes set on the far southern horizon. He made his way toward the cat and joined him on an adjacent rock. He did not speak, just sat, with his legs extended out toward the river, leaning back on his palms, his face turned upward to the heavens.

  Jake . . .

  At these moments, and only at these moments, Petey wished he had been born with the ability to form words, to speak. He seldom wanted that ability during the course of any regular day, since he had discovered, early on, that speech often served only to get in the way of real feelings. People, and cats, for that matter, often did things they found hard to explain, and if they tried, they would simply use the wrong words to do so. Ask a guilty-looking cat why they shredded the drapes and you would not ever receive the real, truthful, soul-honest answer. And maybe there wasn’t a real answer. Maybe they acted on pure instinct or pure impulse. But today, it was obvious to Petey that Jake had issues on his mind. It was obvious that Jake needed to talk things through.

  Petey meowed, not loudly, not insistently, but inquiring, observant.

  After a moment, Jake looked over.

  “I don’t know, Petey. Maybe it’s just life that is bothering me.”

  Well, that worked pretty well. Maybe he’s beginning to understand “cat.”

  “I know you don’t understand, Petey. But it feels too good to imagine that you do.”

  I do understand. Most of the time, anyway.

  “So, why do I talk to you?”

  Because you need to.

  “I guess when I say these things out loud, they get more real. They become . . . something I can deal with, rather than hide from. Maybe that’s it.”

  Of course, that’s it. People need to talk. Cats need to act. Good cats need to listen. And I am a good cat.

  Petey meowed, hoping to sound quite understanding and aware.

  “I know you would like to help, Petey. But maybe you can’t.”

  I can, too. Why else would God have sent me? He did send me. That’s why I am here. To help you.

  “I’m a pastor of a church. Not as big a church as my mother wanted me to have. But I am a pastor.”

  I didn’t like your mother, Jake. That may be terrible of me to say. But I don’t think she was a very nice person. She thought I was a wild animal. Imagine that. Me. A wild animal. Preposterous, right? Is that the right word? Preposterous?

  “When she visited . . . I don’t know . . . things seemed to fall into place. Kind of. Maybe.”

  Things? What sort of things?

  “When my father left, I was still pretty young. And it hurt, Petey. It hurt, even though my mother said we would be better off without him. I don’t have many memories of him anymore. It’s even hard for me to picture his face in my mind. It’s like I see a form without a face. And he’s always getting smaller when I think of him. He is fading away. The memories are. Disappearing.”

  That is sad, Jake. Cats don’t grow up with fathers. And they don’t spend a lot of time with their mothers, either. I remember my mother. She was very nice and very smart and she was a good hunter, and I bet she could catch more mice than anyone. She was a very nice mother.

  Petey looked away from Jake and stared at the river, swallowing a few times.

  “So my mother had my life planned out for me. Be a pastor. That’s what she always wanted, Petey. And that’s what I did. I became a pastor. She never asked me if I believed. Not really. I went to catechism and youth group and all that. I looked like I believed. And . . . even in seminary, deep down I was never really sure. Was I there for me? Or for God? Or did I go just for my mother? You know, Petey, I’m not sure anymore. My mother really struggled raising me. She always worked hard and we never had a lot and she always told me how much she sacrificed to raise me and send me to school. I felt obligated to pay her back. To do what would make her happy—to make her life have some shred of joy. And it worked. Me being a pastor gave her hope. I think it did, anyway. She was happy when she told other people I was a ‘man of God.’ That was the only time I remember her being truly happy.”

  You didn’t want to be a pastor? I thought all pastors wanted to be pastors. Why else would anyone take the job?

  “I wanted to do it—for her. Not for me. What does any seventeen-year-old know? Do any of them have any idea? Take Tassy. She’s young. What does she want with her life? Get a tattoo? Find an apartment and a new boyfriend and start the whole stupid thing all over again? I don’t know anymore. I just don’t.”

  Petey meowed.

  “I know you don’t understand.”

  But I do.

  “It’s just . . . not having a dad . . . it’s complicated. How do I have faith in something that I can’t see? That’s what I tried to tell Barbara Ann. An
d you can see where that got me. How do I have faith? In God the Father? What about my father? My mother never had a good word to say about him. It’s not that she always said bad things, but she never said good things, either. It was like he wasn’t even part of the equation. And then, I tell Barbara Ann some of my ‘deep feelings’ and that blows up. Better to keep deep feelings deep and hidden. Does no good to tell people what you really feel. That just gets you in trouble. I can do this job and not believe all of it. Right, Petey? Right?”

  I never met that Barbara Ann person but I am sure I don’t like her. I bet she had a bed full of stuffed animals, too. That is just creepy. You can have a real animal. Why bother with inanimate animals? Wait . . . you do need to talk about how you feel, Jake. That’s important.

  “So here I am, Petey. I am pastor of a church that is growing—and it’s because of you.”

  I can’t take all the credit.

  “I don’t have faith. Maybe I never had faith. Maybe I never really believed. I’ve read that boys who grow up without fathers struggle with this. And I’m struggling, Petey. Just like the books say.”

  Petey looked at Jake and Jake stared back, almost as if they both understood.

  “I don’t know, Petey. I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Being hypocritical like this. Not really believing what it is I’m preaching. Is anyone really being affected or changed? Or do they simply show up to see a cat in church?”

  That seems a little . . . harsh, Jake.

  “Who has really been changed by what I’m doing? Whose life is better because of me being here?”

  And with that, without waiting for Petey’s response, Jake got up in a hurry and started walking back toward church.

  Petey waited just a minute, wondering what it was he should do now. Then he got up, stretched, and set out following him.

  This is a hard thing. I don’t know what it will take to get Jake to really see.

  Petey heard a mouse rustle a few feet away.