The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  Something big, I bet. I wonder if I can come up with something big. And soon.

  12

  Tassy set off for her second Monday on the job, the start of her second week. This morning had not been a good one. She had been awake for hours before dawn. She had a few crackers and the last of a large bottle of diet ginger ale that she bought at the Speedy-Mart in town. Neither ingredient seemed to do the trick, and during the entire bike ride she felt her stomach roll and twist as she pedaled.

  The water here must really be horrible, Tassy thought. And I don’t think I even drank that much. The water I did drink, I boiled for tea—so that should make it safe. That’s what Jake said. He said he learned that in Cub Scouts. I can’t see him in a Cub Scout uniform with a little yellow scarf and all that. He doesn’t seem the type. And now that he’s all grown and handsome, he seems so far from being a little boy.

  Her stomach twisted again. She stopped pedaling for a long time, coasting to a stop until the curving and knotting in her gut stopped.

  Good thing I left early. This trip is taking twice as long as usual.

  She had planned to stop at McDonald’s but didn’t. The thought of a second cup of tea was nearly enough to make her stop pedaling again. Now she was down to seven minutes until Dr. Grainger expected to see her come through the door. But when Tassy finally arrived—on time—and unlocked the front door with her key, she found herself in an empty waiting room.

  “Dr. Grainger?” she called out softly. She went to the foot of the steps and called up again. “Dr. Grainger?”

  She heard Winston scuffle about and saw his chubby face at the top of the stairs, with a grin, knowing that Tassy’s presence meant a treat. He clomped down the steps in a furious snorling rush.

  “Good morning, Winston. Want a treat?”

  Of course Winston wanted a treat and tried to jump but mostly just raised his shoulders a bit.

  Tassy gave him a dog biscuit as a reward, which he ate noisily.

  “Is Dr. Emma up, Winston?”

  She heard hurried footsteps on the hall upstairs.

  “I’ll be down in a minute, Tassy. I overslept. Can you believe it? The first time I’ve done this in years.”

  After a moment, Tassy heard the sound of water running.

  Good thing we don’t have any early appointments today.

  Tassy rubbed at her stomach, hoping the nausea would soon pass.

  A very good thing.

  On Monday morning, Jake decided against the air conditioner. He had a fan and that had been enough.

  “I’m a bit worried that an air conditioner might be seen as excessive by some people in the church. What do you think, Petey?”

  Petey chirped.

  “I thought you would say that.”

  Instead of Kane or Bradford, which Jake had already visited or driven through on his day off, he decided to travel in a different direction. He pulled out his worn road atlas and peered intently at it while he had his second cup of coffee of the day.

  “Emporium. Let’s drive there.”

  Petey just looked at Jake, and it seemed as if he would have shrugged if he could shrug, but he couldn’t.

  Jake disappeared into the office but returned after a moment. “The Internet says that Emporium is a pretty little town out in the middle of nowhere. In a valley, I guess. It is supposed to be quite scenic. That sounds like a good ride, doesn’t it?”

  Petey stared. He did not seem to care one way or the other. Jake knew he simply liked riding in the truck.

  With his nose close to the page, Jake peered at the atlas, muttering to himself. He traced one route with his finger, then another.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter how you get there—so I’ll try this way. Come on, Petey. Let’s take a ride.”

  Petey did not hurry to the truck but did not walk at slow cat speed either.

  “See, Petey, we drive west a little bit and take the first road south. Regardless of what road we take, we’ll get there. Sort of a metaphor for life, don’t you think?”

  Petey seemed unimpressed by metaphors and simply turned to stare out the passenger side window.

  As he drove, Jake noticed that the area between here and there became sparsely populated, a few homes and farms dotted the hills, bucolic, pastoral.

  “This is nice, right, Petey? Pretty landscapes.”

  Petey chirped his response.

  If you like this sort of thing. I think I like towns better. There’s more to look at.

  They drove in silence through several small clusters of houses huddled by the side of the road: Inez, then Austin, and Sizerville. In Sizerville, Jake saw a road sign that said: EMPORIUM 5 MILES.

  “See, I told you all roads led to Emporium.”

  Jake drove into the small town, agreeing with the Internet’s assessment of the picturesque nature of the place. And it was indeed “in the middle of nowhere,” nestled in a bucolic valley, hidden, as it were, from the rest of the world. The Pennsylvania version of Brigadoon. That isolated part of the description began to appeal to Jake more and more, a place even further removed from the pressures of society and culture.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to live out here, Petey? Far from the madding crowds. That’s a title of a book or a poem or something.”

  Far from the Madding Crowd . . . by Thomas Hardy. It’s about a shepherd. You know, I don’t think I like sheep either. They stink, too. Not like foxes or skunks or dogs, but they do really smell. Anyhow, it’s a book title.

  Jake drove down the main street.

  “You want some coffee, Petey?”

  Not a disdainful cat by nature, Petey turned slowly to face Jake, with a tight, restricted look in his eyes.

  Go ahead. You don’t function all that well without multiple cups of the horrid drink. I’ll be fine all by myself, left alone in the car. I’ll be fine.

  Jake pulled to the curb.

  “Another nice thing about small towns is that you generally can find parking spaces. Where I grew up, you could drive around for an hour to find a free spot. See how nice this is?”

  I have heard that before, Jake. You are repeating yourself.

  Jake rolled down both windows nearly halfway. The temperature had been predicted not to climb out of the 60s today, so Jake felt more than comfortable leaving Petey alone in the truck. He knew him well enough to know that he would stay put until he returned. And besides Petey, there was nothing of value in the truck to tempt a thief.

  The Cabin Kitchen, a basic storefront restaurant, featured handwritten breakfast specials taped to the front window, along with signs for church bazaars, garage sales, rummage sales, bake sales, and free car washes—all bordering the bottom of the front window like an edging of mismatched flowers.

  “A community place,” Jake said to himself as he walked in. A clustering of patrons occupied the tables: some couples, some single gentlemen, all of them older, some with newspapers, all with coffee cups in front of them.

  A waitress called out from the far end of the counter, “Sit anywhere. Take your pick. I’ll find you.”

  Jake selected a stool at the counter. He liked stools at counters, perhaps since his mother never let him sit at a stool at any counter, in any restaurant, claiming that stools and counters looked too much like a tavern for her sensibilities. “What if Jesus came and saw you sitting on a stool like one at a bar and thought you were drinking a beer or a whiskey? He would pass you by, Jakey. You can’t take that chance.” Jake had always wanted to ask why, if Jesus were truly omniscient, he wouldn’t already know that no alcohol was being ingested. But Jake, even at a tender age, knew better than to ask “foolish, devil-inspired” questions like that.

  So he sat at the counter and slipped a menu out of the rack at its edge. Now seated, and noticing the smell of pancakes and toast, he decided that he might be hungry, as well as thirsty.

  Dr. Emma came down the steps in a hurry, her hair still wet. Winston had gone back up the steps and now followed her back down, lag
ging a full five steps behind, his back legs flumping on each step as he descended.

  “So sorry,” she exclaimed in a rush. “That’s what having a back-up does to you, I guess. Makes you sleep in. I’ve never had that luxury before—having someone cover for me like this.”

  Tassy smiled back, or tried to. She was not successful.

  “Are you not feeling well, Tassy? You look a little pale.”

  “No. I’m fine. I am. Just a passing morning thing. I think my stomach is still getting used to the water up here. Seems that I’m a bit sensitive, I guess.”

  She smoothed her hair from her face and hoped that she appeared healthy.

  “Are you sure, Tassy? You can lie down for a few minutes . . . upstairs. I have four extra bedrooms, you know. Those old Victorians had a lot of kids, I guess. Or servants. When a single woman goes into a furniture store and asks for five mattress sets, you get odd looks, let me tell you.”

  Tassy tried to smile.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Tassy grimaced, just a little, then nodded.

  “I am. It will pass. It always does. And it only happens in the morning. That’s the funny thing about it.”

  Dr. Emma stopped moving, stopped looking at the clip chart listing today’s appointments, stopped looking at the order form for medicines that she had to sign, and stared at Tassy.

  “Just in the morning?”

  “Yes. Usually, if I have some tea and toast, or a couple of crackers, it goes away. By lunchtime, I’m good to go. Just getting used to the water. That’s what Pastor Jake suggested. He said that some stomachs are sensitive. He said his mother was sick for a month when she moved to Meadville, and Meadville was only like an hour away from where she used to live. And Philadelphia is a lot farther than that. So . . . I’ll be fine. It’ll pass.”

  Dr. Grainger put the clipboard on the counter.

  “And it is just feeling sick to your stomach? No other symptoms?”

  Tassy pursed her lips.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Maybe . . . well, I’m thinking it’s because of riding the bicycle and all . . . but there are some areas of my body . . . you know . . . that are more sensitive now than they have ever been. I don’t know what the water would have to do with that. But I guess I’m just being overly dramatic. Right? A little neurotic, maybe. Or being a hypochondriac—that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? When you always think you have some disease? Hypochondria?”

  Dr. Grainger pulled up the chair next to Tassy and sat, putting her arm on Tassy’s forearm.

  “That’s what it’s called, but that’s not what you are. I don’t think you’re being dramatic. And I don’t think it’s the water.”

  “Coffee, hon?”

  Beverly, according to the nametag on her uniform, sidled up to the counter where Jake sat, carrying a half-full glass carafe of coffee.

  “Sure. Regular.”

  “That’s the only kind to drink,” she replied as she sloshed the coffee into a thick mug. “Decaf is like drinking bad-tasting water. Seriously. Why bother?”

  She took her order pad from a pocket.

  “You ordering anything?”

  Jake looked down at the menu in his hands.

  “Do you have sweet rolls? I don’t see them listed.”

  “We do. I have a couple of cinnamon rolls left, but if I were you,” she said in a stage whisper, “I would order a toasted pecan roll. We actually make them here and they are very good.”

  “Okay. I’ll have one of those, then.”

  “Wise choice.”

  Then Beverly stopped and stepped back a step or two, and leaned backward, as if studying an odd work of art.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. This is the first time I’ve been to Emporium.”

  “No. Well, maybe that’s true. I’m not questioning your veracity. But I have seen you somewhere.”

  Beverly turned to one of the couples seated at a nearby table.

  “Dolores—doesn’t he look familiar?”

  Jake felt obligated to turn and look in return.

  The woman who obviously was Dolores leaned forward and squinted at Jake.

  “I don’t think so. Henry? What about you?”

  Henry lowered his newspaper. “Nope. Maybe you could just ask him who he is and how he got here and his Social Security number and his mother’s maiden name so you could do a background check on him. How’s that sound? Or get a skin sample for a DNA test.”

  Dolores dismissed her husband’s caustic reply with a wave of her hand.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s antisocial.”

  Beverly brightened.

  “I know where I saw you. You’re that pastor—the one with the cat. Right?”

  Even though surprised, Jake had to nod in agreement.

  “Jake Wilkerson. Church of the Open Door in Coudersport.”

  “That’s it. My cousin e-mailed me a picture. Were you in the newspaper?” Beverly asked.

  “When I first got to town. I think the church sent a notice to the paper. The Potter Leader Enterprise, right?”

  Beverly shrugged. “Could be. I don’t read newspapers anymore. I get all the news from the Internet. Dinosaurs like Henry—they still read the newspapers. But that’s because he’s too cheap to buy an iPad.”

  Henry lowered his paper and glared at her.

  “Just because you’re my older sister doesn’t give you the right to criticize.”

  “Of course it does,” Beverly replied. “Dolores said I could. Right, Dolores?”

  “She is your only sister, Henry. You should be nice to her.”

  Jake watched as the family comedy unfolded before him. Beverly stopped, then turned back to Jake. “Where’s the cat? You leave him home alone this morning?”

  Jake figured the question was coming.

  “No. Actually, he likes riding in trucks. He’s in the truck waiting for me now.”

  “Get out! Really? Bring him in. Can we meet him?”

  Jake hesitated.

  “Oh sure, like the Health Department is waiting outside to do a sting operation on us for illegally serving cats in here.” Beverly responded, noticing Jake’s reluctance. “It’s okay. For a minute. Anyone mind if the pastor brings his cat in?”

  Weak choruses of “No” and “Okay with me” were the votes from the current pool of patrons.

  “Okay. I’ll get him.”

  Be careful what you do. You’re a celebrity in these parts.

  Jake went outside, walked to the truck, and opened the door. Petey sat up, obviously having been napping.

  “You have fans who want to meet you. You want to do a meet ’n greet?”

  Petey stood, stretched, arching his back, yawned, shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, and then jumped down from the truck, almost like he was looking to see where his fans might be gathered.

  “Over here,” Jake said. “Follow me.”

  Dr. Grainger slid her chair closer.

  “Tassy, I know I am an animal doctor, but I know a little about people medicine as well. Some of it transfers, I guess.”

  Tassy nodded.

  “You’re only sick in the morning? Nauseous, right?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “And it’s usually gone by the afternoon?”

  Tassy nodded.

  “Tassy, I am not one to pry. And I don’t have any right to ask—as an employer, and all.”

  “I know . . . I guess.”

  “I guess the only way to ask this question is to ask it: Do you think you might be pregnant?”

  Tassy leaned back, as if she had planned on that specific reaction.

  “No. No. I couldn’t be. Really, I couldn’t be,” as if Tassy was trying to convince herself of the fact.

  Dr. Grainger gripped Tassy’s arm a little tighter—not hard, but firm, insistent.

  “No. Really. I . . . Randolph has been gone for . . . It couldn’t be. Really. It couldn’t.”

/>   Dr. Grainger looked hard at her new employee, hard and long.

  “No. No. No.”

  “Tassy, could it be true?”

  “No.”

  “Tassy.”

  Tassy’s face softened, her eyes went wavery, and her shoulders slumped.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Have you taken a test, Tassy? You know, the kind they sell at the drugstore?”

  Tassy shook her head emphatically.

  “No. I couldn’t. I couldn’t buy one because the man who runs the store knows Eleanor and if I bought one, he would find out, and then Eleanor would find out, and I couldn’t do that to her. She has been so nice to me—letting me stay in the RV. Vern even bought me groceries. If they thought I was pregnant, what would it do to them? I just couldn’t do that—disappoint them like that.”

  Dr. Grainger stopped. Her back stiffened. A harsh look came on her face.

  “Jake . . . Pastor Jake isn’t involved, is he? You’re not protecting him, are you?”

  Tassy appeared shocked—very, very shocked.

  “Pastor Jake? No! No! Of course not. Pastor Jake, he’s like a church person. He couldn’t do that, even if he wanted to. And sure, he’s cute and all that, but he’s like, old. Not real old, like a grandfather or anything. But he’s old. No, nothing to do with Pastor Jake. He’s just been so sweet to me, too. He always asks if he can get me anything when he goes to town. Of if I need anything fixed. Or whatever. No, Pastor Jake. No.”

  Dr. Grainger appeared relieved.

  “I had to ask, Tassy.”

  “I know. But, Pastor Jake? Heavens no.”

  She looked down at the floor, avoiding Dr. Grainger’s concerned expression.

  “I have been worried about this since I got here. Sort of. Like I’ve been nervous thinking that maybe I am.”

  Jake opened the door and Petey sauntered inside, sniffing and looking about, taking it all in with great deliberateness.

  “He is just like she described him,” Beverly said. “A perfect gentleman. She said he sits through the whole service like it’s the most important thing he’s ever heard.”