by Sandi Ward
Finally, it is time for Mahmee to go home. She and Father sit in a corner of the living room, and Mahmee has a thick book open in her lap. Their heads bow over the book. Father puts a hand over his eyes and holds it there while Mahmee talks. He walks her to the door and hugs her good-bye. The children run over and thank her for everything.
Jimmy finds an old black-and-white movie on the TV and relaxes on the couch with Mary. The dirty dishes still sit on the kitchen table, so I jump up while no one is looking to lick a few plates.
Mother never let dishes sit out like this. She enjoyed cleaning, and took pride in a tidy house. Standards have dropped dramatically around here.
I feel like they may never recover.
Later, when Father goes out the back door to fetch some firewood, and leaves the door cracked open, I sit on my haunches and look into the darkness. Maybe. Maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll dart. It just washes over me, this strange impulse, this desire to run.
Tentatively, I stand up. I glance back over my shoulder, at the golden glow that bathes the entire kitchen. And then, moving forward, I dash out.
I glide silently over smooth stones and frozen dirt. Afraid, I jump behind a bush. It is very dark, but my eyes slowly start to adjust. I see a shape moving near a large pile of wood, and I see it is Father.
He tromps past me, his arms full of wood, boots crunching in the deep snow. The door swings shut as he enters the house again, and then it gets very quiet.
The first thing I notice, once I am alone, is that my mouth and eyes sting with cold. The rest of me feels okay, though, padded with fat and fur. Then I realize that the earth under my paws is damp, and icy. But it doesn’t hurt, as I expected. It just feels odd.
Our backyard is woods, so there are very tall trees and large spaces under the canopy where not much grows other than weeds and brambles. A variety of granite rocks, some as small as a loaf of bread but others as big as a kitchen table, are scattered between the trees. I would like to climb those rocks one day.
Or, maybe not.
You see, huge, vicious turkeys roam around here. Tall deer with tremendous antlers. And other odd monsters that are unfamiliar to me. Sometimes I look out the back sliding glass door that leads into the dining room, and I freeze, seeing a pair of marble eyes peering in at me. Gathering my courage, I stare back. I hiss and attack the door with my paws, as fierce as I can, ready to defend my home.
But I’ve never had to meet any type of wild creature face-to-face. I’m not sure if I would fight or flee. I don’t know what I am supposed to do, or how strong my claws are compared to those of other animals.
I wonder where Mother is. I wonder if she is sitting with Robert at this very moment. I do not know if Robert has his own children, or nearby relatives, or if he celebrates this holiday like we do. I hope Mother is surrounded by people on this day, but there is no way to know. My heart sinks a little.
I am angry at Mother. But also, today in particular, I just miss her.
For a moment, I wonder if I could find her. If I could somehow sniff out her scent. But I have been an indoor cat for so long, I don’t think I have those skills. Or if I did at one time, I don’t think I do anymore. It’s disheartening.
I take in a deep breath. The cold sears my lungs. No, no scent of Mother. I smell only the smoke coming from the chimney and the sharp, crisp dampness of the snow. And I can smell Father. Yes, he was out here with me.
And now he’s not. I am alone.
Have they even noticed I am gone? How long will it take before someone looks around and realizes I am missing?
I am feeling sorry for myself. But I cannot help it.
I sit, watch, and listen. It is still and peaceful. Yet I don’t dare move from behind my bush.
Time goes by. It might be minutes, or it might be an hour. Time for me is fluid, often measured by the movements of the sun and the grumbling of my hungry stomach.
Finally, the door swings open. I see Mary stick her head out and tentatively call my name. “Boo? You there, Boo?” She looks confused. I have never gone outside before. I’m sure she thinks this can’t be right. She withdraws.
Through the trees, I can see little sparks of light in the black sky. I wonder how far away they are.
Now Mary comes back outside, and this time she has on a warm hat, and coat, and mittens, and boots. She slowly treads through the snow, looking right and left. “Here, kitty.” She makes kissy noises. “Sweetie. Hey, sweetie.” She makes her voice soft and kind. I can see the warmth of her breath hanging as a mist in the frozen air. “Hey, baby.”
Now she starts walking away from me, out toward the trees. I watch her, and feel unable to move. I can’t go out there. It’s dark and scary, and I would feel exposed. I’m sure a creature would attack me immediately. But I worry. I don’t want anything horrible to happen to Mary.
Jimmy trudges out, pulling his wool jacket tighter around him, and then he decides to zip up. He takes gloves out of his pockets and slips them on.
Father is last, and he has the baby all bundled up. I watch him through the needles of the bush that conceals me. I am grateful and pleased that the entire family is out here. I can’t believe Father took the time to get Finn dressed and bring him out here.
I realize Father is the one I’ve really been waiting for.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Jimmy tips his head back and stares up at the sky, blinking against the cold.
Father glances at Jimmy and then follows his gaze up to the twinkling stars. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It really is.”
Finn looks content. Father knows how to hold the baby tight against his shoulder. I think Father is really getting good with that baby.
I meow, as loud as I can manage. They all spin around. Only Father turns his head in the right direction, toward where I lie under the bush. Maybe this is because he is used to listening for creatures when he puts out fires. Or maybe it is just because he is a father and his instincts are sharper than the others when he hears a living thing in distress.
“Shhhh,” he tells the others, and they freeze.
“Boo?” He takes a step toward me. “Hi, Boo. C’mon. Come out. It’s okay. Come on. You must be cold. It’s okay.”
I think it’s safe to emerge, now that my human family is all around. No wild animal would dare come into our yard right now. The voices and movement of the humans would frighten them. I slowly slink out from under the bush. In the shadows, they don’t see me right away.
“Oh, there you are!” Mary is very excited. “Boo! Why are you—?”
“Wait.” Father turns to Mary. “Don’t scare her off.” He looks at me again. “C’mon, Boo. It’s cold out here.”
I take a step closer to them. While my eyesight is good in the dark, there is nothing about this scene that is familiar to me. The humans look like strange shapes to me, all bundled up and profiled against the deep, snowy woods. Father is right; I worry I may jump back involuntarily just from fear of getting stepped on. I have no sense of how close or far away people are against the white snow.
I meow. Take me inside, I want to say. I think it is as simple as walking back in the door, but I’m disoriented and not sure.
“Mary. Mare. Just crouch down and move up to her slowly.” Father nods at her to go ahead.
Mary gets right down on her knees in the snow. “C’mon, Boo. Let’s go. Nice treats are inside! Yummy yum yum for Fatty Fat Cat.”
I walk up to her. The snow feels delicate under my paws. Mary runs a hand over my back. The next thing I know, I am being picked up. I am like jelly in her arms, melting into her chest. She carries me swiftly inside while Jimmy holds the door open. We swoosh into the bright kitchen, and I close my eyes tightly for a moment because I’m temporarily blinded. Mary sits right down in a kitchen chair, keeping me on her warm lap. She snuggles her face into mine.
“Your nose is cold. You bad thing. Bad, bad kitty. Don’t go out like that again.” She turns her head to look up at Jimmy and Fath
er. “She’s never done that before. Isn’t that strange?”
Jimmy scratches his head. He says something in response, but I am not listening closely. I am just happy to be on Mary’s lap. I start to purr. They all pet my head.
Mary doesn’t need to worry. I won’t be going out again. I’m not sure why I ran out in the first place. We have not been ourselves lately, none of us.
I wonder if we will ever be ourselves again.
Or maybe we will change into something else. Something better. I hope.
13
Mary’s Request
It is a few nights after the big holiday, and it has been snowing for hours. Someone left the back porch light on, and from the kitchen window I watch the snowflakes drift. Millions of them. It is very magical. I wish Mother were here to watch with me.
I am still a little stunned that Mother was here at all. I’m angry at myself for not letting her pet me. I miss her gentle caress, the way she was so careful around my whiskers. I feel like nothing in my life will be the same again. I wonder if she will at some point decide to come get me.
And, if that happens, I wonder if I will still want to go with her.
Mother and I were best friends. We spent all of our time together. I was as close to her as an animal could possibly be to a human. And yet . . .
The thought of leaving Father causes an unexpected pain in my heart. I know now that he cares for me. That changes everything. We share the same heartbreak and bring some comfort to each other.
It would be hard to leave this house, the only place I’ve ever known. And I hate the thought of leaving Father here, as lonely as he is.
I catch the sound of padded footsteps in my big ears. Someone is walking around upstairs. I leave the view and run up to investigate.
Father is sitting in bed, reading a book. The lamp by his side throws a golden glow over him in the dark room. It is very, very late.
He is still reading his books every night. Sometimes he holds his cross, says a few words, and puts it down.
Other nights he pulls the letter that Mother wrote to him out of where it is pressed between the pages of one of his big, thick books. He lies on his stomach and reads it over and over. I believe that he is not supposed to call her, and this letter is all he has. Still, it does not seem healthy that he reads it so often. Sometimes I climb right up on his back, and he lets me. I sit there like a big loaf of bread right out of the oven, warming him.
I wonder if the letter is short and to the point, or rambling and incoherent.
I wonder if the letter is kind, or cruel.
There is no way for me to know.
Tonight, when I walk in, I see that Father is reading a book that I think has something to do with toddlers, because there are pictures of little children on the cover. Mary stands by the bed, holding a big, fluffy stuffed creature. She asks if she can get in. Father says okay.
Mary pulls back the big comforter and climbs in. Father puts his book down, turns out the light so she can try to sleep, and lies back. He puts his hands under his head.
Mary is a big girl, taller than Mother now. She takes up a lot of room in the bed.
What she doesn’t know is that Father has something tucked under his pillow. Earlier he was looking through the closet, which is still full of Mother’s summer clothes. I know Mother has other important things to do right now. She has not come to get her things. Father has to look at her clothes every day. He absentmindedly ran his hands over the flimsy sundresses and thin shirts. Finally his hand caught hold of a soft, lightweight sweatshirt. He pulled it out and looked at it for a moment, and now it is under his pillow.
Just for safekeeping, I guess.
I jump up on the bed to join them. I love hunkering down between two humans. It’s extremely warm and cozy.
Mary’s head rests on Mother’s pillow and she stares at the ceiling, even though she’s in total darkness. It is easy for me to make out their words because they talk slowly and sleepily, with long pauses in-between. There is no wind to rattle the house tonight. It always feels warmer when it’s snowing out, as if we are cocooned in here.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Is Ma with Robert now? Like, really with him?”
He sighs. “I guess.”
“Why . . .” She is very tired. “Why didn’t you and Jimmy tell me sooner?”
There is a silence as he thinks about it. “Because. We weren’t sure if it would last. If it was serious.”
I also think: Father and Jimmy hoped it wouldn’t last. But maybe they were kidding themselves.
Mary’s eyes flutter. She is fighting off sleep. “Robert is nice. I guess.”
“Yeah.” Father is also staring at the ceiling. “I guess.”
I wish I knew more about Robert. I did always think he was very kind to Mother. He does not seem like the type of human who would kidnap her and hold her against her will.
So how did I not see what was going on?
I was Mother’s best friend, after all. I should’ve known about this.
“You didn’t seem mad at him. You didn’t beat him up or anything.”
Father chuckles. “No, baby.” He scratches his ear. “Like you said, he’s nice. He’s nice to your mom. He’s taking care of her. She needs someone to look after her. I probably wasn’t the best person for that.”
Mary frowns. “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either.”
A few minutes go by.
“Daddy, you know who else is nice?”
He pauses, drifting in and out of consciousness. “No. Who?”
I see her head turn a bit toward her dad. “Charlotte.”
Father turns away from her and faces the wall, shifting his weight.
Mary turns onto her side to face Father, talking to his back. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. I guess.”
Mary puts one hand under her head. “Yeah, Daddy, she is. She’s nice and smart and pretty.”
There is a long pause. “If you say so.”
“I do.” A little smile flickers over her face. “She’s good with Finn. You know, you don’t have to wear the same flannel shirt every time she comes over here. It’s a little embarrassing. She dresses up to come here.”
I see Father’s head pick up and he turns a bit toward her, puzzled. “What?”
“Daddy, come on.” She gives her stuffed creature a squeeze.
“What?”
“You know, you have some nice shirts. If you’d just wear them.”
He puts his head back down. I know he is thinking about what she is saying.
“I mean,” Mary continues, “you could make a little effort. To look nice.”
“I don’t look nice?”
“Yeah, you do, Daddy. But I’m just saying . . .” Mary squints and thinks about how to put it. “I’m saying it would be okay to make an effort. That I would be proud of you.”
“Oh, you would, huh?”
“Yeah.” Mary snuggles down deeper under the comforter. “I’m just saying it would be okay.”
“Okay, thanks. I guess.”
They are both quiet a long time. The snow continues to fall.
“Why did you change your mind? I thought . . .”
“Ohhhh,” Mary says in a breathy voice, “I don’t know. Jimmy was right. Charlotte’s okay. She’s got nothing to do with Ma.”
“Jimmy said that?”
“Yeah.” Mary sighs, in the same way Father does. I hear the furnace cycling on downstairs. This old house leaks heat, and the furnace is always trying to catch up. A minute goes by. My whiskers can sense the slight flow of warmer air starting to circulate in the room.
“I can’t sleep, Daddy.” I can hear it in Mary’s trembling voice: She is fighting off tears now.
“I can’t either.” Father scratches his ear again, and flips over to face her. “I haven’t slept in months. Between Finn wa
king up, and my head racing . . . or my heart beating too fast . . . it’s like I’m really anxious, but I don’t know what about. I’m not sure how to fix that.”
“I know, me too. That’s how I feel too. And Jimmy, he’s snoring the minute his head hits the pillow. It’s so unfair.” She sniffles. “Maybe you need a sleeping pill. You could ask the doctor.”
“No, Mare. No pills.”
Mary wipes her nose. “Okay. If you say so.” She’s pouting now. “When are you guys going to make a schedule?”
Father thinks about this. “A schedule? What kind of schedule?”
“You know . . .” Mary’s hand flutters in the air between them as she tries to explain it. “You know . . . For us. For me and Jimmy and Finn. To see Ma. On the weekends or something. Doesn’t she want to see us on the weekends?”
“Oh. Um . . . Yeah, sweetheart. Of course she does. It’s just that I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about that yet. We both want to make sure that everything is settled before we start that. We both just want what’s best for you guys.”
Even in the darkness, I can see that Mary is biting her lower lip. I’m not sure she believes him.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think that maybe once her medication gets really, really straightened out, and she feels really, really better, that she’s going to realize she wants to come back?”
Father shifts onto his back, and then away from Mary again. “No. She’s already better. Also, she wrote me a letter.”
“What?”
“No, sweetheart. I said no. It’s not just her medication. It’s everything. She wrote me a letter and told me . . . She told me that, uh, you know, all the ways I messed up. That she’s done here.” Father puts a hand up over his eyes.
Even in the dark, he must hide. I can see it was a mistake mentioning the letter. It’s all still too raw in his heart. He cannot let Mary see how much he suffers.
“You didn’t mess up.” Mary fiddles with one of the buttons on her pajama top. “C’mon, Daddy, it was—”