While watering the strawberry plants and raspberry bushes, Ron remembered how Mata went mad for the smell of strawberries. She would roll around in the strawberry patch with her legs up in the air, sniffing and rubbing her head against the strawberry flowers and leaves as though they were catnip. Afterward she’d zoom around the house the way she did after a whiff of catnip.
It was already noon by the time Ron came back inside the kitchen, clutching a bunch of inky purple anemones he’d picked. As he arranged the flowers in a vase in the breakfast nook, he noticed the red light blinking on his BlackBerry. He had two missed calls, one from his sister and another from an unfamiliar area code.
It was a call from a vet in Helena, Montana, telling him his cat had been found. Ron burst into tears as he pressed the callback number. He spoke to Dr. Armstrong, who explained that a homeless man who had been visiting his foster dad had brought in the cat for a checkup, and they had scanned her as they do routinely with strays.
“I can’t believe Mata’s in Helena, Montana,” Ron said, smiling, tears running down his face. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. What’s your address? Can I come get her now?”
“It’s not our responsibility to hold the cat if we find out it belongs to somebody,” Dr. Armstrong said, “just to inform you. The person who has her now says he wants to bring the cat back. I have his foster dad’s number.”
Ron dialed the Montana number that the vet gave him, but there was no answer. He would try again a little later.
He was ecstatic and overwhelmed. After visiting Madeleine, the psychic, something had shifted in Ron. He had registered Creto as a therapy cat, as he’d planned months ago after seeing the poster for the “lost alpaca” with the fuzzy Phil Spector Afro, so he could take him around to hospital patients to spread a little happiness.
The previous weekend, Ron had been tinkering with his guitars in the attic, listening to a marathon of Van Morrison, and when “Astral Weeks” came on, he felt shivers down his arms. It was as though the lyrics about venturing into the slipstream and being born again were a portal into a wider truth.
When Mata had disappeared the first time, Ron, in his desperation, asked for God’s help and made a promise that if he brought her back, he would become a better person and help others. But he had conveniently forgotten his promises, and she had vanished again. That night, and every night after, he said a little prayer before going to bed asking God to keep Mata safe wherever she was.
Now, it seemed, Ron’s prayers for her return were being answered. He looked out the kitchen window, distracted, his eyes drifting toward the pristine blue sky, remembering why he thought Mata’s return this time, like the last, was divine intervention. He’d been visiting his old friend Joe in Bakersfield, California. Joe had moved to Seattle and had been shot during a robbery while working as a security guard. He’d slipped into a coma for a long time and, when he came out, claimed God sat with him and held his hand during the entire time. Ron was at Joe’s house when he got the call from the microchip company the first time Mata strayed.
After canceling his flight to Texas, Ron posted a picture of Mata, lying on her back, with her eyes half-shut and glinting in the sunlight, on his Facebook page and typed a quick caption: Missing since Labor Day 2012, my beloved Mata has been found in Helena, Montana.
His happiness and sense of relief were exhilarating, like kicking open a fire door to escape a burning building. He rushed next door to tell Ann, on his way shouting out to the sunbathing cats on the garage: “Mata’s coming home, boys.” The three little cat heads popped up and stared down at him sleepily.
Afterward he tumbled down on the back porch steps, calling everyone, Mata’s vet, his childhood friend Randy, Miguel, his father, and Evan, telling them what the Montana vet had told him.
“So a homeless guy took her to Montana?” Evan asked.
“Well, the psychic did say Mata was a long way from home on an adventure.”
“What could she possibly know? That woman was a hundred years old and almost blinded by mascara.”
“Mata’s very smart and her inquisitiveness gets her in trouble,” Ron carried on. “Sometimes she’s followed little old ladies down the street after they petted her. But out of all the homeless people in the world, she found the greatest one she could get.”
Chapter 23
The Most Beautiful Girl
Walter looked out the kitchen window at Michael sitting on a stack of logs against the back of the garage in the backyard, chain-smoking. Tabor was playing in the dry grass, batting her paw at the twilight moths, blissfully unaware that her life was about to change again. The vet had given them Tabor’s owner’s phone number, and Walter had given it to Michael. Now it was up to Michael to call.
Ten months earlier, Michael hadn’t wanted a cat, and now he couldn’t imagine living without her. For a long time before Tabor came into his life he had felt like he was living for nothing and hardly cared about anything. His life had been ripped apart when he lost Mercer, but this little cat had helped him start putting the pieces back together. Tabor chased away some of the loneliness that shadowed him like a dark cloud. He’d started to feel somewhat normal again. She filled his days with warmth and laughter. Before he found Tabor, he had been consumed by negative thoughts. But she had quieted the bad thoughts long enough to let in a glimmer of hope.
Kyle came outside, pausing to light a half-smoked roll-up. He shook out the match and flopped down on the back steps across the yard from Michael. “I was checking my Facebook on Walter’s computer and someone posted a video of a stumbling drunk raccoon that broke into a warehouse full of booze. Everyone’s been saying it’s probably Michael in a raccoon suit.”
Michael glanced over with a faint smile but didn’t say anything.
Kyle could see he wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “It’s a bummer about Tabor,” he said sympathetically.
“It did cross my mind. You know what? I had this sixth sense when we walked into that vet. The first thing I’m thinking, If that cat has a fucking chip, I’ll be pissed. And she had a chip.”
“Maybe you should just keep her.”
“I can’t. It’s not right. She deserves to go home.” Michael knew he could easily hit the road and disappear, like he always did. He could pretend the trip to the vet never happened. He lost her. I found her. But Michael also knew he’d be desperate if Tabor suddenly disappeared. The last thing he wanted was to cause somebody else that kind of pain.
They both watched Tabor leaping after the moths and fireflies. “She’s so sweet and mellow,” Michael said wistfully. “My first thought every morning is why is this cat tugging at my beard and licking my eyelids?”
“Remember whenever we walked down Hawthorne the way she used to jump back and forth from your pack to Stinson’s?”
“Yeah, that was awesome. Sometimes I felt like a ship in the ocean walking around with a full-grown cat swaying on my pack. I’m stumbling around and people are looking at me, and I wanted to say, No, I’m not drunk. The cat’s just moving around.”
Walter had been watching them through the screen door and, after a few minutes, came out to join them.
“I know this is tough,” Walter said, crossing the small yard to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sad times, but not all sad . . . The cat’s going home. I’m happy to make the call if you like.”
Michael nodded. He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it back to Walter. “But I want to take her back myself. Have one last trip with her.”
The fading light turned the backyard violet. The faint sounds of Charlie Rich’s “The Most Beautiful Girl” drifted from the ’60s coffin-box stereo console inside the house. Michael thought it sounded like the saddest song in the world.
Later that night, Walter made himself a tonic and lime and put Dean Martin on the stereo. The old grandfather clock ticked.
Michael sat slumped on the couch, thinking how lucky he was to have Walter. He admired hi
s resilience and his ability to be alone—he’d have his tonic and put on his music, and all was well with the world.
Then Walter reclined in his ragged, old yellow easy chair, which had been scratched to the bone by all his cats. Tabor came into the room and, springing onto the coffee table, leaped into Michael’s lap. Gus lounged on his usual spot on the back of Walter’s armchair, sharpening his nails and keeping a watchful eye on the intruder in his house.
Walter picked up the phone and dialed the Portland number. “Hello, is that Ron Buss?” he said. “I think we got your cat here.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so glad you called,” Ron shouted at the other end. “I got a message from the vet in Montana, who told me you’d brought her in. I’m so grateful, thank you. I can come get her now if it’s convenient.”
Walter looked across the room at Michael and Tabor. She was nuzzling her face against his beard, and he tenderly stroked her while staring straight ahead in a daze.
“I knew it! I knew she was still alive. I could feel it,” Ron carried on excitedly.
“Mike, my son, found him on the street, and they’ve been traveling together across the West Coast. We took him to my vet for his shots and, well, it was a big surprise that he had a home. But, heck, I was happy.”
Michael forced a little smile. It was amusing the way Walter kept referring to Tabor as him.
“Mike feels terrible about taking the cat,” Walter went on, “and wants to bring him back home.”
“You honestly don’t have to go through all the trouble,” Ron said, sounding a little wary. The microchip came with insurance that would cover Ron’s airfare. “I can fly there tomorrow and pick her up myself.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Walter cut in. “Mike’s heading back that way anyway. He sometimes lives in Portland, where he found the cat. He’d like to take one last trip with the cat. They’ve spent the last ten months together. Leaving him so abruptly would be too hard for both of them.”
Walter sensed Ron’s reluctance and attempted to put him at ease by telling him Michael’s story. “Mike’s a good man. He’s got a big heart. Rest assured, he’ll bring her back to you. I can vouch for that.”
Ron had been silent on the other end of the line as Walter spoke. Then, he said, “Um, sure. I’m just over the moon and so unbelievably happy and grateful she’s okay. If Mike wants to bring her back, that’s fine.”
After Walter had hung up, Michael got up from the couch and went into his bedroom. Tabor stood, too, stretching and yawning, gave him a little mew, and trotted after him. He turned on the computer and posted a Facebook message for his Portland friends: Just took Tabor to vet. She has a chip in her and the owners are going to take her back. Sad, sad day for Groundscore. He immediately got a lot of commiserations but couldn’t even read them. He went to bed, Tabor tucked in next to him.
The next morning scattered clouds drifted overhead, warning of rain. Michael, flushed from sleep and dazed, woke completely disoriented. Hearing Dean Martin crooning like a rooster, he thought he was in some old-timey Italian restaurant. It took a moment for him to remember that he was at Walter’s, and Walter was an early riser. Seeing his eyes open, Tabor, who was lying on the pillow beside his head, jumped on his chest and started meowing and tugging at his beard.
Michael got up and felt like the walking dead. He stumbled to the kitchen with Tabor snapping at his heels, tangling herself around his legs. Meowing in her whiny, raspy voice, she demanded to be fed. Michael said good morning to Walter, who was standing at the window with his mug of coffee. He dished out Tabor’s breakfast and then he joined Walter at the kitchen window, where they looked out onto the backyard. A ragged blue jay with disheveled feathers had been coming into the yard and perching on the bird feeder. Walter liked to keep an eye out for him and the other wildlife that paraded through his back garden.
Taking a sip of coffee, Walter read the sky. “Looks like a thunderstorm’s sweeping in,” he said, and turned his head to meet Michael’s gaze. “You don’t want to be caught in the storm with a cat.”
Early summer in Montana was the tail end of the rainy season. Weather changes could be sudden and dramatic. Michael knew they should stay, at least until the rain stopped, and he found comfort in the thought that he would keep Tabor a little longer.
Michael nodded and turned back to make breakfast, huckleberry and buttermilk pancakes for Walter and Kyle. The three of them sat in the kitchen drinking black coffee and listening to the thunderstorm breaking outside and to Johnny Cash’s prison blues streaming in from the living room stereo.
Since they would be staying at least a day or two longer, before taking the cat back to Portland, Michael spent the morning scrubbing the house and fixing little things. Walter usually saved all kinds of housekeeping jobs for Michael to do, which turned out to be just about everything. Walter never lifted a broom or ran a vacuum, although he watered and mowed the lawn and fed the birds, rabbits, squirrels, and deer that came to dine on the daily feast of bread, nuts, and seeds that he left out for them.
After Michael had finished, Walter took Michael and Kyle shopping and insisted on buying both of them new backpacks and sleeping bags. Walter was fond of saying, “We’re supposed to take care of the downtrodden and protect them.” While in Vietnam, he and some of his fellow soldiers stumbled across an orphanage and leper colony and marched straight in and starting helping patients.
By the afternoon, when the clouds cleared and the sun broke through, Michael wanted to show Kyle around Helena and take an overnight trip camping in the Helena National Forest, on the outskirts of the city. They had planned to visit for a couple of weeks, but now getting Tabor back home had become his priority.
Before they went into Helena, Michael gave Ron a call to reassure him. “I’m really sorry I took the cat,” he said, after introducing himself. “The last thing in the world I wanted was a cat, but I knew I had to help her. I know you don’t know me, but I really want to backpack and have one last adventure before I bring her back to you. I’m going to have a cell phone, and I’ll try to call you every day to let you know where we are. It’s just really important that we have this one last trip together. You have to trust me.”
“Oh, absolutely, I do,” Ron replied, and he did. He sensed Michael’s sincerity and could just feel it in his voice.
After hanging up, Michael posted another Facebook update: We talked to Tabor’s owner, really nice guy. Leaving Montana by Tuesday, I will be giving Tabor (Madda) when I’m there. Don’t be sad, it’s time for celebration, Tabor’s going home.
A short drive from Walter’s, the Helena National Forest surrounds the east, west, and south sides of the city. After driving along the curving mountain roads that wound through densely wooded hills about fifteen miles outside Helena, Michael pulled over on a high bluff on the edge of the road where they could go on a hike.
Surrounded by the big, blue western sky and the Big Belt Mountains, they walked across a swath of farmland, crossing over a barbwire fence, to climb to the top of a large hill. Tabor clambered up the steep, flower-choked slope on her lead, as sure-footed as a little mountain goat, pausing to sniff mouse burrows and paw the wispy heads of dandelions.
Usually when they were walking together, Michael would point out different types of birds, trees, and flowers to Kyle, but he was subdued and distracted. Halfway up the hill, Michael picked up Tabor and turned around to go back to the car, while Kyle continued the rest of the hike.
Twenty minutes later, when Kyle walked back across the field, Michael was sitting on the hood of the car, Tabor nestled beside him, wistfully looking at the peaceful piney valley below. Michael was marveling at how he and Tabor seemed to sense each other’s moods and feelings. He would do anything for this sweet little cat, and he wondered how he was going to cope once she was gone. She filled nearly all his waking hours with an unconditional love that he hadn’t known he needed.
Tabor had been half-asleep in the sun but suddenly sprang to he
r feet, her ears and whiskers flickering, on the hood when she heard Kyle crunching gravel as he approached the car.
Kyle was out of breath from the hike and said, “I found these three piles of stones on the hill. I took a picture,” showing Michael his phone. “They were sort of arranged in a row . . . knee-high piles of stones that looked like shrines.”
“They probably are,” Michael said, and went silent for a moment. “This is where I hit a deer about twenty-five years ago. I was heading home after finishing someone’s garden. And this buck came running out of nowhere, and I hit him. He was a mess and screaming like a baby, lying across the road with one of his legs broken. I had to slit his throat with my pocket knife.”
Kyle looked a little shocked. “Couldn’t you take him to a vet?”
“He was in very bad condition,” he explained, clearly disturbed by the memory. “You can’t imagine how upset I was to take someone’s life like that. I went on a bender for three days.”
Afterward Michael hauled their things out of the car. He had packed some food, water, and beer. He hadn’t had a drink since being at Walter’s. He led them to a place where he had camped before, along the banks of a stream, nestled in the middle of a canyon.
They found a spot near the creek, cocooned by spruce, aspen, and lodgepole pines, and unrolled their sleeping bags. Michael always felt at home among the trees—and sleeping under the sheltering pines and star-filled skies of the Montana woods was like nowhere else. And the sharp, luxuriant scents of spruce and sage were intoxicating. It stirred up good memories of when he was working as a gardener and had sometimes made enough money to spend much of the summer camping.
Strays Page 18