Strays

by Britt Collins

  The women were very chatty and friendly, asked about the cat, and offered to buy them something to eat, but Michael thanked them and told them they had already eaten.

  With Tabor nuzzled on his lap, Michael stared out the window at the widening views of seamless sky and clouds swirling above the plains, slivers of light flitting through the pines, the white-tailed deer and elk grazing in the distance. He tried to enjoy this last adventure, since it was an extra-special trip, a sort of victory lap, but he just felt sad.

  The woman in the passenger seat turned back and asked, “What’re you gonna do once you take the cat back home?”

  “Dunno,” Michael said, hanging his head, unable to explain the heartsickness that he felt. “It’s gonna be hard because I’ve spent the last ten months with her in my lap. I don’t want to stay in Portland crying about the cat. I’m thinking of disappearing in the woods in Prineville, Oregon, with some of my friends.”

  An hour into the ride, Kyle saw that Michael was anxious and wanted to get out of the car. Under normal circumstances, a long ride like this was like gold, but this one would have only cut down the time he had left with Tabor, and he wanted to prolong the journey home.

  Finally Michael asked the women to be let out early in St. Regis, a tiny backwater hidden in the mountains on the edge of the western Montana wilderness—hours away from anything. He could see the flash of fear in the women’s eyes after he asked them to stop in a remote wooded area before they’d even gotten to Idaho. They must’ve thought they’d picked up a pair of lunatics.

  “Here?” the driver asked as she got off the highway to let them out. There was nothing in sight from the exit but dense fir forest.

  “Yup, this is great,” Michael said, grinning and swinging open the door. “Thank you.” He sprang out of the car, pulled their stuff out, and scooped up Tabor.

  The moment the women drove away, leaving them on a desolate country road near the exit ramp of the I-90, Kyle asked, “Whaddaya think it means when your dream becomes real?”

  Michael didn’t respond as he clipped on Tabor’s leash and set her down to stretch her legs. She squatted on the side of the road to pee. After scratching the dirt around a bit, she leaped back up on Michael’s pack.

  Walking down the rural road, surrounded by gigantic pines, they saw a big yellow sign looming ahead, with a black image of a cow, warning: ENTERING OPEN RANGE. EXPECT COWS ON THE ROAD. There was another yellow wildlife crossing sign with an image of a deer kicking a person.

  Kyle looked around a little warily.

  The sky was darkening, and swirls of purple clouds floated over the mountains. Summer thunderstorms in Montana were dramatic, but also dangerous, sometimes sparking forest fires. It started to drizzle, then turned into a downpour.

  Tabor grumbled on Michael’s shoulder—she hated getting wet, so he zipped her inside his hoodie with her head sticking out. Then, gripping her tightly, Michael ran across the wet, squishy grass, with Kyle following, to take cover under a freeway overpass. There they set up a small camp.

  Michael gathered whatever twigs and branches he could find nearby and lit a small fire. Then he unrolled the new sleeping bags Walter had bought them, and they ate the packed sandwiches he had made them. Tabor immediately snuggled into Michael’s bag.

  It poured all day and all night—not a heavy, drenching Portland rain—but there was nowhere to go. So they stayed under the overpass beneath the roar of traffic, talking and listening to the distant rumbles of thunder breaking over the mountains. They also drank until the booze ran dry, having packed a family-size bottle of vodka for the road.

  Michael was grateful for every minute he had with Tabor, who spent most of the time cozily cocooned, shifting between Michael and Kyle’s sleeping bags.

  “I’ve hardly told this to anyone,” Michael began. “The night before Mercer died, I’m in the back bedroom, and the living room is over here on this side. I walk toward the kitchen, take a quick left, and it’s where Mercer is in his hospice room. I’m sitting there tinkering with something, and I hear the floorboards creak and feel like someone has stepped into the room. When I look up, there’s nothing there. All of a sudden, these three shadows float by. I nearly faint. The first guy had on glasses and a brimmed hat. The second was an old lady with curly hair. Then behind the old lady was a taller gentleman in a jacket. And I thought, They’re coming to say good-bye. Mercer died the next day.”

  “That’s pretty heavy.”

  “I told one of Mercer’s sisters about it after the funeral, and she goes, ‘Oh, that’s Uncle So-and-So, that’s Mom, and that’s Dad.’ ”

  “Whoa . . . you can’t make that up.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I don’t like talking about this stuff. It’s so crazy.” Michael went quiet for a minute. “It hurts even for me to talk about—” He broke off shakily. Even mentioning Mercer’s name felt like a betrayal of sorts.

  Almost ten years after Mercer’s death, and now faced with losing Tabor, Michael felt there was no way to get rid of the loss and emptiness. Under the freeway, he was plagued by nightmares. In one, it was shortly after Mercer’s burial, and Michael was alone at their home in St. Louis, getting ready to leave for good. He wanted to talk to someone, so he called his mother and through sobs told her Mercer was gone.

  As cars and trucks rumbled overhead, Michael snapped awake, shaken. The corner of his sleeping bag was damp with tears. Daylight was already fading, and he realized he must have slept away most of the morning and afternoon.

  That second day under the overpass, Michael couldn’t stop thinking about all the sad things that happened to him. He wished he could disappear. He stared in a daze at the falling rain, the wet road reflected with streaky car lights, smoking his roll-up while stroking Tabor with his other hand. Tabor looked into his eyes, picking up on the gloom settling in Michael. She got up from her nest in the sleeping bag, stretched her legs, and then snuggled closer.

  As she moved onto his lap, mussing up her fur, he thought about their days under the tree in Ventura, the drowsy afternoons and dreamy sunsets. What stayed with him most was Tabor playing alone in the surf and her sweetness and he could hardly stand it. He knew no one else could understand his broken heart and the hollowness he felt. This cuddly little cat, with her sparkly personality, vivacity, and wholehearted friendship, had been like a furry salve, a great comfort—whisking away his anxiety and glum thoughts. Nothing would be the same without her warm and constant presence.

  While Michael didn’t hesitate for a second to return Tabor to her owner, deep down, he struggled between his conscience of doing the right thing and his profound love for her. He reflected again on what Walter had told him when he was a teenager and brought home sick and starving barn kittens: “In nourishing others we find ourselves.”

  But after a while, Michael wanted a drink to blot out his thoughts and emotions. When Tabor drifted back to sleep, he scooped her up and carefully tucked her into her mobile home. He looked over at Kyle, who was listening to the radio and playing a game of dice on his own.

  He stood up and slipped on his hoodie. “I need to get some beer. . . . Be back in a bit,” he said, and slunk away into the pouring rain. Kyle knew that he couldn’t reason with Michael in one of his black moods.

  Michael followed the road from the underpass, hoping to find a beer store, until he spotted a giant neon buffalo sign for a bar flickering red and white, advertising “poker, keno, and Miller Light.”

  Hours later, when he came back to their camp, Michael was completely wasted, and he had spent all their money—the entire eighty dollars.

  The following morning, they got up with the sun. The sky was a glorious blue and the air dense with the fresh, woodsy scents of pine and sage. As soon as they had packed up and moved from the underpass toward the on-ramp, they put out their PORTLAND, OREGON sign and managed to snag a ride. A young guy with tousled hair and a friendly face in a dusty compact car with Washington license plates stopped.


  “You’re in luck, I’m going to Seattle,” he said as he jumped out and helped load their stuff.

  He told Michael he had picked them up because he loved cats and took them all the way to downtown Seattle.

  Four hundred miles later, when Michael finished telling him the whole story about Tabor, the guy said, “We’ll just end your trip here, and I’ll get you bus tickets to Portland so it’s easier for you.” He pulled over on the next junction, took out his phone and his credit card, and bought them tickets on the Greyhound. But when they got to the station, they found he’d paid for only one ticket.

  Shrugging, Kyle told Michael, “Get on the bus, I’ll figure it out.” He waved to them and set off to find his own way back.

  Deeply tired, Michael boarded the bus and settled into his seat, Tabor in her carrier on his lap. He was sick at heart but ready to finish their journey.

  Chapter 25

  The Long and Winding Road

  Portland was in full bloom when Michael and Tabor returned on June 20. The green lushness, the heady scents of pine and roses, the fruit hanging on trees along the sidewalks, and the warm sultry nights could make even drifters feel like they were living the good life.

  Arriving in the early evening at the Greyhound bus station downtown, Michael walked solemnly across the city, with Tabor slunk on his pack, his shoulders slumped, his eyes ringed with shadows. That feeling of hollow sadness that he had felt under the overpass stayed with him.

  In the end, it took three days, four hitches, a gallon of vodka, a few six-packs, and a bus ride to get back to Portland.

  He wandered through the orange glow of early-evening light, which took the edge away from everything. Downtown Portland was overrun with transients and junkies, kids on the run, and kids on the game. Great swaths of the city had turned into a sprawl of cardboard boxes, tents and shopping carts heaped with all their possessions. Homeless people moved in slow motion across Burnside Bridge.

  Michael walked down Hawthorne, Tabor riding on his pack, passing the strip of art deco storefronts and eclectic cafés, book and record shops. In a doorway outside Crossroads Music store, a girl and a guy dressed in vintage threads, with an acoustic guitar and tambourine, were singing an indie-folk duet, aptly about traveling around the world. A few doors down, a handsome lone busker with long dark dreads and sharp cheekbones played an electric violin, churning out a moody, bluegrassy tune.

  They were heading back to their old squat by the loading bay. It was a bittersweet return. He loved Portland, and the only reason he’d left was the harsh winters. But now it felt tainted and oppressive. As he made his way through the flow of summer tourists and friendly locals, he saw that most passersby still smiled at the cat. He spotted his name still in graffiti on the fire hydrant outside the supermarket where he, Kyle, and Stinson usually panhandled.

  “Well, Tabor, we’re here,” he said, when they got to the bay. “Back in our first home.”

  The cat’s eyes widened with wonder when she saw where they were. She flew off his shoulder, sniffing the air, prowling the bushes, and rubbing her cheek against everything to leave her scent, like she was reclaiming her lost kingdom. As Tabor sharpened her claws on the maple tree marking her territory, Michael thought back to the nights he was kept awake because she couldn’t sleep, distracted by the streetlights and police sirens, and the way they had played hide-and-seek together, when she would vanish behind that tree or a bush, but with her tail poking out, thinking she was well hidden. He wondered whether cats recalled memories in the same way.

  He gave her a tin of her favorite Fancy Feast chicken in gravy and then settled in the doorway to smoke. She grabbed a mouthful of food and dropped it by his feet to have company while she ate, then she licked her dish clean and finished the stray bite. She promptly fell asleep on his backpack with her tongue sticking out, which always made Michael smile.

  The cat allowed him to touch another world and see beauty in the smallest things.

  After her nap, they walked all the way down Hawthorne, even though it was dark. They found some friends, told them what happened, and camped out together in the park. Kyle had texted that he was on his way, and Ron had messaged Michael that he was going to give a homecoming party when they got back. Michael wanted to wait to give Tabor away when Kyle returned, and he wanted to go together with his friends.

  When he woke up the next morning, Michael called Ron to say they were in Portland and would come by at 3 p.m. Then, with Tabor riding on his shoulder, he returned to the UPS bay to wait for Kyle. He sat there the whole morning, smoking and feeling sorry for himself. Tabor seemed to sense his sadness and kept jumping back and forth from his lap to the backpack sitting beside him.

  Kyle showed up by midmorning and found Michael slumped in the doorway staring down at the cat half snoozing in his lap. She had a paw across her eyes to keep out the sun. The light streamed around Michael like sun falling across a ruin.

  “That didn’t take long,” Michael said. He was red eyed and rumpled.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad. I called my dad and he got me a bus ticket back,” Kyle said as he plunked down beside him. “You got a snipe?”

  Michael pulled out a couple of cigarette butts from his pocket, lit them, and handed one to Kyle.

  Michael took a long, pensive drag. “Damn the luck,” he said, watching the drifting seam of blue smoke. “If I loved this cat any more, I’d blow up and die. Kyle, if you ever like a cat this much, I’m going to beat you up.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  They sat in silence until Tabor woke up. She stretched out her front legs, blinking sleepily, with her wide, lazy yawn, and pulled herself out of his lap. Then she looked up at Michael expectantly, as if to ask, “Where next?”

  Michael set her on the ground and stood up, flinging on his pack. “Okay, Tabor,” he said, scooping her up and swinging her into his arms. “Time to go.”

  Tabor melted into his chest with a loud purr, rumbling like a mini tugboat, ready as ever for a new adventure. Michael could barely feel the ground beneath his feet, knowing that this was their last fling and their time together would be over in hours.

  The two men walked down Hawthorne to Colonel Summers Park and community gardens, to the old redbrick, military pavilion, where Stinson, Madison, Whip Kid, Jane, and their friends were waiting for them. Tabor seemed especially happy to see Stinson. She jumped on his shoulder and started pawing at his Medusa-like tangle of hair.

  “I heard you guys got stuck in the desert in Idaho,” he said to Kyle as he untangled a paw out of his hair and pulled Tabor into his arms.

  “Yeah,” Kyle said, “we were sitting on the side of the road for, like, twelve days and no one gave us a ride.”

  “Seriously?” Stinson let out a wild laugh. “I had hard luck for stretches before, like in Utah because of the police efforts to keep me out and, um, the quality of the traffic. But I’d commit suicide if I had to hitchhike for twelve days.”

  Michael flung himself down on the grass beside Madison and Bobby, Whip Kid and Jane. They couldn’t believe Michael was giving Tabor back. All of them wanted Michael to keep her.

  Tabor was part of the gang, their small-community cat. This sunny little tabby had such a big spirit. She was the brightest ray of light in their lives.

  But when it was time, they all grabbed their packs to make an entourage for Michael, who carried Tabor in his arms. They wanted to support Michael, but they were also expecting a party, with some free food and booze. Yet the entire way to Ron’s house, the homeless kids kept trying to persuade Michael to keep the cat.

  “Let’s turn around now,” Stinson said, flanking him on one side, Kyle on the other. Madison, Whip Kid, Jane, another friend, and three dogs followed behind. “I mean, you’ve had her for almost a year. She’s basically yours.”

  “I could’ve been the jack-off that said, ‘No, I’m keeping the cat’ and hitchhike out to the East Coast,” Michael said, staring straight ahead. “But s
he’s not my cat.”

  Whip Kid came alongside them. “But, Groundscore, we were on Hawthorne for three months with the cat,” he protested. “We carried her around for all that time, and he never saw it. He doesn’t deserve that cat.”

  Kyle tried to reason with them; he saw that they were only upsetting Michael. “I’m not sure Michael could keep the cat even if he wanted to now that the whole world knows about it,” he said. “The story is all over the papers, and on the television.”

  “You can’t own a cat, anyway,” Michael said. “I’m just the caretaker, making sure she has a safe passage home.”

  Sensing his unease and the tension around her, Tabor kept looking up at his face, trying to figure out what was wrong. As they neared Berkeley Park, a few blocks away from Ron’s house, Tabor suddenly dug her claws into Michael’s shirt. For a moment he was back with her in the snow, his hoodie zipped tightly around her as they trekked out of Oregon. He felt a lump in his throat, but he kept walking.

  “You can always rescue another cat,” Whip Kid said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “It wouldn’t be the same,” Kyle said. “It’s like, ‘Oh, I’ll get another girlfriend. This one died.’ It doesn’t work that way.”

  On the corner by the Bagdad Theatre, a grand old Jazz Age picture palace, they hung a right and walked a few blocks down SE 37th Avenue, where pretty, flower-filled cafés spilled onto the pavement with courtesy dog water bowls outside. Farther along, brightly painted vintage bungalows had shutters, planters, window boxes with geraniums, and velvety green front lawns.

  Tabor scrunched herself into a little ball against Michael’s chest as they got closer to her home. The rest of the homeless parade shuffled behind them. They stopped in front of a white two-story house with gold-painted pillars, half-hidden behind a lovely old juniper tree.

  A normal house for a magical cat, Michael thought.

  Ron spotted the ragtag little band from the window and thought, Oh no, he’s brought everyone he knows. He had been expecting only Michael—and he’d expected him an hour later. Nonetheless, Ron ran down the porch steps and greeted them with happy tears. “Mata!” he shouted.