Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  “Good. I served PJ two drinks. I’m sure he’s relatively sober but I’d rather not take the chance.” I started for the back door, relieved to know Henry the Third, PJ’s son, would be handling his father. Three was a likeable young man in his mid-twenties who was more like Isabel than PJ, thanks be to God for him. He was being groomed to take over PJ’s place in the Fitz business empire and from the rumors around town, he was doing very well.

  “Is your friend involved in whatever is happening at the Yoke?” Alan asked in a low voice, keeping pace beside me when I went outside.

  I looked automatically to my left, at the spot where the mother cat used to live. Then I remembered. It was empty now, with no mama or babies there. For some reason, I felt a pall of depression settle over me. Poor momma cat, killed on the street and her babies all scattered here and there. She lived a crappy life except for the small scraps of kindness she got from me and the other staff. It was unfair for her to die like that, probably in pain, and probably trying to crawl back to her kittens before she died. It seemed like every place I turned, I saw evidence of humans dealing shit to animals. I shook my head, trying to shake away the gloom.

  “I don’t know if he’s involved or not. He was scared.” I stopped at the edge of the parking lot, breathing in the smell of damp pavement and the earthy odor from the park nearby. Lightning bugs glimmered in the distance, little dancing motes of light hovering and skimming erratically through the air.

  I thought about the momma cat and I remembered Will as a young boy, playing with kitties on our farm, laughing when they all tumbled together in the grass. My worry combined with my depression and I blurted, “He’s not a friend. He’s family.”

  Alan batted at the night bugs buzzing around us, frowning in bewilderment. “I didn’t know you had any family around here. Who is it?”

  “It’s a long story. Trust me, by Southern rules, he’s blood kin. He’s a nephew, or as near as makes no never-mind.”

  He blinked. “I can’t believe I understood what you said. I’ve hung out too long with you. Is he working at the factory?”

  “He was. I can’t tell you any more about it. Will swore me to secrecy. Don’t tell Owen, okay?” I put a hand on Alan’s arm, his skin warm under my touch. “Promise.”

  “I’m not sure,” Alan said slowly. “If he’s involved in what’s happened, I might need to tell Owen. I mean, if your nephew did something—”

  I tightened my hand on his arm. “I helped raise Will, Alan. He’s like my own child. Please. Don’t tell Owen unless I give you the go-ahead. Please?”

  Alan nodded reluctantly. “I won’t make any promises, but I won’t volunteer any information.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t want to press him about it. Alan was very protective about his relationship with Owen and I respected that. But I also wanted to protect Will, at least as much as I could. “I’ll keep trying to call Will tonight. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with him.”

  “Yeah, who knows?” Alan walked with me to my dusty red Chevy, which was an ugly stepsister parked next to his polished gray Acura, glittering like Cinderella in her finery at the ball. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  I slipped into my car and started it, getting the windows opened to let in cooler air. The oppressive heat of the day was lessening but it was still humid, the air so damp it was like a sponge when I inhaled. “I have to open tomorrow,” I said through my window. “I should know by then if there’re any problems.”

  “I’ll be in early, too. You know how Sundays are.” Alan walked around his car to the driver side.

  I waved and backed out of my spot. I knew how Sundays were, for sure. On Sunday the Parlor only served a brunch, opening at eleven and closing at three. We usually had a line of people waiting to get in to sample Alan’s amazing brunch buffet.

  I drove through town, past the movie theater where a crowd was getting out. Downtown was relatively busy for ten o’clock on a Saturday, with cars in front of the theater, the Huntsman’s Grill, the Barnsdale Bar on B Avenue, and the Old Grove Inn, a restaurant whose bar was open late. There were two other bars in Barnsdale, one north of town and one south, bringing our drinking total to six. The number of bars and churches were equal, a fact my daddy would’ve said was a balance between light and dark, with the church being the dark entity in that analogy. I smiled when I remembered him saying such a thing just to annoy his mother-in-law, my granny, who was a devout church-going woman and a teetotaler to boot.

  “How she must be spinning in her grave,” I mused, pulling into my driveway. “Here she wanted me to be the first lady preacher in the parish and I end up running a bar. I guess she was right.” My grandmother predicted a dire end for me if I married a Yankee. I suppose, according to her morals, I fulfilled her prediction.

  I entered my quiet house and turned on the couch light. The silence of the building surrounded me. Normally I welcomed the quiet after the busy noise of the bar, but tonight it was oppressive. I poured myself a glass of wine and sipped while watching reruns on television, my cell phone next to me on the couch.

  My inactivity lasted for about fifteen minutes, then I got up and paced, refilling my glass now and again while I walked in a steady circle from my kitchen, through the living room to the front door to peek through the window. Then back to the kitchen to glare at the clock and pace again.

  I debated calling the hospital but I hesitated. I wasn’t listed as kin to Will, so I couldn’t expect anyone to give information to me if he was there. Besides, if he was injured, he might not be in the Barnsdale hospital. Des Moines was less than an hour’s drive away and oftentimes patients were transported straight to one of their emergency centers if tricky surgery was needed.

  I stepped onto the front porch, staring into the dark night of the park across the street. The deep rumbling of a toad echoed from the pond in the nearby woods, echoed by another, deeper rumbling. The air was still humid but cooler now and a faint breeze eddied toward me, something fresher than the moist breath which blew earlier. Maybe the weather was breaking.

  I went inside and stared at the phone, considering my options. That’s when I decided I had none. With a sigh, I went to bed knowing I wouldn’t sleep but would lie there, tossing, until morning came. I made a promise to myself: if I didn’t hear from Will by nine in the morning, I’d call Rob. Maybe I could get some details from him without revealing I knew Will.

  Satisfied with my logic, I dropped into bed and fell into a fitful doze.

  ****

  I tossed and turned for a few hours then got up before dawn and did my morning workout in record time. I dressed in capris and my dark red Oaks golf shirt and was savoring my second cup of coffee when my doorbell rang at seven-thirty. I sagged with relief. It was probably Will. Who else would be visiting so early? I raced to the door and jerked it open, ready to give my errant nephew a piece of my mind for scaring me half to death.

  What I found was a young woman in ragged denim cut-offs, pink flip flops and a bright pink T-shirt holding a brown cardboard box with quarter-sized holes spaced evenly along its sides. It was roughly two-feet square with Florida Oranges on the side and a logo with a big smiling orange on stocky legs holding a glass of juice, which struck me as somewhat cannibalistic.

  “Hey.” She thrust the box at me.

  I set my coffee cup on the table near the door. “What’s this? Who are you?”

  “Sorry it’s early, but we’re going to the lake today. Jen said you’ll take care of them.” She turned and left, striding down the front walk, her flip-flops snapping a sharp cadence on the pavement. A blue Honda sat in the drive, a patchwork apparition of faded paint, duct tape, and wire which snorted and gurgled while it idled in the early morning sunlight.

  “Wait, what?” The box tilted in my hands. It wasn’t heavy but it was awkward, with weight inside shifting from one side to another. I heard a pitiful mew and glanced down to see a white paw wiggling through one of the holes. Oh, shit. I shifted my gaze to the
girl getting in the car. She must be the roommate who took in the kittens.

  “Wait!” I hurried after her but the car was already belching down my drive. A young man waved while they drove off, the girl staring intently at the screen of her phone, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard.

  The box upended in my hands, all the weight going to one end. “Whoa. Wait a minute.” I scurried back to my living room and closed the door as the bottom gave way. Two kittens tumbled out, bodies twisting so they landed somewhat flat on their feet. For an instant we all stared at each other then they scampered under the couch, the upholstered skirt fluttering behind them. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”

  I couldn’t take care of kittens. For one thing, I didn’t have pet supplies. When Scooter died, I resolutely got rid of all cat toys, litter boxes, beds, blankets, and reminders of my sweet little companion. For another thing, my house was cat-proof but it definitely was not kitten-proof. I could easily visualize small bodies disappearing under the washing machine or getting stuck behind the air conditioning unit in the utility room.

  I got down on my hands and knees and lifted the couch skirt. Two sets of baleful eyes stared back at me. The kittens were so small the five-inch space gave them ample room to hunker. “Hey, guys, come out. No need to hide.” I wiggled my fingers near them, but they promptly turned their backs on me, showing me a good view of furry butts, one mostly solid gray and one gray-and-black tabby. I let the skirt drop back into place. “Fine. Be that way.”

  I sat back and crossed my legs, draping one arm over the coffee table and tapping a staccato rhythm on the wood. I was stuck here. I couldn’t leave with the kittens under the couch. God knows what mischief they’d get into if I left them free to roam. There was no easy way to block off the kitchen from the living room. It was all one large space. If I wanted to block off the hallway to the bedrooms I’d need to manhandle furniture to cover the doorway. Even if I did move it, I couldn’t stop them from climbing. They were cats. That’s what they did.

  I remembered what Alan said the night before. Maybe John could use a barn cat or two. I nodded. That was the thing to do. I worked long hours. I couldn’t have pets. I started to stand, but when I did, a striped paw inched from under the gold fabric of the couch, tiny claws clicking on the oak floor, questing to and fro.

  I picked up a pencil from the coffee table and rapped the paw lightly. It withdrew but re-emerged almost immediately, tapping for the pencil. I ran the pencil along the floor and the paw stabbed eagerly for it, more and more frantic and stretching further and further. Finally a pink nose dotted with dark gray peeked from under the skirt fabric.

  “Gotcha.” I swept my arm under the couch. A kitten was scooped into the crook of my elbow and emerged from its hiding place, so comically startled I laughed. The kitten—a fluffy tabby with a white chest—bolted across the room, small legs churning for balance on the braided rug. The kitten ran into the corner near the front door, caught sight of the box I dropped, hissed and backed up, raced to the kitchen, bounced off a wall there, then ran back toward me, all in the space of a few seconds.

  I blocked its entrance to the couch underworld by flattening myself onto the floor. The kitten ran up and over my body and landed on the couch, tiny claws digging in for stability. I twisted to peer over the cushion at it. The kitten turned, saw me, puffed up its fur, then sank down, obviously exhausted. “Good Lord. I forgot how energetic you young-uns are.”

  The fluffy one regarded me with bright gray-blue eyes, purring so loudly I expected the couch to shake. It must have been a signal to its sibling because the other kitten poked its head from under the couch and regarded me where I was sprawled on the floor. It slinked forward and clambered up on my knee. This one was mostly gray with a lighter gray-white tummy and dark brown paws. A bright splotch of dark brown-and-calico fur across its cheeks gave it a mask-like appearance, contrasting with the tabby markings on its forehead and around the eyes.

  I picked it up gently around the tummy, depositing it next to its sibling, taking advantage of the moment to lift up the kitten’s tail and examine its posterior. Yep, I saw a slight bulge near the smaller, lower dot-like opening. “Boy,” I said, nudging him.

  He collapsed on top of the fluffy one, who rolled over and yawned. I gently lifted the tabby-striped tail and checked. This one was harder to figure because of all the fur, but a bit of careful prodding showed me ‘the landing stripe,’ what my father used to call that distinctive dark bit of fur on a tabby leading to a female cat’s vulva.

  I leaned back against the coffee table and regarded the two newcomers, who returned the look with sleepy eyes. They appeared healthy, although they seemed so very tiny. My previous cat was petite, but she was gigantic compared to these guys. The female could easily fit in one of my shoes and the male was only slightly bigger. “I can’t keep you.” I rubbed a finger over the mixed-one’s forehead.

  He purred louder and sagged even more against his sister. His eyes were golden brown, and the thin black stripes on his head mixed in with blotches of black, gray, white, and even dark orange. “You’ve got some cayenne there, don’t you?” I touched a dark red-orange spot on his nose.

  The female, sensing my attention to her brother, emerged from under his weight and plopped near my hand, rolling slightly on her side to show me her plump pale tummy. “And you.” I rubbed the soft fur under her chin. “You’re like café au lait, aren’t you?” The creamy beige and brown of her markings altered when I ran my hand over her fur, the same way coffee changed color when swirled in a cup. A sudden memory of beignets and café on the porch of our house seemed to fill my senses, a warm Louisiana breeze eddying through the curtains behind me.

  The male mimicked his sister and rolled on his back, colliding with her in a tangle of paws. That set her off again. She righted herself and took off. He chased her, both of them racing down the hallway. I ran after them only to see them disappear into the hallway bathroom. “Gotcha!” I jumped in behind them and tugged the door closed.

  The boy-cat was already behind the stool and the girl-cat pawed at the narrow linen closet. I satisfied myself they couldn’t get into any trouble then I carefully backed from the room and closed the door securely. Well, they were safely locked up for now.

  What to do? I checked my watch. Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. I needed a cat carrier and maybe a few items of cat equipment, in case I needed to hold on to the little critters for a day or two. I started making a mental list while I strode through the kitchen, grabbed my purse, and headed for that Bastion of All-Night Shopping, Wal-Mart.

  An hour later I returned, dumped all of my purchases on or near the kitchen table, and tip-toed to the bathroom. I pressed my ear against the wood paneling of the door. All quiet. I proceeded to my bedroom, the guest bedroom, and my den, closing doors while I went. I returned to the bathroom and listened again. Still quiet. That was ominous. I opened the door cautiously and peeked inside.

  Two woebegone faces peeked up at me over the rim of the bathtub, barely visible over the edge. I saw immediately what happened. They probably slid in and couldn’t get out because of the slanted and slippery sides. The upper doors, which enclosed the tub when it was used as a shower didn’t provide any climbing traction, so they couldn’t get a grip on anything.

  I picked them up and set them on the rug. They took off in a flash, gamboling along the hall only to encounter closed doors. They whirled and set off for the living room, tripping over paws in their haste. Laughing, I followed, keeping an eye on them while I unpacked my purchases, many of which were loaded into the cat carrier.

  I unwrapped what was billed as ‘teething toys,’ hard oblongs of cloth that the male kitten, Cayenne, immediately began to gnaw on. He abandoned it for the small sponge ball I tossed his way, pausing once to watch his sister Café chase a crinkly, sparkly ball enclosed in a plastic frame. The two disappeared, romping after their toys.

  Satisfied they were diverted, I quickly filled a water dish a
nd emptied some canned kitten food into two dishes, which I set inside the small pantry closet near my back door. Then I filled another dish with kitten kibble and set it down, too.

  The litter box was simple to set up. When Scooter was alive, she used a cat door to go to the enclosed back stoop, which was big enough for her litter box, a watering can, her cat carrier, and a few other oddments. I filled up the covered litter box and cleared a space for it on the porch. All I need do was introduce the kittens to the pet door, and voila—bathroom problem solved. I also purchased another, much smaller litter box. That and the kittens would go into the spare bedroom while I was at work, at least until I found them a permanent home.

  It was now past nine o’clock. I put a scratching post near the couch before I unpackaged the other toys I bought and put them into an old wicker picnic basket, storing it in my den. I need to be at the Acorn by one to open at two, but it gave me plenty of time to scout around for my lost nephew and still come back here, check on the kittens, and go to work. Maybe I could even drive by John Smalley’s house and talk to him about a possible adoption.

  I grabbed the smaller litter pan and started for the back of the house. Before I went two steps, though, the doorbell rang again, startling the kittens into racing ahead of me and disappearing back into the bathroom. I left the feline equipment near the kitchen table and approached the door cautiously. The last time my doorbell rang, I was one hundred dollars richer and didn’t have two rambunctious animals racing around my house.

  I stared through the peephole but drew back, startled, when I saw Alan looking expectantly at me. He wore khaki shorts, a navy polo shirt, and sneakers, his usual “going to the restaurant” attire.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, pulling open the door. I ushered him in, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the kittens weren’t making a run for freedom.

  He came in, stepping to one side so I could close the door. As he did, Cayenne thundered along the hallway, raced to the couch, and jumped up, teetering on the back cushion before bouncing to the seat, pushing off, and tearing back to the hall.