Refund

by Karen E. Bender

  DRIVING HOME, I NOTICED POLICE CARS EVERYWHERE. I WAS NOW aware of them, floating in their calm and menacing way, down the street. I saw the bulky cars, their metal bodies, the officers inside in their buggy sunglasses. There were no apparent crimes in the city, but they were following me. They were. I gripped the wheel, feeling guilty. I was not young anymore, yet I had many desires, one of which was my yearning to nurse the cat. What did this mean, besides the fact that the gynecologist wanted to diagnose it? The police cruised by, circling.

  I got home and resumed normal activities. The cat pretended he had no part in this. He trotted around, arrogant and tiny. I followed him. I waited for the phone. I wanted to hear some good news. But no. There was a call from the school principal, who wanted to talk about our son.

  —Something good? I asked, hopeful. —Is he doing well in math? Silence.

  —Then what?

  —There have been accusations, he said.

  —Of what?

  —Thievery.

  Was this a word?

  —Come in tomorrow.

  I hung up the phone. The cat coughed and leapt upstairs, two stairs at a time.

  THE NEXT STOP WAS THE BREAST SURGEON. THOSE WERE TWO WORDS I did not want to hear in the same breath. She decorated her office with a poster that said, horrifyingly: Courage. I did not want to have courage. Who needed it? I wanted Shallowness. Materialism. Sloth. I did not want to be dignified. The surgeon sauntered in. She was young, wearing a ponytail, and looked glossy and trim, as though she had just come from aerobics.

  —A droplet? she said. —Can you show me?

  I squeezed. There was another. Now I did not look at it so fondly.

  —We just got a kitten, I said.

  —What type? she asked.

  —A very cute one.

  —I see.

  —Do you have children? I asked, wanting to bond in that way.

  —No.

  She was kneading my breast as though she were a baker.

  —Do you have a pet? I asked.

  —I have an iguana, she said.

  What kind of emotion can that elicit? I thought. An iguana seemed a cold, silent thing.

  —I made mistakes raising them, I said.

  —Oh, she said.

  —I ignored them when they wanted things. I didn’t set limits. They hit each other, sometimes with objects. Now there are calls from the principal.

  She had an expression on her face. It could have been admiration, or it could have been concern.

  —Does your iguana do any tricks? I asked, trying to be cordial.

  —We need a biopsy, she said.

  NOW THERE WAS FEAR. IT WAS A COLD, SOUR FEAR, INVADING MY skin. I could not get it out. I opened the car windows, which did not help. That fucking cat. What had it wrought? Why this, now? When I got home, I picked it up, gripped its small, thin body. I was afraid to hold him for too long. What would happen next? Where would this embarrassment stop?

  The cat was following me, I told my husband, that night.

  I did not tell him about the droplets. It would be a stupid secret between the medical personnel and me. The news would not go over well, anyway; he was busy at work. Perhaps he was having an affair. It would make him more understandable if he were having an affair. It would clarify everything. As it was, there was a general gray haze of distraction. He wanted to get away from us. He was in a hurry, to get out of the house, to go to the gym, to flee. He wanted, at midlife, hey, at early life, as we all do, to be somewhere else.

  —He’s hungry, he said. —Just give him more kibble.

  We fell into each other with a kind of relief, that we could find each other through the blind, sweaty maze that made up our days—we were startling, an oasis. The children slept in the other room, moral and forceful as parents; they could not discover us. I locked the door and put a chair against it, for good measure. We had invited them into the world with this act, and now we wanted to keep them out. His hands felt my breasts; he detected nothing; with the deepest gratitude, we held each other down.

  I did not tell him the news about the call until we were finished.

  —The principal called, I said. —There was thieving.

  —Thieving? Of what?

  —He didn’t say.

  I wanted to just lie there beside him, pretending we had only this to deal with. I rubbed his arm; it was hard as an apple; it looked no different than it had when we met fifteen years before, but its ability for combat would soon reach its limits.

  —It’s nothing, my husband said, reaching and lifting a piece of hair from my forehead with an unwarranted tenderness.

  —Don’t worry about it, he said. —It’s nothing.

  THE GRIM WALK INTO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. I SMILED AT OTHER parents in the hallway, as though we had been invited here for another sort of conference. Invited. We all wanted to be invited to hear a beautiful future. We wanted the school principal to know more than we did. He would tell us that our child had been identified as supremely gifted and would be shot through a funnel to glorious success. Your child is particularly admired by his/her classmates. Your child . . . but no. We were here for the other conference. The bright fluorescent bars in the ceiling spat and buzzed. My husband’s hand was a knot in mine.

  We said hello to the principal. He was worn out as a piece of flannel. Our son sat in a chair, not wearing his cleanest shirt. Was that his fault or mine? Hi, our son said, his eyes travelling the ceiling; he pretended not to know who we were.

  —Well, said the principal. —I am sorry to say that your son has been thieving. Here’s a list. A donut, a pen, $2.25. And the crowning glory, the teacher’s diamond bracelet. Wanda Jenkins found it in his desk.

  I wondered if the principal could run the school effectively because he used this word: thieving.

  —Could this Wanda have slipped it into his desk by accident? I asked.

  —No. She saw it in there. Other kids did, too.

  The principal clasped his hands as though he were trying to hold himself from some other frenzied movement. We all did; we were the epitome of politeness.

  —So. Do you understand the seriousness of this?

  Our son was frozen. His head barely moved. He was this other thing now, a defendant, and he took to it like a character in a movie. We all sat there, perched on our chairs in this moment of history. We were barely real.

  —What do you say? asked the principal.

  —I didn’t do it, said our son.

  —But you did, said the principal. —We have proof.

  —What did you want? I asked our son.

  He assumed a blank expression, as though he did not understand this question.

  —I don’t know, he said.

  This was not the right answer, for the principal said, —He has to go home.

  —You mean we have to take him home? Now?

  —For two days.

  —But we have to work—

  —Sorry. You have to figure that out.

  —We’ll replace everything, said my husband. —Even the donut.

  THE DRIVE HOME WAS NOT FUN. SILENCE EXCEPT FOR OUR OCCASIONAL outbursts. Why? And why the donut? Don’t we feed you enough?

  We got home and sent our son to his room. It was a dumb solution, but what else could we do? He ambled there, shoulders drooping. He was so obedient I was somewhat touched. My husband and I stood, startled to find ourselves here at midday with our boy in the house.

  —You call in sick at work, I asked my husband.

  —No. You.

  He did not know that he was being insensitive.

  —I want Mom, our son called.

  —Me? Why me?

  —I just do.

  I called into work. I lied, said I had a sore throat. If only. My supervisor sounded envious. A sore throat. Why did I get to stay home?

  —You can get sick next, I told her, and then I felt guilty for saying this.

  The cat kept following me. He was in a merry mood, as th
ough he sensed an opportunity; intent on displaying his cuteness, jumping up and twisting in the air as he batted at a moth. I went into our son’s room, closed the door, and sat down next to him.

  —What happened? I asked him. —What did you want?

  —I don’t know.

  —Did you want to be important?

  —What?

  He scratched his neck.

  —Did you feel ignored? Bullied?

  —No.

  I could still see the imprint of the infant face in his current one, a perplexing shadow.

  —Then why did you do it? I asked.

  —I just wanted it. The donut had sprinkles on top.

  He smiled, oddly joyful.

  —Mom. Guess what. I can do a Heimlich.

  He leaned forward and hugged me so hard I was breathless. I wrapped my arms around him and did not want him to let go. He smelled a little rank, like wet sand. It was the smell of future adulthood.

  —Honey, I asked. —Why are you so happy?

  —I like sitting here with you.

  THE BIOPSY. THE SAME CALM BLUE COLORS IN THE WAITING ROOM. It was as though all the doctors had consulted the same color therapist. The magazines were carefully selected to contain no news of any sort. Interior decorating and cooking appeared to be the only subjects in the world. Other people waiting here wore glazed expressions or were chatting happily, pretending they were at a bus stop.

  I was escorted to the patient room, also blue. I was sitting there when the breast surgeon walked in.

  —Ready? she asked.

  —For what?

  She prepared her needle. The nurse gently put her hand on my arm.

  —How is your iguana? I asked. I wanted her to tell me something wise.

  —He did the sweetest thing, she said.

  There was the needle, and there was pain; I was sweating.

  —Easy, said the breast surgeon. She was drawing out something.

  —You’re doing great! said the nurse. She puffed out her cheeks. She said, —Take a deep breath.

  —What did the iguana do? I asked, between breaths.

  —Oh. His name is Blinkie. Because he never does. So. I was putting some lettuce in his cage, and he was chewing it, and he looked up at me and, I think, smiled.

  The breast surgeon was suddenly eager to share.

  —It was just a reflex, she said. I’ve studied medicine. I know that. But, you know, there was something, I don’t know. Giving. You know?

  —I know, I said.

  —It just can’t help it, she said. —You know?

  —Yes, I said.

  She applied a bandage to my breast.

  —I’ll tell you the results tomorrow, she said. —Early afternoon. I’ll call you.

  It was like a date, the way she said it. But so much less joyous.

  —I’ll be waiting, I said.

  I CAME HOME WITH MY SECRET BRUISED BREAST AND LET MYSELF sink into the muck of self-pity. What the hell was going on? Why me? Why not my friend, my boss, my neighbor? Not me. The cat was following me. He coughed a couple times, a tiny, almost satirical sound, and when I held him, he stopped coughing. His heart beat, small, miraculous, against my palm.

  The next morning, I was waiting. I was waiting when I poured the children their cereal, I was waiting when I kissed my husband goodbye, I was waiting when I watched the children run from the car to their classrooms, I was waiting when I sat down with my coffee at work, I was waiting when I came home to pick up my lunch, which I had forgotten. I was not present for anything at all.

  I walked into the kitchen and saw the cat lying in the corner; from far away, I thought that he was sleeping.

  However, the cat was not sleeping. He was dead.

  I knew this fact in one second. My heart went cold with the shock at the presence of a dead thing. There was no blood, no vomit, nothing; he was merely curled in the corner, suddenly as lifeless as a teapot or fork. The cat. I thought it was a prank, but it was not a prank; he was, in fact, dead, dead, dead. I saw him and knew everything.

  I was weeping before I touched him. He did not feel like himself; there was that horrible, stark hardness. I called the people at PetSmart.

  —How old was he? asked the unlucky sales associate who picked up the phone.

  —Maybe three months. I got him at the adoption carnival.

  —Are you going to want a refund? he asked, tentatively.

  —No! I just want to know what happened.

  —You never know about the adoption carnival, said the sales associate. —Some of those cats have fatal diseases, you know, and they don’t show up until you’ve paid your eighty bucks.

  —How did this happen? I asked.

  —You gave him food, right? asked the sales associate.

  —Yes!

  —Was there any poison in the house?

  —No!

  I was crying. I heard the sales associate start to panic.

  —He coughed a few times, I said.

  —We can get you another cat, said the sales associate, quickly. —Uh. We also sell coffins.

  I made him listen to me cry a little longer.

  —Ma’am, said the associate, now sounding a little irritated, —You know, you can get another cat.

  —I want this one, I said. —Don’t you understand? This cat.

  I WRAPPED THE CAT IN AN OLD DORA TOWEL THAT THE CHILDREN now found appalling. Then I moved him to the backyard and sat with him until the children got home. I sat in the yard, beside him, this small lump in the Dora towel, for it somehow was important to sit beside him. I was close enough to the house so that I could hear the phone.

  There was that fullness again, now sad and useless.

  THE CHILDREN CAME HOME FROM SCHOOL, BICKERING. WHAT A luxury their arguments were! She stepped on my foot! He ripped my drawing! The arguments were endless, borne out of the mere boredom of existence. I gave them popsicles and waited for them to ask.

  —Where’s the kitty? our daughter asked.

  —Something bad happened, I said.

  They looked at me with their small, perfect faces, always ready for some news. I did not want to say it, to ruin everything.

  —The cat, I said. —He’s dead.

  I watched their faces, curious what they would do. They did not have a facial expression ready to deal with this. Their mouths were open, slack with disbelief. Death always seemed like a joke. They ran around the yard, looking for the cat. They called all of the names that we tried.

  —I’m sorry, I said.

  I showed them the shroud, from far away.

  —That’s not him.

  —It is. Trust me.

  —No it’s not.

  They wanted, like little scientists, pure and irrefutable proof. Before I could stop them, they ran over, and our daughter lifted the towel a little and jumped back. A shriek. I ran toward them and brought them to the patio, away from the cat, which was now not the cat they had known. I held them as they sat, absorbing this.

  They asked, —What happened? over and over, as though this question had the power to reverse time. It was a stalwart, beautiful question that did nothing.

  WE SAT IN THE GLARING SUN; THE AIR PRESSED DOWN ON US LIKE lead. It was my job to carve a route out of this, though maybe not out, maybe that was not possible, but around. Around this.

  —Maybe we could make him a memorial, I suggested.

  This cheered them up! A memorial! They loved the idea. Let’s do it! We would pay tribute to the dear unnamed cat. We dug a hole in the backyard, dirt flying. They were flushed and chatty and helpful. The children suddenly believed in an Egyptian theory of the afterlife and wanted to throw in anything the cat would find helpful in an alternative existence: the ball he chased; a handful of kibble; an old sweater; a spoonful of tuna; a poem.

  —I’m getting him a blanket! So he won’t get cold!

  —I’m getting him some cat litter!

  They rushed back and forth from the yard to the house, collecting i
tems. The yard was green and shadowed and lush. I could almost taste all of this; I wanted to taste the pale, thin light filtering through the leaves and the blue sky above me and the children’s golden arms. In the house, far away, the phone rang. The children grabbed flowers from bushes and arranged them artfully around the cat’s grave. They began to pick up handfuls of dirt and throw them into the hole. Their palms were gray and chalky. The children didn’t understand any of it and they did, completely. The phone rang again.

  The children finished their memorial. They turned to me, hands empty and open. Now they didn’t know what to do. They ran to me, their faces aglow with sorrow and triumph at what they had made.

  —Mom, they said.

  —Yes?

  —Now what?

  Now what. The phone stopped ringing. It was quiet for a few minutes. I sat on the grass. They did, too. I sat with them, listening to the soft sweetness of our breath. We gazed at the pure, dark trees, and we had but this, this one moment, and the next.

  —Listen, I said.

  —To what?

  —The air.

  We listened to the air, to the gorgeous, peculiar sound of nothing. We could hear anything in it; that was our revenge. We could sit there, each moment, and listen.

  Inside, the phone began to ring again.

  —Mom. Did you hear that? my son asked.

  He looked at me, waiting. I did. I was held by the moment; I knew it would lift me to the next one and the next. I let it lift me to my feet. Then I went inside to pick up the phone.

  A Chick from My Dream Life

  I loved helping my sister Betsy hide her bad hand. In the morning, she’d be standing on the side of the bathtub, looking at her body in the bathroom mirror. “Make it fashionable,” she’d say. I’d flip through my tube tops, finding one the same color as her swimsuit. Betsy examined her tan lines or put on Sea Coral lipstick because she thought that was right for the beach. She ignored me when I pulled her bad hand—the one with no fingers—toward me and put a tube top over it. She liked tube tops because they hid her hand completely and made her look like she was carrying something bright. “Maybe tape it shut,” I said. “Or paper clip it. And bunch it at your wrist. There.” Betsy would hold the tube top up and examine it. “Cool,” she said. I smiled, the expert.