The Second Cat Megapack. George Zebrowski

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      It was Arlene’s turn to be confused. “‘Objectionable’? As in—”

      The young man led her through the sunken kitchen, out a back door which con­nected directly to the garage, saying, “Their coloring. It’s red, but not the right red. They got tiger stripes on their heads, but no tiger markings on their body. Their Ma, she’s pure red. Most of the kittens were, ’cept these guys.” The man scooped up two wiggling balls of fluff crawling near an engine on blocks, and handed them to Arlene.

      She let out a soft “Ooooh,” and cuddled the kittens under her chin. They were gor­geous, pure Persian as far as she could tell (although one little tail did look a tad too long), with orange eyes and pale orange pug noses. Not quite Peke-faced, but with ador­able dips in their noses, and wide flexible white whiskers. They reminded her of those little Troll dolls popular in the l960s, those pug-ugly dolls with the long manes of odd­-colored hair and flat round eyes, only Troll dolls were never this adorable.

      “What do I owe you?” she asked as a for­mality, remembering that she had left her wallet at home. Luckily for her, the man shrugged and said, “Aw, let it go. Saves me the trouble of having to kill ’em. You will have ’em fixed, won’t you?”

      “Certainly. I believe in prevention,” she added, realizing that the jibe would go over his head, but feeling the better for having said it.

      After fitting the kittens into her pea coat (her breasts had shrunken from age and disuse), Arlene hurried away from the sorry prefab on 7th Avenue, toward her home to the south. The rocks in her pockets beat against her hips with every step, but it was a good ache.

      * * * *

      As she expected, Silky and the new kittens (both males, whom she dubbed Puff and Fluff) got along famously—after a few “I-was-here-first” hisses on Silky’s part. And as she patted the stones into a rough heart shape over Guy­-Pie’s grave, she reflected that maybe things just worked out for the best, no matter how painful they seemed initially. One cat died, she went to look for stones for him, and she saved two kittens from death. A minus, but followed by two pluses. She still hurt, but she would heal.

      And Silky began to act like a kitten again.

      * * * *

      Come December, Arlene guessed that Silky had to be going on ten months old, but he just wasn’t growing. True, his body had no more hollow spots, and sleek muscle had covered the painful bone, but he just wasn’t any bigger. Even Puff and Fluff grew; they were close to his size after a month in her house. And it was too cold out to go lugging him to the vet just to have her tell Arlene that she had to expect mutant cats to be different. (Dr. Hraber al­ready called Silky “Bug-Eyes” in honor of his still-bulging eyes.)

      Arlene had already held off getting Silky neutered; occasionally he sprayed near his pan, and attacked at least one of the dogs each day, hugging with his big-toed funny paws as he chewed on a big floppy ear, but Arlene kept hoping that he’d get a late growth spurt and fill out properly. Even as she knew in her heart of hearts that he was done growing. He hadn’t gained weight since November, and nothing about him had changed since Octo­ber. (On Halloween some children who came Trick or Treating spied him looking through the window and asked—albeit innocently, “Is that a Spuds Mackenzie cat?”)

      Once she’d gotten over her fussing and fuming, she had to admit that Silky did re­semble the tiny-eyed dog in the beer commer­cials. But she never loved a cat more than Silky, not even beautiful, patient Guy-Pie, Lord rest his soul. Silky was always there, showing up in the oddest places; at her elbow while she rolled pie dough, on her lap when she went to the bathroom, dropping down onto her shoulders from on top the high bookcases flanking the front door, purring all the while.

      Puff and Fluff took up some of Silky’s time, but not all of it; every night, he curled around her head on the pillow, strange soft paws gently kneading her thinning hair. No other cat was allowed on the pillow—on the bed yes, the pillow never—but Silky rested there as if he belonged in such a high up, exalted spot. He reached inside her and filled the hollow spot left after Guy-Pie’s passing, filled it and then some. Long after he’d chosen her for his Mama, she chose him to be her Best Boy. She still loved the other cats and dogs, in her own way, person to animal. Silky was…different. Not only in looks; she’d long ago gotten used to his looks. In spirit, in soul, he was different.

      But it wasn’t until that January that she learned just how utterly different Silky was from other cats.

      * * * *

      Arlene was making hamburgers in the kitchen, from meat she’d found and oatmeal, onions and spices she’d bought. Knuckle deep in the gooey reddish mixture, Arlene heard the cats doing something in the living room—something noisy enough to hear, but soft enough not to be easily identified—and yelled out, “Cats, you be good, hear? Or no supper tonight!” (She never made good on the threat, but it nonetheless usually worked.)

      The noise continued, a puzzling muted wooden thump (like someone pounding on a board with a wool-wrapped hammer), then a long silence, then a sound of contact followed by all of the cats running around. Quickly mashing the meat and seasonings together, then placing the bowl of unshaped hamburger in the oven—she knew better than to leave anything edible on the counters—Arlene ran her hands under the tap, and flicked off the water from her fingers as she stomped into the living room: She was about to say something, yell something, when she noticed the odd way the cats were sitting around the front door in a wide semi-circle; all facing the two book­cases flanking the door. All the cats…except Silky. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of white and black; Silky bounding from the floor to the chair by the window to the top of the bookcase between window and door.

      The other cats (as well as a couple of the smaller dogs) were watching Silky intently, as if they knew what was to come next. Arlene watched too, as Silky positioned himself on the bookcase, back legs tensed as if he in­tended to jump onto something higher than the bookcase then wiggled his whipcord body, tensed all over, and leaped into the air—­

      —and didn’t come down on the other bookcase, but kept going up in a graceful-­beyond-imagining arc, his funny clawless feet spread until the skin was stretched taut be­tween his metacarpals, and his huge, delicate, wind-cupping ears grew large, swelling out like a windbreaker sometimes does in a strong wind, billowing out above his tiny wedge of a head like miniature sails—and he was suspended there, in the air, for what had to have been seconds, until he turned his head and changed course to a point between the two bookcases, and still he didn’t come rushing down, but floated, as easy and gentle and beautiful, oh God so beautiful, as a dandelion seed freed by the wind to drift on the invisible currents of the air.

      Arlene stood numb, watching as Silky settled gently to the ground on all four feet, making only the slightest amount of noise. Just enough to have been puzzling when heard from afar. Afterward, he and the other cats ran around the room, in sheer excitement over Silky’s incredible feat. And Arlene wished that her knees weren’t knobby with arthritis; she wished she was small enough to run around in circles with her furry children, and had the right voice to bay out loud and purr and—and—she didn’t know what.

      It was a sight to howl over, to screech and meaow and cluck over. No human sound, no human word, could express what she was feeling now. It was joy. It was awe. It was more than her heart could keep inside without exploding like a firecracker suspended in a hot July sky.

      She bent down and grabbed Silky; painful knees or not, she and the cat danced around the living room, bouncing with giggles and purrs off the walls, the furniture. It was a mir­acle, as only new, as in brand-new life can be a miracle.

      Silky СКАЧАТЬ