Софи Келли - Final Catcall

I put a piece of bread in the toaster and a cup of milk in the microwave. Usually the sound of the toaster would make both cats show up, and after a moment Owen’s gray tabby head peered around the living room doorway.

“What were you doing?” I asked, getting the peanut butter and the cocoa mix out of the cupboard.

He gave an offhand meow, cat for “Not much.”

Hercules’s black-and-white face looked around the opposite side of the door to the living room.

“And how was your night?”

He made a motion that kind of looked like a shrug.

“I saw Rebecca at tai chi,” I said as the microwave beeped. I held up the two loaves of bread. “She brought me some bread.” I saw the two of them exchange glances at Rebecca’s name.

Owen crossed the floor, sat down in front of me and meowed, cocking his head to one side. I knew what he was asking.

“Yes, she sent something for you,” I said. “She spoils you.”

He blinked a couple of times as though he couldn’t understand what I’d said.

I opened the top of the little paper bag and set it on the floor. Owen sniffed cautiously and then a blissful expression spread across his face. He poked a paw inside the bag and batted out a neon yellow Fred the Funky Chicken. For a moment he just inhaled the scent of catnip, a lot like the way Maggie did when I took a pan of brownies out of the oven. Then he picked up the toy and retreated under the table with it.

Hercules had watched the whole thing from the doorway. “Come over here,” I said. “Rebecca sent something for you, too.”

His green eyes immediately darted to his brother, who was already sprawled on the floor, chewing happily on the chicken.

“No, it’s not a catnip chicken,” I said.

The toaster popped then. I held up a finger. “Give me a minute,” I said. I put peanut butter on the bread and cocoa mix in my milk and set everything on the table. Then I grabbed the little cardboard box.

I crouched down next to Hercules. He looked at the box and then looked at me.

“I have no idea,” I said.

I took off the lid. Inside was a tiny stuffed purple mouse. There was a tag attached to its tail. Shake for thirty seconds. Set on flat surface and press down on mouse.

“Let’s try it,” I said. I picked up the mouse and shook it, counting to thirty slowly. Then I set it on the floor in front of the cat and pressed down on its purple back. When I took my hand away the mouse began to skitter around in a circle.

Hercules watched it for a moment. Then his paw darted out and landed on top of the mouse. When he lifted it again the mouse ran in the other direction. He caught it a second time. This time when he took his paw away the little purple critter went in a figure eight and when the cat tried to stop it he missed.

He leaned forward, watching intently. He didn’t miss twice. He looked up at me and I swear I could see satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. I had no idea how the mechanism in the little mouse worked, but it was obviously a hit with Hercules.

I pulled out a chair and sat down, propping my feet on the seat of the chair opposite mine. While I ate I told the cats what had happened at Marcus’s place. Neither one of them seemed to be paying attention, but it helped me to sort things out if I said them out loud. Except it didn’t seem to be helping this time.

After a few minutes the purple mouse ran out of steam and stopped with a little whizzing sound. Hercules poked it a couple of times and when he decided it wasn’t going to move, he took a few steps toward the counter, looked up and meowed.

“What? Do you want a cracker?” I asked. He looked at me over his shoulder and then turned back to the counter.

I got to my feet. The magazine page that Hercules had appropriated from the box Hugh Davis had hidden at the library was still lying there. I picked it up and Herc meowed again. Was he really trying to tell me it was connected to the director’s death?

I smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper. It wouldn’t hurt to get my laptop and look for the original article. The magazine’s name and the date of publication were on the top of the page.

I put my computer on the table and as soon as I sat back down Hercules jumped onto my lap. “So you’re helping?” I said.

He put one paw on the edge of the keyboard. He was definitely helping. I glanced under the table. Owen was stretched out on his side, eyes half closed, chewing on Fred the Funky Chicken with a loopy look on his face.

A quick search and I found the issue of the magazine online. The article was the grand-prize winner in a contest called Share the Change, Be the Change, sponsored by a soft-drink company. It was about a program for teen alcoholics, written by a young woman the program had helped.

I was hooked at the first sentence. The language was raw and compelling and when I got to the end I wanted to jump up and cheer for the teenager I didn’t even know.

“Wow,” I said to Hercules. He meowed softly in agreement. Then he batted a paw at the keyboard, clicking on a link to another article.

“Paws off the keys, fur ball,” I said. He was staring at the screen almost as though he was reading and ignored me.

I glanced at the link he’d taken us to and about halfway down the page I saw Hannah’s name. I looked at Hercules. “How did you do that?” He was still intent on the screen. I didn’t even get a whisker twitch.

This article was about the stage play, inspired by the article that had won the grand prize. The stage play Hannah was up for a role in and Hugh had wanted to direct. But Hannah had a closer connection than that. She was a volunteer with the program. She’d been the one to urge the teenage writer to put her story down on paper and enter the contest.

I leaned against the chair back and curled one arm around Hercules. He turned his head to look at me. “This means something,” I said. “I just don’t know what.”

He made a face, wrinkling up his nose. I wondered what he knew that I didn’t.

• • •

I was up early the next morning. I scrubbed the bathroom, vacuumed up the cat hair and started a pot of split pea soup with ham in the slow cooker. Then I walked around the house, trailed by Owen, and wondering what it would look like to my mother. It was home, I realized, just as much as Boston was. Maggie, Roma, Rebecca, the Taylors, Susan and Eric—they were my family, too. I wasn’t exactly sure what Marcus was.

I looked at the picture my mom had sent to me just a couple of weeks ago. I’d hung it behind the big chair in the living room. It was a drawing of a tiny cottage, with two cats sitting on the front steps and the caption “Home is anywhere you are.” I got a lump in my throat looking at it. It was Mom’s way of saying she would support whatever choice I made. I knew that it had to be hard for her not to tell me to come back to Boston.

“As long as you’re happy, I’ll be happy, Katydid,” she’d said to me more than once on the phone.

I scooped Owen up in my arms. “Why does it have to be so complicated?” I asked.

He licked my chin. If he had an answer, he wasn’t sharing it.

I’d calculated that it would be late afternoon before Ben got back from the airport in Minneapolis with Mom. Still, I couldn’t seem to stop looking at the clock as the arrival time for her flight came and passed. I pictured her walking to baggage claim, finding Ben, heading to the car. Did Ben drive the speed limit? Go faster? Or slower?

I passed the checkout desk and Mary called my name. “Kathleen, go upstairs and make some coffee,” she said. “Everything’s fine down here.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, Mary, but I don’t really feel like a cup right now.”

She put her hands on her hips and frowned at me. “Well, I do. You’re making me crazy walking in circles, not to mention you’re going to wear out all those little tiles Vincent Gallo and his boys worked so hard to replace.”