Хелен Браун - Cleo

Cleo seemed to have decided I was a ridiculous animal, with my bird’s-nest hair and insistence on prancing about on two legs. Her mission was to trim my coat and get me down on all fours so I could savor the exuberance of being a cat.

But I didn’t need a crazy kitten. The animal had no right to dance through our grieving chambers as if life was some kind of joke. If Sam were here, I thought, he’d know how to calm her down. I could almost see him bending over her, hand outstretched, lips damp and tender…

I hurried to the bathroom, the only place I could weep in private, and closed the door. Rob didn’t need to witness any more adult distress than he’d already seen. If only events had unfolded differently that day. If Sam hadn’t found the pigeon, if Steve hadn’t been making lemon meringue pie, if I hadn’t been out for lunch, if that woman hadn’t been driving back to work… That woman . It was all her fault. I wondered if she had children of her own and any idea the anguish we were going through. My mind had turned her into a monster.

A series of jagged sobs erupted. Trying to repress the noise, I leaned my forehead against the cool blue tiles and clutched my stomach. My chest muscles ached. The capacity of human tear ducts continued to amaze me. How many buckets could one pair of eyes fill? Just when I thought I’d exceeded the lifetime quota, another tanker load would discharge down my cheeks. Crying had become just another bodily function, like breathing, something that happened without conscious effort.

As I bent over the toilet bowl, part of my consciousness peeled away to float on the bathroom ceiling. It looked down with benevolence at the howling woman doubled over with hurt and hatred. This other me who examined things from a distance didn’t take things so personally. It was spooky and detached. Maybe it had been there since birth and I’d spent the rest of my life crowding it out with emotions, obligations and conforming to what was expected.

At the same time it frightened me. What if I was tempted to float away with it for eternity, smiling down on human drama like an amused zookeeper? The idea of shedding my body and escaping pain was suddenly attractive. I slid the cabinet drawer open and held the bottle of sleeping pills to the light. Each pill glowed like a promise through the brown glass. There were plenty left. They didn’t smell too bad. Washed down with enough brandy they’d be tolerable. I unscrewed the lid.

The bathroom door opened a crack. Dammit. I hadn’t closed it properly. The shower curtain rippled. Assuming Rob had opened the front door and set a draft going through the house, I leaned forwards to shut the door. It continued to nudge itself open. Glancing down I saw a black paw run down the gap. Cleo pushed her way in, padded over the tiles and mewed for me to pick her up. Sighing, I put the pills back in the drawer and closed it quietly. To arrange a permanent exit would be the ultimate act of indulgence. Cleo’s impertinent arrival in the bathroom was a reminder of my responsibilities. I had no right to opt out when a boy and a kitten needed continuity in their lives, and someone to nurture them through to adulthood. Gathering Cleo in my hands, I sobbed into her fur. She didn’t seem to mind being a handkerchief. Purring, she nuzzled my neck and gazed at me with such affection I was taken aback. Not since the boys were babies had a living creature offered so much undiluted love. Once I’d regained composure I lowered her to the floor. She skipped away and I went to find Rob.

The house had gone through a metamorphosis overnight. The hallway resembled the aftermath of a battle. Empty supermarket bags were scattered over the shag pile. Among them lay a selection of unmatched socks. Rob’s blue and white sports sock lay shriveled alongside one of Steve’s. A rainbow-striped bed sock curled around a fallen deodorant bottle. With its cap resembling Napoleon’s hat, the deodorant bottle looked like a deceased general who, knowing he’d lost the campaign, had taken a bullet and tumbled on his side.

In the family room rugs were rumpled and mysteriously askew. Lampshades hung crooked like jaunty headwear. Chairs and tables had rearranged themselves at subtly different angles. Photos had toppled on the window ledge. A rubbish basket lay on its side spewing apple cores and chewing gum wrappers.

The kitchen blinds had collapsed at half-mast and wouldn’t budge up or down. Closer inspection revealed the curtain cords had been either surgically severed or chomped through.

Assuming we’d been burgled, I hurried to the living room. To my surprise the stereo and its speakers still lurked inside their ugly veneer cabinets. The television hadn’t budged, either, though the flock of sympathy cards had taken wing during the night and fluttered to the floor.

The rubber plant lay toppled on its side, its pendulous leaves stretching over the sofa and coffee table. Dirt from its tub avalanched over the carpet. The landslide was decorated with three small, bullet-shaped turds.

I’d never been house proud, but this was too much. Our kitten had undergone a personality change after dark. She was nothing short of a feline werewolf.

The day ahead stretched towards a horizon littered with socks, fallen rubber plants, supermarket bags and acupunctured ankles.

“Where’s Cleo ?” I roared, scooping up a blanket I’d lovingly stitched together for Rob. The blanket had taken months to knit. As I clutched the manifestation of mother’s love to my chest, three half-eaten tassels dropped to the floor.

Rata tilted a lazy ear from her sleeping post in the doorway. Rob shrugged. On the tree fern outside a bird was practicing scales. A ship’s horn moaned out on the harbor. Inside, the house was eerily silent. Except for strange tinkling noises coming from the kitchen.

I marched over the linoleum to declare war on a creature one-tenth my size. The clock emitted bored ticks from its watch post above the kitchen sink. The tap, like a drummer with no sense of rhythm, wept into the plug hole. Otherwise, silence. Our furry delinquent had gone bush.

For no logical reason, I reached for the oven door. Just as well we weren’t expecting a visit from Martha Stewart. Grease stains trickled like frozen tears down its glass front. I’d get around to cleaning them off someday, in the next year or two, or whenever there was a day on the calendar marked “World Oven-Cleaning Day.” A pair of roasting dishes glowered back at me from the gloom.

I was about to check out the pot cupboard when we heard the unmistakable sound of plates shattering. Rob lowered the dishwasher door. Cleo was having too much fun crashing around last night’s dinner plates to take notice of us. She ignored my yells to get out. When Rob reached into the dishwasher Cleo shot out and slithered between his legs, then scampered away before either of us could lay hands on her slippery fur.

I’d heard people say kittens were playful and could be almost as demanding as new babies. Almost ? Babies stay in their bassinets, for heaven’s sake. They don’t go out of their way to attack your hair or send you flying through the air with the prospect of spending the rest of your days in a wheelchair. This kitten’s behavior was beyond any normality curve—human, animal or vegetable. She was uncontrollable, destructive, possibly psychotic and a sock fetishist to boot. In less than twenty-four hours she’d changed from helpless, charming aristocrat to crazed feral.

We chased after her down the hall, leaping over socks and supermarket bags, but Cleo was nowhere to be seen. We stopped and listened. All that could be heard was the sound of our labored breathing.

I peered through the crack of Rob’s door. Curled on his pillow was the personification of kittenly cuteness. She mewed affectionately, stretched, and gave the prettiest yawn. Cleo had morphed back into the creature we’d fallen in love with.