Janet Nye - The Littlest Boss

Ten. There were ten of them. And one grown-up cat slinking along a wall.

“Heavens, no! I’m a foster home for pregnant mommy cats. They stay with me until they have their babies and then go out for adoption when the kittens are old enough. I usually only do one litter at a time, but there was an emergency placement and I ended up with two momma cats and all their kittens.”

A tugging on his pant legs made him look down. Three of the tiny beasts were climbing him like a tree. As he bent to pick them off, two more started up his other leg. “I’m under attack!”

Molly’s laugh rang out and with a tug at his heart he realized how much he’d missed her. She was basically a white version of Momma G. “Let me get some cat food. They’ll leave you alone then.”

He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the small dining table while she attended to the cats. He’d never seen so many kittens in one place before. The mewling rose in pitch as the food was being prepared then complete chaos as they fought for a spot on the platters.

Molly sat beside him once she was finished. “Want one?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“They’ll be ready for adoption in a month or so.”

“I’m not a cat person.”

“Everyone is a cat person. You just have to meet the right cat.”

Nope. If he was going to get a pet, it’d be a big dog. “I’m concentrating on taking care of myself right now. Not sure I’m ready to be responsible for another life.”

Molly patted his hand and stood. “Let’s get that roast served up. I’m starving.”

Over dinner, she asked about his new job, his apartment, his love life, his health. Basically every exact same thing his grandmother would interrogate him about. He found himself relaxing into the comfort of it. After leaving the Crew, he felt he’d lost his family. But they were still family at heart.

“I’ll get these,” he said as Molly reached for his empty plate. As he cleared the table, Molly began to fill the sink with water. He paused. “Do you not use the dishwasher?”

“It’s broken. Makes a horrible racket when I turn it on. I just haven’t called anyone to come look at it yet.”

“Sounds like something stuck in the drain. Want me to take a look?”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, he was disassembling the drain trap with two kittens inside the dishwasher with him, several more sitting on the open door and one perched on his shoulder. “Dude,” he said to the gray kitten sitting on his shoulder. “You really aren’t helping.”

“Cats are natural supervisors,” Molly said.

He looked at the kitten and it looked back at him with mint-green eyes. “Is that what you’re doing?”

He got a tiny little mew and it made him laugh.

“You were looking for Sadie,” Molly said. “Is something wrong? Could you talk to me?”

For a moment, he felt off-balance. He’d forgotten all about his mother and her mess. He turned his attention back to the dishwasher. “You know about my parents, right?”

“I know your grandmother raised you.”

He nodded, carefully placing the screws out of kitten reach on the counter above him. “Yeah, my parents were addicts. Back and forth with sobriety for years, but when I was about six months old, it got really bad and my grandmother took me away from them.”

“One of them come back?”

It was said with such a knowing, yet compassionate, tone that he looked up at her. “Yeah. My mother.”

Molly nodded. “Time for amends?”

He shrugged and pulled loose the drain trap. “Here’s your problem,” he said as he held out a small chunk of plastic. He put it on the counter above him and scooped up the screws. “I guess that’s what she wants. She gave my name and phone number to some lady who says she’s her sponsor. I’m guessing she called to say I should let my mother to talk to me. I just don’t know.”

There was a long silence as he put the drain trap back together. As he was removing kittens from the inside, Molly stood from where she’d been sitting at the dining room table. “Come sit in the living room with me.”

After disposing of the bit of plastic and washing his hands, he settled down on the opposite end of the sofa from Molly. She turned toward him with her hands clasped. “My former husband was an alcoholic.”

He blinked. He’d thought she was a widow. “Oh,” he said slowly.

“He would get sober for a year, slip up, drink for a year or two. It was a never-ending cycle. After about twenty years, we separated. I couldn’t do it anymore. It’s a horrible disease but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.”

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