A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

If you’re wondering what this newfound energy is all about, all I can say is that I’ve gotten particularly attached to a bottle of small round blue pills I found in George’s bathroom, the bottle marked “1–2 daily upon awakening.” I take a couple, and for about five hours I’m amazingly organized. In an effort to identify what it is I’m taking, I repeatedly Google “little blue pill,” but all I get is ads for Viagra, which is not round but diamond-shaped.

As I put the kittens in the carrier, they start making noise, the mama cat is pacing, and Tessie looks up at me from the floor as if to say, God help you now.

I head for the A& P where I met the woman, both on the off chance she might show up again and because I feel self-conscious setting up outside my regular grocery, the one that was Jane and George’s. More than once people have given me strange looks; I’m never sure if they know it’s me or think I’m him, but either way I’m a sitting duck.

I set up just outside the pet store. I have brought the carrier, my pictures, some tape, the samples, and a large cardboard box where someone can put a kitten to play with it — that way, there’s no danger of its scampering off into the street. Open for business. My first customer comes out of the pet store, wearing a tag that reads “Brad — Assistant Manager.”

“What are you doing?” Brad asks.

“Giving away kittens,” I say, even though it’s obvious.

“We sell kittens,” he says.

I say nothing.

“You’re going to have to move your pop-up shop,” Brad says.

“Sorry.”

“You’re competing with our interests.”

“But the ASPCA has a pet adoption stand right here every weekend.”

“Are you a nonprofit?” Brad wants to know.

“I’m giving them away.”

“You’re small potatoes,” Brad says.

“I beg to differ,” I say. “Whoever takes these kittens is going to need supplies. How about just thinking of these five as a loss leader?”

“Loss leader?”

“The things a store is willing to lose money on in order to get people who will buy other things in the store. Milk, for example, is a common loss leader,” I say.

“Move,” Brad says. “Take your act over to the A& P. I’ll help you. …” He picks up the edge of the table, and the carrier starts to slide.

I grab the carrier. “Take your hands off my table or I will call the police, and then corporate pet whatever, and have your dumb ass fired.”

“I’m a witness,” an old woman says. “I will testify.”

“It was an accident,” Brad says, and I sort of believe him.

“Tell it to the judge,” the old woman says as she helps me carry the table closer to the A& P.

“Do you want a kitten?” I ask her.

“Absolutely not,” she says. “I dislike pets almost as much as I dislike people. My husband says I should only shop online — that the world is a better place with me safe at home. He thinks I’m bad.” She shrugs. “I think he’s worse.”

“How long have you been married?” I ask, laying out my flyers and supplies.

“Since the beginning of time,” she says, and heads off.

An unseasonably overdressed young woman in a heavy coat and scarf, with multiple bags of groceries hanging from both arms, approaches and puts her bags down.

“Can I hold one?” she asks.

I reach into the carrier and take out the closest kitten and hand it to her. The woman puts the kitten up to her face — rubbing its body over her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. “Yum-yum-yum,” she says, making lip-smacking sounds. The kitten looks stressed. “So fragile,” she says, “like a baby bird.”

I reach for the kitten. “Let’s keep it in the box; you can pet it there.”

She dutifully follows directions and puts the kitten in the box, then asks if she can try another one. I put the first one away and take another out.

“Do you have any pets?” I ask the woman.

“No,” she says. “No pets. Pets are against the rules.”

“Aggie,” a woman calls, spotting her from a distance. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Remember we said we’d meet in the produce section? And whose groceries have you got?”

“Mine,” Agatha says, putting the second kitten down.

“Where did you get the money to buy all that?”

“My parents sent it to me.”

“I think they meant for you to use a little bit each week, not spend it all at once.”

Agatha shrugs. She doesn’t seem to mind. “The man has kitties,” Agatha says. “They taste good.”

“That’s nice,” the woman, who is clearly younger than Agatha, says. “Now, come along, and let’s catch up with the others.” I track Agatha with my eye, watching as she joins the others and, hand in hand, they walk across the parking lot like a twisted rope of Arbus imagery.

“Are the kittens returnable?”

“Pardon?” Someone is standing in front of me. Her enormous purse, the size of a lawn-and-leaf bag, is blocking my view.

“If I take one and am not happy, can I bring it back?” she asks.

“Not happy in what way?”

“Like, if our dog, or cat, or my husband, or the kids don’t like it — can I bring it back?”

“Sounds like you’ve got a full house,” I say.

She nods. “I love a new baby.”

I don’t like her; I don’t like how she’s just planted herself in front of me; I am anxious for her to leave. “Why don’t you think on it while you do your shopping, and then you can come back and see me? I’ll be here for a while.”

The A& P and surrounding shopping mall is a whole other world. Conspicuously absent are men between twenty-five and sixty, and there is an abundance of older couples, women with babies and toddlers, and the straggling unemployed shopping the sale flyer. A woman with twins approaches.

“Can we get a kitty?” the little girl asks.

“Can we?” the boy seconds.

The children are fascinated and stare into the cat carrier.

“How many are in there?” the boy asks.

“Five,” I say.

“They have enough,” the girl tells her mother.

“What will your father say?”

“He’s never home anyway,” the boy says.

“Maybe we don’t have to tell him,” the girl says. “We can just keep them in our room.”

I put two kittens in the box, so they can each play with one.

“Let me check with Daddy,” the mother says as she uses her long nails to peck out a text. Seconds later she gets a reply — which she holds up for me to read. It says, “Use your best judgment.” “I think it’s an automated response,” the mother says. “He’s got a smartphone — you can program auto-responses to anything. Watch,” she says, texting back. “Do you want chicken or steak for dinner?” And again, “Use your best judgment” comes back. “See what I mean?” she says. “He’s probably having an affair.”

“Why do you always say that?” the daughter asks.

“I’m no dummy,” she says. “I went to Yale.” She turns to me. “We’ll take two. There’s no point in having one of anything anymore.”

“Can we go into the pet store and buy them a carrier like his?” the girl asks.

“Yes,” the mother says.

“And some food and some toys?” the boy asks.

“And maybe some clothing, so I can dress them up?” the girl asks.

“We’ll be right back,” the mother says. “If you could just put those two on hold for us …”

She is true to her word: about ten minutes later, bearing shopping bags of cat products and fancy carrying cases, they return. I put both kittens in one case.

“Enjoy,” I say.

“We already are,” the boy says.

Something is happening; the mood is shifting, like a sea change, like the quickening of the breeze before a spring storm. I begin to hear snippets, bits and pieces of conversations, as everyone anxiously comes and goes a little faster. “I know the mother. …” “She went to camp with my kids.” “Regular people — just like us.” “You never know what’s on someone’s mind.” Apparently, a girl has gone missing.