Shirley Murphy - Christmas Cats - A Literary Companion

"Musetta? Don't you love me?" She knew better than to respond to emotional blackmail and I had to get out of bed to find her, sitting by the window. I turned my back on her and shuffled into my tiny kitchenette. Coffee helped lift the funk somewhat, as did a heaping bowl of Raisin Bran: comfort food for the terminally single. But when I turned on the radio all I could find was holiday music—Christmas songs, actually—and there was nothing festive about my mood.

Still, there were gifts to purchase—for myself anyway—and cat food to be bought, so I cut short my perusal of the Sunday paper and gave in to the luxury of a long shower. Indoor plumbing—now that was something to celebrate. On a whim, I let the tub fill, too, squeezing in my favorite bubbles. Without Bill in the picture, who cared how pickled my skin got?

Just as my eyes closed and I felt myself sliding into the warm, fragrant foam, something touched my face. Something leathery and cool, and just a little grainy.

"Musetta?" Opening my mouth had been a mistake. The paw had batted at my moving lips, and I sputtered out what I truly hoped was not kitty litter. Those big green eyes were staring at me again, and in her mouth I saw a ribbon.

"Kitty!" This was getting exasperating. How can one cat find so many dangerous toys? Water slopped over the side sent her scurrying, but not before I'd grabbed the offending length of green ribbon. As I held it up, I saw a pair of small silver bells tied to its end. No wonder she'd been tempted—anything bright caught my cat's attention—but that didn't answer the basic question: Where had she found this? I'd not started wrapping anything yet, and knowing what ribbon or string of any kind can do to a cat's insides, I kept all my decorative bits of yarn and the like in closed drawers.

"Musetta? Where did this come from?" She returned to the bathroom doorway, a safe distance from the offensive wetness on the floor, but eyed the tiny bells longingly. I raised them and shook. They jingled. She advanced and soon, puddle or no, we were engaged in a game of kill the bells, which lasted until my bathwater cooled.

"Mistletoe, Musetta? Jingle bells?" Even as I dried and dressed, I couldn't make sense of this and sought out my pet, who was lounging again on the windowsill, where the midday sun would warm her dark back. "What's with the Christmas stuff, anyway?"

She yawned and looked out the window. Clearly I was boring her. I shook the little bells. She glanced back at me and blinked. Maybe it was the green of her eyes, maybe it was the slightly bored, aloof expression, but for a moment she reminded me of Bill. Almost ten years older than me, he did tend to act above it all. Just like a cat at times. Musetta turned away. I snapped.

"You know, young lady, we don't celebrate Christmas in this house. We don't sing carols. We don't have a tree. And we don't keep mistletoe and jingle bells around." I knew I was getting worked up about nothing, but all the feelings from last night had come flooding back. I shoved the beribboned bells into my pocket and turned on the bored cat. "Christmas is just one more winter solstice holiday and a Christian one at that. Well, okay, maybe the mistletoe is pagan. But unless we're going to start observing all the holidays, and that means Kwanzaa too, then there'll be no more Christmas in this house! Our last name is Krakow—we're Theda and Musetta Krakow, kitty. We're Jewish. Or, well, I'm Jewish and I'm your mother, so that makes you a Jew, too. And we celebrate Chanukah. It's all well and good to mesh customs when we're getting along with our Christian friends…" An image of Bill's warm green eyes, his lazy smile, passed through my head. "But when it's just us two, then I'm not going to let you bury our identity in the mass-marketing and the tinsel and everything."

I was being too loud: With one annoyed look, Musetta jumped down from her sunny perch and retreated under the sofa. How could I blame her? My outburst hadn't made me feel any better either. I needed to get out of the house.

For someone with an attitude toward the holidays, Harvard Square was the wrong place to be. Brightly colored tinsel twined up the lampposts, and the free-form stars outlined by tiny white lights on the banners that crossed Massachusetts Avenue could be made out even in broad daylight. Some student group had gotten itself up in a rough approximation of Dickensian costume to sing carols, nearly blocking the entrance to my favorite bookstore. And down the road, in front of the pharmacy where they carried my one essential winter moisturizer, even the regular street musician, an avuncular accordionist, was picking out what could have been "Good King Wenceslas."

"Hey, babe!" He smiled and nodded, unwilling to leave off his wheezy carol for a wave.

"Grrr…"I responded and then, feeling guilty, dug out a dollar to put in his instrument case.

"Merry Christmas, beautiful!" I ducked into a storefront before I said something I'd regret, and only when my temper settled down did I realize that I'd opened the wrong door. This wasn't the pharmacy, it was the stationer's shop next door. But it was warm, and there's something calming about paper and writing supplies. I had no appointments, I could browse.

And there I saw it: The pen. With its blue-marbled barrel and fine gold nib, this was the fountain pen Bill had been lusting for only a week before. That day had been a happy one. We'd come into the Square for brunch and then window-shopped, enjoying the cacophony of the holiday crowds and the street entertainers who'd braved the frigid weather. I'd needed a cartridge for my printer, then, and we'd ended up in this same store. I'd worried that Bill would be bored, but as I finished up my purchase in the back, I'd seen him talking to one of the clerks, who then removed the same smooth leather case from the window.

Conklin, was it? Or Conway? I didn't remember, only that at the time I'd stayed back as Bill had taken the pen, reverentially, in two hands. The clerk had offered to fill it, to let him try it out, but Bill had handed it back.

"No thanks," I could hear his voice in my head, a little sad with longing. "It would be wasted on me. I don't need it."

The real shop swam in front of me as my eyes filled with tears.

"May I help you?" A voice at my shoulder brought me back.

"Yes, may I see that pen, please? The blue one?"

"The Conway. Great choice. It's restored, but near mint condition, and a really great price."

Before I could think about it, I'd pulled out my Visa. "Do you gift wrap?"

"Of course."

What was I thinking? I didn't even know if I'd see Bill again. But what the hell. It was a beautiful object, a piece of art. Maybe I'd learn to love fountain pens, too.

For no discernible reason, my mood was lifting. I lucked into a sale on my moisturizer and some other goodies as well, which helped, and turned my face up to the sun's scant warmth as I made my way back home. Maybe Bill and I could make up. Maybe these December days were the darkest we'd see all year.

The shadows were lengthening as I turned up my block and climbed the steps to my old brick building. "Hey, Theda!" The super was wrestling the big trash bins out front for the morning pickup. "Happy holidays!"

"Hi, Roman! Good solstice to you, too!" He was probably just angling for a tip, but who cared? Two flights of stairs and I'd be home. Would Musetta have any more mystery presents for me? An image of a gift-wrapped mouse appeared in my head and I chuckled as I reached for my keys.

The laugh died in my throat. There was a movement ahead, up the stairs, right by my door. A dark shadow—a man's coat?—had slipped inside.

"Roman?" As in a nightmare, my voice came out in a whisper. "Roman?" But he was outside, I knew, no help, and certainly not the reason my door stood slightly ajar.