Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

The last time he’d seen her, a slant of moonlight had lit her face—then there’d been the blaze of gunshot, the white light blinding him as Grandma jerked him down to the floor of the car, into the smell of dust. In the blackness after, he could still see his mother’s face, cold with anger. He’d told no one he saw her, not even Grandma.

Now, panicked to have his mother’s hand across his mouth so he couldn’t yell for help, he bit her. She hit him so hard it made his ears ring. “You do that again, or make a sound, I’ll send you where I sent your daddy.” She smelled of the tingly perfume that made him sneeze. Bending his arm painfully behind him, she’d managed with her other hand to stuff a pillow and a blanket under the covers, patting them into a shape that, he guessed, would look like him sleeping, with his head tucked under. Then she pushed him ahead of her, gripping his shoulder like a metal claw, forced him out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. She paused at the top of the dark steps, listening.

Below, the front door stood open, the porch light was on, and Grandma stood on the porch, her back to them, talking to someone. His mother forced him down the stairs behind Grandma, keeping to the edge of the steps so they wouldn’t squeak. Why was there grass on the stairs? Grandma wouldn’t like that. With her hand hard over his mouth, his mother jerked him past the front door into the kitchen and through the glass door to Grandma’s studio. He could smell cut grass in there, mingled with the new-room smell. Pushing and dragging him through the studio, she shoved him outside, slid the door closed behind them. The bricks were cold under his bare feet as she dragged and pushed him up the hill through the neighbors’ backyard and the next yard, through the scratching bushes. Up and up the hill, behind Ryan’s cottage and up through the thorny tangles. He wanted to yell for help but was afraid she’d hurt him worse. He could still see that explosion of gunfire and her cold face as she killed his daddy and Caroline. At the top of the hill they came out of the bushes to a sidewalk. Turned right up a side street to a white, sleek car. When she tried to push him in the backseat he fought her, jerked away, ducked under the car against the tire. He clung to the tire but she loosened his arms, twisting his left arm, she pulled him out again. When he hit and kicked at her she held his hands behind him, shoved him in the car on the floor of the backseat.

He hurt bad, but he didn’t dare move as she got in the front. She closed the door softly so no one would hear from one of the houses that loomed dark all around them. He could see her between the bucket seats, he kept his eyes slitted closed so she wouldn’t see him looking. Her white thin hands on the wheel were shaking. He watched her warily, clutching his arms around himself, shivering in his pajamas. His bare feet were cold, and stinging from the thorny bushes. When he tried to see out the window, she turned to look at him. “You keep down. I don’t want your head above the glass. Don’t bother trying the doors, they have safety locks, you can’t open them. Be quiet and keep down.” She didn’t call him by his name, not once. Starting the car, she pulled out real slow and quiet. She turned down Grandma’s street, he could see the paler sky above black trees, could see the high roof of Grandma’s house slip by, the familiar stone chimney. Maybe he could slide between the bucket seats fast into the front, unlock the passenger door, jump out, and run—except he knew he wouldn’t be fast enough, he knew she’d catch him.

When they were past Grandma’s house she hit the gas so hard she sent him sliding, and she sped down the hill toward the village. There were no streetlights, only a few house lights swinging across the glass above him. They must have crossed the village, for soon they were among bigger, taller houses, where he could see upstairs lights burning. She slowed and pulled to the curb.

Killing the engine, she put the window down. A blast of cold air sucked in. It was lighter here, house lights and some shops. Slowly he eased up to look. She was watching the tall house down at the corner, across the street. His heart pounded with excitement when he heard the metallic sound of a police radio. When he eased up, he could see a black-and-white parked just past the tall house.

“Get down. I told you to stay down,” she snapped. She started the car and pulled away, around the corner and up the hill.

When she parked again, she was angrier than ever. Opening the driver’s door, she slipped out, closed it without even a click. Opened his door and pulled him out. “Come on. Not a sound.” He could almost smell her meanness and hate. She dragged him along the sidewalk, down the hill again, two blocks, and in among some bushes where she could watch the house on the corner and watch the cop car, its radio like talking into a tin can. Her hand on his arm was sweating, he’d never seen her sweat before. Somehow that made him feel better.

Never taking her eyes from the cop car, with her left hand she pulled her cell phone from her pocket, flipped it open. She started to dial one-handed but then, backing deeper into the bushes, she closed it again. The uniformed cop had stepped out of his black-and-white and stood looking across the street toward them.

Benny didn’t think he could see them there in the dark bushes, but his mother was as still as a scared rabbit. They stood there a long time. The cop did too, but then he got back in his car. He sat there, with his radio turned down but still tinny. Benny had to pee. He thought of asking if he could pee in the bushes, but he decided to hold it. They stood there with her hand scrunching the bones of his shoulder until another cop car came around the corner and parked behind the first one. When that cop got out, she dragged him away through the bushes and up the dark street again, to the car. Shoved him in the back, told him to stay down, swung into the driver’s seat and eased the car away, heading up into the hills. She drove slowly until a siren whooped behind them. She took off fast, careened up the hill watching in her rearview mirror so she nearly hit a parked car.

Were the cops looking for her? Had Grandma found him gone, and called them? But she was his mother, maybe she could take him wherever she liked, and what could the cops do? He wanted to look out the back window, but she kept watching in the rearview mirror as she skidded around corners, up the dark streets. Not many house lights up here, and those were far back among the trees. Suddenly she slammed on the brakes in a squealing skid, metal rammed into metal and he was thrown against the door; the car tilted sideways and went over, he fell hard onto the door and window that were now under him.

He could hear clicking and something dripping. In blackness he tried to find the door handle. His face was wet, and he could smell blood, the same as the night his daddy and Caroline died. He began to shake. His stomach heaved and without warning he threw up on himself.

Throw-up on his legs and bare feet, soaking his pajamas. He couldn’t crawl away from it. In the front seat, he heard her moan and then swear. She began to struggle, rocking the car. There was a clicking, and then thuds; then he heard the driver’s door swing open, bouncing as it fell, bouncing on its hinges. He heard cloth slide across cloth. She grunted; then his own door fell open under him with a screeching complaint and he fell out onto dirt and sharp rocks.

She dragged him out from under the door, didn’t ask if he was hurt. “Get up. Get up now!” Dragging him up, she jerked him away from the wrecked car. It was tilted against a tree where the road fell away, and tangled with a big pickup truck. The lights of both threw yellow rivers up into the night. In the truck, someone moaned. The air smelled of gasoline and of whiskey. She dragged him down the hill away from the wrecked vehicles, maybe before anyone saw them. “Run, damn it! Run!”