Cat

>

“Cat?”
It was after 2am. It would be starving.
Tifny put the package down on the kitchen table. “Cat?”

She worked her way through her home; it was only two rooms.
The kitchen was in the living room; the bathroom, in the bedroom. It was on the top floor of an eight floor walk up, but the living room ceiling was glass. And it didn’t leak.

“Cat.” There was no rattling purr in response.
Tifny moved cushions; searched under sofa and bed. She decided the animal was being petty, “Pussy”, and went back to the kitchen.

It was a Pullman kitchen which faced windows with a view over brick.
Relief was above. The glass ceiling; where the sun blazed and the rain jazzed.
With the sky above her, Tifny could survive it all; Micky, pissy cat, any of the little annoyances in her life.
She made tea in a black kettle; boiled the water in a saucepan, and sat at the kitchen table at the kitchen end of her living room.

Tifny removed a great swag of fabric from her shoulders. It was a cool summer night. She’d remedied the travesty of her hair with a turban, ala Ms. Kitt. It wasn’t stunning, but it served its purpose.
She’d been in such a hurry to leave the dive, she’d fled in full makeup; the audience still pounding table tops for an encore. The oldies still scored; My Man was her signature. Not dubbed; not ala whoever; full voice. Tifny’s own smoky blend. It brought the house down every time.
She listened to the dark a moment. Not dark; not really. The glass roof saw to that. In the dead of night, the city glowed, and the glow seeped through her ceiling, steeping her material gains in atomic hue.
She almost called Micky. The phone was on the table to her right. She felt her fingers itch; felt the itch scratching down towards her toes.
Micky. Big black and ugly as sin. Man had the face only a blind person could love. But the man had a soul, the most incongruous installation of feeling known on Earth. Oh he yelled, and cursed, and acted as ignorant as he could. But that wasn’t the Micky she was intending to reach; no.
She wanted that warm pounding heart against her ear; wanted to feel those ebony strong arms round her shoulders; wanted to suck on that lower lip; make it pout; make it kiss. Make it all better.
She poured a cup of tea instead.
Listened for Cat; listened for an explanation of the package, which she now touched, gingerly, as the hot teacup in her other hand tried to warn her not to touch too long.

Tifny sat in the glare of a city that glowed past midnight; sat in a room stoked full of phantom light, and touched that box. She ran her fingers over the tweedy twine. Felt for the crinkling as she pressed against the top of it. Sighed. Then sipped her tea with both hands.

She sat for an hour, still in her drag; sat in her kitchen, waiting for Cat; waiting for the box to explode. She sat, waiting for the next decision.
The tea pot was cold, but she poured another cup, and set it beside the package.
She finally decided there would be no other help tonight, and found her scissors; cut the twine; twice. The rope sprung from the lid like a plucked wire, but the brown paper didn’t unfold. Didn’t move; nothing more sprang at her.

She touched her name once more, then ripped the paper from the box; flung it to the floor; stopped. Sat very still, and nibbled her lip.

It was a shoe box; from Macy’s. And it was old; clearly old.

The sides were puckered and perforated, torn, and repaired with cellophane tape; wide, old tape. At an angle to Macy’s name (in dainty magic marker) was her own: Tifny, and the sight just about made her cry; made a lump, rise up from her determination and almost strangle it.

Tifny. Written in Clare’s own old handwriting, right across the box; right next to the lettering, Macy’s.

She took a deep breath.
There was a limp piece of string that wrapped the box. It was tied with a perfect, thin little bow, on one single knot.
Tifny untied it. Standing, she looked down on the lid (wouldn’t look in, as she raised the lid). She saw the piece of cardboard trembling slightly between her two hands, and laid the lid aside.

The box was scrunched full with newspaper, but the white of an envelope peeked out at her. She picked it out, and saw thick shiny black beneath it, but didn’t touch that.
She laid the envelope on the table, beside the lid. She stared at both a moment, then her fingernails; then her hands.
She went to the sink and turned on the water; washed them, and dried them on a Ritz Carlton tea towel that hung inside the tiny Pullman louver doors. She turned on her heel and headed for the bedroom; it was the smaller of the two rooms, and barely large enough for a double bed, oriental folding screen (only folded half way out), and a vanity atop a chest of drawers. There was a closet; smaller (if that were possible) than her dressing room at the club.

Tifny entered the bedroom, flung her shoes off her toes, and removed her dress.
She hung it on the back of the bedroom door; took a black cotton robe from another hook there, and went back to the kitchen table.

The package was where she’d left it. Lid and note beside one another. Cold tea set apart.
Rubbing her hands together to shake the chill, she took up the envelope and ripped it open, and almost ripped it beyond reading.
The paper was dry and it tore like tissue. “Shit.” She held two halves of a letter in either hand, but it was enough of an embarrassment to help her regain her control.

She faced the two halves on the kitchen table, touched them together; set her tea cup on the top part, her right hand on the bottom, and read:

If you’re reading this, then I’ve passed. I’ve placed this with my personal effects so that it will be sent to you. Yes -I know where you are. I know you’re surprised. Took some time to find you too. Even came in one night. You were very good. Everyone seemed to enjoy you so. Wish it wasn’t such an old place. There’ll be others though. Newer. And I know you’ll just go from better to best! I’ve tried to decide what you might like of mine when I’m gone. I’ve looked all over this place for something special. I think I finally found it. I know it’s been too many years since we properly talked. I’m sorry. No one can take your steps for you Tilford. They’re all your own. You gotta fit them as best you can. And trust those who love you to keep on doing so. I love you. Aunt Clare.

In the open box, in the rift between heaving tuffs of paper, there lay something special. Tifny removed the fall reverently, and spread the length of black silky locks across the table.
Clare had attached another little note to the scalp of the piece: For Liza hair.
Tifny started crying. “..oh clare..”

Unconcerned, Cat yawned in a cozy shadow on top of the refrigerator; licked his left paw. He’d just awakened from a nap and was in no hurry; he’d had a nice little mouse earlier.

Tifny pressed her cheek, and dragged the back of her hand across the wet that threatened to ruin her face, as, through her fingers, she spied big luminous staring eyes. She jumped out of her seat, ith annoyance and tears, yelling at the cat, “Bastard”, and stamping a foot. “Gonna toss you out with the rest of the trash one of these days.”
The cat remained unimpressed; licked its right paw.

She scuffed her heels over to the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, opened it, and pulled out a tin of cat food.
Tifny worked the can opener, but felt the flow of wet, hot behind her eyes again “-oh shit-come on-stop it-” and was in tears, bending over the sink.
Cat rose onto his haunches, seduced by the smell of fresh food; purred; prowled.
“God damn it.” Tifny threw the tin into the sink, sending mess squirting out, and startling Cat back to perch. She marched to the phone and snatched it up; dialed.

It was three-forty in the morning, but Time had no deals with Tifny Grace.

<

“Can’t even grieve without someone telling me to be careful of the boy!”

Tilford was on his back staring out into the night at all the stars in heaven.

“No one’s saying-”
“Everyone. Everyone’s saying. ‘Do this’ -’don’t do that.’ ‘Make sure you watch out for him. It’s gotta be a blow.’ -Well what the hell is it supposed to be to me? Huh? She’s dead, Clare.”
“I know.”
“-dead. My wife..-she’s..-”
“I know.”

Tilford decided that the star outside his bedroom window, on the left, the big bright blue white one, was his mother. It kept winking at him.

“You gotta understand Curtis..-he’s only a child. Only a little boy-”
“She’s gone.”

The word struck Tilford across the face. He could feel his cheeks burning. He shouldn’t be listening. But they were talking so loud. They were in the living room, and that was all the way up the hall, but he could hear every word.

“I know you loved her so much. You know I did too. She was like a sister to me. A best friend. And I know she’s gone. And I know you’re hurting. But you got a little boy who needs you. A little thing that doesn’t understand that she’s not coming back anymore. That it had nothing to do with him. Or you. You gotta fight for that boy Curtis. You gotta make him-”
“Why? Make me a bad parent I don’t run in there and hold him? Never did before. Never once. That’s me. He knows it. Anything different would scare him. Make him think something’s wrong.”
“Something is wrong Curtis. His mama’s gone. And Doctor Weiss-”
“Is too full of shit to know the difference between his back pocket and a pig sty.”
“All right. Maybe you don’t agree.”
“My son doesn’t need no doctor-”
“Your son needs his father.”
“I’m right here.”
“In another room. All the time. Away from him-”
“Leave me alone-”
“No.”

Tilford squeezed Dino into one ear; his pillow into the other. Then he threw his blanket (with a picture of the solar system) over his head and curled up into the tightest ball.

Curtis threw the cushion back onto the sofa. Walked over and stuffed it into the corner. The room was too bright. Everything was too bright; brittle. The whole world had no substance he understood anymore. Everything had changed. In a second; in the twinkling of an eye. His anchor had vanished. Suffered a heart attack. Disappeared. And he was left in the wake of his own ship, flailing for balance; and having to be strong. Fuck strong. He needed saving. He needed the shrink. He needed the explanation that Reverend Davis couldn’t come up with. He needed an answer. He needed a reason. His wife had just turned thirty-five two months ago. She’d dropped dead two days later. There was nothing left but pieces. And family. And friends. Those good meaning, well wishing, interfering crows. The multitude of vultures sorrow attracts. It was disgusting. Horrible. So much advice; so many know-it-alls.

Clare watched the tumult subside; knew it was a momentary respite; dove. “Why don’t I take care of Tilford for awhile.”
Curtis stared at the sofa. At the corner of the sofa. Where she’d sit. Remembering how she’d sit- left leg under; arm at a crook -lips to her knuckles. Those eyes laughing at him. Laughing. “Yeah. Take him awhile.” Laughing. Laughing...
Clare watched his back hiccup and turned away.

Tilford reached to dream: Liza Doolittle descending a great stairway in long suede white gloves and a silver white gown with silver pearl twinkles down its sides and flashing white bright stars up the back and Liza smiling at his mother who smiled at him who loved everyone smiling and looking so dressed up and famous and happy and Higgins even laughing.

Curtis fell into the corner of the couch clutching only the remembrances of fragrance; crying a long silent scream.
Clare touched his shoulder, not daring nearer; desperate to flee. She looked past him; down the dark hall, and worried that the boy’s door might be open.

There are always compromises.

Yes, there are always compromises. This particular day, Tifny Grace considered her reflection, thinking –“..this place is a dive. A twelve step under, spanky smelling, chrome, tinsel toned dive.” Her reflection reconsidered. ”…but, who’s the headliner? Whose name, in white silver lights out front? Whose act, giving the dive its claim to class? Tifny Grace. Micky knows my act’s not cheap drag. No, won’t have none of that chintzy taffeta sequined gaudy polyester shit in the same room. Your Art’s so fucking stellar, Micky’d kill himself before seeing you leave. Even be down on his knees -begging you not to go.”

Tifny broke off her stare. She took up her compact, a worn silver crescent, and smoothed a powdered ratty puff, across a shiny patch of cheek. Her skin was the character of caramel butter; the colors that accentuated her ranged from bright to black. The eyes were key. Almost almond shaped, she had highlighted them in kohl; used an aquamarine pencil on the lids. Gently. Lightly. A heavier hand would have turned the effect into farce -but in Tifny’s grace, the grotesque seemed to transmute into genius.
There was a slight taping at her door. “Fifteen, honey.”
Tifny looked in final appraisal. Her lips had never been sensuous. They were neither pouty nor prim. They were plain. But after her ministrations, they were proud; intelligent; sufficient. And her hair-.. Tonight, her hair...-her -hair.
“Shit.” Tifny ransacked a hand through the useless black mass. ‘Crop hair’ is what her grandmother used to call it, then cackle, saying, “Couldn’t grow that mess nowhere but on a cotton bush. Or an ear of corn.”
Tifny sighed, and began the manic search through the clutter on her tiny table to find the comb. “Fuckin’ piece of plastic wasted shit-”
There was a bang at her door.
“Yo Tif. Got something for you.”
“You can keep that tired pecker in your pants Micky.”
“It’s a package.”
“…’package’? Listen, you downtown cow chip-”
“Who you callin’ ‘downtown’? You got me all wrong baby.”
Tifny could imagine the bastard standing on the other side of the door grabbing his crotch, his face all screwed up in affront. “No baby. You got me wrong. That door opens when I’m ready to walk on stage. You know that. Don’t open for nothin' else. Not you. Not Jesus Christ himself, and certainly not for some bullshit package.”
“-suspicious, talentless- Fuck you bitch.”
She heard a crinkly sounding thud, Micky stomping away, and then a lighter step of hard heels.
“Five, honey. -Oh. You got a little present here. Just gonna put it inside your door honey.”
Tifny watched in her mirror as the door to her dressing room opened a little. A fine older hand slipped a brown paper package into the room, set it flush to the wall, and retreated, closing the door.
Careful not to get the hem of her gown dirty (the floor was ancient; the dress, sea foam green, and so softly colored that it picked up a change in room temperature), Tifny retrieved the package in a half step; then sat and set it on her lap. It was weightless, tied round with twine, and had the shape of a shoe box.
There was an ugly little light fixture on the wall beside her mirror. The paper was a dark industrial brown. In the tight little glare, she rubbed her hand over her name on the package; the club’s address; the postage stamp. There was no return address. The writing was scratched on with a shaking pen, but it was distinctly...

Tifny raised her hand to her mouth to suffocate her cry. Suffocate it. She sat there; hand in her mouth, eyes glazed; sat in her tiny room, in a dive.

Yes, it was a dive. But Clare had found her.

<

Doctor Weiss watched the child; the child watched the fish. The fish were looking for food.
“Do you want to sit Tilford?”
The little boy tapped the side of the fish bowl.
The psychiartrist remained silent.
Tilford watched as two angel fish made patterns. One went left; the other, right. They’d meet in crossing, near the center of the small bowl, over very blue and pink and green pebbles at the bottom, and circle round a tiny tower which had broken off from a tiny castle.
“Do you want to feed them Tilford?”
Criss - cross. Till they’d crash. “Yes.”
Doctor Weiss pointed his finger. “The food is in that little can on the side there.”
Tilford knew where the food was; it was his fourth visit. He popped four hard shakes of the can across the tiny surface of the bowl. The fish spun upwards, plucked at flakes of dry meal then swirled back down.
“Do you remember their names, Tilford?”
“Liza and Higgins.”
Without shifting his position, Doctor Weiss scribbled something on the pad of paper in front of him. “No. I’ll give you a hint. Fred. And?”
Tilford looked up blankly from the bowl. “Barney.”
“Yes. Who are Liza and Higgins?”
The boy looked back at the fish and tapped more food into the bowl.
“They’ll explode if you feed them so much.”
Tilford knew when he was being told to stop. He put the can down; tapped the side of the bowl; put his thumb in his mouth, and stared at the fish.
“Who are Liza and Higgins, Tilford?”
He smiled round his thumb. Liza was waiting near the tower; Higgins acted funny, like he was nervous to ask her. But Higgins sort of moved closer; Liza wiggled. Higgins bowed; cleared his throat of some bubbles. May I have this dance?
“Are they friends of yours Tilford?”
Liza grabbed at Higgins and they danced.
“Are they friends of your father?”
“No.”
“Will you tell me?”
Tilford knew he was supposed to tell Doctor Weiss everything, but whatever he said, Doctor Weiss didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Tilford?”
The boy sighed to the fish, and gave Doctor Weiss his fabulously devastating look for the absolutely dumb. “My. Fair. Lady. I’ve seen it five times.”
“Did your father take you?”
Tilford’s thumb attached itself to the back of his throat. Liza broke away to hide beneath the tilting tower. Higgins was abandoned.
“Was it your mother who took you, Tilford?”
The boy stopped sucking his thumb; took it out of his mouth, and stared at poor Higgins; alone now, and swimming circles, looking for Liza. A tiny trembling in the pit of his stomach grew in proportion to Higgins’ frantic searching.
“What was her favorite part?”
Liza lay in the rubble beneath the tower. Higgins was going to cry in another moment.
“What’s your favorite part?”
“…the ball.”
Suddenly, she darted out from her hiding place and nipped his tail. Higgins gleefully chased her round the bowl; twice.
“What did you like about it?”
Tilford smiled remembering his mother smiling, as Liza descended the stairs.
“Her dress.”

Never assume

No, never assume. What is right today, will most certainly be wrong at some point in the future. What is wrong right now, will stick around to be right later on. Even family..

The ease with which you may all get along, will one day shift, possibly drastically, and it will cause a rub -an itch behind your eyes. You'll scratch at it, carelessly, and suddenly all kinds of memories will tumble out of the corner of your mind, land prominent in your thoughts, and corrode your perceptions, eroding layers of superficiality and wallpapering, bringing favorite images into a new tint.. a new angle. Before you know it, you'll be frowning, unwillingly wondering at easy words an uncle once spoke.. or an aunt once mimed, from behind your mother's back.. and this silent sentence, perhaps not at all intended for your observation, was observed and coded in your young mind as something innocuous -until..

Never assume. Never think you're prepared. The mind is full of antique memories, dusty, dull, dormant. Nudged, one can drop from the shelf and-

Here. -You're thinking of flowers -and suddenly you've focused on the image of the ant on the petal of the yellow roses you noticed in a vase at your grandmother's. You were 6. But now, at an older, mature, long lived and wiser age, it suddenly snaps into focus that your grandmother never had flowers in the house thereafter. Ever. And suddenly, you're wondering 'why'?

Purposefully scratching that itch you remember that your grandmother had a vacation that particular year, the year you'd seen the ant. You remember, now, the tone in your mother's voice, when she responded to your question of wanting to visit her again -the tone, now placeable as 'context', which makes you shudder. The tone of unease; not short, not angered, not demeaning -no - just, slightly, distressed.

At this distance, years from the original occurrence, as you've tripped over the string of remembrances and context which surrounds the memory, you suddenly see something more clearly.

She had disappeared one summer. With a man. For a month. Abandoning everything of family. One month. Which commenced the day after you'd noticed that ant. The day after your mother had brought you to her house, in the mid afternoon, left you on the porch, and kept you out of the kitchen where they'd spoken, intently, over the linoleum table.

Years on from that day, you remember the ant, and the flowers, and that it had offered more information than your young eyes could have deciphered then. But now... Now it all means so much more. You had been witness when your grandmother had been a person; a woman. -A problem, for your mother. A thing you'd never assumed...

Something similar rattled a friend of mine recently. Her name is Tifny Grace.

I'd like to speak of it..