W is for Wasted

“You poor thing,” I said. To William, a “test” was the prelude to a terminal diagnosis.

I left the 101 at Capillo and took surface streets in a zigzag detour to the nearest market. I left the howling cat in the car while William limped to and fro in the parking lot, flicking pitiful looks in my direction.

I went into the store and wandered up and down the aisle devoted to pets, throwing items in my cart. The litter box was an easy choice, but there were five or six kinds of litter, and I had no idea what cats preferred in the way of toilet soil. I finally picked the one with the four cute kittens on the package. I threw in a bag of dry food with only the briefest of debates about chicken versus tuna flavors. Then I bought ten small cans of wet food, choosing items I thought I’d like if I were in the cat’s place, only not as hostile. I nearly stopped at the pay phone to call Henry, but he’d probably assume I was playing a practical joke.

Thus it was that I searched out a parking space for the second time that afternoon, this one three doors down from my studio. I put myself in charge of William’s rolling bag and I even went so far as to remove the cat carrier from the backseat, lugging it in one hand as I maneuvered the rolling suitcase with the other. William held open the gate and then trailed along behind me most reluctantly, I thought. I carried the duffel as far as Henry’s back door and set it down.

“You can do the honors,” I said. When I looked back at William, he was bent double, staring at the walk as though searching for a lost dime.

“Back’s out,” he said.

Henry opened the kitchen door. “Good heavens,” he said as he moved to William’s side. Between us, we helped him up the few shallow steps and into the kitchen. Moaning, William sank into Henry’s rocking chair. I went back for the suitcase and that’s when I saw the cat’s paw appear through a gap where it had worked the zipper down.

I’ve never been present in a delivery room in the tender moment when a child is born, but I picture it much like this. The slit was no more than an inch long when the cat began to push through the opening. After the first paw, its head emerged and shortly after that, one shoulder, followed by a second white paw with a very long front leg attached. Cats are amazingly agile, as was plain to see. I watched, hypnotized, as though witnessing a miracle. “Hey, William?” I said, but by then, the cat had wiggled free and streaked off toward the shrubs.

Henry snapped to attention. “What the hell was that?”

Weakly, William said, “Surprise!”

4

Tuesday morning I rolled out of bed at 6:00, brushed my teeth, and pulled on my sweats and running shoes. A baseball cap eliminated the need to deal with my hair, which was flat on one side and standing straight out on the other. When I left the house, the only hint that the cat was still in the vicinity was a pair of mouse feet and a long gray tail on my welcome mat. I tied my key into the laces of one shoe and set out at a slow clip, hoping to warm up before I began to jog in earnest.

Henry’s dinner invitation from the night before had been superseded by our efforts to persuade the cat to come out of the bushes. Since William was incapacitated, it fell to Henry and me to crawl around on the newly aerated lawn, coaxing the cat with kitty treats and threats, all to no avail. Once it got dark, we’d been forced to abandon the attempt and hope that the cat would at least remain where it was until morning.

The day promised to be warm. In typical California fashion, the damp and chill of the week before had been replaced by temperatures slated to reach the low eighties. A lingering marine layer hovered like thick white batting, but that would burn off by midday. As though in proof of this, a column of bright yellow sunshine illuminated the ocean just offshore, looking as though a monster hole had been punched in the clouds.

I completed the three-mile loop and slowed to a walk. I hadn’t seen my homeless pals and I wondered how many times the notion of their whereabouts would cross my mind. It was like having a tune lodged in my head, endless replays of a melody I couldn’t seem to block. The week before I’d known nothing of the dead man and nothing of his friends. Now I was troubled by their absence. In deciding to dismiss the matter, I’d succeeded only in tempering its effect. Terrence still hovered on the periphery while I waited for someone to step forward with a few concrete facts. I suppose I’d assumed that once I knew what his story was, I could forget about him entirely and his cronies along with him.

Home again, I showered, dressed, ate my cereal, and read the paper. When I left the studio, there was still no sign of Henry, William, or the cat. Either Henry had lured it inside or it had remained stubbornly out of reach. I left the mouse parts where they were in case the cat was looking forward to a snack later in the day. I hadn’t even known we had mice on the property and now the population was down by one.