That Old Cat

The cat-- though it could hardly be called that, with its bottle brush tail sticking out at an odd angle from its thin, matted body-- pranced into Ms. Ettewidge’s kitchen like it owned the place. Ms. Ettewidge notoriously hated cats, despising them with every fiber of her being. She shooed them from her house with the same broom she cleaned the chimney with. Local children cuddled their own cats close, beneath coverlets or behind the sofa, as they told the same story again and again: the tale of Ms. Ettewidge drowning neighborhood cats, putting their pitiful little bodies on her mantlepiece.

And this cat was one of the worst she’d seen. She rubbed her eyes beneath her rimless glasses, blinked a few times to clear the morning fog from them, and sighed when right there it was, on her linoleum. It inched over to the adjoining parlor, circled itself lazily on her rug-- her rug! The one her husband picked out— and sank into a drugged sleep, milky cataract eyes sealed like tombs. It was brown and gray, spotted-- the color of unpleasantness, of pond scum-- and it had barely concealed wounds around its body. It probably had worms, too.

Breathing in so tight it hurt her ribs, Ms. Ettewidge inched up to the creature. She refused to touch it. Horror stories flooded her mind. What if the awful thing carried Rabies, or Cat Scratch, or some other disease that would disfigure Julia in her sleep? She stood back, stoically, far enough away that the cat’s pathetic wheezes could only be heard slightly, and eyed the creature like a predator might.

Ms. Ettewidge resembled a cat, or so her neighbors said. It was like the old folktale, where they said you started to become the very thing you hate, slowly morphing into endomorphic beings, fingernails turning to claws before you noticed, and eyes gleaming ruby red. But as long as her neighbors knew her, they saw no transformation. They always knew of her as a kind of Cat Lady. Her jaundiced skin sagged purposefully off her pointed face. Her eyes, bearing a slight feline shape, glinted with a skepticism that suggested she hunted regularly. Her hands, small for her already slight frame, were covered in webs and nets of purplish veins, always staying firmly clenched.

But truly, the reason most saw her as part-cat was the way she moved. She slunk carefully from room to room, hunched over by age, and before you could notice, she would be right on the other side of the room.

If the cat were to awaken, to see Ms. Ettewidge standing ponderously over its form, clawed hands on bony hips through an old Macy’s catalogue nightgown, it would blink sleepily and fall right back to sleep, feeling a kind of maternal pride over the figure.

Ms. Ettewidge jumped back. Curled up in the cat’s paw, like some kind of awful trophy, was her husband’s emerald brooch.

Earl was a pilot. He fought in both the Great Wars, the huge ink blots that bled over Good American History (as Earl called it), and came back a changed man. Before all the chaos, neighbors knew him as an alright sort of man, giving a nickel to the children he passed on his morning walk, waving in a salute-like manner to the folks around him, but his wife knew otherwise. He was as sour as an unripe plum. He had a habit of saying “Get me my supper,” and slumping back to his huge, overstuffed chair, napping lazily in his fighter jacket while Julia worked. Nonetheless, Julia loved her husband, and when his rheumatism and the shrapnel in his side that he refused to get removed took him, she wore black for years.

So what on earth was that filthy creature doing with her precious husband’s brooch? She readjusted her glasses again to make sure it wasn’t a smudge or a glint or a trick of the eye, and then she bent down gently (her knees were giving out; it must have been contagious). Nestled between the cat’s ill-formed body and its front paws was the very brooch he had been given by the Mayor to honor him when he came home.

Ms. Ettewidge was shot through with pride when she recalled it: the colonial homes with their American flags whipping gently in the wind, the smiles and waving, the elementary school parade. And how Earl had held her and swung her around like a newlywed!

But the cat. The cat seemed to infiltrate the memory. Its scrawling, scratchy fur poured in her mailbox, in her chimney, blackened the first Christmas morning he was home. It seemed to lurk in the shadows of every corner of Birch Street, at the intersection of Birch and Ottawa. Any fond memory she felt of Earl, of coffee mugs handed to her from his scarred hands, or letters clutched like a vice in her own while she waited for him, was tainted and bruised.

Nosily, carelessly, Ms. Ettewidge went through the screen door, leading to the backyard. The backyard was simple: an old toolshed (she never went in there), a few lawn chairs (turned over; it was November), and a rickety fence enclosing the whole area. Save for a few paw prints, dashed and spotted along the leaf-strewn ground, the lawn was undisturbed. The prints led to the shed, but they stopped just before it. She just needed some clear-cut evidence-- a box in the toolshed overturned, a chest’s contents dashed on the floor-- and then she could shoo the cat away. Still, the way it came in, so soundlessly and so confidently, made her uneasy.

***

When Ms. Ettewidge came in from her hunt, she was exhausted, and her patience was worn thin. All she truly wanted was a glass of powdered lemonade and a cool rag on her forehead. She collected these from her kitchen, taking one long resigned look out the window, and then tramped through the living room to get to her bedroom for her one o’clock nap.

She stopped cold. In the overstuffed chair, the cat perched, fully alert. Sure enough, near its heaving belly was Earl’s brooch.

“Get out!” She screamed. “Get out of here!”

The beast didn’t budge, just stared at her with its gray, melancholic eyes. The only giveaway that it wasn’t a statue was the somnambulant flicking of its tail, making a light thwacking noise as it brushed the corduroy.

Ms. Ettewidge whipped her rag in the air, sending little shrapnel droplets to fling towards the thing. Only then did it flinch. For a second, it gave her hope as it stood, but with horror, Ms. Ettewidge watched as it circled down and yawned, right back into sleep it sank.

***

Over the next day, she tried half-and-half in a dish. She tried herbs and sage, and other homemade remedies, but they just flared up her lungs and made her cough. The old cat wouldn’t leave her living room, no matter how hard she tried.

Finally, she knelt by its side, eyes welling up with hot, frustrated tears.

“What do you want with me? Why are you torturing an old lady?”

The cat blinked at her, gray deep, reserved eyes like well water. Those eyes. What was it about those eyes? Sure, the whole beast drove her mad, with its sickening body and its crumpled ears and smashed-in nose, but its eyes sent her into a frenzy. Something about the way it stared, like it was right into her soul…

She remembered her wedding day. Earl, with his dashing double-breasted jacket and his winning smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, just the way that made Julia love him. But the gray color, the odd color, was the thing she loved the best. They were stormy, brooding-- Julia knew that better than anyone-- but they could be gentle too, when he twinkled with laughter or gazed adoringly at their first child.

Now, at face level with the cat, after another attempt to sweep him out, Julia gazed into those same eyes.

“Earl.”

She was surprised at how even, how reasonable her voice sounded. It was her husband. Why shouldn’t it be? After twenty-odd years of missing him, of looking after the place all on her own, why should she not see the man she loved again? Her hair had grayed, her skin had faded and crumpled and failed her, and he selfishly left her too soon. He was supposed to see that. He was supposed to chide her about her shortcomings, about the way she kept house.

“You old fool.” A small smile crept on her face. She looked beautiful then, though she didn’t know it. The luster of youth that had long left her crawled its way back into her eyes, gleaming proud as she stared into his familiar eyes at last.

But soon enough, the reality of it sank into her. Attached to those stormy eyes was a head, and attached to that was a body-- a cat’s body-- and a tail. How she recoiled! She backed along the wall, shut her eyes. Not only had the cat stolen Earl’s brooch, but he had stolen his eyes, his soul too!

***

The old cat watched, blinking slowly, a few times to test the motion, as the hunched woman pressed against the wall. He had slipped in easily; the old crone left her door ajar, all it really took was a nudge, and he was in. And really, he knew he would find it just like that. He always got after Julia for that. “You’re going to let the lowlifes in.” That’s exactly what he told her. But did she listen? Not ever.

Still, it was charming to be back in the old kitchen. The ceiling fan whirred pleasantly over lemon-yellow walls, dotted with zinnias and peonies and other little flowers he couldn’t name. Before he could admire the waxy wooden cabinets, the very ones he’d installed, he noticed a cockroach scurry along the floor and impulsively dashed after it.

After a satisfying chase, he curled himself at her feet. She knew the truth now; he could tell by the awe in her eyes and the slight fear, too. It was in the way she couldn’t fully look at him, not then, when he was curled by her house slippers.

“Earl, go home,” It was Julia’s voice, tired and resigned. He opened his eyes, made full eye contact with Julia. “I love you. I always have. But it’s time.”

Years would pass, time swirled its consistent pattern through the seasons. Julia Ettewidge died, leaving the house to her children, who sold it for much less than it was worth. But really, what most were interested in when passing by the house was not the young couple who freshened the doorstep and welcomed neighbors. No, they were interested in the two gray cats who fought relentlessly in the backyard.