Razorblade Suitcase

My hands were shaking when the envelope arrived. I sat there staring at it, barely able to breathe. I picked it up, tore open the corner, and ripped it down the seam. The sound felt like my heart tearing apart all over again. I missed her so much already.

The faint smell of vanilla and old incense drifting from the paper brought everything back. I remembered buying her a bottle of Shalimar perfume. She lit up and squeezed me so tight it felt like she’d never let go. That was right after I found my own apartment. She was sad to see me leave, but happy I was piecing my life back together after the divorce. She told me I could stay as long as I wanted, but I’d already spent too much time rotting away on her couch. If not for her, I’m not sure I’d have survived those years.

I took a deep breath and unfolded the paper. Her last letter.

And then I saw it.

The cat? She left me that bloody cat?

Of all the things in the world, why him? He hated me.

She named him Connery after her lifelong crush on the only real James Bond in her eyes, but usually just called him Conney. Funny how people name pets one thing only to call them another.

Conney was a big, stubborn orange tabby who acted like an Aristocat because of the bright white fur on his chest and paws. He walked around as if wearing a tuxedo. Maybe he thought he was 007, but I knew the truth. He was a devil cat.

Grandma had been lonely after I moved out. That’s when she rescued him from the shelter. I guess he became the new me: another broken thing she could look after while it took up space on her couch. But why give him to me? I could barely hold my own life together. This had to be a mistake.

I read the letter again.

Dear Toby, I love you so much. You were the brightest spark in my life. Even when you were down, you still brought so much warmth into this house. Now I need you to open your heart and share that love with Conney. I know you two never got along, but don’t take it personally. He was just protecting his person. Cats don’t think like people. They aren’t capable of logic and reason. So to him, you were a threat to the center of his universe. He didn’t understand that you loved me too, or that you would have loved him just as much if he ever gave you the chance. But now his whole world is gone, and he needs someone with a big heart to help him through it. However much you are hurting, trust me, he is hurting just as badly. He is completely lost, just like you were. Please, for me, take good care of him. Give him a good home. I know you can do this. I love you forever and evermore. Grandma.

#

Mom dropped him off three days after the funeral. She’d barely stepped inside before setting the gray plastic carrier on the floor. Her face was an apologetic mess of anxiety and pure relief. She lowered the box like a sweaty stick of dynamite, ready to explode if anyone looked at it wrong. With wide eyes and a thousand-yard stare, she mumbled a quick good luck and rushed right out the door.

This was never going to work.

I looked down at the crate as it growled like something out of a horror movie. The second I reached down to touch the latch, a tornado of orange fur slammed against the plastic grate with a violent hiss.

“Hey, cut it out,” I snapped.

I gave the top of the carrier a firm whack to quiet him down, popped the latch, and took three giant steps back.

Nothing happened. Just a haunting growl that clearly meant I will murder you in your sleep.

I crouched and peeked into the crate. Conney screeched so loudly the neighbors three doors over probably heard him.

An hour passed, and he still hadn’t left the box. But at least the hissing had stopped. At least as long as I stayed out of his line of sight. By dinner, I was getting impatient. I marched over, grabbed the back end of the carrier, and tried to dump him out onto the floor.

But he didn’t slide out. His claws were sticking out through the tiny vent holes lining the side of the crate. He was like the captain of the Titanic, refusing to abandon ship. If they ever add Razorblade Suitcase to the dictionary, this is the image that will appear beside it.

With one good shake, Conney dropped out and bolted. He slammed into the kitchen cabinets, bounced off, then skittered across the laminate, beelining straight to the living room. He dove under the skirt of the couch like a soldier ducking for cover from a mortar attack.

Great. Now my sofa was growling at me.

We were not going to be okay. What on earth was Grandma thinking?

#

For the first week, Conney was a phantom.

I set two small stainless steel bowls in the kitchen: one for water, one for kibble. He didn’t eat for the first two days, I don’t think he even moved. I’d have thought he died under there if not for the growl every time I walked past the couch. I started giving the sofa a wide berth, not wanting my Achilles tendon sliced open like the old man in Pet Sematary.

By Monday morning, he still hadn’t touched his bowls. I was getting genuinely worried, even while my brain kept saying, Fine, starve, see if I care. I had heard that line enough times growing up, but this felt different.

When I got home from work that evening, the kibble had a small dent in it. I let out a sigh, and for a second, I actually thought he might wander past me.

Nope.

The second I walked past the couch on my way to the bathroom, it growled at me again.

Shit. Well, at least he wouldn’t starve on my watch.

That night I dreamed of Grandma. She was looking at me with disappointment. I woke up around three with a dry lump in my throat.

While I lay there staring at the ceiling, terrified of letting her down, I heard a faint crunching sound coming from the kitchen. A minute later came the frantic lap-lap of water. He must have been dying of thirst because the sound went on forever.

I shifted my shoulder under the sheets and the old box spring creaked.

The lap-lapping stopped, replaced by the frantic skittering of claws across the floor.

Then dead silence.

Stupid cat.

#

By Saturday of the second week, Conney was still living under the couch full-time. To my relief, he finally started using the actual litter box at night. Not that I enjoyed stepping on jagged little daggers of litter every morning, but it beat mopping up piss puddles off the floor. I never thought I’d be so grateful not to have carpets.

Still, I couldn’t keep living like this.

I grabbed the flashlight from off the fridge, got down on all fours, and lifted the dusty skirt of the couch.

Conney was wedged into the far corner against the baseboard, coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike. His green eyes blazed like warning flares, his ears were pinned flat, and he let out a low, haunting whine I imagine sounded like an angel dying.

“Enough already,” I said. “Time to get out from under here, goofball.”

I reached under the couch against my own better judgment, ready to haul him out to the land of the living.

The dynamite finally went off.

A violent, orange hurricane hit me before I could even blink. He wasn’t Conney anymore. He was the Tasmanian Devil.

“Ow!” I shrieked, yanking my arm back so fast I smashed my funny bone against the sharp edge of the coffee table.

I wasn’t laughing.

I looked down at my arm in shock. It was shredded from the wrist halfway up to my elbow. Thick red blood welled up unevenly from the scratch marks now etched over the old pale horizontal cut line scars. Then the burning hit. I honestly wasn’t sure if it was the cuts or my pride that hurt worse.

I grabbed the bottom edge of the couch and heaved it upward.

“That’s it, you little fucker! You’re going to the pound!”

Conney let out a terrified yelp, bolted toward the kitchen, then pulled off a Tokyo Drift, sliding claws frantically fighting momentum before disappearing into the spare bedroom.

I was so done with this. With him.

#

That night I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept tossing and turning, waiting to hear the crunch-crunch of dry food in the kitchen.

Nothing.

My whole body was shaking. I felt sick to my stomach for losing my temper like that. It wasn’t Conney’s fault. He was just minding his own business. I was the idiot who reached in to grab him. What was I thinking?

All I wanted was to get him out from under the couch, to help him feel better, to get him acting like a normal cat again. Back to his old self. All swagger and attitude. Grandma’s little James Bond.

Instead, I ruined it. I always ruin everything.

God, I wish Grandma were here. I could really use her advice right now.

I couldn’t stop playing the whole thing over and over in my head. That poor cat. His face. The pure terror in his eyes when the couch lifted. And then screaming at him that he was going to the pound. What did Grandma ever see in me? I’m not a good person.

I don’t know how long I lay there and cried before I finally drifted off to sleep.

#

The next week was one of the worst stretches since the divorce. I couldn’t stop thinking about how cruel it was to even think about taking Conney to the pound. Punishing him for being scared, for being broken, for missing his person. Especially after everything I’d been through, and everything Grandma did for me when I was at my lowest. She was kind and patient and never yelled at me. Not once.

I cried a lot that week.

The growing itch on my forearm kept nagging at me, too. It wasn’t just the sting from the scabbing scratches. It was an older itch. Deeper. The kind that reminded me of the last time I felt like this.

Eventually, the itch turned into something more like gravity, so I picked up my phone and called Mom.

“Mom, I’m not doing too good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I blew up at the cat.”

“Oh, poor guy. What did he do?”

“He shredded my arm. I nearly had to go to the emergency room.”

Mom let out a dry laugh. “Oh, you’re being a little overdramatic.”

“I’m serious, Mom. There was so much blood.”

“Oh.” The line went quiet for a second.

“Yeah. I just needed to talk to someone, to get out of my own head.”

Silence hung over the receiver.

“Am I a bad person?”

“What? No, of course not. Grandma always said she never met a more gentle soul.”

“But I yelled at him, Mom. I tried to drag him out from under the couch, and after he scratched me, I just lost it.” I sniffled and wiped my face. “I told him I was taking him to the pound.”

“Oh, honey.”

“What kind of person does that?”

“The human kind,” she said softly. “Everybody loses their temper. Everybody says things they don’t mean when they’re scared. That’s not what makes you a good or bad person. It’s what you do next that matters. Grandma gave Conney to you for a reason.”

“Yeah, because you hate him more than anyone.”

Mom laughed. “That might be true, but no. That’s not why.”

“Then why did she? I still can’t figure it out.”

“Sure you can. I bet it’s been sitting right on the tip of your tongue this whole time.”

I wiped my nose and didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“See? Grandma always knew best. It kills me to admit it, but that old bird sure knew a thing or two.”

A small laugh finally cracked through my chest. “Yeah, she did.”

“Well, kiddo, I have to run, but are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. I love you, Toby.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

#

For the next two weeks, I walked on eggshells. Conney stayed locked away in the spare room, but at night the food bowl kept emptying, and the litter box stayed used. I left him alone.

Then, on a rainy Tuesday around two in the morning, I felt the mattress shift.

Just a tiny little dip near my feet.

I held my breath and didn’t move. Conney stood there, a dark silhouette against the green glow of the alarm clock, eyes glinting in the dark.

“Hey,” I whispered.

His body jerked. He turned to run, but paused and looked back.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, turning my head away to make myself smaller. “You’re okay, Conney.”

When my alarm went off at six-thirty, I couldn’t reach for it.

Resting right over my left ankle was a single white paw.

Conney was lying beside my shin with one arm outstretched. I gently slipped out from under the covers and crept into the hallway. His eyes were wide open, tracking my every move, but he stayed right where he was.

After starting the coffee, I turned around, and there he was, standing right in the middle of the kitchen floor. Perfectly still, like a statue. Just staring.

“Jesus. You look like half of the twins from The Shining.”

I popped open a can of salmon pate and set it down by the fridge, expecting him to run. He didn’t. Instead, he took three cautious steps forward, waiting for my hand to clear, and started eating.

I smiled for the first time in a long while. As I reached my palm out toward him, his spine dipped, and he shimmy-stepped around the bowl. No hissing, no claws. He just kept eating.

“Fair enough,” I said, still grinning. “We aren’t there yet.”

#

By the following week, things started to feel more domestic.

After work on Wednesday, I found Conney curled up on my spot on the couch. It was the one spot broken in over the years, molded to my shape like memory foam.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “You have a whole apartment now. Why are you on my stinky bum cushion?”

Conney didn’t even open his eyes. He just flicked his tail lazily.

“Fine,” I moved to the opposite end of the couch. It was miserable. After five minutes of watching him knead the air, it was time for drastic measures.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of cat treats. The seal wasn’t even broken before he was weaving figure-eights around my shins. I dropped a small palmful onto the counter. The second he jumped up, I hustled back to the living room to reclaim my throne.

A minute later, Conney hopped onto the coffee table and gave me a disapproving stare.

“No way, bud. This is my spot.” I patted the cushion next to me. “Come on, Conney. Come sit.”

He stood, turned around, and flicked his tail straight up.

“Oh, classy. Flash the butthole again.”

By midnight, my neck was cramping, so I rolled onto my bad side and tried to stretch. Of course that was when Conney hopped up. He stepped across the covers and dropped directly into the hollow behind my knees.

“Are you kidding me?” I whispered, trapped in an awkward stretch. “This is the least comfortable position I could possibly be in.”

My legs cramped and my lower back screamed, but I didn’t budge. I clamped my teeth together and fell asleep listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing.

#

When I woke up, Conney was sprawling across my legs like a sack of potatoes.

I dragged them back, sliding up toward the headboard.

His eyes snapped open and locked onto the monster under the covers. Then he delivered three rapid-fire thumps to my legs with both tiny white paws.

“Ow. Stop it,” I chuckled.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing my lower back.

“I think my spine is broken because of you.”

He yawned so big it seemed to swallow his whole face, stood, did a donut, then plopped right back down on the exact same spot. He went to work licking his wrist and wiping it over his ear.

I stayed on the edge of the mattress and slowly reached out my palm.

Conney watched my hand approach and didn’t flinch. Instead, he bonked his head right into my knuckles and rubbed his cheek against them.

Then a deep sound like a tiny lawnmower rattled inside this beautiful ball of fur and fury.

I sank my fingers into the soft, thick orange fur on his back. He flattened out and stretched both paws way out in front. He looked up at me from under his brow, looking happy and heartbroken all at once.

A tight knot formed in my throat, and my eyes began to burn. I took a deep breath that stuttered and shook in my chest.

“I miss her too, buddy,” I whispered, scratching the top of his head. “Maybe she was right about us. I think we’re going to be okay.”