CHAPTER FIVE
Jack is behind me, jingling change in his pocket like it’s the music by which I’m supposed to proceed with my life. It’s nickel beer night at the little Podunk minor league baseball stadium where we were headed before this happened, and he resents me staying now as much as he resented me running back for the huge, thick gardening gloves I’m wearing.
There’s a box beside me. It used to be filled with bags of frozen broccoli, according to the printing on its side. Why you’d need a box for bags, I can’t imagine. And why Jack hasn’t moved on with all his nickels to buy his beer, if it’s so important to him, I also can’t imagine.
“Dude, let it be.”
“I can’t just walk on, asshole,” I tell him.
“Sure you can. Like this.” And Jack starts walking. He stops, though, because getting drunk on his own isn’t much fun. Not that I ever intended to join him in the cheap beer thing. My uncle was a drunk, and the last thing I wanted after being forced to live with the guy for a while is to be like him. I used to drink a bit in high school, back when I was acting like the badass everyone thought I was, but today a single draught to lay the dust is an occasion.
Jack walks back toward me a few paces. I honestly wish he’d just go. He’s going to scare it. And I’m going to have to hear his jawing on. I barely know the guy, so I’m not sure why I’m putting up with him now. I was cutting a path from Portland to Chicago and ran into Jack and his buddies. They seemed nice enough. Cool and casual, smoking too much weed but otherwise good people. Except for shit like this.
I reach forward. I get a hiss, so I back off.
“It’s you, Jack. You’re standing too tall. Get down, or get back.”
Jack speaks again, sounding almost pouty. “Man, why you want a cat anyway? You know Vince is allergic. He’ll never let you keep it.”
“I’m not trying to keep it. I’m trying to save it.”
“That thing doesn’t need saving. It’s a badass.”
“It’s hurt, man. Look at its ear.”
To his credit, Jack squats to look at the trapped animal with interest. It’s literally cornered this time, behind a dumpster. I’ve been trying to catch it for fifteen minutes, but now I have an advantage because as much as it runs, it’s too scared to flee the alley. Though it’s obvious to me, Jack can’t see that this isn’t a street cat. If I had to guess, someone’s cat had kittens then the asswipe got rid of them. This cat might be six months old, and it probably had siblings that were eaten by predators.
“It’s wild. Wild animals get hurt.”
“It’s not a wild animal, Jack. It’s a cat.” I say the last in my most exasperated tone.
“A wild cat.”
“It’s not a stray. I mean, it is now. But … don’t you know anything about cats?”
“I know they keep people like you from going to nickel beer night at the stadium.”
“My uncle had a cat. You know what it did?”
“Pooped on the rug?”
“It had kittens. And do you know what my uncle did with the kittens?”
“I don’t know, Grady. What?”
“Drove out somewhere and dumped them. I was in the car with him because even though I was sixteen, he wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“You’re breaking my heart, man.”
I give Jack a glance. It sure broke mine. I liked that cat. I watched the kittens make slowly for the bushes as we drove away. And because we kept the cat, I got to see her stalk the house for weeks, looking for kittens that weren’t there.
I point. “If you’re going to stay here and irritate me, go over there so it doesn’t run that way again. I’ll bet I can grab it if it runs out from under.” I flex the gloves. I’ll probably get scratched or bitten, but they should help the worst of it.
I know how this will go. We tried this a few times already, and I have a feel for how the cat wants to move. It is, as far as I can tell, terrified. That makes it hard to catch, but it also means it won’t run indiscriminately. This little dead-end alleyway isn’t much, but this cat seems to think it’s the closest thing to home it has.
I rustle a wad of paper. I reach with one hand. The cat lunges to the left, away from where Jack is standing. I reach out and manage to grab it around the middle, and though the thing flails plenty, the attack lasts only about five seconds. Then it’s spent, panting through an open mouth, which isn’t something a healthy and happy cat does. I can feel its ribs beneath my fingers. Its eyes are vacant. It seems to have given up, as if my hands are a dog’s hungry jaws.
I give it a look then place it in the box. I anticipate a fight, but the cat goes more or less willingly. Then the box is closed, flaps folded over-under to keep it sealed against all but the most aggressive wall thrashing, and I’m pulling the gloves off to lay atop it, heart thumping.
“Thanks,” I tell Jack.
“You happy now?”
“Plenty.”
“So you want to drop it off somewhere? Like a vet or shelter or something?”
“Vets don’t let you drop off, and shelters will eventually kill them. Have you seriously never had a pet?”
Jack shrugs. “So what then?”
“I guess I own a cat now.”
Jack laughs. “Vince is never gonna let you have a cat.”
“I’ll keep it in my room.” Which is to say the laundry room. I bought a cot at Walmart. In the past, as nomadic as I am, I’ve been able to find friendly beds or even couches, but this time I had to spring for furniture to sleep on. I always get the minimum I can stand. Even traveling as I have the past nine years, I’ve added to my net worth, careful with the little my parents left me in their will. Unlike Jack and the others I’m with at the moment, I know now isn’t all there is. Some day, I’ll settle down. I’ve seen all forty-eight of the contiguous United States, so this chapter could close any time. I don’t know what’s next, but the Grady Dade story won’t end with me sleeping on someone’s laundry room floor.
“Vince hates cats, man. I don’t mean to be an asshole or anything, but you’re not paying rent. I know nobody asked you for any and you’re cool, but dude, you can’t just show up with a cat and expect Vince to like it.”
I’m about to suggest that maybe it’s time for me to pile into my truck (my mobile home, on more than one adventurous trip) and head for new horizons, but I don’t get the first word out before my phone rings.
“We going to the stadium or not, man?” Jack asks me.
I look at the box before I pull my phone from my pocket. I want to ask if he seriously thought I’d try to enter with a cat box under my arm, but the call is more pressing.
I look at the screen. I recognize the area code because my phone uses the same one. The number, however, is a mystery. It’s not in my contacts.
“Hello?” I say, accepting the call.
I talk while Jack watches me. Beside me, on the top of the dumpster, the cat shuffles inside the prison, its every noise pathetic. When I hang up, Jack stares, waiting.
I match his eyes. I’m less annoyed with his impatience now than I was a minute ago because I realize that my time looking at Jack Crawford and his buddies has drawn to an end.
I don’t want to do what the caller said I should. I resent it, in fact. But I’m all that’s left, and there’s something inside me that won’t leave things alone, like this cat, when I know it’s my responsibility.
“My uncle died,” I tell Jack.
“Ah, that sucks.”
“He was a bastard. He’s the main reason I left home to begin with — because after my parents died, the state decided I should live with him.”
“Then … it doesn’t suck?”
I shake my head. I pick up the box and plod off toward my temporary home, soon to be the last in a string of my former residences. I have to go back and sort my uncle’s shit. As much as I hated him, it’s what Dad would have wanted. He was always trying to save Uncle Ernie, like I saved this cat. And just like the cat so far — though hopefully not forever, as far as cats are concerned — all Uncle Ernie did was thrash and bite.
“No, you were right the first time,” I tell Jack, sighing. “It sucks plenty.”