CELINE IS OUT grocery shopping, leaving me alone with her faithless lover. Brian squats on the fire escape as he talks to his latest girlfriend. He’s surrounded by his swirly yellow aura, the color of self-regard. I crouch in the doorway, enjoying the evening breeze, the smells of the city. I’m thinking about Mom until I realize he is talking about me.
“Damn thing makes me sneeze. Cat hair everywhere. Tomorrow he’s going for a ride. . . Yup, the Pound . . . Never did like cats, they belong in barns, not my bedroom . . . She’ll get over it.” He shoves me into the apartment with his foot.
I jump onto the top of the refrigerator to gather my thoughts. The Pound? The POUND? I can hear Mom’s breathy hiss. Where murder of our species is sanctioned. Her aura had glowed red as fresh blood: the color of fear.
After I was born, Mom washed me clean and fed me from her teats. She carried me to a place of safety, a corner near a warm-air grate in an apartment building courtyard. There, knowing that my siblings and I would be adopted by the residents, she taught us basic survival strategies and the management of humans. She explained that most difficulties—an empty food dish, long-overdue cuddling, and distasteful litter box—could be resolved by a patient gaze, a judicious paw pat, or a quiet mew. And, of course, even the most oblivious human responds to an enthusiastic purr. But none of these lessons prepared me for Brian and his talk of the Pound.
Once, Celine and I lived together in utter contentment. I love Celine. She is kind, and her lap is warm. She buys the type of canned food I like, shreds. (The bits are too chewy and the pâté too, well, pasty.) Then Brian moved in. Right away I noticed his aura’s sickly green fringe, the rude tone of his loud voice, his joking threats to turn me into a pair of slippers. His first night here, as I lay curled behind Celine’s knees, Brian literally booted me out of the bedroom, an act of unnecessary violence that would have humiliated a less self-assured cat. I stifled a howl and found an alternative location, the top of the refrigerator. Which is where I am now, washing my soft fur. I am very clean. As I wash, I plot.
I am no victim. Mom instilled in me a sturdy feeling of self-esteem. Even though I am ordinary in my coloring—solid black except for a white heart-shaped patch on my chest—I am lifted above the common feline by the soft texture of my fur, my pale green eyes, and my imperturbable manner. Furthermore, I am blessed with unusual precognitive abilities, though should I be caught exercising them . . . well, one need only refer to the terrible history of atrocities visited on the cat, the result of ignorant superstition and myths. Centuries of persecution drove our species to disguise our powers, to express them with subtlety.
They think we are lower beings, Mom warned, inadequate and limited. Let them believe that. No displays of cunning, ever.
Mom would be proud. I have never allowed Celine to realize my gifts. She makes a fuss of my minor tricks—when I bring her one of Brian’s balled-up cigarette packs for a game of fetch, or pull down on the handle to open the bathroom door. But does she notice that I distract her with playful jumps when Brian’s on the fire escape phoning other women? My rumbly purr celebrating his absences? My leap onto the refrigerator one minute before he walks through the door? She does not, at least consciously.
Celine has returned from grocery shopping. Her aura is pale blue, reflecting a calm state of mind. Not for long, I fear. She changes into faded draw-string pants and a sweatshirt. She used to have more self-respect. I miss seeing her dance, fluidly gliding and twisting to the drums, the sweet thready flute. The one time she danced for Brian, he laughed unpleasantly, and she hasn’t picked up her finger cymbals since.
The apartment is so tiny I can watch both of them from my perch. Admiring himself in the bathroom mirror, Brian sings along with the radio tuned to his favorite oldies station. “You’re just too good to be true,” he croons. He smiles at his mouthful of pure white teeth. He tilts his head this way and that, touches his slightly spiky gelled hair. “Can’t take my eyes off of you.” His singing makes my head hurt.
Celine sits on the couch and flips through the mail. She opens a credit card bill. “I thought we were going to try to save,” she says without energy. “What’s this four hundred dollars at Barney’s? And the two-fifty?” Her aura is gray with streaks of green: sad with flashes of frustration.
He leans through the bathroom doorway. “Babe, Celine, the wing-tips, remember? And those Etro shirts you liked?”
“But we agreed. No needless spending. Especially on clothes. I’m not working double shifts to pay for shirts.”
“Gotta look good in sales, Celine. You know that.” Brian lies down on the bed as a ballad about fading love comes on the radio, inspiring him to sing along, “ . . . cause it’s gone, gone, gone.” He punches the pillow with each “gone” and his aura momentarily pulses brown, then back to yellow. I slip into the bedroom and take one of my favorite spots on a pile of dirty clothes in the corner.
On the radio, an announcer says, “Stay tuned. Jackpot drawing coming up. Twelve million dollars, folks, and someone’s gonna win, I have that feeling.”
I’m feeling drowsy but a little tense. Something’s going to happen. The air is charged.
Celine comes into the bedroom. “I need these clothes, mister.” I submit limply to her kiss as her aura glows pinkly with affection. When she puts me down, I arch my back until every inch of my spine gets a good crack. She heaps the dirty clothes into a basket and I wander behind her to the closet where the washer and dryer are located. She sorts the clothes into two piles, lights and darks.
Feeling an impulse to stretch, I sprawl across the pile of lights—sheets, Brian’s boxers and tee-shirts, dish towels. The pile makes a nice background for the striking blackness of my fur. Celine laughs and loads the machine with the other pile, emptying pockets of tissues, coins, and receipts.
I swipe at the trash basket until it tips over and spills its contents onto the floor. My attention has been caught by a bit of paper that must not be discarded. I bat it underneath the throw rug for safekeeping, then jump onto the dryer and wait.
The radio announcer sounds excited. “Now here’s what you’ve been waiting for. Meet Sarah, the newest member of the Draw team. The jackpot tonight is twelve million greenbacks, folks. Someone’s gonna win, I have that feeling. Here’s Sarah . . .”
Brian listens intently as the balls fall and Sarah from the Draw Team recites each number. His aura has mutated from yellow to teal, the color of curiosity, and for an instant I feel a pang of loss. Teal was Mom’s aura, except for the rare occasion when I was immature and she would flash purple with annoyance. It was a beautiful color combination.
“Thirty,” Sarah begins.
“Good start,” he mutters.
“Twenty-five.”
He nods. “Cool.”
“Sixteen.”
He coughs and leaves his hand over his mouth.
“Thirteen.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Fifty-four.”
He pounds on the bed. “I don’t believe it! A quarter million dollars!”
The announcer comes on. “One more ball, the Mega Ball. Tonight’s Mega Millions—twelve million dollars. What’s the number, Sarah?”
The sound of the rolling ball, then Sarah chirps, “Eleven.”
“Hallelujah!” Brian whispers. “I’m rich! I’m rich forever! Woo hoo!” He stands and fist-pumps the air. His aura pulsates orange. It reminds me of the time Mom clawed the nose of a Rottweiler and sent him flying down the street yipping with fear. The aura of power and conquest. Brian opens the bedroom door and heads toward the fire escape.
Celine’s lying on the sofa with a book and a glass of wine. I curl onto her warm lap. “Brian,” she says, stroking my soft thick fur, “I need my credit card back. You’ll have to get your own.”
“Huh?” He looks at her distractedly then pulls out his wallet and hands her a card. “Yeah, sure. Listen, work’s killing me. They want me on the West Coast. I’ll be there a couple weeks. Where the hell are my new jeans?”
“I did wash. Maybe they’re in the machine.”
He stands still and stares at her for a beat. Then he turns and digs around in the washing machine until he finds a pair of soggy, twisted jeans. He holds them to his forehead as if saying a brief silent prayer, slips his fingers into a back pocket, and pulls out a small square of damp paper. It dissolves into fragments as he tries to unfold it. The ink is gone, it’s unreadable. He searches in all the other pockets but comes up with nothing. He looks around, taking in the piles of clothing, the litter box, Celine in her wrinkled sweatshirt with me sprawled across her lap. “Friggin’ unbelievable, a slob like you doing the laundry,” he says. “Man, I’m outa here.”
“To LA?” Celine asks.
“For good, baby. It’s not working out for me.”
Celine frowns and sits up, dislodging me from her lap. As her soggy gray aura pulsates, a line of silver—for hope—appears around its edges. I’m worried she’ll beg him to stay. I remember his harsh words, kicks, threats to turn me into a pair of slippers. The Pound.
When Brian steps onto the fire escape and takes out his phone, I follow, winding around his legs, right there with him, affectionate-like, until he shoves me aside. I crouch next to a pot of dead marigolds. He closes the door and punches his phone. His aura is a cloudy black, streaked with gray. Odious.
Mom’s martial instructions ring clearly in my head. The eyes are defenseless. Go for the orbital sockets.
I bound onto the railing then leap at his face, hooking a claw into each eyeball before he can react. My back claws dig into his neck, my teeth sink into his scalp. The furies of centuries possess me. Brian chokes out a shriek but quickly I tear into his throat to stifle it. When he knocks me away from his face I jump onto his leg, holding on with all twenty needle-sharp claws. He staggers, kicking, and I ride his foot as he lurches away, stumbling against the railing, then blindly down the wobbly metal stairs, losing his balance, somersaulting over the railing as I leap gracefully away to let him fall, down, down, down. Twelve stories. He lands on the sidewalk, inches from a sleeping drunken man. The two of them lie head to bloody head.
I take a deep breath and howl triumphantly, only once because Celine has opened the door. “Brian picks this time of night to leave?” she asks, frowning. “Oh well, good riddance. At least I got my Visa back.” She picks me up and takes me inside.
My fur is awry. I hope up next to the sink and begin to wash my face, a displacement activity that calms my emotions. After a moment I am myself again. Celine has poured herself another glass of wine. Her aura is muddy brown swirled with a livid chartreuse, the colors of pessimistic befuddlement. She’s thinking, “what’s next?” and not seeing anything good. Time to fix that.
I retrieve the bit of paper that I’d hidden under the bathroom rug, and drop it at Celine’s feet. She always exclaims how cute I look playing fetch, but this time, in her funk, she ignores me. I jump into the couch and drop it on her lap. She studies the paper, frowns, then her aura brightens. Glowing soft gold, she looks at me in wonder, a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Kissing the slip of paper, Celine places it on the desk. She lights a candle, stands, and strips off her uniform to reveal a black bra and panties. She puts on a long red skirt embroidered with black flowers, slides a CD into the player and takes a pair of finger cymbals from her desk drawer. I hear the tickety-tock of drums, the sigh of a flute, and relax onto the floor to watch. Her aura is a brilliant aqua, the color of happiness, and I send a pulse of gratitude to Mom. Wherever she might be, she’s proud of me tonight.