Yet, when she was in her early thirties, it happened, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere the way a fever sets in, that Bunny was beset with the irrepressible urge to cradle a baby in her arms. “I do not want a baby,” Bunny was adamant, and it wasn’t simply a matter of her being stubborn, in that way that her mother referred to as “cutting off your nose to spite your face.” She liked her life as it was, and she did not like babies and her interest in children had limitations quickly reached. Nonetheless, there she was, staring into the window at Peanut Butter & Jane’s, melting at the sight of teeny-tiny Converse All Stars and pink overalls that would fit a cat.
“The biological imperative is telling you to reproduce,” Albie explained. “Your genes are crying out for expression.”
As far as children were concerned, Albie had no strong feelings either way, which could be read as a contradiction in his personality considering the way he once yearned for a baby sister, for the concept of a family of four or five. And, he would’ve made for a good and loving father, but Bunny, so often delightfully childlike—wide-eyed at the sight of a butterfly; or slayed-dead over the toot of a fart; who needed him, without being clingy—brought him something like paternal joy. And when, distinct from childlike, she behaved like a child, like a fucking little brat, she provided all the rationale necessary to opt out of parenthood. And, like Bunny, he too had an appreciation for fewer responsibilities and no overwhelming desire for change. He liked his life as it was.
“And how do I get my genes to pipe down?” Bunny asked.
Albie suggested they get a pet.
A kitten, a Siamese kitten, with a crick in her tail, the cross-eyed runt of the litter, the kitten that no one wanted, except for Bunny and Albie. They wanted her desperately. They named her Angela, their little angel. “Angela. My baby,” Bunny said. Always, Bunny said, “My furry little baby,” and she cradled the cat in her arms.
At night, Angela slept snuggled up with Bunny, her head resting on Bunny’s shoulder as if it were a pillow, and Bunny would look at her and her world would go soft. That’s how it was, so let’s not argue about it. A kitten might not be the same as a baby, a human baby, but love is what it is. Bunny loved that cat in a way that she’d never loved before, and who is to measure?
Anyone who knows cats, knows how they can be about food: picky, fickle, perverse; cats will go hungry rather than eat what they suddenly and inexplicably deem to be slop not fit for a dog. Angela was no exception. On nothing more than a whim, she’d turn up her precious, pink nose at the Flaked Tuna, which would set Bunny rushing to open the Beef Morsels in Gravy, and sometimes a third can and even a fourth, until hitting upon one the cat would eat. It was a regular habit of Albie’s to bring home a filet of smoked salmon or a rotisserie chicken, which he would cut up into little pieces to feed to her, by hand, bit by bit as if a morsel of salmon were a grape.
And so the years passed, the happiest of families: Albie, Bunny and baby Angela, who was forever their baby.
The same as every morning, Bunny put up a fresh pot of coffee and opened a can of Seafood Stew, a sure-fire favorite. Or, at least it was a sure-fire favorite. “Cats in India would kill for Seafood Stew,” Bunny said, and she opened a can of Mideast Feast. But, little fussbudget Angela was not in the mood for Mideast Feast or Minced Duck, either, and that evening, when Angela refused the bits of rotisserie chicken that Albie picked up at D’Agostino’s, he said, “I’m not sure those D’Agostino’s chickens are always fresh.” He got his coat from the closet and went to get a rotisserie chicken from Gristedes.
Evidently, something was awry with the Gristedes chicken, too. It was also possible, unthinkable, but possible, that Angela picked up one of those stomach things that go around. Not about to take chances where their baby was concerned, they put Angela in the cat carrier, which Bunny carried, not by the strap, but in both arms, pressed against her chest, and Albie hailed a cab.
At Animal Medical Center, in the waiting room, while Angela underwent tests, Bunny flipped through the pages of Cat Fancy magazine, neither reading it nor looking at the pictures, and Albie said, “She’s going to be fine. It’s probably just a parasite. A stomach bug. Maybe something she ate.”
“I know,” Bunny said. “I’m not worried.”
But Albie knew that Bunny was worried, just as she knew he didn’t think it was a stomach bug.
There was nothing to be done. The veterinarian said, “I’m sorry. She’s not in pain now, but it’s only a matter of days before she will be.” He wrote down the name and number of a vet who makes house calls. “At home,” he said, “she’ll be comfortable and not afraid.”
At home, Albie set Angela down on two pillows alongside the radiator because she was one of those cats who basked in heat, tracking patches of sunlight, burrowing in blankets, or curling up under the lamp on Bunny’s desk. All that night Bunny stayed on the floor beside Angela, watching over her. “I’m here,” she whispered. “My sweet furry baby, don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’m here.”
In the morning, the veterinarian who makes house calls put Angela’s body in a box and took her away.
In a frenzy of grief all his own, Albie gathered up Angela’s toys—the crinkle balls, the cat dancer, the pink mouse filled with catnip—her food dish, her water bowl, her litter box, the pillows alongside the radiator, and took them out of the house, while Bunny got into bed and stroked her chest as if she could quiet a howling heart.
There is no way of knowing for sure, but this might well have been the marble that dropped to set the Rube Goldberg contraption in motion.