Love in the Time of Serial Killers(40)

“Yes, because after that you’ll be paying a fortune in vet bills and medication,” she’d said.

“But doesn’t this cat deserve someone who’ll take care of him?”

“Phoebe,” she’d said, in that voice that meant there would be no more discussion. “You are not going to bring home a dying cat.”

Technically I could’ve pointed out that we were all dying, in an existential sense. That cat did end up finding a good home—it just wasn’t us. And when I’d broached the idea of getting another cat, one who didn’t come with a known diagnosis, my mom had shut that down, too.

Later, after I’d already moved out, she met my stepdad, who brought with him two Australian shepherds. Now she had a bumper sticker on her car that proclaimed her a “dog mom,” which I guess meant I still didn’t have a pet but rather two canine stepsiblings.

“Nice kitty,” I said, and then, because I didn’t feel comfortable saying something I didn’t mean, “Sneaky kitty. Here, kitty, kitty.”

My dad’s bedroom door was closed and had been since I’d moved in, so I left that room alone. But I finally shut the front door and then did another sweep of the house, making as much noise as possible because I figured I wasn’t going to out-stealth a cat, but maybe I could at least scare her out of a hiding place if she thought Godzilla might be coming.

In my room, I dropped to my knees, tilting my head to look under the bed. And of course, peering through the sliver of darkness were two glowing yellow eyes.

I sat cross-legged on the floor. No way was I reaching my hand in there. I remembered that shot in The NeverEnding Story where Gmork comes out of the darkness to fight Atreyu, and this felt like a similar situation. I would wait her out.

“You’ll have to come out of there eventually,” I said, then made a face as a thought occurred to me. “Please don’t go to the bathroom, dude. This is where I sleep.”

I wondered if she’d ever been given a name. I glanced around my room for inspiration, the way a hacker in a movie might look around to discover a person’s password that was always the name of their favorite book, helpfully left on their nightstand. My gaze immediately went to the Rasputin book, which seemed fittingly conniving right about now, but then I saw my huge Edgar Allan Poe collection and the perfect name just came to me.

“Lenore,” I said softly, testing it out. “Come out, Lenore. You don’t want to spend the day under a bed.”

Except obviously that was exactly where she wanted to spend the day. I took out my phone, cursing the cracked screen that made a simple search of what Reddit thought I should do in this situation completely pointless. I could still read text on it, but scrolling through a bunch of repetitive answers and tangents and one helpful comment sounded like too big a headache.

I tried looking through my latest text messages instead, trying to remember if any of these people had a cat. Conner and Shani would probably give me advice based off their experiences as goldfish parents to Hank, which was exactly how Conner would phrase it, I could already tell. I’d texted a few times with another woman in my graduate program, but it had been more about the paperwork we needed to turn in if we planned to walk in December. It would feel awkward to break into that conversation now with a random question about a cat.

Then there was the recent text chain with Alison, from when we’d exchanged numbers at the library. My thumb lingered over her name for a moment, before I clicked to open the new message box. If I thought too hard about it I wouldn’t do it, so instead I just typed my question fast and then clicked “send” before I could have second thoughts.


Hey do you happen to know anything about cats?



Her response came back almost instantaneously.


You think because I’m a lesbian librarian I must also be a cat lady? [cat emoji]



Then:


Yes, I have two cats. [two cat emojis] Why?



I explained the situation as briefly as I could.

She’s probably hungry! Alison replied. Do you have a can of tuna you could open? Don’t let her eat out of the can. Put a couple spoonfuls on a plate and set it in the middle of the room to lure her out.

When the Golden State Killer was breaking into people’s homes, he didn’t get this kind of hospitality, but okay. I guessed I could see how this situation was a little different. I leaned down to check if the cat was still there—yup, glowing yellow eyes—and then got up to check the pantry for any cans of tuna.

No luck.

I considered my options for a minute. I could try to She-Ra the bed up, but even then I wasn’t confident in my ability to hold it up and somehow convince the cat to come out. I could get a broom and start swiping under there, but that seemed needlessly mean. I could just give up, lock the house and leave and let the cat have squatter’s rights.

Finally, I headed next door to Sam’s.

It was unfortunate that he only saw me at my very worst—coffee-stained pajama pants or Batman Forever T-shirt. Today, I’d dressed for cleaning, which meant I was wearing old ripped jeans and a Metric shirt from college that was just this side of too small. I’d even wrapped a bandana around my hair because that was what people who cleaned on TV always did.

“Hey,” I said when he opened the door, barely taking a breath. “Can I borrow a can of tuna?”