The Last House on Needless Street(9)

I leap up beside the book. This part is fun because I always feel I am about to fall off. I tremble perilously in space. Then I push the book with a paw, nudging it over the edge.

It falls to the floor with a great crash, splayed open. I wait, because it’s not over yet; a few moments later the house shakes and there is a rumble in the earth. The first time it happened I yowed and hid under the couch. But I came to understand that these are His signs that I’m doing the right thing.

I leap down, landing neatly on all four paws and the lord points my eyes at the verse He wants me to see.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.



I tremble with the rightness of it. I love my Ted, my tabby, my house, my life. I am a lucky cat.

When I find a verse I like, I try to remember it – like that one I just said. But it can be hard to hold phrases in the mind whole. It’s like oversetting a cup of marbles on a hard floor. They run in every direction into the dark.

The book is just a guide, really. I think the lord is different for cats. He prefers to speak to us directly. We don’t see things the way teds do.

I settle down on the couch in a disc of sunshine. I deliberately turn my back on the fallen Bible, so that Ted will know it’s nothing to do with me. The whine has quieted some.

Now, why do I still have a bad feeling? What could be wrong? The Bible verse could not have been more positive. Anyway the trick to life is, if you don’t like what is happening, go back to sleep until it stops.





Ted





I’ve been thinking that I should record some memories of Mommy. That way they won’t disappear, even if I do. I don’t want her to be forgotten. It’s really hard to choose one, though. Most of my memories have secrets in them and are not suitable.

I have a great idea. What about that day by the lake? There are no secrets in that story. Can’t find the recording thing at first; I’m sure I last had it in the kitchen. Eventually, after a hunt, I find it behind the couch in the living room. Weird. But that’s my brain for you.

So. This is how I first got my love of birds. It was summer and we took a trip to the lake. I was six, I don’t recall much from around that age but I remember how this felt.

Mommy wore the deep-blue dress that day, her favourite. It fluttered in the hot breeze that whistled through the cracked window. Her hair was pinned up but strands had escaped the bun. They whipped at her neck, which was long and white. Daddy drove and his hat was a black mountain range against the light. I lay on the back seat kicking my feet and watched the sky go by.

‘Can I have a kitty?’ I asked, as I did every so often. Maybe I thought I could surprise her into a different answer.

‘No animals in the house, Teddy,’ she said. ‘You know how I feel about pets. It’s cruel, keeping living things in captivity.’ You could tell she wasn’t from around here. Her voice still bore the faintest trace of her father’s country. A pinched sound around the ‘r’s. But it was more how she held herself, as if waiting for a blow from behind.

‘Daddy,’ I said.

‘You listen to your mother.’

I made a crying face at that, but only to myself. I didn’t want to be a nuisance. I stroked my hand through the air and pretended I could feel silky fur under my hand, a solid head with enquiring ears. I had wanted a cat ever since I could remember. Mommy always said no. (I can’t help but wonder, now, if she knew something I didn’t, whether she saw the future, like a streak of red on the horizon.)

As we came close to the lake, the air took on the scent of deep water.

We got there early but the shore was already covered with families, blankets spread out like squares on a checkerboard on the white sand. Shadflies hung in clouds over the sheeny surface. The morning sun was strong; it tingled on my skin like vinegar.

‘Keep your sweater vest on, Teddy,’ Mommy said. It was hot but I knew better than to argue.

I played with Daddy in the water. Mommy sat in her chair, holding her blue silk parasol. The fringe rippled in the breeze. She didn’t read. She just looked out through the forest and the land and the water, at something none of us could see. She seemed like she was dreaming, or watching for an enemy. Looking back, she was probably doing both.

The souvenir stand had little key rings carved from local forest pine. They were wonderful, shaped like dogs and fish and horses. They swung gently, looking at me with their wooden eyes, silver rings catching the light. I picked through them with water-wrinkled fingers. At the back of the rack I found her, a perfect little cat, sitting straight upright, paws together. Her tail was a question mark, her ears delicate. The carver had worked with the whorls and grain of the wood to make it look like a silky coat. I longed to have her. I felt like we were made for one another.

Mommy’s hand fell on my shoulder. ‘Put it back, Teddy.’

‘But it’s not real,’ I said. ‘It’s just wooden. I could keep it in the house.’

‘It is time for lunch,’ she said. ‘Come.’

She tied a napkin around my neck and handed me two small jars with blue-and-white labels – one of puréed apples, one of carrots – and a spoon. I imagined that eyes were on us, although they probably weren’t. Around us other kids were eating hot dogs and sandwiches. Mommy saw me look.