by Dalena Storm
Once upon a time, Jimmy had had two dreams. Not dreams in the literal sense, but dreams in the figurative sense. When he was just a kid, moving from foster home to foster home, he’d thought someday he wanted to own a place of his own. A business-type place, with living quarters attached. He’d checked that dream off the day he’d opened his store, and it had felt good. But there had been a second dream, too—a bit more far-fetched. Jimmy had wanted to be a magician.
Not a stage magician. More like a sorcerer. Someone who studied the lost arts and learned how to perform spells and then became the very best. Of course, that was one of those stupid dreams, the sort a kid had before he learned how the world worked, and as a black man growing up at the mercy of the foster care system, Jimmy had certainly learned how the world worked.
During his days as a runaway when he’d decided to escape the system, Jimmy had gotten into some fairly serious encounters with other folks who lived in the park where he’d camped out. Humans could be just as territorial as cats—no, worse—and one event stood out in his mind as a particularly close call with death. He’d been living in a tent at the edge of some hiking trails, eating canned food he’d picked up here and there, and steadily losing hope. Things had kept getting worse and worse, and Jimmy had started to think they would never get any better—that maybe he’d die out there in the woods, alone and homeless.
The day passed, twilight had arrived, and Jimmy was sitting at what should have been his campfire, trying to get the flame to catch, but the wind kept blowing it out. Over and over again, he’d start to get a little glow and poof—nothing. Jimmy swore to himself. He cursed and spit and then he stood up. To hell with it, he thought. To hell with all of it.
No sooner had he thought this than Jimmy heard the sound of a drunken group of men stumbling through the nearby woods. They were burping and hollering and generally making a ruckus. Jimmy felt himself go as still as a panther as fear itched through his body before being replaced shortly by rage. Why the hell did he feel like he had to be the one to hide out when it was them who were trespassing on what little bit of a home he’d managed to claim for himself?
Righteous anger had filled Jimmy’s veins and he’d stomped over his attempts at a fire in the direction of the group. He opened his mouth to yell at those motherfuckers to get the fuck off his land and then out of nowhere he felt the command:
STOP. DON’T MOVE. DROP.
And because he decided to listen to that voice Jimmy had dropped flat to the ground just in time to feel a bullet graze the side of his neck as he fell. He lay there, breathing and bleeding, with his face buried in the dead leaves and brambles of the forest floor while the men fired more shots into the air where Jimmy’s head had just been.
Jimmy didn’t get up and face those men that night. If he had, he surely would have died. But after that, something new came over him; he felt he recovered a sense of direction and purpose. Step by step, Jimmy found his way out of the woods. He found a place in the city and started working his way up. Eventually, he managed to buy a place of his own, and rather than setting up as a traditional pet store, Jimmy used his shop to help cats who were down and out because if he didn’t, well, then who the hell would?
Jimmy glanced at the open sign in the window. He really should turn it—it was unlikely anyone else would come in at this hour, especially in this weather. But first, turkey. He’d go upstairs, get it from the oven, and close up shop when he came back down.
Chapter Nineteen
Clutching the paper bag of wine in one hand, Madeline exited the liquor store and began to make her way back to the corner on her return trip to the subway. She studied the route to Sam’s parents’ house on her phone. From here, she’d have to head back to the station and take the subway two more stops, then walk the rest of the way. It would be another twenty-five minutes before she could see the creature that had taken Sam’s place. After that, no matter how things went, Madeline felt she’d be able to write her story’s ending.
To her left, Madeline heard the sound of scratching on glass. In the window of Jimmy’s Used Cat Emporium, a small orange kitten with a white star on its forehead was looking at her with prescient yellow eyes.
“Well, hello there,” cooed Madeline, bending down to get a better look at the kitten as it raised its right paw to the glass and scratched again.
It mewed, and even outside in the cold snow Madeline’s heart melted. The kitten stared right at her, holding eye contact and refusing to look away, and the longer Madeline looked into its bright round eyes the more familiar it seemed to be. Maybe it reminded her of a pet she’d had when she was young, but Madeline couldn’t be sure. A strong urge rose in her to hold the kitten close—to nuzzle its nose, to pet it and feed it and brush it and adore it for as long as they both should live. But Madeline really didn’t need a cat, nor were pets allowed in her apartment.
The sign on the door was still turned to open and Madeline decided a quick visit couldn’t hurt anyone. Besides, she was late already and not exactly in a rush.
Shifting the paper bag under her left arm, Madeline pushed the open door. A bell tinkled overhead and she had to catch her balance as a few cats rushed against her feet, all begging for attention at once. Steadying her balance with the help of the door, Madeline looked around the shop. None of the cats were cooped up in cages; they were all wandering free. She went to the window and the kitten was still there, watching her with an expression that was somewhere between eager and wary.
“Hello,” Madeline greeted it, extending her hand. Her bare fingertips poked out of her fingerless gloves and the kitten sniffed them tentatively, and then rubbed its cheek against her knuckles. “Oh, what a good little kitty,” she cooed. “Is it okay if I hold you?” She rested the bottle of wine against the wall and reached for the kitten with both hands. It allowed itself be scooped up and Madeline cradled it lovingly against her chest.
“Oh.” A deep voice from behind startled Madeline and she whirled around. A tall black man was holding a platter of sliced turkey, his eyes wide in apparent surprise. Madeline felt like an unwelcome intruder. The kitten in her arms began to claw and twist and Madeline was obliged to set it down on the carpeted floor. Once free, it sped over to the man and twisted around his ankle, rubbing its cheek against his boots.
“Oh, hi,” said Madeline. “Sorry, I was just—”
“Saying hello to Mickey,” he finished for her.
Madeline furrowed her brows in confusion. “Who?”
The man nodded at the kitten and Madeline understood. “Oh, yeah, sure, that's right. I was just saying hello to Mickey.”
“She’s a fine little kitten, isn’t she?”
“Yeah! I mean, I guess.”
“You’re not gonna find any kitten smarter than this one, or more sassy, or discerning.” The man’s chest swelled as he praised the kitten. It was clearly one of his favorites.
“Is that right?”
“But very tolerant,” he continued. “She never complains about my music.”
Madeline nodded, unsure of what to add to the conversation. This was awkward, and growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Clearly, the man liked the cat a lot.
“In fact,” he went on, "I could go on and on about Mickey. You know how they say most cats don't recognize faces in the mirror? Well, she does. She recognizes mine, and she recognizes hers, too. Now, what do you think of that? Do you think she could be a cat celebrity?"
“Well, I don’t know.”
The man laughed good-naturedly and bent to stroke the kitten's head. “I’m just kidding. Too much attention like that would go straight to her head. Isn’t that right, little girl? Now, then, would you like some turkey?”
It took Madeline a minute to understand he wasn’t talking to the cat, but to her. “Oh,” she started, “Thanks, but I'm a vegetarian."
"Vegetarian!” he exclaimed. “Now, what in the heck do you eat on Thanksgiving if turkey’s off the menu?"
Madeline smi
led. This was not the first time she’d been asked that question. “I eat other food. Sometimes Tofurkey.”
“To-whatsit? What in the world is that?”
“It’s like tofu,” said Madeline, and she could feel herself blushing, as if the food she ate was ridiculous. “Fake meat that’s been filled with stuffing.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any of that. Do you eat other things? What about cheese and crackers? I was just about to have dinner, but the cats and I would love some company.”
Madeline’s blush deepened. It was getting too hot in here. She pulled off her hat. “I don’t know. You see…”
“What about carrots? Ranch dressing?”
“Yeah, sure, I eat those things.”
“Chocolate!” said the man with a spark of enthusiasm. “Now, tell me you eat chocolate?”
“Well, yes,” admitted Madeline, smiling despite herself as she unzipped her coat. “I do eat chocolate.”
“Don’t move a muscle,” he said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’ve got just the thing.” He set the plate of steaming turkey on the counter beside a hungry-looking cat that started to nose into it immediately. Madeline hurried over, shooing the cat away so she could stand guard around the roasted bird until he returned. The kitten named Mickey remained in the place the man had stood. Eventually, she relaxed and began to lick her hind feet, carefully running her tongue into the crevices between each toe.
Recovered from her round of blushing, Madeline pulled off her coat and laid it on the counter beside the platter. She added her hat to the pile and then her scarf. “Well,” said Madeline, presumably to the kitten. The man had spoken quite familiarly to it so she supposed she could, too. “It looks like I’m staying for dinner. Maybe that’s just as well. Showing up this late to Sam’s party would be pretty rude, wouldn’t it? Still, if I can’t see Sam, then how am I going to figure out what to write next about the ghost? I need to finish my story.”
“The what?” the man asked as he reemerged from the back room.
“Nothing.” Madeline cleared her throat as the blush crept back into her cheeks. She realized that perhaps confessing her innermost thoughts to a cat wasn’t so normal after all.
“Well, that’s good, because I thought I heard you say ‘the ghost’ and if there’s one thing Thanksgiving doesn’t need, it’s any ghosts. Leave the ghosts for Halloween, and have them gone by Thanksgiving. That’s what I say. Now, take a look at what I found. Is this all right?”
The man pushed aside the plate of turkey and presented a platter piled high with store-bought chocolate chip cookies, dozens of wrapped bonbons, a variety of neatly cut hard cheeses, carrots, and Ritz crackers. This would be more than sufficient to feed Madeline, and she graciously accepted a cracker and topped it with a cube of cheese.
“It’s great,” Madeline said by way of thanks, covering her mouth as she chewed. “This is so nice. You didn’t have to—”
“Nonsense,” interrupted the man, “but let’s not stand around like barbarians. Let’s be civilized. Have a seat. Pull up a chair. Grab that one in the corner.” He pointed with an authoritative finger and Madeline retrieved a plush yellow chair, hauling it over to what was probably normally used as a display counter for goods. “And while you’re over there,” he called, “will you turn that sign on the door over? We are officially closed.”
Madeline paused in her chair pulling and went to the door. She hesitated a second before flipping the open sign to closed because this seemed exactly like a set-up for some kind of murder mystery scenario—a woman disappears on Thanksgiving and her body is never found because it was fed in tiny little bits to dozens of hungry cats. But, if this man were really bad, Madeline was sure she’d get a feeling. Her intuition had never failed her before.
“Wonderful.” The man gave Madeline a pleased smile as they took their seats on opposite sides of the counter. “Except wait, something’s missing. Drinks! I knew I was forgetting something. I should have gone and picked up a bottle of wine, but oh well, dinner’s ready, so we’ll have to make do with tap water. Do you take ice in yours?” he asked, standing up once more.
“No,” said Madeline, shaking her head. Her blush was starting again, and she shouldn’t, it was weird, but she offered anyway. “No ice, but I actually have some wine right here,” she said, rising to fetch the bottle from where she’d left the paper bag against the wall. As she revealed it, the grin on the man’s face widened further.
“How’s that!” he remarked with obvious satisfaction. “Don’t you ever let anyone tell you there’s no such thing as magic. I’ll be back in a flash, but go ahead and get started—don’t wait for me.”
Madeline set the wine on the counter and took her seat, though she immediately had to get up again to pull excited cats off the table.
The man returned, carrying glasses full of water, two wine glasses, and a bowl full of chopped turkey that, after depositing the glasses on the counter, he set down on the floor to satisfy the cats. Madeline had no idea how he managed it all without spilling a drop.
“Now,” the man said, dropping into his seat, his eyes twinkling with a satisfied sort of look that suggested all was well in the world. “Let’s have some of that wine and you can tell me all about yourself, okay?”
“Um,” Madeline stuttered, feeling her anxious blush returning. This time, she chose to ignore it. “Okay, sure, why not. My name is Madeline. What’s yours?”
The man slapped a hand against his knee. “Oh, goodness,” he laughed. “I’m sorry. I thought you already knew. I’m Jimmy, and this is my Used Cat Emporium.”
Chapter Twenty
Peter couldn’t understand how Sam could sit there and not even look at him—at any of them. It was like she was pretending none of them existed. She was so self-satisfied, and she didn’t give a damn. But he loved her. Even after all this, Peter loved her more than life.
Sam’s family was big on board games. They had an entire cupboard full of them, and after everyone had eaten, dessert was delayed in favor of a game. It was another activity Peter had only grudgingly participated in during visits with Sam’s family, always feeling like he was left hanging on the edges of the fun—a spectator to a lifetime’s worth of shared inside jokes. He always lost, too.
For better or worse, Sam was also now a spectator. Bianca wanted to include her in the game—a slapstick one called Apples to Apples—but Sam just stared at the cards in front of her blankly, though she’d played the game many times before. She picked up a card and licked it.
“I’ll talk her through it,” Peter volunteered. He scooted his chair closer to Sam’s and took the card before she could bite it or stuff it in her mouth. He wanted to help her. He wanted to be useful. He picked up the cards that were meant to be hers and held them up where she could see them.
They made it through two rounds of the game before Sam had enough. She knocked the cards out of Peter’s hand and grabbed his wrist roughly beneath the table, twisting it.
“I’m hungry,” she hissed in his ear.
“You can’t be,” he mumbled. Peter felt everyone’s eyes on him and he tried to gain control. He put his hand on Sam’s where it grabbed at his wrist, and then he stood, pulling her up with him and trying to make it look as smooth as possible. “Maybe she needs a change of scenery,” Peter suggested weakly. “I’ll take her on a little walk. Some fresh air might help.”
He felt everyone watching them as he exited the room with Sam in tow. He'd never have been able to handle her like this back when she was herself. She'd have fought him more violently—kicked him in the shin, kneed him in the groin, bit him, no holds barred. Since the accident, her resistance had vanished. In fact, it felt more like she was the one leading him.
This suspicion was reinforced when they arrived at the front door and Sam didn’t stop for their coats.
“Come on, you have to put your coat on,” Peter said, struggling against Sam as she groped for the door. Finally, he managed to pull her co
at on. The coat was quickly becoming too small for Sam’s belly, and trying to stuff her into it was like wrestling a naughty child into a piece of clothing they’d long outgrown. There was no warning of this type of behavior from the doctors, no reason for her to be so stubborn, so resistant, and so goddamn hungry all the time. “What the hell’s gotten into you, anyway?” Peter growled under his breath. He hadn’t been alone with Sam, truly alone, for over a year. They’d lived separately in the six months before their divorce, and in the hospital he’d spoken to her frankly though there had almost always been doctors and nurses around to listen to their interactions. Peter was getting fed up. He needed to get through to Sam. He was changing his life—he was doing it for her—but things couldn’t go on like this.
“Come on,” he said, jerking the door open. Sam led the way out, yanking him along behind her. A faint memory came back to Peter of old lovers' spats when Sam would overreact to silly things and they'd hash it out and get physical and end up in bed, each of them struggling against the other until all the tension was gone and everything was forgiven. It gave Peter a faint hard on, which persevered despite the cold as they strode frantically for a couple of blocks, elbows linked and not speaking. Peter couldn’t remember how they’d gotten like this—whether she’d taken his arm or he’d taken hers—but they crunched arm in arm through the thin layer of fresh snow that was still falling, bound together in the shared silence of body heat and frustration and discontent.
At last, they paused at a dark corner beneath a burnt out streetlamp and Peter felt a change come over Sam. Her arm against his went softer, like she’d released a long-held breath. Peter paused. He unlinked his arm from Sam’s and turned her to face him.
“Sammy, talk to me. Please. If you’re in there, tell me what’s going on with you. Tell me why you’re doing this. Are you angry? I know I was shit to you, and if you’re angry, I deserve it. But I’m different now. I’m better. I’ve changed—I swear I’ve changed. It may have taken losing you to do it, but I’m not the man I used to be. I’m never going back to how I was before. Not ever. Sam, I can’t.”
