Ghost Cats of the South

by Randy Russell

  She brought her face to the screen and stared at the object. The cat and the parrot had come back. Kimberly had slept through their visit. She dashed outside to bring in the shiny object.

  It was a gold coin, bright as new. A raised cross was in the middle of the coin, with castle towers and cats in the spaces between the equal arms of the cross. The cats were standing and pawing the air. Maybe they were lions, she decided. On the other side were two skinny towers or trees with the numeral 8 at the top, and the letters L, P, and V. Words were printed around the outside edges of the coin on both sides, but the tops of the letters weren’t there. The gold coin was about an inch and quarter across. It was heavy for its size. She bet it was worth a lot.

  Ghost or not, Kimberly wasn’t afraid any longer. Not in the daylight. She returned to the rocks with her shovel and searched the formation with more care. Around the far side, she found a stone-cluttered entrance to a cellar. She could have found it yesterday if she had looked. If she hadn’t been scared off.

  The stones were the ruins of an old lighthouse foundation. She heard voices inside. She had to move only two heavy rocks with her shovel. Old stone steps led down to a doorway. Kimberly climbed down and put her hands on the old wooden frame. The door was gone. A flicker of light came from inside the hole.

  Kimberly wiped her hands on her shorts, retrieved her shovel, and stepped inside. She hoped she didn’t have smudges of dirt on her face.

  The cat was there, curled on the top of an old wooden table. Its tail was nearby. A candle burned on a small tray on the table. The gray-and-black tail wagged twice on its own. Apparently, the cat didn’t mind company.

  “Aaawk!” the parrot head screeched. “Ahoy!”

  Kimberly turned to see that the bird head was not alone. It rested among parts of a bearded sea captain stacked in the corner. The bird head may have been perched on the captain’s shoulder, if all of the parrot and all of the man had been there.

  The bearded head of George Burrows Thomas, a Welsh seaman originally from Ystrad Flur, valley to the Wye, late quartermaster of the sloop Delight, Francis Spriggs captain, sat among a clutter of sea clothes and body parts. Almost one whole leg was there, but it wasn’t connected to anything. Both eyes in the sailor’s head were a brilliant blue.

  “Grateful to you, lass, and to the Lord Almighty,” the head said. “Ring finger, it was. Very grateful indeed.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Kimberly said, quite uncertain how one should properly address a talking head.

  “That be Stripe the cat,” he said, rolling his blue eyes toward the table. “And you have had the pleasure of saying hello to my talking bird, I believe. From Honduras, ’tis. I never come to naming it.”

  “Aaawk!” the parrot head began. “Find a—”

  The sea captain’s head told it to shut up. A hand lifted from the cellar floor. The cat leapt from the table, leaving its tail, to sit by the hand, which soon caressed its furry back.

  “I’m Kimberly.” She tried to smile.

  “Aye, Lady Kimberly it is. And a strapping lass you be. Now, tell me quick, for I am an old, old man of the sea. Will you find more bones for me?”

  Kimberly nodded.

  “I be George Burrows Thomas, of Ystrad Flur, valley to the Wye in Wales, before I took to the sea for my maturity, then quartermaster of the sloop Delight, of equal rank to Captain Francis Spriggs, except in time of battle, aye.”

  The head had a story to tell. Kimberly found a comfortable stone to lean against.

  “The Delight was a fine and speedy craft,” he said, “with a crew of three score and fifteen. Fast in shallows and fast at sea.”

  The sloop Delight was taken by a hurricane. All twelve cannons were dropped in a desperate attempt to keep her afloat in the horrible storm. The quartermaster rescued the ship’s treasury, his cat, Stripe, and the parrot from Honduras by drifting from the sinking mast in a small wooden rowboat. The tiny wooden craft was caught by a massive wave and carried in one large sweep a half-mile closer to the South Carolina coast before going under.

  “Were any saved?” Kimberly asked.

  “Not to worry, lass. She flew the skeleton and hourglass on black for our flag. Pirates one and all, well prepared for the watery grave. Their bones didn’t catch the tide, you see. Serves them well and good to stay as far away as your pretty little head dares to dream. Nary a one who did not deserve to be in chains.”

  Before leaving, Kimberly asked if the odd trio needed food.

  “Nay,” the head of George Burrows Thomas replied. “We’re dead.”

  Kimberly nodded slowly, trying to understand.

  “We’re dead, but this isn’t a proper grave as yet for the likes of we. Not until we’re complete, you see? I wasn’t buried at sea. I died there, but I wasn’t buried, except to drift across the wretched bottom, piece by piece like the pieces of a broken ship. I died there, but I’ll be buried here, as soon as I get the rest of me.”

  “I have two more weeks to look,” Kimberly told him, promising to work diligently.

  “No rush atall,” the head said. “But when you’re good and through, you might leave the shovel here with me in the rocks. Come in handy later, that would.”

  The cat meowed. It was the first time it had made a sound in front of Kimberly.

  Stripe was probably tired of digging, Kimberly decided. She figured it all out once she had time to think about it thoroughly. The cat had swum closer to shore than the other two during the hurricane. She imagined a big fish had eaten the parrot except for the head. And George? He probably sank right away, along with the ship’s treasury.

  When Kimberly’s mother packed the car at the end of their stay, Kimberly had nine gold 1715 Lima escudos in her suitcase, each one as fresh as the year it was coined. She told her mother she wanted to come back to the crummy beach and the tiny bungalow as soon as they could.

  “You’ll be driving next year,” her mother said. “You can come back anytime you like, as long as you clear it with me and your father first.”

  “Aye,” Kimberly agreed. “Fair winds and Godspeed.”

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Piano Cat

  That Wednesday morning in November, Arnold Endicott opened the tabletop Victrola on the dresser, cranked the handle a few rounds, and carefully lowered the needle into place. The thick one-sided recording of “Shine On, Harvest Moon” was the only record he owned.

  Arnold waited for company. The recording was a duet.

  He was a permanent resident in an assisted living facility. It used to be a nursing home. He kept the volume low and hummed along. Most people would have heard the warp and the scratches in the old record. Arnold, though, experienced the music as brand new. It was sweet to hear, so sweet and clear. He heard it that way every time, as if he were listening to the classic romantic duet with his young wife, Beatrice, so many years ago. His arm was around her still. He could smell perfume in her hair.

  The orange-striped cat was quick to the window of Arnold’s room. The scratchy song on the old Victrola was his call to breakfast. The cat was a companionable stray that had visited Arnold’s window one night and then come inside when Arnold pushed his fist through a lower corner of the window screen. They’d been friends ever since. The orange-striped cat liked Arnold. And the old man liked breaking the rules.

  It’s either have a cat or buy a gun and rob a bank, Arnold thought.

  He named the cat Clyde. The cat enjoyed the world outside. Arnold was just fine with that. Arnold Endicott had lived there once himself, and the world came highly recommended.

  Arnold combed his hair carefully. It was just a few white wisps these days. Clyde groomed himself on Arnold’s bed. The duo had their routine. Clyde started with his ears and moved to the back of his head. Arnold combed his hair from the side.

  The old man dressed in his best shirt and bowtie. It was perhaps too cool for his seersucker suit, but it was his only suit now. Besides, a walk outdoors would keep him warm. Arno
ld put on his wingtip dress shoes from the closet. Clyde watched him tie the strings. Arthritis made it difficult.

  “Keep an eye on things,” Arnold said. He lifted the needle from his only record, pushed the window screen loose entirely, and climbed outside, nearly landing on his face. It was one of Arnold’s annual escapes. Clyde watched him leave.

  Grocery stores were so much better than they used to be. You could eat lunch there now. They had whole buffets, and little tables set up with chairs. They were regular restaurants. Arnold paid for a cold bottle of Hires cream soda at the checkout counter. His hands shook. He gave the clerk two dollars and told her to keep the change. She opened the soda pop for him. A few bubbles of cream soda ran down his chin when he took a drink. Just like a little kid, he thought. So what if he dribbled pop on his chin? It was either that or rob the place.

  The store was crowded the day before Thanksgiving. Arnold knew it would be. He was there looking for someone. He shuffled up and down the aisles, trying not to spill his pop when a cart came his way. One of his wingtips came untied. He didn’t notice.

  Arnold said hello to everyone. Some people said hello back. Those were the ones who captured his closer attention.

  He ended up at a large display of whole turkeys in the meat department. A young woman pushed a cart with three kids in tow. She was only sixty or so. He guessed the kids were her grandchildren. She called one of them Willa Dean. Arnold liked the name.

  She wore thick glasses. Her curly hair was gray and cut close to her head. Her shoes were as badly worn as her large leather purse. Arnold thought she might be the one he was looking for. She picked up a turkey. Arnold looked at the other items in her cart. One of the kids ran off, and she hollered him back.

  “Looks like a fine dinner you’re making there,” Arnold said.

  “I’m doing my best, if I don’t forget the pumpkin pie.” She smiled at Arnold. Mavis knew his kind. He was one of the lonely seniors who showed up at the holidays just to be around people. You saw them in all the stores.

  “I’m sure you won’t.” Arnold smiled back. He hoped his teeth stayed in place.

  He lagged behind but continued to watch the woman. She took her wallet out of her purse and seemed to be counting her money. She was the one, he decided. Flour and butter and eggs were in her cart. Not one frozen piecrust. Four packages of dinner rolls, though. Two loaves of bread, two gallons of milk, two large cans of pumpkin, and a carton of whipping cream, among the other things.

  Arnold made his way to the front of the store. He stood patiently before a tall stack of factory-made fireplace logs. He’d set down his pop and didn’t remember where.

  When the lady with the three grandkids came to the counter, Arnold shuffled that way. He stood at the end of the counter as if he belonged there and fiddled with her bags when they were placed in her cart. She thought he was trying to look as if he were helping out. Sometimes, old folks pretended they were working at a place. Or maybe this one had worked in a grocery store once and was confused whether or not he still did.

  When the clerk announced the total, Mavis opened her wallet.

  Arnold was ahead of the game. He leaned forward and handed the clerk the money he held in his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Endicott,” the clerk said.

  Arnold had already turned away. The clerk had heard he came into the stores, particularly this one, once in a while.

  Mavis stared after Arnold, her mouth wide open, then told the grandkids to hush. She was soon distracted when the clerk handed her the receipt and more than eighty dollars in change.

  “Lord Almighty,” Mavis said. “What in heaven’s name is that?”

  “Mr. Endicott wants you to have a happy Thanksgiving, ma’am,” the clerk told her.

  “No, he can’t do that. I don’t even know the man.”

  In the end, Arnold Endicott could do pretty much what he wanted, Mavis learned. That lonely old man owned the entire chain of A & B Food Stores across the South. His first one was in Atlanta. The store she shopped in was built where the first one had been. It was just Arnold’s Fruits and Vegetables back then, before he married Beatrice.

  Mavis accepted the money from the clerk. She looked around the parking lot for the old man. She was going to make that codger take back his change. But he wasn’t there. Arnold had gone to the men’s room at the back of the deli. He took his time. Mavis gave up and got the grandkids into the car.

  While she unpacked the groceries in her kitchen, one of the grandchildren tinkered with the upright piano, playing one key at a time. They were not allowed to do that. Soon, they’d all be banging on the keys. Mavis walked into the living room with her hands on her hips, ready to pull someone off the piano bench.

  No one was there. The three kids sat on the couch in a row, watching television.

  “Who played that piano? Willa Dean?”

  All three children shook their heads. It was usually Willa Dean who played the piano, but she never lied about it when she did.

  “Grandma has to cook,” Mavis told them. “You-all be good now, and I’ll bake cinnamon and sugar curls.” Mavis regularly used the leftover pie dough to make treats for the grandchildren when they stayed at her house, which was often as not with these three.

  When she put the first gallon of milk in the refrigerator, Mavis saw a green piece of paper stuck to one side. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Lord Almighty,” she said.

  She went through the grocery bags and found seven more. That old coot had given her a thousand dollars, food included.

  That night, Mavis heard the piano playing again. It was faint and light. One key at a time. It sounded to Mavis like a song she knew, but she couldn’t place it. She was going to head downstairs and see who was up, but she fell asleep instead.

  Thanksgiving dinner was a large family affair at Mavis’s house. While everyone was eating, the lady in the thick glasses told her story one more time.

  “I have his name,” she said. “I looked it up in the phone book. As soon as we’re done, while you girls wash the dishes, I’m carrying a plate of food to his house. And a pie. Don’t anyone touch that last pie. That belongs to Mr. Arnold Endicott.”

  She heard the piano again. Mavis looked around the two tables set up in the dining room and counted faces. Everyone was there. It was the same song. She’d been hearing it off and on since breakfast. One key at a time. Despite herself, she scooted back from the table and walked into the living room. The piano bench was empty. The lid on the spinet piano was up. She had closed it when she walked by that morning.

  The song sounded like a memory. No one at the table said a thing about it. Mavis feared she was the only one who heard it. She feared she was losing her hearing.

  “I’ve been hearing that piano all morning,” she told her family. “What is that song? It sounds familiar. I must be losing my mind.”

  Mavis left family scattered about the house. She drove to Mr. Endicott’s house. It was a nice neighborhood, and she expected as much. That old man might be rich as the devil, but he was lonely as sin. She came alone to spend some time with him without having the kids distract her. Old people liked to talk whenever somebody would listen.

  She drove up the circular driveway and parked. Mavis left the pumpkin pie on the seat. She carried the covered plate of turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and green beans to the front porch. Tall white columns decorated the steps to the house.

  Two slat-back porch chairs were in front of the doors, a piece of yellow rope tied between them. A cardboard No Trespassing sign was stapled to the nylon rope. Arnold Endicott was lonelier than she’d realized. Between the long brass handles of the twin front doors were a chain and padlock. Mavis set the Thanksgiving dinner on one of the tied-up chairs.

  He must be coming and going from around back, she thought. She walked to the side of the house. A man was standing there smoking a cigarette. He was embarrassed to see Mavis. He smiled awkwardly and held the c
igarette out in front of him, as if to explain.

  “I’m at Mom’s house for Thanksgiving,” he said. He nodded to the house next door. “I was going to take the cigarette butt with me when I was through.”

  “I’m sure you were,” Mavis said. “I have something for Mr. Endicott around front. Do you know where I should leave it for him? I was hoping he could have it today.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t live here anymore. He moved into the nursing home a few years ago. Dad keeps the yard up for him and makes sure the heat comes on, so the pipes don’t freeze. I heard today that they’ll be selling the house pretty soon. My dad has the key, if you need to get inside.”

  The nursing home was called Willows Assisted Living. Willows in Atlanta, Mavis thought. I guess there might be a few.

  Mavis knew how to get there. She walked back to the porch to pick up the Thanksgiving dinner for Mr. Endicott. An orange cat was nosing the covered meal as Mavis approached.

  “Scat!” She waved her hand, and the cat was gone.

  Mavis carried the meal into the reception area of the nursing home. She’d bring the pie in after she talked to Mr. Endicott.

  A nurse came from the hallway when Mavis asked the receptionist if she could speak to Mr. Arnold Endicott.

  “Everyone loved Arnold,” the nurse said. “Such a gentleman. And he fed that cat. We all knew.” She smiled. “We’ll replace the screen now that he’s gone, bless his soul. Don’t know what we’ll do with the cat.”

  “Gone?”

  “Why, yes, dear. Arnold Endicott passed away Tuesday night. You didn’t know?”

  “No.” Mavis meant, No, he didn’t. The nurse had her days wrong. It couldn’t have been Tuesday.

  “In his sleep,” the nurse said. “It was sad, his having to go like that just before Thanksgiving. It was his favorite holiday. Funny that, Arnold having no family and all. He’d go to the supermarket every year and buy someone’s groceries for them. Did it since he moved here. It was his grocery store, after all. Probably did it his whole life.”