Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  “You’ll post found signs?” I asked. “Give it two or three weeks?”

  “Of course.”

  As a token of my acceptance, I rested my hand on Mosey’s back as she nestled into my lap and closed her eyes. I ran my fingertips down her delicate spine, as Tommy had, and scratched a bit behind her ears. She leaned into the pressure and purred.

  OK, that was cute.

  My fingers paused as I felt along her shoulder blades. They felt…thick.

  I pressed gently and explored the outline of the twin bulges. I was no vet, but the shoulder blades seemed slightly long and too raised. I opened my mouth to ask if Kris had noticed it, then changed my mind. She’d probably scheduled the initial vet visit before reaching our driveway. No need to put even more expensive worries and suggestions in her head.

  Eventually, Tommy went down for his nap. I listened to his slow breathing on the baby monitor. Mosey curled up on a towel beside a water bowl in the bathroom while I worked. I typed very quietly.

  About a half-hour before deadline, I got a text from Kris. It contained a picture showing a semi-intelligible jumble of humanity crammed into a kidney-shaped void. Under the picture were the words “A GIRL!!!” My phone rang seconds later, and we rejoiced at the news.

  I felt terrible about not being there. I felt a different kind of terrible in trying to ease myself out of the conversation so I could finish and submit my edits before five o'clock. Otherwise, John would inevitably end his day with another email expressing profound disappointment.

  I don’t know if other people, especially other men, have this sort of pressure and guilt. My job is to keep the bills paid and the family economically safe. That has to come first, because if that doesn’t happen, everything else falls apart.

  Our culture doesn’t care about economics, though, because love beats money…at least, it does until you run out of money. That’s not the kind of thing you get to say at back yard barbeques or when making safe confessions over once-a-month cocktails. You just hold the truth close to your chest, maybe even stuff it inside your ribs where no one will ever find it, and convince everyone that you think love always comes first, too.

  I try to make it come first. Every chance I can. But I never know if it’s enough.

  October 9

  You hear two things about pregnancy. One, “the glow.” Two, the exhaustion. Personally, I think these two things are contradictory. How do you glow with sublime radiance if you’re constantly ready to pass out? I don’t get it.

  Wild hormone swings? Yeah, true. Kris broke down crying while watching the news the other day.

  Carpal tunnel syndrome? Also true, although the wrist braces help.

  Kris was up at least twenty pounds from before our first pregnancy. Now, she’s put on at least that much again. You know what, though? I don’t mind the weight. Happiness is about controlling where your attention goes, and this is a good time to enjoy more of what I already found sexy in my wife, especially since her second-trimester hormones can swing in the right direction for weeks on end, if you know what I mean. Cranky three-year-old allowing. That’s pregnancy-induced exhaustion I could get used to.

  Since my last note, things have stabilized somewhat. Yes, I got my edit turned in, and the next one, and several after that. I’m trying to put more money in savings, because I know the hospital bills that are coming. Wall Street says the tech sector is overbought, though, so everything is on a dive. When that happens, my clients hoard cash and spend less on marketing, which means a lot of the work that normally goes to freelancers gets shoved off on internal staff. Bad for them, worse for me.

  I’m trying not to think about that. Instead, I’m trying to do like everybody says and focus on the good things. Slowly, I’m mastering how to make the perfect Moscow mule. I also started using an app to learn how to meditate. Don’t laugh. Kris sometimes does it with me, but she usually falls asleep in the middle.

  I’d forgotten how snipey and judging women can be when it comes to pregnancy. Kris has several friends. They all gather for kid playtime in the park when the weather’s good and multi-level marketing “parties” in the evenings when the weather’s bad. Why can’t women just get together for tea anymore? Nobody drops a hundred bucks on tea just because somebody hosted it.

  Either way, Kris inevitably finds herself on the receiving end of endless advice streams about vitamin supplements, why so-and-so’s OB-GYN is better than ours, which toys make the smartest kids, and which infant parenting tactics yield the best results, as clearly demonstrated by how Tommy is turning out compared to alternative kid X.

  On that last score, we never, ever do the “right” things. Kris has a deep-seated insecurity streak, and this stuff just preys on her. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to hold her while she wept, with her convinced that she was destroying our children, born and unborn, and there was no way she could ever hope to match those other moms. Sometimes, she lashes out at me and tells me to learn more about it, take care of it. Do something.

  So, I hold her while she cries. I don’t know what else to do. My hands are already full, but I can set down my baggage for a bit to help carry hers.

  Earlier tonight, it was Kris’s turn to host a thing. Some product line—smelly candles and oil lamps. Most of it inflames her asthma. If she sells $500 of the stuff tonight, though, she gets this double-sided centerpiece lamp for half off, and it’s so beautiful. You should see my hands flapping for emphasis.

  While the “party” was going on, I had the crew in Tommy’s room. The baby gate sealed off the top of the stairs. I sat on the floor with Tommy and tried to push a game of Concentration or reading Dr. Seuss books with him, because, you know, brain development. He was determined to doodle on cardboard from my office recycling bin. So be it.

  Sam snoozed away beside us. I ended up with my phone in my lap, checking email and scanning politically neutral news sites.

  Mosey had meandered her way in with us, and she laid down on top of my hand, blocking the phone screen. She weighs around four pounds now, double what she was when we found her. That’s twice as much attitude, too. If you’re in doubt, go see the ripped-to-hell corners of our $800 living room couch and matching shredded guest chairs in the front room. You’ll find Web-recommended cardboard scratching posts next to each of those corners, intact and ignored.

  Tommy doodled. Sam snored. Mosey started to purr.

  “Don’t be evil, cat,” I said. “I know you’re manipulating me.”

  She blinked, as if to say, “Who? Me?”

  I grimaced to put up a show of distaste, but I dropped the phone and started stroking her back.

  There’s an air vent in the corner behind the rocking chair. As long as the heat or AC isn’t on, you can hear conversations through it from down in the living room and kitchen, although it makes voices sound thin and ghostly. I usually try not to listen in on these parties, just for my own sanity, but my ears perked up upon hearing my name.

  “He’s been really busy with work,” Kris said.

  More than one woman laughed.

  “Oh, Kris.” It was Leena Allen, one of Kris’s closest friends. She laughed gaily for no apparent reason. “When is he not busy with work? You know you’re gonna have to do it yourself. It’s fine. I can help you.”

  “It’s OK,” Kris countered. “If he’s too busy, I’ll figure it out. I did most of Tommy’s room. I can do Madison’s, too.”

  Pam Esposito spoke up, and even from here I could tell she was at least two or three glasses in. “Dan’s in that big room, right? He’s never gonna leave there.”

  “He says he can move his office into the garage,” said Kris.

  More laughter.

  “Theoretically, that could work,” said Leena. “But you’ll need more shelving if you’re still gonna put a car in there. Do you guys have money for that?” There was a pause, and I knew Kris was deliberating over what to say. There was no good answer. “You know, if you guys bought the wood, Steve coul
d knock that out for you in an afternoon.”

  Yes, Steve could. Steve could do literally anything. He was bar none the nicest guy I knew. Steve was smarter, more generous, and more stably employed. He took more time off for his family. He could make or repair any object with at least two moving parts, and he was more romantic with his wife than any other man on the planet. Especially me. All I knew how to do was write. The joke went that when zombies took over, I would be first to get thrown to the horde so others could escape. Survival of the most useful.

  Without realizing it, my grip on Mosey had tightened. Not much. Not enough to even alarm her. At three months old, Mosey was fairly sturdy and getting closer to being a cat than a kitten. But my thumb and index finger dug into her back muscles.

  Then the tip of my index finger went into her. I felt a slight pop and release, as if I’d just poked through one of those translucent spring roll rice wraps.

  I recoiled. Sam lifted his head up to see if I was OK. Tommy’s marker paused in mid-swoop. I met their gazes with confusion, then studied Mosey. She didn’t appear bothered at all. In fact, she stretched from side to side, claws kneading my jeans, as if trying out her new bodily alteration. Apparently, she didn’t mind.

  Tentatively, I set my fingertips back on her shoulder blade as Tommy and Sam returned to their respective pursuits. I found a fuzzy fold, just over an inch long. Carefully, I pressed around it, then into it, finding that my finger slid to the first knuckle before meeting the far side of the strange pouch.

  Something was inside the fold. It felt dry and dangerously thin, like parchment and toothpicks. And hot. Uncomfortably, feverishly hot.

  Like I said, I’m no vet, but even a dummy like me knew that wasn’t normal.

  I wondered if it might be something like a twin absorbed en utero. Mosey’s coloring indicated unusual genes. Could this be a mutation? A bonus leg or two sprouting from her back?

  I know what you’re thinking. Wings, right? It sounds crazy, but that was the obvious conclusion, and it took me about three seconds to reach it. My first impulse was to run downstairs and show my wife.

  “…after Madison’s born,” Kris said. “Probably him.”

  “For sure. A vasectomy is so much easier than getting your tubes tied.”

  “A weekend compared to a month? Are you kidding?”

  “Men who make their wives do it are assholes,” said another woman to a round of firm agreement.

  I agreed, too. Vasectomies were the better option on every count once you got ego and machismo out of the way. Still, something in the group’s quick judgment made me pause.

  It was hard enough for Kris to fit in, and I knew I made it even harder for her. How would it look if I intruded on their event yammering on about our mutant cat? Would that reflect positively or negatively on us? What if it drew a lot of attention? I didn’t want interruptions to our home life, and Kris was so skittish about how people saw her. I could imagine her mortification at being tagged as “the lady with the freaky abandoned cat,” which would lead to her gathering more attention than her sidelined friends.

  Even worse, was now the time to deal with birth defects? I could see that easily spiraling in the wrong direction.

  No, the potential downsides definitely outweighed the upsides. Not knowing what to do or how it would be received, I opted to say nothing.

  I felt along the other shoulder blade and the bulge that hadn’t opened. Yet. Mosey purred, but her eyes studied my face.

  I had the oddest feeling that she wanted me to open that side, too.

  October 11

  I told Kris. Well, I showed her. It did not go well.

  Tonight was another rough sleep night for Tommy. Kris felt wiped out after an afternoon at the McDonald’s play structure, grocery shopping, and walking Sam, so I set work aside — there was no way to get it finished tonight, anyway — and undertook to get our three-year-old to bed.

  I did the routine. Warm bath. Read stories. Got in bed with him nestled against my shoulder and sang songs. I do one every night called “The Zoodle Song” loosely based on a Sandra Boynton book. I made up this slow melody, and it always starts with the same chorus. “Go to sleep my zoodle, my fibblety-fitsy-foo. Go to sleep my noodle, the owls are howling moo. The chicken’s in the bathtub. The closet’s full of sheep. The neighbors in the freezer are drifting off to sleep.” Then it’s two or three minutes of improvised rhyming stanzas, anything from the day’s events to, if I really get stuck, Led Zeppelin lyrics.

  My wife listened to that chorus for weeks and weeks before she finally paid attention to the words and took me to task. “You can’t sing to our child about neighbors drifting off to sleep in the freezer!” So, I made up an alternative version for her and stuck to the original when it was just us boys. It’s the little victories.

  After songs, I waited motionless in Tommy’s bed for a while, using those minutes to do my daily meditation. Then, I slithered out and sat on the floor by his bed. He gave a small cry, and his little head peered over the edge, silhouetted against the slowly turning clouds dimly projected onto his ceiling. Seeing me there, he settled back. Inch by inch, I made my way silently to the door, where I had a blanket, pillow, and Kindle waiting. And there I stayed for forty frickin’ minutes, listening to him breathe deeply, then wake up and search for me. Over. And over.

  Some nights, I fall asleep on the floor there until the aching in my hips wakes me. This has been our routine for about a month, and it’s an improvement from having to sleep on the floor beside his bed. I console myself knowing that this will probably end before he graduates from high school. It’s worth it. I have no memories of my dad ever reading or singing to me.

  Kris checked her watch when I appeared around the bottom of the stairs and headed for the couch. She had some home improvement or house flipping show on. Normally, those shows annoy the hell out of me. It’s like window shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue. Why torture yourself with looking at things you can’t buy? Tonight, I was too tired to care.

  “Only an hour. Did he go down easy?”

  “Don’t jinx it.”

  “Hey, I want to show you something on Mosey.”

  And just like that, my brain locked up. What was the proper response? If I knew about it in advance, she’d wonder why I hadn’t said anything. Honestly, I had meant to say something, but I’d been busy, and it didn’t seem very pressing.

  I said, “Oh?”

  “Go get her. I’ll show you.”

  Mosey was curled up next to Sam, which indicated he’d had a good, tiring walk. He disliked having his space invaded, and when he had more energy, he’d move when Mosey tried to snuggle with him. Kris said he was being a dick. I thought he showed admirable restraint.

  I scooped up the cat. She eyed me warily, displeased with having her slumber interrupted. I set Mosey on Kris’s lap. The kitty stretched and rolled from her side onto her back, showing Kris her white belly. Kris indulged her for a moment, smiling and kneading her chest while Mosey purred. Then she gently cradled Mosey in one arm and stroked the cat’s back to put her at ease.

  Kris gently gripped the flap on Mosey’s right shoulder blade and peeled it back.

  “Look at that.”

  I did. There was only bare skin visible inside the pouch. Kris didn’t explore further than that, probably afraid to hurt Mosey. I wanted to tell her the cat didn’t mind, but that would have given away my prior knowledge. Ugh. I am truly terrible at keeping secrets.

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “Feel it. Do you think she’s OK?”

  I ran a fingertip along the flap’s edge. “Sure looks OK.”

  “Should we take her to the vet and get it looked at?”

  The figure of $400 instantly popped into my mind. That might cover an exam and X-ray. We barely had $40 to spare, never mind $400. The cat didn’t appear to have a problem, and we had about fifteen weeks until Madison arrived — and with her an expected cost of about $8,500 if there were no complications. That w
ould have to go on credit cards, where it would rack up fourteen percent annually.

  What would happen when the vet and its radiology staff found that wing? Imagine all the additional exams they would recommend.

  No, I had to head this off.

  “I don’t think we can afford another vet visit right now unless it’s critical. And look at her.” Mosey slowly followed the motion of my hand as I gestured at her. “I’m gonna say not critical.”

  Kris remained unconvinced. She alternately pet and prodded Mosey’s shoulder blades. When her middle finger broke through the membrane of the left flap, my wife let out a startled yip. Her hand jerked up, and her legs tensed as she pushed into the couch back.

  I don’t know if it was the breaking of that skin or my wife’s fear, but Mosey’s reaction was instantaneous. She hissed and lashed out with one paw, claws raking across the inside of Kris’s wrist.

  “Ow!” she cried as Mosey leaped from her lap, which elicited an even louder cry. “OW! Damn it, Dan!”

  Mosey vanished around the kitchen corner, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

  I tried to examine the scratches as Kris clutched her arm. “What’d I do?”

  “You said she was fine!”

  Part of me knew that she was lashing out from confusion and sudden pain, but most of my brain became offended and defensive. “I said not critical!”

  “I’m making an appointment first thing in the morning. What if those folds get infected?”

  I wanted to say the insides of those pockets were hot enough to cook a steak. Instead, I retreated to safer, if equally inadvisable, ground.

  “I have three calls and a paper to finish tomorrow. I can’t watch Tommy.”

  She stood, glaring. “Of course, you do. I’m gonna go put peroxide on this.”

  There’s a slight chance that Tommy slept through the entire exchange. He did not sleep through Kris stomping up the stairs.

  I returned to my post beside his bed, fuming that this had been the cat’s fault, and I’d never wanted the cat in the first place. At some point, an hour or two later, my hip and shoulder awoke me on the hallway floor. Mosey lay on the carpet near me, eyes glittering in the low blue light from Tommy’s room, silent, slow, and watchful.