by Gwen Cooper
“Ma,” Josh says. There’s a warning in his voice.
“No, that’s okay,” Laura says. “It was different if you actually lived there,” she tells his parents. “My mother made a point of getting to know people, so there’d always be someone to keep an eye out for me. I remember one time, I was twelve and riding my bike along Fourteenth and Second, and some older kid tried to sell me drugs. These hookers who knew my mother just descended on him.” She laughs. “One of them insisted on walking me back to the store so she could deliver me to my mother personally.”
Even though Laura’s words seem friendly at first, there’s a hard, protective sound to her voice. As if she doesn’t want Josh’s parents to think anything bad about Sarah. This is odd, because Sarah says Laura will never stop being angry at her for the record store or where she decided to raise Laura. She blames the record store for everything, Sarah once told Anise. Then she sighed and said, Actually, she blames me.
As Laura talks, though, she starts to sound softer and her shoulders relax. The ache in my chest from Sarah’s being away thrums and eases as I listen to her, and I hope she’ll keep talking about Sarah this way. It’s nice to hear different memories of Sarah than the ones I already have. Maybe if Laura says enough of her different memories, we’ll have remembered Sarah enough for her to come back and always be with us.
Josh likes listening to her, too. His eyes get shinier and don’t move away from her face at all while she speaks. His posture (and Laura’s, too) is more relaxed, so that now his arm and leg brush lightly against hers without either of them noticing much—in the old, comfortable way they used to be together before they started being angry all the time.
But his parents look horrified at what Laura has just said, and Laura realizes this. Her face turns bright red, and she gives a laugh that sounds like a dog’s yelp. “It was completely different on Ninth west of A, though, where my mom’s store was,” she adds quickly. “That street was always quiet. The street we lived on was nice, too …” Laura’s voice trails off and when she speaks again, her voice is casual. “How did we get on this subject, anyway?” She looks at Erica, who’s sitting next to Josh’s mother on the smaller couch. “We were talking about your plans for the kids this summer.”
“I have something lined up for them through their school three days a week, but I don’t know what to do with them the other two.” Erica looks glum.
“I can take them two days a week, if you want,” Josh says.
Erica hesitates. You can tell by her face how badly she wants to say yes, but she doesn’t want to say so right away. “Are you sure? I know you have … other things to do.”
“Sure!” Josh says. “I could use some time out of the house, anyway. It’ll be fun.”
Laura’s nostrils widen just a little. She gets up and starts taking empty plates into the kitchen, her fingers gripping them tightly. I follow her and, thinking I certainly deserve a reward for the admirable patience I’ve shown all afternoon, I stand next to the counter and meow at her in the loudest, firmest voice I have. She salvages a small piece of fish from someone’s plate and puts it on the floor for me.
I gobble it down quickly—but, really, I deserve better than that, seeing as I’ve waited so long to try some. When Laura starts scraping the rest of the food from the plates into the garbage disposal, I paw at her leg and meow more insistently. That’s when she turns to look down at me and says, “Don’t push your luck.”
After everybody leaves, Josh carries the plates and platters of leftover fish into the kitchen. The fish goes into plastic wrap and the platters go into the sink. I’m still hoping Josh will give me some fish—like he promised—but instead he puts on a pair of springy yellow gloves and turns the faucet on. Steam and little rainbow soap bubbles rise into the air. Normally I’d love to jump and try to catch a few, but I don’t want to take my eyes off that fish.
Laura comes in with the glasses everybody drank from and sets them down next to the sink. “Good!” Josh says cheerfully. “You can help me dry.”
Laura picks up a towel and stands next to him. From the set of her back it’s clear that something is bothering her. “What’s wrong?” Josh asks, as he hands her a washed plate.
Laura’s towel rubs the wet platter so hard it squeaks. “I just think we should’ve at least discussed it before you committed to taking the kids two days a week.” She sets the dried platter into a metal rack next to the sink.
Josh hands her another one. “What’s the big deal? I have the time, and I really do need to get out. I’m going crazy sitting here alone every day.”
Laura’s elbow moves rapidly up and down as she dries. “What about looking for a job?”
Josh’s laugh is brief and harsh. “Trust me,” he says, “three days a week is plenty of time to make phone calls nobody returns and send emails nobody responds to.”
“But what if somebody wants to schedule an interview one of the days when you have the kids?” Laura takes the next plate from his gloved hand. “Or what if you get a job in a few weeks and don’t have time for them anymore?”
“Then Erica and I will make other arrangements. That’s a bridge we can cross if and when we get to it.” Josh turns off the faucet. The yellow gloves make a snapping sound as he peels them off and turns to face Laura. “Laura, in the next two minutes my parents would’ve offered to take the kids. At their age they shouldn’t be driving into the city twice a week or running around after two little kids all day. My family needs help, and I’m in a position to offer it. I should’ve discussed it with you first. You’re right about that, and I’m sorry. But I really don’t see what the problem is.”
“I’m your family, too,” Laura says quietly, and it occurs to me for the first time that she’s right—Laura and Josh are a family. I’d thought of them as being more like roommates—like Anise and Sarah, or like Sarah and me—because their schedules are so different and they don’t act like the families on TV shows. But Laura and Josh are a family, and for a moment I’m distracted from the thought of all that fish as I wonder what that makes me in their lives. “I’d like to think that I get to be a part of family decisions,” she adds.
Josh’s face wavers, and I think maybe he’s about to say something nice to her. But then his face hardens again. “I’m not the only one around here deciding things unilaterally.”
Laura folds the towel neatly in half and slides it through the handle of the refrigerator, where it hangs to dry. “I’m going upstairs to change,” she tells him, and walks out of the kitchen.
Josh sighs after she leaves, his eyes roaming around the room until they fall on me, still waiting by the counter. “I promised you some fish, didn’t I?” he asks, like it just occurred to him—like I hadn’t clearly been trying to remind him of this all afternoon! He takes a nice fat slice of the smoked fish out of its plastic wrap and puts it in the palm of his hand, which is shaking slightly. Then he bends down, holding his hand out toward me. “Come on, Prudence,” he says in an encouraging voice. “Here you go.”
I’m confused, because what does Josh expect me to do? Eat the fish right out of his hand? But then I’d have to touch him! Why can’t he just put it on the floor for me, or on a little Prudence-plate (which would be best)?
“Come on, Prudence,” Josh says again. His mouth twists. “I’d like to be on good terms with at least one woman in this house.”
What house? What is he talking about? Raising my right paw carefully, I try batting at the fish in his hand, hoping to make it fall to the floor. But it stays right where it is.
And that’s when Josh does the oddest thing. He starts singing to me, just like Sarah used to. “Pru-dence, Pru-dence, give me your answer, do.” I look into his face, bewildered. That’s when he straightens up and starts moving around the kitchen, turning in circles as he kicks out his feet and waves his hands. He’s dancing! He does a funny little dance around the kitchen, dangling the piece of fish between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. I foll
ow his movements, trying to stay near the fish but away from his feet. Even my whiskers are having a hard time helping me stay balanced as he sings, more loudly this time, “I’m half CRA-zy, all for the love of you.” Now he throws himself down on one knee with the other leg bent, draping the fish across his bent leg. “It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage. But you’ll look sweet, on the seat, of a bicycle built for twoooooooo!”
He puts one hand on his chest and throws the other into the air as he holds the last note for a long time. It looks like he’s having a good time, actually, as silly as all this dancing around is. Even I have to admit he’s kind of entertaining right now. While he’s distracted, I come close enough to pull the fish off his leg with my teeth. He strokes my back cautiously as I eat, and I’m so happy to finally have my fish, I don’t even try to stop him.
We both look up as we hear an unexpected sound. It’s Laura, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Her lips are pressed together, but this time it’s because she’s trying to hold back laughter. Her shoulders are shaking with the effort. When she’s calmed down a bit, she says, “That was pretty adorable.”
Josh ducks his head with fake modesty. “Well, I try.”
He stands back up, and the two of them look at each other’s eyes. He’s breathing a bit harder than normal because of all that dancing around.
Laura walks across the room toward him. “I’m sorry,” she says, and wraps both arms tightly around Josh’s waist. “About everything. Not just today.”
“I’m sorry,” Josh tells her. For a moment, I wonder if they’re going to start arguing about who’s sorrier. He pulls back to look into her face. “You know how crazy I am about you.” He grins. “I’m even crazy about how much you love your job.”
Laura leans her head against his chest. “I’m pretty crazy about you, too.”
“Then we’re two lucky people,” he says, and kisses the top of her head.
I hear the puckering sound of their lips coming together. I continue to eat my fish as the two of them go upstairs to their bedroom. It’s dark outside before they come back down.
9
Prudence
THERE WAS ONE DAY IN EARLY JUNE THAT WAS DIFFERENT FOR SARAH from all the other days in the year. She would always spend it listening to the same two songs over and over. The first song is on a black disk from one of Sarah’s favorite bands, and in it the man who’s singing asks if he fell in love with you, would you (not you, but the “you” in the song) promise to be true? The other song is by a woman. In that song the woman keeps saying to dim all the lights so she can dance the night away. Sarah never danced when she listened to this song, though, and she kept all the lights just as bright as they always were. She’d take out some dried old flowers from a metal box that she kept in the closet, and lie on the couch with a pillow Anise made for her out of her wedding dress. The pillow is covered in dark marks that Sarah says are water stains it got from being outside in the rain once, a long time ago.
Even though it’s not really that pretty anymore—and even though she only takes it out once a year—this pillow meant a lot to Sarah. She would run her fingers over the material while her music played, and then, finally, she’d stretch out on the couch to nap on it. I’d curl up next to her, nudging at her hand with the top of my head until she started petting me and scratching behind my ears the way I like. I could tell when she finally fell asleep, because her hand would stop moving and rest along the fur of my back. That’s when I would fall asleep, too, stretching out one paw to rest on Sarah’s shoulder, so we were still touching each other even though we were sleeping.
I found that pillow today in one of the Sarah-boxes. It was stuck under a bunch of rolled-up posters and a pair of small bongo drums Sarah used to let me play with sometimes, laughing and calling me a “hep cat.” I had to use all my toes to pry the pillow free so I could lie on it and think about Sarah, and about how she said that if you remember someone, they’ll always be with you. But when I opened my eyes, I didn’t see Sarah anywhere.
I don’t know exactly which day in June was so important to Sarah, so I don’t know whether it’s come and gone already. I guess it’s a holiday just for Sarah and not for other humans, because as we get farther into June the only thing that’s different here is the days keep getting longer, and Laura and Josh are running the air conditioner more frequently. In Lower East Side, our cold air came from a box stuck into the living room wall. If I pressed my ear to it, I could hear things happening outside or, sometimes, the sound of birds nesting in it from the other side of the wall. It was frustrating for me, to be able to hear the cheep cheep! of birds without being able to get at them. But it was even more frustrating for Sarah, who had to bang our side of the box with her hand until the birds flew away. She said their feathers clogged up the motor that made the cold air come out.
Here the cold air comes from vents up near the ceiling. It blows all the way down to the floor, though, and sometimes the sudden blast when it comes on tickles my ears until I have to scratch at them with my hind paws. On the days when Josh is home and not out with the littermates, he likes to make the air much cooler than most cats (including me) would find comfortable. But when he’s not looking, Laura spins a little knob on the living room wall that makes the air warmer. She said something once about how expensive it is to keep the cold air running all the time (even air costs money in Upper West Side?), but Josh says that it gets too hot for him on the days when he has to be here.
I keep waiting for Laura to talk more about Sarah, like she did on Mother’s Day. I thought maybe Laura would remember the June day that was so special to Sarah, and come upstairs like I did to look through the Sarah-boxes for Sarah’s wedding-dress pillow. But Josh is the only one other than me who spends any time in my room, and he only comes in to look through Sarah’s black disks for music to play and then put back before Laura gets home from work. I thought maybe he would play one of Sarah’s two special songs, but he hasn’t so far.
I wish I could figure out how to get Laura to talk about Sarah again. Sometimes when I look at her I get confused and think I’m looking at Sarah. It’s what Sarah used to call “a trick of the light” that makes some passing expression on Laura’s face, or the angle from which I see the curl of her eyelashes, so perfect and convincing in its Sarah-ness. But I don’t know if that’s because Laura really looks so much like Sarah, or if it’s because I’m starting to forget what Sarah really looked like. I catch myself watching Laura the way I used to watch Sarah—her hair changing colors in the sunlight, her chin that trembles just a little right before she starts laughing at something I’ve done, her long fingers (that feel nice in my fur sometimes) when she throws me a bottle cap or plastic straw to play with. I’ve noticed that Laura has more of my scent mixed in with her own, which is even more confusing—because it’s Sarah who’s supposed to smell like me and be my Most Important Person.
Sometimes I catch myself without any pain in my chest at all from Sarah’s not being here. I have to remind myself to feel it—even though it hurts—because ideas don’t mean anything if you don’t also feel them with your body. What if I were to forget about Sarah altogether? Already there’s so much I can’t remember. I can remember the first time Laura ever touched me, and when she first gave me the dress with the Sarah-smell for me to sleep on, and even the first time I met her when I was a kitten. I know I had lots of firsts with Sarah, too, but she’s been gone for such a long, long time. Sometimes I can remember things about her so clearly, it’s like I just saw her yesterday. Other times, no matter how hard I close my eyes and try to think, I can’t remember anything at all. I remember the idea of Sarah, and all her warmth and gentleness and beautiful singing music, but the memory of the idea doesn’t bring any specific feeling with it to my chest or belly.
I wish I could ask Laura how much she remembers about Sarah. Does she remember the way Sarah smells? I can, but maybe that’s only because the things in the Sarah-boxes still
smell like her. They won’t smell like her forever, though, and what will I do then? Every day their Sarah-smell is getting fainter.
I’ve noticed Laura holding the picture of Sarah that used to live with us in our old apartment, and that now lives in the living room here. She’ll stare at it for a while before putting it down, and her expression is almost questioning, as if there’s something she’d like to know that she thinks she can figure out if only she looks at that picture long enough. If she hears Josh coming into the room, she quickly puts the photo back down and walks a few steps away from it. Is Laura, too, having a hard time remembering little things about Sarah, now that she’s been gone for so long?
It was so hard when Sarah went away! But now that I’m losing even my memories of her, it feels like she’s going away all over again. Laura’s probably the only one who can help me with this. But Laura never talks about Sarah at all.
Two days a week, Josh takes a train up to Washington Heights, where his sister lives, so he can take care of the littermates. He always smells like them when he comes home—like fruit-juice Popsicles and potato chips and too-sweet chewing gum. He also has the good smell of outside air, the way Sarah used to when she came home from one of the long walks around Lower East Side she liked to take in nice weather. Even when Josh left the apartment every day to go to his office, he didn’t smell as much like outside as he does now.
Josh likes to take the littermates on what he calls “field trips.” At first I was a little jealous, because I know how much I would love to play in a field. I’ve never seen one in real life, but I’ve seen them on TV. They’re big stretches of grass and trees, and even though I can’t smell all the wonderful smells I’m sure are there, I can tell just by looking at the TV pictures that there would be no end of things to do or chase or pounce on.
But, other than one time when they went to see Great Lawn in Central Park, the places they go don’t sound like fields at all. One day Josh took them to Museum of Natural History, and another time he took them to an indoor place where they could paint their own ceramic plates and pots. In between making phone calls to try and get a new job, Josh also calls humans he knows who have litters of their own, trying to get ideas for new things he can do with Abbie and Robert.
