Six Months, Three Days, Five Others

by Charlie Jane Anders

  Some time later, Anwar cried into his knees on the couch. He smelled wrong—pungent and kind of rotten, instead of like nice soap and hops. He was all shrunk inward, in the opposite of the ready-to-pounce stance that Berkley had pulled his whole body into when he’d been preparing to jump on Clover. Anwar didn’t look coiled or ready to strike, at all. He was making these pitiful sounds, like he couldn’t even draw enough breath to sob properly.

  Berkley saw the new cat creeping across the floor towards Anwar, and he ran across the room, reaching the sofa first.

  “No,” he told Clover. “You don’t do this. This is mine. You’re not even a real cat. Go AWAY!”

  Berkley climbed up on the sofa without even waiting to see if the new cat went away. He rubbed his forehead against Anwar’s hand, holding his knee, and licked the web between his fingers a little bit. Anwar let his knees down and made a lap for Berkley. Anwar’s hand felt good on his neck, and he let out a deep satisfied purr. But then he heard Anwar say something, in a deep, mournful voice. He sounded hopeless. Berkley looked up at him, and struggled with his urges.

  Then Berkley looked over at the new cat, who was watching the whole thing from on top of the bookcase. Berkley narrowed his eyes and told her, “I want to hurt you. But I want to bring back the other human more. If I help you, can you bring the humans back together? Yes or no?”

  Clover looked down at him and said, “I think so. I’ll do what I can.”

  A few hours later, Anwar had stumbled out of the house and the cats were alone again. “I keep forgetting who I am,” Clover said. “It’s hard to hold on to. But I remember, I begged the teachers to help me save you from my family, and I talked about how you were suffering. They said if I understood cats so much, why didn’t I try being one? I was like, ‘Fine.’ I didn’t realize what I had signed up for until years later.”

  “So you climbed into a place that you cannot get out of again,” Berkley suggested. “Because there is not enough room to turn around.”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  “So,” said Berkley, tail curled and ears pointed. “Don’t turn around.”

  * * *

  Anwar’s ankle was kind of swollen and he had no money for a doctor visit, and the stain on the bathroom wall had gotten bigger. The Olde Tyme Pub had gotten a totally bullshit citation from the North Carolina Department of Alcohol Law Enforcement, which had the hilarious acronym of ALE. His truck still kept not starting. Anwar longed to rest his head on Joe’s shoulder, breathing in that reassuring scent, so Joe could say, Fuck ’em, it’ll all be good. On his lonesome, Anwar only knew how to spiral.

  Clover came up to him as he sat on the bed, getting laboriously dressed, and perched on the edge. She made noises that usually meant “feed me” or “throw my fuzzy ball.” Anwar just shrugged, because he’d wasted three days trying to get her to talk.

  Just as Anwar finally got his good shirt buttoned and stood up, Clover said, “Hey.”

  “Well,” Anwar said. “Hey.”

  “Oh thank god. I finally did it. I’m back,” Clover said. “Oh thank goodness. I need your help. I think this is a test, and I’m failing it. One time before, I became a bird, but I needed help to turn back into a person. And now I feel totally stuck in cat form.”

  Anwar was already reaching for his phone to go on Meeyu and @ that guy, to let him know the cat finally started talking again. He no longer cared if he was being a crazy person. What had sanity done for him lately?

  “The longer I go without turning back into a person, the harder it’s going to be,” Clover said, jumping on the bed. “You look like shit, by the way. Berkley is worried about you. We both are.”

  “Hey, it’s fine. You’re okay.” Anwar picked her up and looked into her twitchy little face. “I already told those guys, the ones who dropped you off here. They know you’re talking again. They’re probably on their way. They’ll help you out, and maybe they’ll give Joe and me some more luck.”

  Clover squirmed, partly involuntarily. “You really shouldn’t take any luck from those guys. It’ll come with huge strings attached.”

  “Well, they told me that you’re a liar. And you know, I have nothing to lose.” But Anwar had a sudden memory of the man saying, You wouldn’t really be you any more.

  “Please! You have to help me change back to a person before they get here,” Clover said.

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  And anyway, it was too late. The door opened, without a knock or Anwar having to unlock it, and a man entered. He had dark skin pitted with acne scars, and long braids, and a purple turtleneck and matching corduroys. “So,” the man said, “what does she have to say for herself?”

  “You wasted a trip,” Clover told him. “I’m still working on changing myself back. I only just got my human voice working. I’ve got a ways to go before I’m in my own body again.”

  The man shrugged and picked Clover up with one hand. “You already did what we needed you to do. Just think what we’ll be able to do with a cat who talks like a person and knows how to do magic. You’ll be way more useful to us in this form.” Clover started squirming and shouting, and tried to claw the man, but he had her in a tight grip. He turned to Anwar. “Thanks for whatever you did. We’ll consider this a down payment, if you decide you want more luck.”

  “No!” Clover sounded terrified, on an existential level. “This is messed up. I don’t want to be stuck as a cat forever. I have a boyfriend. I have friends. You have to help me!” She looked right at Anwar, her yellow eyes fixed on him, and said, “You can’t let them take me.”

  Anwar thought about how things had been before, with just the one cat, and Joe there, and everything peaceful. He wanted nothing more than to bring back that version of his life. But he looked at Clover, her whole body contorted with terror—claws out, eyes huge and round, mouth full of teeth. And he knew what Joe would say if he was here: You gotta live like the fuckers don’t own you.

  The words came out before Anwar had even thought them through: “You can’t take my cat.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the man said. His stare was impossible to meet.

  “You can’t,” Anwar swallowed. “That’s my cat. You can’t take her.”

  “Thank you thank you,” Clover whispered.

  “This isn’t a cat. She’s a whole other thing. And whatever she told you, she was lying. That’s what she does.”

  Anwar drew courage from the fact that the weird man was arguing with him, instead of just taking the cat and leaving. “You gave this cat to me. You didn’t say it was a loan. She’s mine. I have all the records to prove it.”

  And now the man did turn to leave, but Clover leapt out of his arms. She landed on three feet, nearly tumbled head over tail, and then got her balance fast enough to run back into the apartment. She headed for one of the hundred hiding places that she’d gotten to know, but the man was right behind her. Anwar just stood and watched as the man ran through the apartment, knocking over Joe’s guitar. He was right on top of Clover, leaning to scoop her up.

  There was another cat between the man and Clover. As he bent down to grab the cat who was still shouting in English, his hand connected instead with Berkley. Who bit his thumb, hard enough to draw blood.

  Berkley growled at the man, in a pose Anwar had never seen before. Standing his ground, snarling, bloody teeth bared. Roaring. Like a tiny lion. This would have been the most ridiculous sight ever, if it weren’t so heroic.

  Clover stopped and looked at Berkley, defending her. Her jaw dropped open; her ears were all the way up. “Berkley, shit,” she said. “You just bit the thumb of the most powerful man on Earth. I can’t believe you. Whatever happens now, I want you to know I regret leaving you behind. And no matter what price I end up paying, I’m glad I rescued you. I’m sorry, and I understand what you went through.”

  That last phrase was like a string breaking, or a knot being undone after hours of pulling and worrying. As soon as Clover said understan
d, the cat was gone. A naked woman stood in Anwar’s hallway, holding Berkley in her arms. He looked up at her and seemed to recognize her. He put his head on her shoulder and purred.

  The woman looked at the man, who was nursing his thumb. “I know you’re still pissed about Siberia. I get it. But jeez. This was mean, even for you.”

  The man rolled his eyes, then turned to look at Anwar. “I hope you enjoy not having any luck ever again.” Then he stomped out of the apartment, leaving the door open.

  As soon as the man was gone, Anwar fell onto the couch, hands on his face. He felt weird having a naked stranger in his home, and even weirder that this girl had seen so much of him at his worst, and he’d had his hand on her face so many times. The whole thing was weird. And he felt a huge letdown in his gut, because he’d convinced himself somehow that he and Joe would get more luck and it would be fine.

  “So that’s it,” Anwar muttered, mostly to himself. “We’re screwed.”

  “Hey, can I borrow some clothes?”

  While the girl—Clover—was getting dressed, she tried to talk him down. “Joe is coming back. He loves you; he just sucks at expressing it sometimes. I’ve seen how you guys are.” Somehow, she managed to put clothes on without letting go of Berkley. “So listen. I suck at giving advice. But the absence of good luck is not bad luck. It’s just . . . life.”

  “I guess that sort of makes sense,” Anwar said.

  “That would be a first for me.” Clover looked twitchy, like she was still ready to chase a ball around, or eat a treat out of Anwar’s hand. Anwar wondered if she was going to be stuck having cat thoughts forever. “I can fix your injured ankle, no problem. And also I think I know how to get rid of that stain on your bathroom wall. I’ll have a look at the truck; I’m pretty good with engines. And I’ll leave you my Meeyu info, if you ever have another problem you need help with. I’ll be around if you need me, okay?”

  Anwar nodded. He was starting to think having this magical girl on speed dial could be better than good luck anyway.

  Joe came home an hour later, after Clover had already left. “Hey,” Joe said. “I lost my job. But I think we’re better off, and I already have a line on something—I’ll never have to leave town again. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about being a jackass, and leaving for so long, and I love you. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Anwar just stared at his husband for a moment. He had a case of highway sunburn on one arm and part of his neck, and his hair was a mess, and he looked like a rock star. Anwar threw his arms around Joe and whispered, “The cats missed you.” Then he realized there was only cat, and he was going to have to explain somehow. But he was too busy kissing the man he loved, and there would be time for that later.

  Watching the two men from the top of his fuzzy climbing tree, Berkley looked immensely self-satisfied.

  Intestate

  1. Road trip

  The minivan is already full of children when it pulls up to my front steps. I climb into the deepest pit facing out the back door, and plunk my rucksack in my lap. Before I even buckle up, my youngest niece Rosemary is grabbing at my jeans leg and trying to show me a doll, while her brother Sebastian is threatening to shoot me with a toy gun. The whole van smells like mildew and overripe fruit. Empty juice boxes scatter over my feet. This will be a long ride.

  “Welcome aboard, Emmy. Next stop, Castle von Doom,” my youngest brother Eric says from the front seat. His brown hair is receding, and he’s grown a wispy soul patch. Next to him, his latest wife Octavia is trying to find indy folk-rock on the iPod. They both wave at me, and then we’re off. Eric drives faster than you would think a man driving a van-load of his own children would go, even on the back roads full of hairpin turns and big trees.

  Eric keeps joking about how we’re going to visit Doctor Doom, his newest nickname for our father. “He’s going to bake us doomcookies,” Eric says.

  “Doomcookies!” Rosemary shouts.

  “Made with doomberries,” Octavia says.

  “Doomberries!” we all shout, even me. I only feel a little disloyal to my father.

  The hills are full of disappearing acts, like sheep meadows and barns that pop out for just a few moments. There’s almost too much color to take in, between the trees that are going red and swathes of evergreens. Rosemary asks if she can count the sheep, or if that will make her doze off. I tell her to try, and see what happens. We are driving in the middle of the road, directly over the yellow lines, when a jeep comes around the tight bend and nearly rams into us. Eric swerves back into our lane, hyperventilating a little. Next to me, Rosemary has fallen asleep.

  We get lost twice, and have to stop for pee breaks and ice cream and hot dogs, but we’re still the first to arrive at the failed gated community where my dad lives. We roll off the main road into a small feeder road, which leads to a broken gate, and then a cul-de-sac with five driveways. The last one goes to a big McMansion with two gables and a huge lawn in front, and acres of forest in back. The other four driveways lead to dirt lots or to empty, collapsing houses. As we roll up the rocky driveway on grumbling tires, my dad skips out the front door. His white beard and glasses catch the sunlight. Even though it feels like the day has gone on forever, it’s only noon.

  “It’s Doctor Doom,” Eric says with no sarcasm.

  2. My father’s hands

  When I was little, my father was a pair of hands. Later, he was a torso that I fell into like sleep. Maybe, occasionally, he was rough laughter just over my head.

  The first time I could remember being aware of my father as a whole person was when he changed. He went away on a research trip, and when he came home, he’d grown a beard and gotten a pair of thick glasses. All of a sudden, this stranger was kissing my mother and moving around us kids as though he had a right. He smelled yeasty. I hadn’t been conscious of what my dad looked like before, but this was clearly some kind of home invader, who had tricked everybody. I ran and hid under my mom’s dresser.

  Now, my father’s hands move almost too fast for me to make out clearly. He carves a honey-baked ham to make sandwiches for us, and he flips the carving knife around like a Benihana chef while the kids cheer. Nobody knows exactly what he’s done to upgrade his hands, under all the liver spots and calluses. We know better than to ask.

  “Don’t teach the kids to play with knives, dad,” Eric says at last.

  Two nights ago, my sister Joanna called me, the first time we’d talked in months. “You know you’re probably going to get the hands, Emmy,” she said randomly at one point. “You’re his favorite, even after everything. You could probably get whichever parts of him you wanted.” Joanna is the only one of us kids who inherited Dad’s genius, she got a math PhD and even helped solve some theorems and things. She wound up being a super-actuary at one of the top insurance companies, and she can rattle off the chances of anything bad happening to anyone.

  My father picks up Rosemary and Sebastian in each arm, holding them up to his Santa beard and cradling them. He bounces on the balls of his feet like he’s about to start Lindy-hopping.

  I turn away for a second, and see a strange tapestry on the sitting room wall, way on the other side of the house. And then I realize, it’s not a tapestry. It’s a beehive in a glass case, open to a small apiary out back.

  My dad comes up behind me, almost soundless, and touches my bare shoulder. His fingers are cool and a little sandpapery. “Looking good, Em. You’ve cut your hair in a bob, and gotten yourself a pair of glasses with baroque frames,” he says, by way of saying, “I see you.” He seems distracted. For a moment his hand stays in place and we watch the bees together, and I wonder if this means that we’ve patched things up between us. Or if we’re just pretending we’ve patched it up, and if there’s any difference. I try not to wonder if this is one of our last real moments together.

  “Happy eightieth birthday, Dad,” Eric says, joining us, lite beer in hand. “I hope I look half as good when I’m your
age.”

  3. Intellectual property

  By late afternoon Friday, pretty much everyone has arrived, and my dad’s house, the embarrassingly named Thimblewick, is overrun. There are my three older brothers and one older sister, plus their fourteen children and even a few grandchildren. There are only two bedrooms inside the house, besides my dad’s, and by common consent those go to the families with babies: My nephew Derek and his twin daughters Marjorie and Isabella, and my nephew Roger and his son Gregor.

  And yes, Isabella’s last name is Pinch, like almost all of us. We all call her Izzy, though “Izzy Pinch” is still kind of ludicrous. She’ll just have to own it, I guess.

  The rest of us wind up putting up tents, all over the lawn and the clearing out back before the woods. Dad swears the bees are practically wintering already, and won’t bother us. Of course, everybody starts getting stung, until Dad closes some vent. We build three bonfires, including one on the front lawn, where we dig a huge pit. It hardly matters—one of the banks will take the house soon enough.

  After dark, Dad produces two turkeys and a bloated turducken from a massive oven, and starts carving them on a big folding table in the back yard. He can carve two turkeys simultaneously, although after he notices people watching he starts focusing on just one at a time. He shifts his weight effortlessly as he moves around the table. My sister Joanna is watching carefully, to see how he does it. Joanna’s hair has gone mostly gray, and she’s gotten hatched-faced.

  Joanna told me she expects to inherit Dad’s pelvis and hips, when he dies. She thinks he developed some sort of technology that would revolutionize hip replacements everywhere. A new self-lubricating type of acetabular, plus there’s a gel in his hip sockets that’s full of these special bacteria that Dad found in the Antarctic that absorb the impact when his feet strike the ground, and turn it into energy.

  It’s undeniably creepy the way Joanna covets her father’s pelvis.

  Someone has set up speakers in the backyard, playing classic Motown and Stax. The music doesn’t even begin to drown out the lamentation of the children, who have just realized that (a) they’re camping out in the cold, (b) there’s only enough hot water for a few showers at any given time of day, and (c) there’s no internet or cellphone service. I hear one of my nieces, Deedee I think, explaining very seriously that if she can’t get online for two days, she will have lost all social status. Forever.