She sat in the car thinking about how to get rid of it. Sheryl had mentioned getting him from a shelter. She didn’t say which one, though. Camille wondered whether or not they’d call Sheryl if she returned the kitten. Maybe there was some kind of rule against un-rescuing pets, or they might offer a refund Sheryl didn’t even know she was entitled to. Will this lie ever die?
Perhaps she could go to a playground and release it near a bunch of children. Surely, they’d find him and somebody’s momma would take him in. Or not. Then he’d be back at the shelter, they’d be calling Sheryl; bad news all over again.
Meow. Meow.
She could just let him go. He could be an alley cat. They lead good lives. He’d have to hustle every day, probably, but there’s nothing wrong with living on the run. He’d make kitten friends. They’d show him the ropes. Better yet, he might end up finding one of those elderly animal hoarders who’d gladly accept him into their happy brood.
Camille revved up the car and drove a few blocks to the nearest rundown-looking neighborhood, where she was sure the animal would be welcome. She stopped near a house with two cats curled up on the porch. Perfect. Those grown-up cats could take over from here.
She parked and opened the passenger’s door. Threw her purse on the floor and removed the cover again. Sheryl’s unwelcomed gift stretched himself tall, raised up, and set his tiny front paws on the rim of the box. He surveyed his surroundings. Then, his little gray eyes made contact with Camille’s. Meow. Meow.
Though Camille had never actually spoken to an animal before, this kitten had made it pretty clear to her that he was afraid, and he was depending on Camille for help.
“I can’t keep you,” she told him. “I don’t like cats. At all. You need to find another home.”
Meow.
She stepped back so he could have a view of the other cats and the entire world, for that matter. “Go be with your kind,” she pleaded. Am I actually talking to a kitten?
He relinquished his stance and sat. Looked at Camille again as if to ask, “Are you my momma?”
Okay. Forget Plan A. He was too small and too afraid to fend for himself on the mean streets. A nice-sized rat could take him down. Great. I’ve got a scaredy-cat for real. She closed the box, plopped her purse back in place.
Plan B. The barber shop. Camille figured if barbershop salesmen could find buyers for everything from car tires to furniture, surely they could unearth someone in the market for a kitten.
She crossed a major thoroughfare, two sets of tracks, and rolled out on the other side of the freeway to enter her old neighborhood. There were three places where she could probably find Tyree, the same guy who’d sold her the bootleg computer. The first two shop owners said he hadn’t been by yet, but they’d let him know she was looking for him.
Cool Cutz, the shop across the street from her old church, proved the lucky stop. She could see Tyree sitting in a chair next to two patrons who must have been waiting their turn to receive services.
Camille parked, got out of her car, and cautiously entered the small establishment, its cowbell announcing her arrival. The three old men cutting hair, their patrons, and the bench crew looked her up and down, as usual. Men.
“Tyree, can I see you for a second? I’ve got something in the car I need you to look at.”
“All right, pretty lady,” he agreed, rising from his seat. How he managed to keep his business going despite a bad leg and several teeth missing in action was beyond Camille. Tyree shuffled his old self outside. Camille led him to her car, where she promptly opened the door and revealed the prize with a flip of the lid.
“Voila!”
“No, ma’am.” He poked out his bottom lip. “I don’t do cats. Only dogs. Pit bulls and Rottweilers, but I don’t keep ’em. I’m just the middle man.”
Camille groaned. “You can’t think of anyone who might want a cat?”
He looked at her above the rim of his glasses. “Don’t too many black folks mess with cats, in my opinion. They bad luck. You gon’ have a hard time givin’ it away, let alone sellin’ it.”
Once again, Camille enclosed the kitten. Meow.
“Sorry about that. But let me know if you want a tablet. I got the hookup on iPads and Dells.” Tyree wasted no time in pitching his featured items of the week.
Well, if he couldn’t help with the cat, maybe he could be of some use in another category. She asked on a whim, “You know anybody who can clear a ticket with the city?”
“Naw, I don’t break no laws.”
Copying bootleg movies and CDs, fencing stolen property, but he was too good to break the law. “All right. Thanks anyway.”
With the hour almost gone, Camille had no choice except to take the cat back to her apartment for the moment. She had no clue about the apartment policy on pets. A few tenants had animals for sure. Whether or not they were supposed to have those animals was anyone’s guess.
As she entered her unit, the kitten’s meows turned into yowling. She set the carton on the couch and opened it to determine this thing’s problem. He rose up again, standing on his back legs. Looking at her like she could understand him. Meow! Meow! Meow!
Maybe he was hungry. What do kittens eat? She had some lunch meat in the refrigerator. Some salad mix that was about to spoil. Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember ever having seen cats eat people food on television. Small kittens might not be able to absorb solid food. The last thing she needed was a sick, throwing-up scaredy-cat on her hands.
She thought about every cat she’d ever semiknown and what they might have eaten. Felix didn’t eat anything. Garfield ate everything. The cat from the Cat Chow commercials, of course, at their product, but she was not about to spend good, hard-earned money on cat food.
Meow! Meow! It cried louder.
Suddenly, a picture of a cat drinking milk from a saucer flashed in Camille’s mind. She marveled at her memory, as this mental image was probably something she’d seen in one of her first grade readers.
In haste, she forgot to close the lid as she scampered toward the kitchen and prepared the serving of milk. When she returned to the box, the cat was nowhere in sight. What! She looked left. Right. No gray fur ball.
“Here, kitty, kitty. Here.”
Meow!
The sound had come from floor level. Camille set the milk on the coffee table and peeked below her couch. Sure enough, there it was, scrunched in the tiny space underneath.
“Come out, kitty,” she coaxed. “I got you some milk.”
But no amount of kitty-calling seemed to do the trick. If this were a puppy, she could just reach under and pull him out. Cats, however, had scratchy claws. People with cats always sported those tiny marks on their arms, laughing about the scars like they were funny. About as funny as letting a two-year-old slap you, Camille always thought to herself.
She didn’t play when it came to cats.
“Cat, get your butt out here,” she demanded. This only caused him to retreat farther.
She took off her shoe and swiped the tip at him. Immediately, he forced himself deeper beneath the couch in fear. Only, this time, she heard a screeching yelp from the animal. He tried to move around but seemed stuck.
This is just great. She hoisted herself to a standing position and proceeded to lift the couch off the ground. To her horror, the kitten cried even louder. She set the furniture back down and examined the situation from behind. That’s when the awful truth revealed itself. The cat had gotten his tail caught between metal springs on the couch’s underside. Movement only made matters worse.
Why me?
It took the next ten minutes to get the cat unhooked, get a good grip on him, put him back in the box, and give him enough hints about the nutritional value of cow’s milk before he finally figured out that Camille was trying to help him for the moment. Nearly sweating from this debacle, Camille stopped to reclaim her breath while the kitten gracefully lapped from a tea saucer she’d have to trash once this crazy mini-episod
e of her life concluded.
CHAPTER 20
Having Cat in the apartment proved a welcomed distraction on Mother’s Day morning. He gave her something to feed, something to talk to while getting ready for church. “Cat, you’ve been decent so far. I’m gonna find you a really good home this week, ’cause I don’t like your kind.”
Meow.
“Nope. I’m sorry, but you’re not my type, Cat.”
He didn’t have a name. Didn’t need one, actually, because soon and very soon, he’d be gone and someone else would give him a real handle. In the meantime, turned out Cat wasn’t so bad after all. Camille had gone online and figured out how to make a litter box using newspaper so he’d have somewhere to do his business. And when Sheryl brought the paperwork, she also brought a starter kit, which, hopefully, contained enough food to hold Cat together until he got to his permanent residence. So long as she gave him food and a place to “go,” Cat didn’t bother her.
He wasn’t as destructive as she thought he’d be. He tore paper towels to shreds when he got the chance, but that was about it. Maybe Cat was one of those calm kittens. She’d be sure to put that information in his adoption papers.
Growing up, Camille and Courtney had a dog. Butch. He was a classic German shepherd, black with brown spots. Camille remembered how he used to jump all over them when they were younger. As the years passed, he was content with a pat on the head. Finally, in his last years, he would raise only an eyebrow when they came outside to play. Butch died when Camille was in seventh grade.
Though the dog was more Courtney’s than hers, she had missed Butch’s presence. It seemed almost foreign to walk in the backyard and not see the big blob of fur somewhere on the landscape, even if he was only laying down.
Bobby Junior had said that God probably let Butch die to prepare them for Momma’s death. That was a nice thought, but Camille realized nothing can adequately prepare someone for the loss of their mother. And nothing could permanently subdue the painful flares that burned in her chest when she sat down and thought too long about Momma.
Yes, Cat was good for something that morning.
Camille drove to church on autopilot, thinking about the song she would sing with Ronald and the rest of the praise team. She knew all the words. More importantly, where she’d throw in the runs and special notes. She’d been practicing since the impromptu rehearsal. Ronald’s talent and intuition would undoubtedly add to the performance. This was going to be great. And it would all be memorialized with the help of her little friend: the digital recorder with lapel microphone she’d rented from the library.
Ronald requested that the praise team members not wear flashy clothes so the audience wouldn’t be distracted by their costume. If she’d had a few rhinestones in her closet, Camille might have been offended. As it turns out, all the black in her closet was perfect for this morning. She was perfect praise-team material. Ronald needed to get with it.
Just before joining her cohorts, Camille stuffed the recorder inside her bra and attached the microphone to the knit shirt underneath her button-down blouse. Just yesterday, she’d experimented with this equipment wearing the same outfit, making sure her voice could be heard clearly while the microphone remained invisible.
She met up with Ronald, Evelina, Faison, and Nathan in Ronald’s office, adjacent to the choir room, for prayer. Glancing around the room, she noted his degrees posted on the wall and several pictures chronicling his daughter’s life. There was one picture, barely visible at the end of a row of books, featuring a much younger Brittney standing between Ronald and the woman who was obviously Brittney’s mother. Same wavy hair, button nose. Quickly, Camille scanned the parents’ hands. They had been married. It hit her: Ronald was a widower. She knew Brittney’s mother had died, but somehow none of it clicked until this morning. Ronald, too, knew what it was like to lose the one person who had vowed to love you unconditionally.
Maybe they did have more in common than not.
Ronald reviewed the order of the songs. “‘Precious Jesus’ first for the older mothers. Nathan, you’ll take the lead there. Then Faison goes into ‘I Give Myself Away.’ Evelina, you’ve got ‘Change.’ Camille and I will end with ‘What a Mighty God.’ That’s our plan, but we all know to yield to the Holy Spirit’s plan. This is God’s house. Amen?”
“Amen,” from the team.
“We’ll meet back in here after service.” Ronald led them in prayer, and they filed out of the room toward the sanctuary. Camille lagged behind, giving herself just enough time and space to manipulate the recorder’s “on” switch.
Within the next minute, Camille felt a flood of memories overtake her as she took the stage. This was the life! Hundreds of people on their feet, clapping, awaiting the sound of her music and voice.
Everything went as planned, with Camille singing background through the first two songs. Nathan and Faison led their songs, no problem. Camille peeked down a few times at the huge, red digital timer facing the stage. Fourteen minutes had passed. She was still perfectly within the alleged three hours’ battery life.
Then Evelina ministered before she sang. “Today is Mother’s Day. Can I get all the mothers to raise their hands?”
Thousands of hands waved back at Evelina. “Amen. Happy Mother’s Day to you.”
Annoyed slightly, Camille still kept a smile on her face. This whole Mother’s Day speech was not on their official agenda. Actually, the dance ministry was doing the official tribute, not the praise team.
“I know we’ve got a lot of people here this morning that we don’t get to see very often,” she said.
A slight laughter rose from the audience as they recognized the truth. After today, a good third of the people probably wouldn’t be back until Christmas.
“Let me tell you something, it’s every godly mother’s wish to see her child grow up to love the Lord. To serve Him with all their heart. I know you came here today for Momma, but I’m here to tell you Momma’s prayers won’t go unanswered!”
“Yeah!” the congregants roared. Several women let out desperate shrieks as Evelina continued, “Mommas, some of us may not be here when the Word of God is fulfilled in our children’s lives, but how many of you know the prayers of the righteous availeth much! A mother’s prayer never dies!”
With that quote from the Bible, Camille sensed a change in the atmosphere. A reverential, earnest mood that stole attention from time itself and slammed Camille square in the midsection. What if Evelina’s words were true?
“I’m a living witness. Some of you came here because you wanted to make Momma happy, but let me tell you something, Jesus wants to make you happy. He wants to make you into the person that God and your momma’s prayers, grandmomma’s prayers, and Jesus’s prayers have already proclaimed over you. He wants to change you.”
Cued by her last sentence, Ronald and the band lowered the volume to a whisper as Evelina stroked each note precisely. By the time she got to “He changed my life complete,” her voice had pierced a tiny opening in Camille’s stomach.
“And now I sit at my savior’s feet,” she sang simply, sweetly, with her eyes closed, palms toward the sky as though God Himself might come down and lift her into the sky at any moment.
The hole in Camille’s stomach spread now, causing a bubbling sensation to spread through her insides. She wondered if the audience could perceive what was happening inside her body.
As Evelina approached the encore, an all-encompassing intensity swept over Camille’s body and forced her hands up in praise.
“I’m not the same!” Evelina declared.
Camille was supposed to follow with the word “changed” along with the other singers, but she was afraid of what might come out of her lips if she moved them. A cry? A scream? Words she didn’t even recognize?
Instead, she simply stood in place, arms extended, while tears rolled down her cheeks. The bubbling swelled up to her throat, where she fought to keep it contained. She swallowed twice. That se
emed to help, but her body was still shaking.
Evelina parlayed into another praise composition Camille didn’t recognize. Ronald shadowed on the piano. Nathan and Faison chimed in. Again, Camille could only be silent because, unlike all the other 99 percent of church songs, this wasn’t one of those get-in-where-you-fit-in numbers. She might as well be sitting in the audience right now because, since Evelina stepped forward, Camille had barely mumbled a word into the microphone.
Confusion about exactly how she could contribute to the praise team’s praises brought her back to reality a bit, but the bubbling refused to cease.
I have to pull myself together for my song with Ronald!
Camille took a deep breath when Ronald played the opening chords for their duet. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down from what? Why was she suddenly so emotional? She reminded herself of the people at her church who got up to sing, got “touched” by the Spirit, then couldn’t finish what they’d started. The crowd would first try to help the person with, “Let the Lord use you,” and, “Sing for Jesus.” If the vocalist still couldn’t produce another coherent note, the audience would falter, “That’s all right, God understands.”
Usually, Momma would steer the congregation to the good old standby, one-word hymn, “Yeees,” and a minister would take the pulpit, now that everyone had seen the power of God move.
Camille had felt the move of God’s Spirit inside her before. In all those years of going to church, she’d learned to respect His presence and power, even if she wasn’t willing to surrender to it when everyone else around her seemed to succumb. She never wanted to be the type to get so overcome with emotion that she couldn’t sing. But this morning, that’s exactly who she was. In fact, she was probably the very person she never wanted to be but Momma always wanted to see: Camille in the Lord’s house singing His praises.
Her moment of truth came with the second verse. Her part. She was supposed to sing “He’s the Alpha and Omega,” but the crackly sounds emanating from her diaphragm barely qualified as words. She turned her head slightly, managed to see Ronald’s eyes through a blur of tears, and knew he would take it from there.
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