Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  One of the workers went to his truck and returned with a cardboard box and clean rags lining the bottom. “Put the li’l fuzz balls in here.”

  Hill turned to Bob. “Well, what do you wanna do with them? Don’t mean to be abrupt, but as cute as these little buggers are, we do need to get back to work.”

  He nodded toward the tarped stacks of new lumber. “This house ain’t building itself. And winter’s only a couple months away.”

  Debbie stepped in. “I don’t think that is a matter of question. We’re keeping the cats.”

  Bob’s jaw gaped open. “What?”

  “You heard me.” She looked directly at DeShawn Hill. “I don’t want to know what alternative plans you had for these itty bitty bundles of joy. But we’re keeping these kittens.”

  Bob didn’t hesitate. “No. No way.”

  Debbie was walking toward the RV and looking over her shoulder. “Yes way, Bob. Our first day here, and we already have a family. Come on.”

  Bob tried to protest. But the sound of their helpless mews resonated in his heart as if they’d found a crack they could crawl into, clutching tight with their teeny claws and not letting go. For a moment, Bob thought they were trying to manipulate him. He shook that thought off.

  Impossible. I don’t like cats.

  Once inside, Debbie set the box on the kitchen table. She smiled and laughed, her hands held together over her heart. The helpless mass of fur crawled back and forth across the bottom of the box, their eyes barely open. The stared up at Bob and Debbie and meowed, soft and innocent, yet demanding.

  “Oh Bob, just look at them. They’re so adorable. What breed do you think they are?”

  Bob peered in the box. “I don’t know. They’re a mix of colors with differing patterns and patches. I think they’re a bunch of mutts.”

  “Admit it. You love them.”

  “Umm, in case you don’t remember, I don’t particularly care for cats.”

  Debbie lifted one, pitch black with three white spots on its back. It looked at Debbie and spread its paws wide as if to say hello.

  “Aww, so cute. Let’s see. What am I going to call you? You seem to be the leader. Hmm, how about Emily? You look like an Emily.”

  Bob walked over to the refrigerator. “Emily? That’s a weird name for a cat.”

  “Well, it just popped in my head. So Emily it is.”

  Debbie set Emily back in the box and pulled out a second cat. “I think I’ll call you Rebecca.”

  “Debbie, these are human names. You need to call them Tabby. Or Patches. Or Mittens.”

  “I don’t know. I admit, it’s strange. Their names, they just come to me as soon as I hold them up.”

  Bob pulled out ham, cheese, and bread to make a sandwich. “How are you possibly going to remember all their names five minutes from now?”

  “Good question.” Debbie took out her cell phone and took a picture of Rebecca, then recorded her voice to the image. “Rebecca.”

  She picked up the third cat and spoke baby talk to it. She snapped a picture and recorded the name. “Annie.”

  She repeated the process as she called off their names one at a time, took a picture, and captured their names.

  “Angel.”

  “Scarlett.”

  “Esther.”

  “Chloe.”

  “Helen.”

  “Jacqueline.”

  “Isabella.”

  “Rachel.”

  “Madelyn.”

  Debbie held up the last kitten. It stared at her as if in anticipation of what Debbie would name it. Debbie tapped her finger to her chin. “Hmmm. I’m thinking Amy.”

  “Amy? The cat’s pitch black. You should call it Midnight.”

  The cat looked at Bob and gave off a small hiss.

  “Oh Bob, isn’t that so cute. She hissed at you. I don’t think she likes the name Midnight.”

  The kitten looked at Debbie and hissed again. Bob finished making his sandwich and cut it in half. “Whatever. Anyway, I get to name at least one cat. And I say this one is Midnight.”

  “Congratulations, honey. You’re officially a daddy.”

  Again, the kitten looked to Bob and gave a disapproving sharp sibilant sound.

  “Okay. Midnight it is,” Debbie said as she placed it back in the box. With a yelp she yanked her hand out.

  “What’s the matter,” Bob said as he took a large bite of his snack.

  “Midnight scratched me as I put her back in the box.”

  Debbie, scowling, held up her forefinger. A small red line ran down it. “For a little kitten she sure packs quite a scratch. I guess she really doesn’t like the name Midnight.”

  Bob peered inside the box. Thirteen kittens. Twelve had different colors and patterns and were crawling over each other and mewing. And one pitch black with green eyes looking up and hissing at him.

  The fur balls didn’t appear cute at all. Rather, they looked like malevolent burdens. Debbie thought of them, as crazy as it sounded, as part of their extended family. Bob dipped his chin, knowing that was part his fault for delaying the decision to having children.

  But these cats, they weren’t the answer. They were animals, not people. Bob saw his mistake. It was his pride in rebutting Debbie and her wish to have a family. She adopted the helpless kittens to fill a void he’d created. Totally my fault, he thought, and wanted to kick himself.

  Bob knew he needed to step up. Once Murcat Manor was completed, together he and Debbie would have their first child. Until then, he would have to tolerate these furry little rug rats while allowing his soul mate to fulfill her need to mother a family.

  Chapter 13 Christmas Eve at Erma’s

  Christmas Eve at the Dempseys. My least favorite holiday, Bob thought. He dreaded visiting Ross and Erma here in their home. This was their territory—where Erma ruled supreme.

  During past holidays, the more Irish whiskey Debbie’s extended family drank, the more he became the butt of Erma’s jokes. She was quick with the whiskey. Quicker with the wit.

  Ross would laugh harder as the evening progressed and the whiskey flowed. So would Debbie’s siblings and their spouses. And tonight was no different.

  All in good fun, Debbie assured him. Bob knew he had to take it. He was family, although related by law and not blood to Erma. Still, there was not much he could do to defend himself. Challenging Erma in her house would be most unwise. So he took Debbie’s advice, laughed, and went with the tide.

  Having lived in an RV for the past three months, he welcomed the comforts of the Ross’s sprawling estate, built next to the Grand River on the west side of Lansing. Bob never ceased to be amazed at how large their living room was. It boasted three fire places, two gigantic aquariums built into the walls, and enough furniture to accommodate all the adults and children of their extended family. The view of the river through two sets of sliding glass doors and the bay windows, even during winter, was spectacular.

  There were three Christmas trees with scores of perfectly wrapped gifts extended out from their bases. The room was dim and the setting peaceful, almost choreographed. It was illuminated only by lights from the holiday trees and the aquariums. Christmas carols by crooners from an era gone by softly serenaded the family.

  “So, Bob,” Ross said, toning down his laugh. “All kidding aside, how’s the progress of Murcat Manor?”

  Bob took an exaggerated sip from his Glencairn glass. Not much of a drinker, he lagged behind everyone in the room. But he understood he had to look like he was at least trying to keep up with the Dempsey clan.

  “The contractor is a couple weeks ahead of schedule. They completed the walls and roof before the first snow, and they’re now working on the inside. The plumbing and electrical is finished. So are the heating and air conditioning ducts. Once the crew returns after the holidays, they’ll insulate the drywall—first the large common rooms, and then they’ll start on the individual bedrooms.”

  “When will you be able to stay inside,”
Brendan Collins asked. He was Debbie’s older brother who Bob got along well with. His wife, Christie the sun bed queen with a dark orange tan and an enormous set of bio-rubber breasts, not so much.

  Debbie spoke. "The good news is our master bedroom and bathroom will be finished in late March. We gave specific instructions for the completion of our bedroom and the kitchen to be top priority. I can’t wait to sleep and eat inside our house.”

  “Debbie dear,” Erma said, after yet another good pull of whiskey. “What about the themes for the ten bedrooms?”

  “They’re diverse to say the least. We can appeal to just about any crowd.”

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, child.” Erma smiled with pride at Debbie. “What creative ideas did you come up with?”

  Debbie started counting off on her fingers. “I’ll go down the hallway starting from the top of the stairs. The Roadhouse Blues, which will feature a wild honky-tonk theme, is the first room. Then we have the Disco Room, modeled after a seventies disco club. Next up is The Love Machine. It’s pink and red with a heart shaped bed and mirrors on the ceiling.”

  “Ooooh, that sounds like fun,” Christie said in her annoying coquettish squeal, as she downed her drink in one gulp, and then squeezed her titanic melons together with her upper arms followed by a coy wink toward Brendan.

  Bob could feel Debbie trying to suppress a laugh. He couldn’t help but wonder if Christine’s twins felt as stiff as they looked. And what would it be like, to—he shook his head free of that train of thought as Debbie continued.

  “We’ll also have The Frontiersman. That’ll be a lodge or cabin theme with a large fireplace and moose head on the wall. The Victorian will have a romantic canopy bed as its main feature. The Summer of Love will be a late sixties theme. The Neptune Room will be under the sea. Rounding out the ten rooms are the Safari Room, the Egyptian Room, and the Steampunk Room.”

  “But until then,” Bob said with a bit of a sigh. “We’ll be staying on the property in the Winnebago.”

  “I can’t imagine spending the winter in an RV,” Christie said, then placed her forefinger in her mouth and mimicked throwing up. “I’d go bonkers. Brendan and I would kill each other. And with all those smelly cats? Ugh. Totally major gross.”

  Christie’s remarks brought yet another inebriated round of laughs at Bob’s expense.

  Ross stepped across the living room and poured Bob another glass of Bushmills twenty-one year old single malt whiskey, the usual grin on his face. Erma simply stared Bob down, as she’d done the entire evening.

  Bob, wanting anything but yet another drink, took a long pull. Better not to incite Erma and her sharp tongue. Truth was, the liquid courage was helping—he needed a shot of confidence. He followed up with an even longer drink and emptied his glass, trying to hold a straight face.

  “That’s my boy,” Ross chuckled, pouring him another.

  “Debbie and I are getting along just fine,” Bob continued. “Actually, it’s the cats that are driving me nuts.”

  “There are thirteen, right? Thirteen cats in the RV with you?” Christie said, scrunching her face. She poured herself another drink and downed it, throwing her head back and, Bob was sure, intentionally lifting and showing off her twenty thousand dollar pair of Neimen Marcus specials.

  “That’s right,” Bob said, careful to keep his eyes up on her face. “Thirteen of them.”

  “How do you tell the little rag balls apart?”

  Rag balls. Bob cracked a grin and considered Christie in a slightly higher regard. Anyone who can’t stand cats can’t be all bad.

  “I named them,” Debbie said. “And I gave them each a collar with a little tag with their names engraved and a gemstone to tell them apart. I gave one cat, Emily, who seems to be the leader, all twelve gemstones on her collar—plus her own, of course.”

  “What are their names?”

  Debbie rattled them off with ease. “Emily, Rebecca, Chloe, Annie, Helen, Madelyn, Jacqueline, Angel, Scarlett, Esther, Isabella, Rachel, and Midnight.”

  “Do you have a favorite,” Toy Chest asked.

  “Emily. She’s the leader. The other cats follow her. And Emily follows me around.”

  “Does Bob have a favorite cat?”

  “No,” came Bob’s quick reply.

  “One cat, Rachel, loves Bob. She follows him everywhere. She even sleeps next to his head.”

  “Wait a minute,” Erma said. “Did you say one cat was named Midnight? The other twelve names are human names. Why Midnight?”

  “Well,” Debbie looked at Bob and smiled, as if to say ‘no offense, hubby’. “Bob named that one.”

  “Phffft. Way to go, Bob. Always have to deviate from the norm.”

  Bob had to keep things moving to avoid more laughter directed his way. Say something. Anything.

  “They’re getting bigger by the day,” he somehow produced the words.

  “How do you do it?” Christie crinkled her nose in disgust. "Isn’t it crowded in there?”

  Bob forced a chuckle. “They're mischievous. That’s for sure. We can’t leave things of value on counters or tables. They’ll knock anything we leave out onto the floor.”

  “They swat them with their tails,” Debbie said with a laugh. “Or nudge them with their shoulders. It’s like a game to them. I think they’re bored. But it's too cold to let them outside.”

  “But most of the time they just eat and sleep,” Bob added in a disdainful droll.

  “Bob doesn’t particularly care for the cats,” Debbie said.

  “Noooo … you don’t say?” Erma chided.

  Bob shrugged. “What’s to like about them. They’re lazy. They don’t do anything. And you can’t tell them what to do.”

  “That’s because they’re cats,” Erma said with duh intonation. “That’s what cats do, Bob. Eat. Sleep. Break things. Shed hair all over the place.”

  A chorus of schnockered laughter filled the living room, replacing any advantage Bob had gained. Just smile, Bob told himself. Tomorrow I'll be with my side of the family. Hopefully, without a massive hangover.

  “I have to admit, there’s something spooky about them.”

  “Spooky?” Ross said, leaning in and topping off Bob’s drink. “Good thing the lights are dimmed. Now this is interesting. Just the right setting for a spooky story.”

  Silence fell on the room. Everyone leaned in, expecting a fascinating tale to be told.

  “The cats, they’re always watching me.”

  “Well, yer all confined t’ the RV. Not much else t’ look at,” a flush in the face Christie said, emptying another glass of Irish whiskey. Erma looked at her and smiled, stepping in and giving her a refill.

  “It’s hard to explain. But it’s like they’re studying me. Getting to know everything they can about me.”

  “I’m na—” Christie hiccupped. “Oops,” she giggled. “Sorry, ’m jus’ not followin’?”

  Bob pulled out his cell phone and stood. The whiskey was getting to him, too. It was providing much needed courage, but also making him dizzy. But he couldn’t show weakness. Not with Erma in the room. A man has to be able to hold his liquor, even if he didn’t drink it other than during Christmas holidays at the Dempseys. He kept his composure and held out the image on his phone.

  “Look at this picture I took of them the other night.”

  Christie blinked her eyes back to wide open and peered at it. “Ooooh, yeah, now tha’s szhur spooky, alright.”

  “It was about three o’clock in the morning. I was sure I heard Debbie calling out my name. I woke up, yet she was fast asleep. But the cats, all thirteen of them, were lined up side to side on the top of our dresser. The moonlight coming in the windows shed some light in our bedroom. They were just staring at me, their tails swaying up in the air in unison.”

  Bob handed Brendan his cell phone and he looked at it with interest, then passed it around the room. “Wow, that is creepy,” Brendan said. “They’re all looking directly at you
, like they’re locked in on you.”

  “An’ thur eyez,” Christine said, swerving in her chair. “Th’re all red. Like layzshur beams. Freaky.”

  Erma huffed and dismissed Bob with a flail of her hand. "Okay. So the cats stare at you. Big deal. They're nocturnal. What else are they going to do at night cramped up in the RV? Surf the Internet?"

  "The cats also eat people food. They've refused cat food since day one."

  Bob wasn't sure if he should’ve said that, but everyone was so liquored up they probably wouldn't remember much of the conversation the following day.

  “And speaking of the Internet, if I leave my laptop open and walk away, I’ll come back and one of the cats will be gazing at the monitor. It looks like she’s reading the news.”

  Erma threw her arms up in the air and rolled her eyes. I must be drunk, Bob thought, if I brought that up.

  “I’ll back Bob up on that one,” Debbie said. “And it’s Madelyn. We have Yahoo and CNN news in our favorites. Our desktops and tablets are touch screens. Madelyn uses her paw to open those sites. The science and technology pages seem to be her favorites. She has two black rings around her eyes that look like thick glasses, giving her a nerdy look. It’s kind of cute, I think.”

  “It’s weird,” Bob said. “These cats are strange. They don’t act like normal cats. It seems like they're always plotting something. Even while we’re sleeping.”

  “Plotting?” Erma said. “Cats? I can see if Debbie’s plotting something against you while you sleep. But cats?”

  Another peal of laughter bordered on a noisy ruckus, most in the room almost falling out of their seats.

  Bob shrugged off her comment. “It's hard to explain. I don't trust them. But we’ll be living inside Murcat Manor soon enough.”

  Bob could see Erma begin to smirk. He knew another grenade was about to be tossed his way.

  "Until then Bob, you'll just have to battle those cats. Don't let them push you around. You're the man of the RV."