by Jim Kraus
Jake stuck out his hand.
“Jimbo—forewarned is forearmed. Thanks.” And as he shook the elder’s hand, Jake felt that familiar twinge in the right shoulder, as if the heavens were trying to tell him that something was about to happen. Jake didn’t like that twinge. The twinge was there just before he was fired from his previous church in Butler. He definitely felt it just before his former almost-fiancée-waiting-for-a-ring informed him that if he were no longer a pastor, she was no longer his girlfriend. The twinge was there when his former senior pastor and boss said there would be no letter of recommendation—“Because of all that has happened. You do understand, don’t you? My niece feels terrible about all this.” And he felt the twinge today—clearly and strongly.
Maybe it’s a good twinge this time.
Omens.
Jake never liked omens, even though, if there was one, regardless of its portent, he would find it comforting.
The cat waited and the prey came to him. It was easy and quick. He circled around at the edge of the field. He could wait. It looked like that other man, the round man, was about to leave.
Then I’ll introduce myself, the cat thought to himself. I don’t want to intrude on their conversation. If there is one thing a good cat needs to understand it’s that good manners are very important. I will simply wait here until he is available for introductions.
As they walked back outside to the trucks, Jimbo zipped up his work jacket, threadbare at the elbows and cuffs.
“You call me if you need anything. Bobby Richard—he’s an elder, too, who you met, of course—got the phone connected last week, so you can call me. But maybe you have one of those new cellphones, I bet. They don’t always work up here, though. Anyhow, all the elders are on the list taped to the desk—phone numbers and the like.”
“I’ll do that, Jimbo. But I’m sure I’ll be okay.”
At the far edge of the parking lot, where the gravel met the grass, sat a tall, silver-and-black cat with white accents. Jake noticed it first.
“That anybody’s cat?” he asked. “Looks a little like a lynx, doesn’t it? A small, skinny one.”
Jimbo looked over, stared for a long moment, then snorted.
“Don’t know. Never saw a lynx up here. But it’s just a cat and it’s not from around here. No houses nearby. Not within a mile. Maybe even farther than that. More like two miles—and that would be the Jenkinses and I know Old Man Jenkins, and well, he hates cats, so it can’t belong to him. That one is just a stray. Might even be one of those feral cats. You know, raised in the wild. If that happens, they’re really no good as house cats anymore. And people dump animals out here in the country all the time.”
“Really? That’s terrible.”
“It happens,” Jimbo said. “Some people got no feelings, do they?”
“I guess not,” Jake replied.
“I got my shotgun in the truck. You want me to get rid of it for you?”
Jake could only manage a surprised, “Wha-what?”
“If you let it stick around, it could be a pest. And, look, it looks like it’s got a lame foot there. Be a kindness to end it for it, you know?”
Jake recovered and knew he did not want to sound too surprised or shocked. What Jimbo said was probably true, but he could not cotton to a random killing of a cat—not just like that.
“No. Maybe he’s just lost.”
“It ain’t lost. And it doesn’t belong to anybody. Too skinny. It’s just like getting rid of a varmint. It’ll be okay.”
Jake held firm.
“No. Let him be.”
Jimbo looked askance, just a little, then shrugged.
“Suit yourself. But if it gets to be a pest, I’ll take care of it for you.”
“I’m sure he won’t.”
Jimbo stroked his chin and grinned. “You pastors are in the saving business, aren’t you? I guess that goes with the job description, doesn’t it? Saving things that are lost and lame and hurting and all that? That’s a good trait for a pastor, ain’t it?”
And with that, Jimbo heaved himself into his old truck; the engine sputtered to life after the third ratcheting try, and he backed out onto the main road without looking.
“See you Wednesday, if not sooner,” he called out, as the truck wheezed into a forward gear and pulled away.
Jake turned back to the cat. It had not moved all the while, but instead, just stared impassively. Then it looked down at the ground beside it, and then back up to Jake. Jake thought there was an air of pride in the cat’s stare, but could not imagine why.
Please. I am not a “varmint.” That was insulting. He didn’t know a good cat when he saw a good cat. No time for that now. We have more important things to deal with. Like me being sent by God. That should take precedent, don’t you think?
And what sort of name is Jimbo? For a grown man. We are not in the funny papers, are we?
A varmint? Really?
Jake watched the cat watch him. Neither of them moved. Jake relented first and walked to the cat. The cat looked to his left, toward the ground.
Jake’s smile dropped, replaced by a squinched expression, complete with pursed lips, a lemon-induced-lips pursed squinch.
Lying next to the cat was a mouse, a perfectly dead mouse, laid out with feline precision on the gravel.
People are simply terrible at catching mice. I’m very good at it. I know that sharing a mouse is not what cats usually do—so that will prove to this man that I am a very good cat.
A good cat on a mission.
A mission from God.
That was in a movie, wasn’t it? Where they wrecked all those cars. I saw that on television.
For some reason, and Jake was not sure what that reason was, he restrained himself from reacting like he wanted to react: dancing away in disgust and dismay and alarm. The cat all but smiled up at Jake, beaming, as if Jake had recognized the mouse, the gift, for what it was—a great sacrifice from a skinny, hungry cat.
“Is that for me?” he asked, then wondered why he asked.
The cat kept his almost-smile and offered a meow, a self-satisfied, happy meow. Almost not a meow, it was more like an explanation, or a statement of accomplishment. Not a meow. More than that. Or less. Nearly humanlike.
Why would this cat do that? Give me his . . . food?
Jake felt another strong twinge in his shoulder. Either he would have to get used to the twinges or find a chiropractor to locate the source and fix it.
“Okay, then,” Jake replied. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rumpled receipt from a gas station, smoothed it out, bent down, and picked up the mouse by the tail using the receipt to keep from touching the dead creature. “Thank you,” he said.
The cat looked up, seemingly very satisfied that Jake received his gift with gratitude.
Jake looked down and thought he saw an expression in the cat’s eyes that seemed to suggest that he expected Jake to eat the mouse then and there. Instead, Jake knelt down and petted the cat on his head, which the cat accepted gracefully, almost regally, and he said, “I’ll save this for later. But thanks so much for the mouse. I appreciate it.”
Jake had no idea of why he was being so solicitous of this stray, skinny, lost cat, except it felt as if it were the right thing to do. Like the cat understood somehow. The cat really appeared to understand.
Jake walked toward the main door of his new living quarters. He laid the mouse down on an exposed ledge of the building’s cement foundation. He would dispose of this particular “varmint” later when the cat wasn’t watching him.
Good grief. I’m worried about what a cat thinks of me? It’s like being back in Butler again . . . worried about what everyone thinks. That has to stop.
Jake’s stomach growled, and his first move was toward the kitchen. The cat looked famished, and Jake could use a cup of coffee. Then he stopped short and realized that there was nothing in the kitchen—no food, no instant coffee, no nothing.
“You’
re hungry, aren’t you?” Jake said, not really expecting an answer from the cat.
The cat had followed him to the door and now meowed plaintively, low and rumbly. It was an obvious yes.
“Well, then. We both need to eat,” Jake said, and again the cat meowed, softly this time, in reply.
In that brief, single moment, Jake realized he could use a cat. For company. So neither of them would be lonely. Jake had grown up in the complete absence of animals—allergies, his mother claimed he had, and from his father’s side, not hers. But he was pretty sure that the absence of all things furry was simply because his mother just didn’t like “wild animals.”
Animals are outside for a reason, young man. Jesus didn’t have a dog. And you think you’re better than Jesus?
“You’re not a wild animal, are you?” Jake asked the cat.
The cat meowed in return.
“You agree, right? You must be hungry. You look skinny.”
He had no food in the back of his truck. When he had left Butler, he had brought no perishables—nor packed any food of any type. “There’s a store just down the road. I think.” He dug the keys out of his pocket and opened the door. The cat followed him to his truck.
“You have to stay here,” Jake said.
The cat sat and responded with a long meow.
“Good,” he replied. “I’ll be back. You wait here.”
He opened the door to his truck, and the cat, as agile as a squirrel, scurried and limped into the truck and settled on the passenger seat, staring at Jake, waiting for him to get in.
“You can’t come in the truck,” Jake said. The cat turned from facing him and looked out through the windshield. “Come on, now. Cats don’t like trucks. Come on out. Come on. You go back to the house.”
The cat did not move.
Maybe off-center is the way things are supposed to be today. He shrugged, and slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door, put on his seatbelt, and started the truck. No sense in struggling with a cat that may have some virulent cat disease and scratch me. The cat did not move. If the unnamed cat was anxious or afraid, he did a wonderful job of hiding it.
He liked the mouse. That’s a good sign. A very good sign. That has never happened to me before. He didn’t dance. He just wasn’t hungry for a mouse right now. He’ll eat it later. That’s okay. At least he liked it. He didn’t dance. I miss it when they don’t dance. People should dance when they get a mouse. Cats don’t do that. But then again, I’ve never tried to dance. I would not be good at it. You need to be a human to dance. Or a dog.
The cat, who didn’t call himself anything, who had no name, at least not now, sat up straight on the right side of the truck’s bench seat, putting most of his weight on his left front paw. He knew something was wrong with his right paw but, as with most animals, did not consider complaining or obsessing about the pain particularly worthwhile. It was easier to ignore it and complete whatever tasks needed to be completed. The pain would take care of itself. It would go away or it wouldn’t. A cat’s job is to do a cat’s job, regardless of pain.
The cat moved its eyes and watched the man as he drove.
That other, round, rude person—Jimbo—called him Jake. I assume that is his Christian name. Jake. That sounds nice and sturdy. A man’s name. Jake. I remember a boxer called Jake. A boxer dog, not a boxer boxer—though there was that movie about a Jake who was a person and a real boxer. But the Jake I remember was a dog. Jake happened to be a very stupid dog. But he could dance, sort of. More like a St. Vitus dance. (I know. I know. You can blame the radio.) And that Jake could smile. That’s an ability I envy. Only a little.
The cat saw Jake glance toward him. While animals, especially cats, hid their pain from others, people were not good at it. Not to cats, anyway.
He does look a little lost. It’s his eyes. He’s here—but he’s not here. He knows that something is true and he won’t admit that it’s true. Not even to himself. A good cat can see these things. Or a smart cat. And I am both of those things. In my experience, half of all cats don’t like people. The other half think they could do very well without them. But there are a few cats, like me, who are smart and are sure we can help people find their way. I am not going to speak for God, but I will help Jake see what God wants. What God wants him to do. How to be. That is my job. I will be very good at it.
The cat took his position in the world very seriously.
Humans puzzle me. They spend too much time thinking about how things should be or how they want them to be instead of seeing things as they are and accepting them. People spend too much energy trying to be something they are not. Cats never do that. A cat is a cat is a cat. I never would want to be a dog. As I said, I am a smart cat.
The cat shook his head. The man looked over, then back to the road. He appeared to be a very safe driver. That was a good thing, too.
Who would want to be a dog? Disgusting creatures. All slobbery and loose fur and burrs and snorting. Clumsy. They just don’t have enough bones, I guess, and they can’t even curl up into a ball. Stiff, they are, like boards. And they stink. Have you ever been near a wet dog? Even dry dogs stink.
The man slowed the truck down. The cat could see a store on the side of the road ahead. Stores meant food. The cat knew that food comes from the inside of stores. Except for mice. They come from fields. The cat took pride in his intelligence, though he tried not to show off because of it. Not too much, anyway.
Did you know that the Egyptians worshiped cats? They did. Really. They have statues of cats. I saw that on the television show that talks like the radio show but with movies and always asks for money. I can understand why those people did that, of course, but they shouldn’t have done that. Cats aren’t divine. We are imperial, or is the word . . . imperviable . . . impervious? Unaffected. Above the cares of the world. But we’re not that, really. We’re just serene. We’re calm and we listen very carefully. God doesn’t always shout. Jake might not know how to listen. To others. To himself. To God. That’s it. Listening. Lots of people don’t know how to listen to God.
He needs to hear himself—to listen to what is inside. He is exactly the way that God intended him to be—except for the sin part, of course. That’s what God would say to Jake. I’m pretty sure, anyhow.
The truck stopped.
I hope they have that food in the gold square cans. I like that food. Maybe I can get Jake to buy some.
2
Jake and the cat had come to a stop three miles south of the church, just across from a shallow wideness along the Allegheny River. It was crossed by an abandoned railroad bridge that looked like it would offer good fishing. The sign read BIG DAVE’S STORE, a ramshackle gas station, bait shop, convenience store, six-pack shop—an all-in-one sort of store. Jake stopped the engine and opened the door. The plastic pennants, hung from the overhead awning by the gas pumps, flapped their plastic welcome in the breeze. He was about to tell the cat to stay put, when it bolted out of the truck and ran, limping, toward the front door, darting inside when another customer exited. Jake hurried after him. “You can’t go in there.”
Jake hurried inside. “I’m sorry. My . . . the cat ran in. I’ll get him out. I’m sorry.”
Behind the counter sat a grizzled-looking man in a red plaid shirt, with a beard looking like a swarm of bees hovering about his cheeks and chin.
“Don’t worry. We sell leeches and minnows and fox pee for deer hunters. A cat won’t be bothering any of my customers, for sure.”
He pronounced “for sure” as “fer shore.”
An old black-and-white television hung from a wall, most of the picture obscured by bands of snow and static. The clerk peered from behind the counter. The cat stared back at him and meowed loudly.
“Skinny guy. Homeless?”
Jake shrugged. “Don’t know. He showed up at the church just now and followed me into the truck.”
The man in the red shirt brightened. “I thought you looked familiar. You’re the new p
astor, right? The church on Dry Run Road?”
“Yes, I am. Jake Wilkerson,” Jake said, and extended his hand.
A pastor has to be outgoing, right? I need to turn over a new leaf. And be friendly. I need to remember that. Friendly. Outgoing.
“You can call me Big Dave. That’s the name on the sign out there. Actually, my Christian name is Lawrence, but when I bought the place it was named Big Dave’s. Changing my name was easier than paying for a new sign. And I guess I sort of grew into the name after all this time. I’ve been going to your church for a couple of years. Good potlucks, for sure.”
The cat began scrabbling at a lower shelf at the end of the aisle.
“The cat looks like he likes Fancy Feast. Not much of a selection. But I do got beef ‘n’ liver.”
“I need a few cans of cat food,” Jake said. “Do you have any people food as well?”
Besides the store’s entire stock of cat food (six tins), Jake bought instant coffee, half-and-half, sugar, no-name Oreo-style cookies, two frozen cheese and sausage pizzas, a box of glazed donuts, a box of generic corn flakes, a small box of tea bags of a brand of which Jake had never heard, a half-gallon of milk, a loaf of white bread (fortified twelve ways), peanut butter, strawberry jam, a jar of “local” honey, and two Snickers bars.
“Your cat got a limp, you know,” Big Dave announced as he rang up Jake’s selections.
“I think he’s got something in his paw. Any vets around here?”
Big Dave scowled, thinking.
“A couple of clinics, ‘animal medical centers’ they call themselves, on Route 44—east side of town. Expensive, I bet, by the looks of them. Then there’s a lady vet in town . . . Emma . . . something or other. On Broad Street. Big crooked sign in front of her house. She comes in here once in a while. Really pretty. But odd. Opinionated. I think she might be one of them Democrats. Large coffee, lots of sugars, two packages of Drake’s Crumb Cakes.”
