The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  “Yeah. Okay. Okay,” Vern said after a long moment of consideration. “She can use it. A couple of days. Then we’ll talk.”

  Tassy beamed.

  “You mean it? Really? I could stay there for a while? Really?”

  Eleanor smiled back.

  “Yes, you can. And there’s an extension cord in there that you can run to the church for power. Lights and the TV and the refrigerator.”

  “Hunert feet,” Vern said. “So you gotta park closer than a hunert feet.”

  “You know, honey,” Eleanor said to Tassy, “we had three boys. All moved away from Coudersport a long time ago. See them once a year or so. I always wanted a little girl. Never had one. So . . . you take your time here, okay?”

  “Okay,” Tassy replied. “Sure.”

  4

  As Jake made his way down the back basement steps of the church, he became enveloped in a thick scent cloud of barbeque, fried chicken, and beans, plus a breeze of aftershave and hints of cologne—the good kind from the drugstore. A battered coffee urn, the size of a small garbage can, wheezed in the corner, steam puffing out from under the lid in little snorts. Two folding tables, the long kind, covered with white plastic tablecloths, were held down firmly by a garage sale assortment of Pyrex casseroles, Tupperware containers, and almost-new square and oblong aluminum tins. Three banks of fluorescent lights beamed down, bathing everyone in a flickering glow.

  Jake took the final step, the last stair creaking like a desperate bullfrog at the end of a long, flyless evening. As his foot hit the painted cement floor, like pressing a mute button, all conversation ceased, and the entire congregation simply took a slight breath, pivoted in their seats, or turned to face Jake.

  The silence lasted for a long three or four heartbeats, then a tidal wave of Hellos and Howdys and Hey theres cascaded like a roll of friendly thunder.

  He managed a wave and a broad smile and then was descended upon by a quartet of members of the women’s auxiliary prayer group and Christian Aid Society, each bearing a special plate reserved for the pastor, each pointing out their particular specialty and whispering which ones to avoid.

  “I heard that what she brought came straight from Doug’s Foods. Out of a package. For a potluck. Can you believe that, Pastor?”

  The quartet soon enough became a quintet. Jake trailed the anxious, plate-bearing ladies on a tour of the two tables, which were groaning with all manner of central Pennsylvania delicacies.

  Jake found himself washed ashore at the head table, surrounded then by four—no, five—plates containing large servings of white and brown and red and yellow food, mostly hidden by puddles of white or brown gravies. Two glasses of iced tea appeared—one sweetened, one unsweetened. It became difficult to respond, with more than one question being asked at a time. Jake nodded a lot, smiled as much as he could while chewing, and took small bites from each colored assembly of food, smiling more broadly as he did so, then pointing to each, wordlessly, nodding in agreement with whatever it was that he was eating, giving each dish his approval. Jake knew it was not the time to show partiality—or dislike. He gave a lot of silent, smiling, thumbs-up evaluations of the cuisine.

  The noise level rose as he ate.

  People talk loud up here.

  Bursts of laughter punctuated the eating.

  Jake did wave to Big Dave, who sat with a plate of food stacked amazingly high. Big Dave pointed to his stomach, then gave a double thumbs-up back to Jake.

  Immediately after Jake politely plowed through perhaps half of the food presented to him, another two plates of desserts appeared, as if materializing from the mother ship of potlucks circling overhead.

  Three large slabs of cake, two cookie bars, two slices of pie, a cobbler, a pudding, and some fruit that looked like it was simply mixed with Cool Whip—blueberries, maybe. And two cups of coffee—one black, one with cream (whole milk, actually, but it was closer than the white powder that stood in a warped cardboard canister next to the urn.)

  Jake managed to try a little of everything, but by this time, his taste buds had retired for the evening. The desserts might have been an epicurean delight; he truly couldn’t discern.

  As he finally stopped eating and sipped at his coffee, someone behind him stood up. He could feel the shadows from the fluorescent lights.

  “Listen up, everyone,” a man’s voice crowed. “Listen up!”

  Then the man put two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-rattling whistle that came close to being aurally dangerous.

  Everyone grumble-mumbled another few words, then silence enveloped the room, except for the coffee pot, which wheezed on, liquidlike.

  The coffee was strong for church coffee, Jake thought.

  That must be why.

  “We here on the elder board want to welcome you all to this here all-church potluck.”

  Rudolph Keilback, an almost enormous man, as wide as he was tall, swayed back and forth on his heels as he spoke. “Let’s give all the ladies a round of applause for their good food. I know I appreciated it,” he said, patting at his stomach. There was a lot of territory to pat.

  Jake joined in the enthusiastic response.

  “Always a pleasure to break bread with the church family.”

  Someone toward the back shouted out an “Amen.”

  Jake tried to see who it was. He felt pretty certain there weren’t a lot of charismatic tendencies in the church; at least when he had candidated, no one shouted out encouragement during his sermon.

  Maybe they just get spiritually excited about food.

  “Since this here is the first time we got Pastor Wilkerson with us, be nice if he said a few words. Maybe warn us about Sunday’s sermon—or whatever. Hey, there, Pastor Jake. Get up and say hello to your new family.”

  Jake knew he would have to say something corporate this evening—he had thought about it all day. He stood up to a loud round of clapping, and the basement was filled with smiling, hopeful faces. Maybe it was a full stomach talking, but Jake sensed a truly warm greeting.

  Afterward, he could not recall exactly what he had said. Something to the effect that it was an honor to be called to come to their church, he was happy to be here, and he looked forward to earning his place in this wonderful family. He also said he looked forward to exploring God’s word with them.

  And finding the truth. I should say that on a personal level . . . but not tonight.

  He had practiced his remarks that afternoon and was pretty sure he sounded honest and sincere.

  Whatever the words were, they went over well. Elder Keilback slapped him on the back when he finished, and the welcoming gesture nearly knocked him to the ground.

  What does he do for a living? Jake wondered. Professional wrestler? Bear wrangler?

  Jake returned to his seat where a fresh plate of new desserts awaited him. He offered a weary smile and tried to manage to at least try a forkful of each one. Off in the corner, Jake noticed Tassy sitting next to Eleanor. On the other side of Eleanor sat a very dour Vern, who apparently had a permanent scowl etched onto his face. Yet Tassy and Eleanor seemed animated, smiling and whispering to each other. It was comforting to see a stranger so accepted.

  Earlier that day, Jake had talked to a few of the elders, explaining who Tassy was and how she came to be at the church. He had been right: Coudersport did not see many homeless folks passing through. The closest drop-in shelter was in Bradford, and no one had suggested that as a solution.

  “Seeing as how nobody is using that RV, don’t seem right to let it stay empty if there’s a need for it,” said Jimbo earlier that day. “We been talking and sort of said if it’s okay with Vern, I guess then it’s okay with us as well.”

  Jake noticed a few people sitting nearest to him smiling, then pointing toward the back steps. He turned and saw Petey, three steps from the bottom, almost hidden in shadow.

  “Is that your new cat, Pastor Jake?” someone called out.

  Jake held his hand up and most o
f the room grew a little quieter.

  “One more thing. I forgot. Has anybody lost a cat? Or does anyone know anyone who lost a cat? Petey showed up at church on Monday, and I would like to find his real home.”

  Petey stared hard at Jake as he spoke, then very deliberately, without pausing, headed straight for Tassy and jumped up into her lap.

  A chorus of oohs and ahhs followed.

  I am not lost! I am not lost! That’s even worse than being called a varmint. I am right where I am supposed to be. I know humans can be dense, but Jake—come on, now. I am supposed to be here. This is my real home.

  The cat snuggled into Tassy’s welcoming lap yet kept his withering gaze on Jake.

  I’m doing what I am supposed to be doing . . . protecting.

  Almost with a jolt, Petey sat up straight, then craned his neck backward to peer at Tassy’s face. He meowed loudly. Tassy took it as a request for her to pet the cat, but that wasn’t it.

  Okay, okay, pet me all you want. That’s fine. But I’m here to protect. I just heard that. Or felt it. Protect. That’s a new task. I didn’t hear anything about protecting before. But . . . what I don’t get is what to protect.

  Petey relaxed as Tassy scratched his neck, and then he lay down, still, forming a tidy, coiled ball.

  No one said anything about protecting . . . but then who am I to argue?

  He closed his eyes as she massaged his ears.

  Well . . . I am a cat, after all. That’s what we do sometimes.

  Big Dave—Lawrence—pulled into the parking lot of his store. He lived in the attached quarters behind the store. He had four rooms and more living space than he really needed.

  Charles, a wire-thin high school senior from the Coudersport High School (“Home of the Falcons”) stood behind the counter, his eyes glazed from staring at the little TV. It was tuned to “Dancing with the Stars.” Big Dave knew the only reason Charles was watching it was because it was the only channel that came in static-free.

  “Busy tonight?” Big Dave asked.

  “No. A few gas customers. A loaf of bread. Couple gallons of milk. That’s about it.”

  Big Dave’s did not get a lot of evening traffic. It would be busier after the bars closed on Friday and Saturday.

  “How was the potluck?”

  Big Dave patted at his stomach.

  “It was real good. Real good. The new pastor guy brought out a lot more meat dishes. Three different kinds of meatloaf. One had an egg in the middle of it. I kept wonderin’ how they got that egg in the middle. Did they freeze it first or what?”

  Charles scratched at his chin. “Maybe it was already hard-boiled or something. That could work, couldn’t it? Bake the meatloaf around it.”

  Big Dave liked Charles because he was smart.

  “Maybe that is it. I should try that sometime. It was real good.”

  Charles put on his letterman’s jacket—track and field, long-distance relays.

  “You know, maybe you should come to the church sometime, Charles. You would enjoy it.”

  Charles made a face that was somewhere between like biting a lemon and stepping on a nail.

  “No, thanks. Too many rules. Old guys yelling at you for having fun.”

  Big Dave brightened.

  “No, the new guy is sort of young. No more than thirty. And he don’t seem like the type that yells much.”

  Charles shrugged.

  “Maybe. If they have like a coffee house or a dance or something. Maybe then. If there’s girls there. Maybe.”

  Big Dave kept his smile. “Well, I’ll make that suggestion to Pastor Jake. I bet he might try something like that. A coffee house, that sounds good. I’ll let you know.”

  Jake attempted to help clean up afterward and actually managed to wash a few spoons and forks. So shocked were the women observers that they did not respond immediately. But when they did, Jake’s actions had set off a small feminine tsunami: at least six women rushed to supplant him at the tub of sudsy water.

  “No, no, no, Pastor. You don’t wash dishes. That’s our work,” one of them said, scrambling to the sink.

  Jake wondered how they thought the dishes in his kitchen got washed. He allowed himself to be elbowed away from the sink, though he did realize he had made the first small step in establishing a new standard of male behavior in the Coudersport religious community.

  Later, Jake stood outside by the basement steps and waved as the last few cars rumbled out of the parking lot. He sighed deeply, grateful that the evening was over. His watch read 9:15.

  Most of these people have jobs. No late meetings for any of them.

  Tassy appeared at the basement door, Petey a few steps behind her, and she wrapped her sweatshirt around herself, crossing her arms.

  “I had a good time,” she said.

  “I did too,” Jake replied.

  Petey meowed in agreement, though it sounded like he was still smarting from being called “lost.”

  “I haven’t eaten that much in months,” Tassy said.

  “I have never eaten that much,” Jake answered. “They all seem like nice people,” he added.

  “That’s what Eleanor said, too, but she said that you can’t always trust the first impression. She said there have been a lot of people talking about me being here. Some said they thought it was nice that I can use the RV and others said that it sets a bad . . . you know . . . a bad precedent. That only problems can come out of it. But Eleanor said not to worry. A lot of people have nothing better to do than gossip about stuff, she said.”

  Jake hoped she could not see the pained look on his face.

  “She said that you seem like a nice pastor. And she said that you should do what God wants you to do and not listen to people who complain.”

  “Well . . . I try to do that, Tassy. You know . . . follow God and the Bible and all that.”

  “She said that was the right thing to do, Pastor Jake. She said that if you do that, everything will be fine. Once you leave that path, she said, then you’ll get into trouble.”

  Neither spoke for a long, dark moment. Their breath frosted in puffs in the air. He could hear an owl hooting off in the woods to the east. Only a sliver of a moon could be seen, but it was as bright as a streetlight.

  “Follow God,” Tassy repeated. “She said that to me, too. It’s just . . . well, it’s just that I don’t think I can do that, Pastor Jake. That’s okay, isn’t it? For me to stay here for a little while. I don’t know about this stuff about following God or anything. That’s okay, isn’t it? You won’t tell on me, will you?”

  Jake tried to offer a reassuring smile but was pretty sure Tassy could not see his face in the dark.

  “Sure, Tassy, that’s okay. Take your time. Sometimes it does seem like God is far away. That’s okay. That’s okay.”

  He could see Tassy smile back at him. The moon caught her face, making her look like an angel.

  “Thanks, Pastor Jake. Thanks. And good-night.”

  Petey meowed a good-night for both of them, then followed Jake back toward the parsonage.

  Emma sat in her upstairs office, her face lit blue by the glow of the computer. Winston snored, sleeping on the thick rug in the hallway. There was no carpeting in the office and Winston was a glutton for comfort.

  Just as well, Emma thought. Hard enough to concentrate with him snoring out there in the hall.

  She had debated on what she was about to do for a while, first considering it intrusive, almost stalkerlike, then rationalizing it.

  Looking someone up on the Internet isn’t a bad thing. Why would Facebook be so popular if it was?

  Emma started there. Thirty-seven Jake R. Wilkersons had accounts on Facebook, but not one of them was the Jake Wilkerson who was new to Coudersport.

  “Seriously? He doesn’t have a Facebook page? What decade is he living in? Even Winston has a Facebook page.”

  Typing Jake’s name into Google returned more than a million hits.

  Adding “Butle
r, PA” to the search narrowed it considerably.

  A few more refinements in her search found Emma a short, archived article in the Butler Eagle records regarding Jake’s hiring at the East Side Christian Church in Lyndora, a neighborhood on the east edge of Butler.

  Graduate of the Bible Seminary in Hatfield. Where is Hatfield?

  She looked on Google Maps.

  Sort of between Allentown and Philadelphia. Never heard of it.

  Then she stumbled across another article in the newspaper, written by a senior pastor, Reverend Gust, talking about preparing for marriage.

  “I even have a staff member going through my marriage preparation course—Jake Wilkerson. He’s not engaged yet, but he and his girlfriend, Barbara Ann Bentley, thought it would be a good idea to get off on the right foot, as it were. I think it’s wise as well, seeing as how Barbara Ann is my niece and a former second-runner up in the Miss Pennsylvania Pageant. Might as well start early,” Pastor Gust declared, “and set a healthy groundwork for the future.”

  Emma did not surprise easily, but this surprised her.

  He was “almost” engaged? He didn’t say a word about that to me. But then . . . why would he?

  She found one more puzzling bit of information. It was a small notice in the electronic version of the church newsletter of the East Side Christian Church.

  We are sad to say good-bye to one of our associate pastors, Jake Wilkerson. Jake is heading off to a new opportunity. We wish him well in his new endeavor.

  The dates didn’t match up—that’s what puzzled Emma. The newsletter notice about Jake’s departure was dated more than nine months prior. If he were headed to Coudersport after leaving his position in Butler—well, it wouldn’t have taken him nine months to pack.

  She thought about it and came to the only conclusion that made sense: the church fired him.

  Fired? Do they really fire preachers?

  Leaning back in the chair, Emma exhaled loudly, causing Winston to snort and almost wake up.

  “Well, Pastor Jake, I think there is more here than meets the eye.”