The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

  She turned off the computer.

  “Not that it’s any of my business. And not that I care. Really.”

  She stood up.

  “Do I Winston? I don’t really care.”

  Vern parked the Buick in the garage, banging the front end, just a little, into the workbench that no longer served as a workbench in the front of the garage. A rusty gathering of old paint cans and coffee tins filled with loose nails and odd nuts and bolts rattled and jumped, but only a little. He had banged it much harder on former occasions.

  “We’re home,” he declared, thinking that Eleanor had fallen asleep during the ten-minute ride.

  “I’m awake, you old goat. Who can sleep with the way you drive, speeding and weaving like that? You make it sound like you climbed Mount Everest or something, getting us home without causing a traffic accident. That’s normal, Vern, you know. Driving without dying.”

  He waved off her reply like he was batting at an angry moth.

  It was obvious that this was a routine they had practiced for years and years, neither one really meaning what they said and neither really paying close attention to what was said in between the rehearsed lines.

  “House looks so much bigger without the trailer sitting there.”

  “RV.”

  “RV, trailer, monstrosity—whatever, Vern. It just looks nicer with it gone.”

  Vern extended his arm for Eleanor to hold on to. In the dark, she was much less stable on her feet.

  “You know what? I think I agree with you on that.”

  If Eleanor was surprised, she did not show it.

  “You think the dead grass will come back?”

  “Probably. I got some seed in the garage. I’ll put it down tomorrow.”

  They shuffled along toward the house.

  “That would be nice. Maybe we could stop at Smolka’s Greenhouse and get a couple of geraniums.”

  Vern snorted.

  “Too early. We can get a freeze up here on the Fourth of July,” he grumbled. “Maybe next week, though.”

  Vern unlocked the deadbolt and the door lock. He was a firm proponent of never being too careful. He switched on the round fluorescent bulb in the kitchen, then helped Eleanor with her coat. “She has a bum shoulder,” Vern would say to others when they saw him being chivalrous.

  “So what do you think of the new guy? Seems like a kid to me. Way too young to be a pastor of a real church.”

  Eleanor pulled out a kitchen chair and sat heavily. Long walks tired her.

  “I don’t know, Vern. Seems like he’s fine. But . . .”

  “But what?” Vern asked. “He say something stupid that I didn’t hear? The elders gunning for him already?”

  Eleanor gave Vern a very familiar, peeved look, almost angry, but not quite.

  “No, it’s not that at all. I just get the feeling that he’s not sure if he has it in him. Like he doesn’t really believe that he’s a pastor. That comes out, you know, Vern. Pastors have to be sure. And I don’t know if he is. Of course, he’s only been here a few days. Maybe he’ll grow into it.”

  Vern took a Vernor’s Ginger Ale out of the refrigerator, held it down in the sink, and pulled the opening tab on it. It hissed, just a little.

  “Well, if I know the elders, he won’t have that long of a honeymoon.”

  Petey had not yet made up his mind where to sleep tonight. He tried the chair in the bedroom. He tried under the small table in the hall, just outside the bedroom. He tried on top of the dresser, but there was some sort of aftershave bottle there that smelled like a dead flower. And he tried the windowsill, but it was narrower than the one in Jake’s office.

  None of them felt just right.

  He looked up at the big bed and decided he would audition that. He tried not to think about that place where he had once lived, a place where there would be punishment for a cat being on a bed.

  But Jake isn’t like that, Petey told himself. God would not allow that to happen to me twice.

  So tonight, Petey waited until Jake settled into bed, then jumped up and stayed at the far corner of the bed, waiting.

  “Hey, Petey,” Jake said as he looked up. “You can stay up here. It’s okay. It would drive my mother crazy—but I don’t mind.”

  So Petey took him at his word.

  Petey made his way to the center of his side of the bed and circled several times, then lay down, tucking his legs underneath him. He kept his eyes on Jake as he did so, not wanting to be surprised if he changed his mind.

  “Good cat,” Jake said, and switched off the bedside lamp.

  Petey would have smiled, if he could smile, which he couldn’t.

  Stupid dogs have all the luck. They always get to sleep on beds.

  5

  Thursday.

  I should have finished this sermon by now, so I’d have a couple of days to work on the delivery—and make it exceptionally good.

  Jake hadn’t even started his first message to his new church.

  He did have a three-ring black vinyl binder—not one of the real big ones but a slim, one-inch binder—filled with his past sermons. Some of them were part of a series, a series that someone else started and then required an emergency stand-in. Most were summer sermons, when attendance was down and when the sermons were all “one-offs,” nothing in a series.

  Jake thumbed through the book a number of times. A few of the messages he felt proud of, but the majority, while theologically sound, did not rise to the level where the congregation would rise as one and applaud, or better yet, cheer.

  Instead, he took three volumes from the bookcase behind him—three thick commentaries. An open Bible lay in the middle of the desk, waiting, almost taunting Jake.

  Find something worthwhile—I dare you!

  He thought he might start by looking at Romans. It was a popular book, lots written on it, lots of uplifting messages could be taken from it.

  The hard parts—well, he wouldn’t preach the hard parts just yet.

  Get a feel for things, the lay of the land and all that. No sense stirring up deep waters first thing. Right?

  Petey sauntered into Jake’s office, sputtering to himself, little cat chirps, as if he were talking to himself as he walked, reminding himself that he was due for his midmorning nap. A cat person for all of three-and-a-half days, Jake had already noticed the fact that cats seem to sleep a great deal.

  He looked it up on the Internet: eighteen hours wouldn’t be abnormal for a house cat.

  What I would give to sleep eighteen hours a day, Jake thought.

  The cat walked to Jake, sniffed at his chair and then sniffed the air, and headed to the window. The window, nearly as tall as a man, featured a wide sill—wide enough to sit on, and wide enough to sleep on if you were a cat.

  Petey jumped up with ease. If his bandaged paw was causing him any pain, he did not show a trace of discomfort.

  “Hello, Petey,” Jake said.

  Petey churred a response, acknowledging the salutation.

  “So, Petey, what should I preach on this week?”

  Petey chirped a short reply, then looked up and hesitated a moment, jumped down from the sill and walked to the desk, and effortlessly, it seemed, launched himself to the desktop. He looked at Jake clearly, as if he had understood his question, then with feline gentleness sniffed each of the three open commentaries. Finally, he sniffed at the Bible, carefully pawed at the pages with his good paw, then looked hard at Jake and simply fell onto his side, covering, very nearly, both open pages of the open Bible.

  “Well, Petey, that doesn’t really help me at all. Kind of hard to see the Scriptures through a cat.”

  Petey responded with a low growl—not an angry growl but a warm, knowing growl, as if that was his original intention: to hide the Scriptures for now.

  “Really?”

  Petey rolled onto his back, inviting his stomach to be rubbed. Jake did, still mostly unsure of what a cat might be asking for. But this time he was correct. Pete
y responded with a loud purring and lifted his front paws as if signaling for a touchdown.

  “So I don’t need the Bible this time?”

  Petey chirped loudly.

  “Was that a yes?”

  Another catlike chirp.

  “Then what do I do? That’s sort of my job here, isn’t it? To talk about the Bible and all that? That is what pastors do, you know.”

  Petey responded by rolling again, stood up, and head-butted Jake’s chin, purring even louder. Jake scratched behind the cat’s ears.

  “What? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Jake knew that all of this sounded patently ridiculous, but it actually felt almost-to-sort-of normal. Expected. Like Petey knew what he was doing.

  It can’t hurt to ask. Maybe he does have some answers. He seems like a pretty smart cat.

  Petey sat back and with his good paw, reached out, claws retracted, of course, and tapped at Jake’s chin. Then the cat moved forward and butted his head into Jake’s chest.

  “Me? Is that it?”

  Petey meowed loudly.

  “Really?”

  Another loud meow. And it wasn’t for food, because Petey had consumed an entire can of beef ’n’ liver for breakfast.

  “Talk about me?”

  Petey sat on the Bible and stared, as only a cat can stare, deeply, with conviction, as if he is seeing something, deep and hidden and hardly moving, that only a cat can see.

  “I guess I could do that. Talk about how I got here. I would imagine that most of them are wondering why this church and why me. Myself included. That might work. I guess that would be a good way to start. Everyone on the same page. I could add a few verses to make it less about me and more about the Bible—but it would still be a lot about me. I think that could actually work.”

  Jake smoothed the fur on the cat’s head. He could feel Petey move against and into his open palm as he petted him.

  “I could do my testimony.”

  Petey stood up again and walked back to the Bible, circled three times and lay down, keeping his eyes partially open, watching Jake as he turned to the computer and started to type.

  I’ll just leave off the last few months.

  See. The way of the cat. Let a man discover what he needs to discover and he’ll embrace it. If I told him to talk about himself, he wouldn’t have believed me. It’s not that God wants him to do this or that, specifically. At least not this Sunday. I would like to hear his story. I know the people in the basement would like to hear it. They like stories. Family stories. Jake should just tell his story.

  Petey began to purr softly, as if he were self-congratulating a little.

  That’s the way cats work. Make people think it was their idea.

  Symbiotic.

  He closed his eyes to the sounds of Jake tapping at the keyboard.

  I think that’s the right word.

  “Tomorrow is the day, Petey,” Jake said as they both sat outside on the steps leading to the parsonage part of the church. “First sermon. First time to really start this job.”

  Petey meowed, obviously in a most reassuring tone.

  “I know. I think the sermon is fine. It is a lot about me, but in a small town—family stories are really important.”

  Petey chirped.

  “I know you thought of it first. Thank you, Petey. I appreciate it. A lot.”

  Petey rolled onto his side, purring, and gratefully accepted Jake’s rubbing of his belly.

  I think our relationship is starting off just fine.

  Petey looked skyward.

  Thank you.

  Following the second hymn, as the ushers gathered, each with their offering plates at the back of the sanctuary, the door that led from the pastor’s office to the platform slowly opened, just a few inches, as if by magic. Despite the small movement, it managed to catch most people’s attention.

  From that narrow opening, Petey slipped out onto the platform, stared for a moment at the congregation, as if he were not surprised to see them all there—but maybe a little surprised. He then looked at Pastor Jake, neat and tidy in his best suit and tie and newly polished shoes, chirped twice, and sauntered to one of the three padded high-back chairs on the right side of the platform.

  Jake had wondered what the chairs were used for. None of the elders mentioned sitting on the platform with him, and so far, during his inaugural service, none had attempted to join him. The cat jumped up onto the middle chair, then sat, regally, as only cats can do, mostly staring at Jake, but keeping a cautious eye on the congregation as well.

  A nervous, amused, small roll of laughter followed.

  The giant-sized elder, Elder Keilback, made everyone laugh out loud when he announced from the back, “You planning to give that cat his own giving envelopes, Pastor? If he sits up there, I think you should.”

  Jake, at first, felt a crushing tidal wave of anxiety seeing Petey stroll in, but the laughter—good-natured, it sounded like—quickly diffused that jangly feeling.

  “I might,” Jake replied. “We’ll see what he says about the sermon afterward. Either envelopes or I make sure that door is locked next Sunday.”

  Another small roll of laughter followed and in that instant, Jake felt his nervousness ebb . . . not disappear, but lessen. Now it was manageable. Earlier, Jake had worried if he would be able to get through the service without making some horrible, unforgiving gaffe.

  Well, it was a pretty good sermon, Petey thought as he watched the people slowly make their way out of the church. Not deep, but heartfelt. That’s good. And it sure looked like they all liked it as well. I only saw two people sleeping, and they were old people. I think old people sleep more than others. Like old cats. I once knew a very old cat who slept all the time. Only got up to eat, basically. And the litter box, of course. But he seemed content. Maybe I’ll sleep more when I get old.

  Jake stood in the back, shaking hands with all who wanted to shake hands as they left, nodding, speaking a few words with everyone.

  He seems comfortable. Petey wondered if he should wait for Jake or slip back into the parsonage and wait for him there.

  Here is better. He’ll want to know how he did. He’ll ask right away. That’s part of his problem. He should do what God says and not worry about what others think. We’ll work on that. That is, if he’s listening to God. I do sense that he doesn’t listen all that well.

  After a long interlude, Jake came back up the center aisle, loosening his tie as he walked.

  When he got to the platform, he stopped.

  “So how was it, Petey? Did you like it?”

  Petey meowed loudly and reared up on his back legs, his front paws scrabbling in the air, as if pleading to be picked up. Jake obliged and Petey began to purr loudly.

  “It was okay, then? The sermon? Do you think it went well?”

  Petey could not purr much louder than he was, but he tried. He chirped once and then laid his chin on Jake’s shoulder.

  That should reassure him.

  For now, anyhow.

  In the absence of another mouse.

  The rule had been written into the church constitution three decades earlier: “Pastors should have every Monday free from work and free from any particulars related to official church business, if they so prefer. Another day may be substituted for Monday, but should not become a regular occurrence unless approved by a three-fifths vote of the elders.”

  Monday suited Jake just fine. He had had Mondays off at the church in Butler as well.

  A few minutes past nine, Jake let Petey outside and walked to the RV. He listened and could hear the television from inside. He tapped at the door.

  Tassy opened the door a crack, a pink chenille bathrobe clutched around her neck.

  “The robe’s from Eleanor,” she said before Jake spoke a single word. “My grandmother had one exactly like this. Isn’t it a scream?”

  Jake wasn’t sure if scream meant funny or tragically hip and ironic, so he nodded and smiled. “I
’m going into town. You want to come along?”

  Tassy shook her head. “No, I’m not feeling real well this morning. Maybe a touch of the flu. Or one of those stomach bug things. I’ll stay here and have some tea.”

  “You need anything? Aspirin? Flu medicine?”

  Tassy shook her head again. “I don’t like to take medicine. I’ll have tea and honey. That will help.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind stopping.”

  “No. I’m fine. It’s sweet of you to ask. Thanks.”

  Petey followed him to the truck and hopped up to the seat when Jake opened the door.

  Jake didn’t really need to go to town, though he was a little low on half-and-half. His coffee consumption had increased since arriving in Coudersport. And he thought he might pay a visit to Emma the Vet, so she could check on Petey’s wound. That’s all. Just a checkup. No other reason than that. He was worried about the cat. As any concerned pet owner would be.

  The sign outside her office appeared to be at an even steeper angle than it was a week ago. As far as Jake knew, there had been no freeze/thaw cycles in the last seven days.

  Maybe someone backed into it.

  He looked at the ground around the sign as he got out of the truck, but there were no recent tire marks.

  Maybe some local hooligans pushed it, he thought. That’s what Pastor Gust had called most everyone under the age of twenty: hooligans. He was not a man to suffer callow youths with much grace.

  Petey climbed out of the truck, sniffed the air, and made his way, quite deliberately, up onto the front porch. He sat and meowed loudly. Jake hurried behind him, opened the door, and was greeted by a rumbling series of barks from the rear of the house. At least, he thought they were barks, though they sounded more like “woof-snarfle-woof-cough.”

  He then heard Emma’s voice.

  “Winston, pipe down. You keep barking at patients and we won’t have any patients, and then you’ll see. No more crunchies for you. Out on the street—that’s where you’ll be.”