The Cat That God Sent

by Jim Kraus

Jake squinched up his face.

  “I . . . I don’t think they do. But it’s Friday. Most garage sales start today. There’s always someone selling a used bike. We could go look.”

  “Can we? Do you have time? That would be super.”

  “Tassy, I can make time.”

  Petey stood by the truck’s passenger side door and hopped up when Jake opened it. He took his normal position on the seat and then stared at Tassy as she attempted to enter, as if wondering where she was planning on sitting.

  “Petey, move to the middle. Tassy has to sit down.”

  Petey meow-growled, one of his doglike behaviors, and reluctantly gave ground, edging over only a few inches to make way for Tassy.

  Before Jake started the truck, he pulled Petey more toward the middle.

  “It won’t kill you to give up your spot, Petey. Be a gentleman, okay?”

  Petey meowed loudly, in protest, but settled himself in the center of the bench seat, obviously unhappy at being usurped from his rightful seating choice.

  They drove through downtown and headed off into the residential area. On the first block they saw two garage sales with cardboard signs and streamers announcing the sale. Jake slowly cruised past, waved at the people sitting in folding lawn chairs, looking for a bike in the assemblage of stuff displayed on the driveways.

  “No bikes here,” he said after looking at both sales. “We’ll keep driving. I’m sure there’ll be one.”

  Two blocks over, there was a giant sheet of cardboard with the badly drawn words BIG HUGE GARAGE SALE written with a fading black marker hung at an angle on a telephone pole.

  “This looks promising,” Jake said, and pulled to the curb. In the shade of the garage stood a tangle of used bikes. Tassy got out, excited, and Petey followed her, meowing the whole way.

  Someone called out, “Hey! There’s Petey!”

  A woman in a very snug Coudersport Falcons sweatshirt bent down to the cat. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing ever? I just love it when I see you in church. You’re just so pretty.”

  She looked up to Jake. “I’m Millie LeGran. We come to church, on and off. Sort of mostly off, ’cause my husband says Sunday is the only day he gets to sleep in. But I’ve been coming since I heard about the cat. Really. He’s such a cutie.”

  Petey sat back on his haunches, apparently drinking in the affection like a thirsty man.

  “Well, that’s good,” Jake replied, trying to be sincere.

  I am sincere. Aren’t I? They’re coming. Fellowship. Hear the word. What more could I ask?

  “Do you have any bikes for sale? Tassy—you know, the young girl living in Vern’s RV— is looking for one.”

  “I do. I do have bikes. When all five kids are grown and gone, they leave a lot of stuff behind. Like a dozen bikes of different sizes. I’ve been saving them, thinking that they’ll come back and get them, but Bud says they’re never coming back for an old bike, so I should just sell them along with all their other junk. He’s not very sentimental, my Bud. So, they’re all for sale. Tassy, what kind of bike do you want? A red one? The blue one is nice. I think this one has different speeds on it or something. Try it out. I had Bud pump up all the tires this week.”

  Tassy pulled out a blue one with gears, a girl’s bike, that seemed to be her size. She climbed on top and road it down the driveway and began pedaling as she got to the street.

  “I got helmets to go with that, too, Pastor Jake.”

  Petey watched Tassy ride away and meowed loudly. He ran to the end of the driveway, watching her. He called out again, a very loud meow this time, the loudest Jake had heard yet.

  He didn’t think Tassy heard but she turned around and pedaled back, coasting into the driveway. Petey ran and sniffed at her and then sniffed at the bike.

  “What do you think? Does it ride good?”

  “It does. Real nice. Fits me perfectly. This will be great.”

  Tassy got off the bike, put out the kickstand, and stepped back.

  “How much?”

  Millie sighed.

  “I was going to ask $20 for each bike—and then, you know, haggle some. Bud said they’re worth more, but this is a garage sale. But since you’re with Pastor Jake and Petey . . . tell you what—I’ll make this a donation to the church. Can I do that, Pastor Jake? I don’t really care about the money. I just want to get rid of things. Just take it. And take one of these helmets. Try ’em on. Find one that fits. Okay?”

  Tassy smiled like a child on Christmas morning.

  “You mean it? This is so nice of you. But I should pay you something for this.”

  “Tell you what: you put a couple of extra dollars in the collection plate next Sunday and we’ll call it even.”

  She picked Petey up.

  “Especially since you brought Mr. Petey with you. I’m glad I had a chance to meet him personally. He’s as nice as I thought he would be.”

  Jake could have sworn Petey’s next meow smacked of smugness, as did his wincing expression as Mrs. LeGran gave him an extra special, long hug of farewell.

  11

  Emma, this is Jake. I don’t want you to think that I do everything at the last minute—because I don’t. Normally, I’m much more organized and scripted. I was supposed to join our Woman’s Guild and Assistance Society meeting tonight, which has been cancelled since both chairwomen have come down with something and neither wanted the committee to meet without them. So I have the evening free. Rather than the two of us eating alone, would you like to share a table at Kaytee’s?”

  Emma, at that specific moment, was holding a frozen lasagna dinner that promised great taste with “only 375 delicious calories!”

  “I would love to,” she said as she stuffed the box back into the already overpacked freezer. “What time? And will this be formal?”

  “Yes. I am wearing tails. And would 6:00 be too late? Or early?”

  “6:00 is great. See you there.”

  Petey was staring at Jake during the entire conversation.

  “Hey, Petey. It’s just for dinner. No milkshake kisses after this meal, since we’re driving separately.”

  Petey shut his eyes in response, as if trying not to think of what a milkshake kiss might be.

  “I’ll be home early.”

  Jake walked into the restaurant and saw Emma waving from a booth in the far corner.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. I bet the rest of the committee was disappointed that they wouldn’t have you all to themselves.”

  Jake’s face showed his total puzzlement.

  “Jake, you can’t be serious. You’re a single fellow, reasonably attractive, and the talk of the religious circuit around here. Or the society circuit—at least as much as anything in Coudersport could be considered ‘society.’ Don’t you think that the ladies-in-waiting would have wanted to have the meeting—regardless of the lack of leadership?”

  “You think so?” Jake seemed both oblivious and surprised.

  “Yes, really,” Emma said, shaking her head in mock amazement at Jake’s naiveté. “I thought pastors had to be perceptive.”

  “I am perceptive. Sort of. Maybe. Aren’t I?”

  “No, Jake, you’re not. But that in itself is charming. It’s why the ladies of the Women’s Guild love you and are so disappointed.”

  A waitress came up to the table.

  “Hey, Pastor Jake. Nice to see you tonight. How are you? How’s Petey?” She turned her head toward Emma and added, dryly, “Dr. Grainger.”

  Jake saw something in Emma’s eyes, and in the waitress’s, but wasn’t totally sure of what it was, except it made him a little uncomfortable.

  “I’m fine. Petey is fine. And how are you, MaryBeth?”

  Jake could have cheated and looked at her nametag, but MaryBeth went to his church and was the cousin or the niece or the next-door neighbor of the owner of Kaytee’s.

  “I’m fine, Pastor Jake. Thanks for asking. Since there’s always a crowd around you on Sunday
s, I just wanted to tell you how happy I am that you came to our church. I love to hear you talk. And you make so much sense. And you’re not old. And I really, really love little Petey.”

  “Why, thank you, MaryBeth. I’ll be sure to tell Petey. He will be happy to hear it.”

  MaryBeth giggled in reply.

  “You guys know what you want to order? Pastor Jake?”

  Jake looked at Emma, who offered the barest hint of a shrug and an arched eyebrow.

  Jake wasn’t sure what that meant. He paused, then ordered. “The deluxe cheeseburger. Medium is fine. Fries are fine. A diet whatever-you-have would be fine.”

  MaryBeth turned, finally, to Emma, “And you, Dr. Grainger?” MaryBeth’s words bordered on frosty.

  “I’ll have exactly the same. Makes it easy, right?”

  “Sure,” MaryBeth said, and spun away, heading toward the kitchen.

  It was Jake’s turn to shrug and offer a very sheepish expression.

  “I didn’t start that,” he said, defending himself.

  “I know,” Emma said. “But that’s why the Ladies Auxiliary is so disappointed.”

  “Women’s Guild.”

  “Whatever. Just be assured that they are.”

  Jake took a long drink of water. “They never taught this in seminary.”

  “Just like they never taught me in vet’s school how to deal with a pet owner who collapsed in tears—literally collapsed on the floor—when I suggested that an eighteen-year-old, blind, arthritic, half-paralyzed dog might be ready to go. Never touched on the human aspect of a vet’s job.”

  “It is funny. Both of us have to deal with serious people problems sometimes—and we got very little training for it.”

  Emma rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “Some people are good at it. Some aren’t. I don’t think it’s a skill you can learn. Either you have it—empathy and understanding—or you don’t.”

  Jake looked out the window for a moment.

  “Jake, what is it you’re good at? Knowing what a pastor does—really does during the week—is not something I’m too knowledgeable about.”

  Jake appeared pleased, for once, to talk about his role as pastor.

  She really is interested. In me. I think.

  “You know, the funny part of church and pastors is that a lot of people think all you have to do is really know the Bible. That’s important, but what’s more important is making what’s in there understandable to people in the pews. And that’s not easy. Some of it is confusing. Some of it will remain a mystery. So . . . making the Bible understandable—and keeping the church supplied with coffee. Those are the two most important things a pastor does.”

  MaryBeth brought the cheeseburgers and served Jake first.

  “You guys enjoy. You need anything, Pastor Jake, just whistle, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “One more church question,” Emma said. “Then we can start complaining about the weather or something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Okay—a pastor tells Bible stories. I get that. I did spend most of my youth in youth groups and Sunday school. So I have an idea of the general layout. Here’s my question: Does a pastor, or do all pastors, or whatever, do they really and truly believe in everything they preach about? Or can they have some doubts about some of it? Is that something that never happens or sometimes happens or always happens?”

  Emma took a very healthy bite of her cheeseburger and chewed thoughtfully as Jake scrunched up his face in thought.

  How much do I tell her? And . . . why is she asking this? It almost feels like . . . like Butler revisited. Did someone call her? Or did she call someone? But she wouldn’t do that. Would she?

  “I’m sure it happens. And I think every pastor encounters things he can’t explain. But doubts? Maybe some do.”

  “Do you?”

  Jake looked out the window for a moment, trying to think of the right answer.

  “No. Well, no. A few. A while ago. But everyone goes through ups and downs. It was just a down stretch.”

  Emma appeared as if she were about to offer a follow-up question. Instead, she just took another bite of her cheeseburger.

  “This is pretty good, isn’t it?”

  Jake nodded. And he hoped his expression did not give away his anxiety.

  Tassy practiced the bike ride to her new job on the Sunday before she started. She knew Pastor Jake would have given her a ride, but she did not want to ask him for help more than necessary. The bike ride took only fifteen minutes. It took even less on the way home, since there was a long stretch that was mostly downhill.

  She washed her bike the day before, too, taking time to clean each wheel spoke individually. She washed her good jeans and her sneakers that Dr. Emma said would be acceptable to wear. She woke early that Monday and was on the road at least twenty minutes before she needed to be. She did not want to be late on the first day of her first real job.

  Dr. Grainger had ordered several tunic tops with Tassy’s name stitched on the breast pocket. Tassy had volunteered to help pay for them when Dr. Grainger asked her size, but Dr. Grainger assured her that a good animal clinic provided uniforms for their staff.

  Tassy had just sat down behind the counter in the reception area when the front door banged open and a giant Great Dane lunged and clamored into the room, eyes wide, paws nearly akimbo, with a smallish woman clutching on to the dog’s leash. Dr. Grainger must have heard the commotion and came out from the first examination room.

  “Dangerfield, how are you?” Dr. Grainger said as she petted the very large dog, attempting to settle him down and only being partially successful. The small woman at the end of the leash put her hands on her knees and took a deep breath.

  “Mrs. Linhart, how are you?”

  “Desperate. Let’s just get the shots done.”

  Upon hearing the word shot, Dangerfield looked back, with some nervousness, at the human at the end of his leash, but other than the anxious look, he did not react.

  “All right, Dangerfield,” Dr. Grainger said with firmness. “Let’s go in here and I’ll give you a treat.”

  Dangerfield perked up at the word treat and followed the doctor and Mrs. Linhart into the examination room.

  Tassy waited and listened. She was pretty sure he was not supposed to come in to offer help but the dog was really, really big.

  After a moment, Tassy heard one high-pitched yelp. She expected a deeper bass yelp. Then another, louder this time, and the door banged open, with Dangerfield semiwild-eyed, barging for the door, and Mrs. Linhart hanging on.

  “I think he wants to go home now. Send me the bill.”

  Dr. Grainger followed them out to the porch and called out, “I will! And good luck!”

  Tassy waited behind the counter.

  “Vaccine and booster. Send the bill to Ruth Linhart on Niles Hill Road. She’s in the database. The one I showed you. Remember?”

  “I do, Dr. Grainger. And here it is.”

  Dr. Grainger shook her head and said, “Why she ever bought such an unruly dog, I will never know.”

  “Maybe her husband likes big dogs,” Tassy volunteered.

  “Maybe. But he also likes twenty-five-year-old secretaries. They divorced years ago. She lives by herself. Well, almost. With Dangerfield.”

  Tassy printed off the invoice, addressed the envelope, answered three phone calls, met two more patients—one an older man with a large, beautiful iridescent parrot on his shoulder—all before noon. She asked if she could pet the parrot, but the man explained that the bird—named Billy—wasn’t the most pleasant parrot around. “He bites. And not little nips. Like cracking a Brazil nut.”

  Tassy wasn’t sure if she had ever eaten a Brazil nut, but imagined they had pretty thick shells.

  During the first morning of work, the unpleasant feelings in Tassy’s stomach seemed to have diminished, but they returned, hard and sharp, on her second day.

  Even Dr. Grainger noticed.


  “You look pale, Tassy. Are you feeling well?”

  Tassy had anticipated the question.

  “I’m okay, Dr. Grainger. Just happens once in a while. Pastor Jake said it might be the water. He said some people are just very sensitive to changes in their water, and he said that Coudersport is on well water and I’m pretty sure we didn’t have well water in Philadelphia. So I usually have tea in the morning—with honey—and that helps sometimes. Not always but sometimes.”

  Dr. Grainger looked concerned. Tassy felt it was very kind of her to be concerned.

  “I do have a guest bedroom upstairs. Actually, I have several of them. If you ever feel ill, you can take a break and lie down for a few minutes.”

  “That’s kind of you, Dr. Grainger. But I’ll be all right. It passes.”

  The Church of the Open Door often lived up to its name and left the doors open during the service. Never a wealthy congregation—far from it, really—air conditioning was a luxury beyond their limited reach. Windows were opened when the weather grew hot. The quartet of ceiling fans was switched on when it grew very hot. One of the fans produced an almost inaudible, shrill whir, so using them was a last resort.

  Spring in Coudersport could turn warm, and on this Sunday, the elders decided to lift the large windows, propping each of them up with a one-foot stick. During the summer, a basket in a far corner at the back of the church held an assembly of sticks of various sizes, all painted white. One-foot sticks were for warm days. Two-foot sticks were for slightly hotter days. Three-foot sticks were used only when a heat wave gripped the area.

  Even Petey seemed affected by the heat. Normally, he remained in a seated position the entire sermon. This time he lay down, still paying attention.

  The elders had placed the church’s entire supply of hand fans in the pew racks. Some of them dated back twenty years, when the Jones Brothers Funeral Home was still in business. Some were simple, generic, green paddle-shaped fans. When Jake preached that morning, it was like gazing out on a field of corn dappled by a stiff breeze.

  At least it is helping keep the air moving.

  The elders informed Jake that when it got too warm, the pastor could preach without a suit coat. When it got extra warm, ties could be undone and top collar buttons unbuttoned. Jake wondered how warm it would have to be to wear shorts in the pulpit.