by Theresa Weir
He gave the woman the address and she told him she’d send someone over. “We’ll observe the animal, then make our decision.”
Michael disconnected and looked up at the cat. “You are dead, fucker.”
Emerson
Chapter 17
Emerson spread the quilt on the ground not far from the creek and near the rabbit sculpture. From his backpack he pulled out plates and cheese, a knife, crackers and fruit, along with a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.
He heard his name and looked up to see Lola strolling across the grass giving him a big wave and smile. Her legs and arms were bare, and she was wearing flip-flops and a summer dress with blue flowers on it. Her dangling earrings and shining hair blew in the wind along with her skirt.
He froze.
After a second he tried to smile, but he was afraid it came out more of a grimace. He could see this new life evaporating before him. He’d lost Sam and now he was going to lose Lola, not that he’d ever really had her.
“You didn’t leave me a note today.” She kicked off her flip-flops and dropped to her knees on the blanket.
The sun hit her face at an angle that made the amber of her eyes break into what seemed like prisms, and as he looked at the smoothness of her skin he could feel it under his fingertips…the softness, and he could smell her hair—that mix of something floral with something herbal.
“I, uh…” He clenched his hands into fists and looked down at the cheese and the wine and the fruit. What had he been thinking? “I forgot to come to the rose garden today. I was kind of busy.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t look at her, but he could hear the puzzlement and hurt in her voice.
“That’s okay,” she said. “It’s not like we’d planned it or anything.”
It was the first time they’d ever talked about his visits to the garden, and that in itself made Emerson uncomfortable. That guy, the guy who brought her notes, didn’t seem like this guy, the guy who was sitting on the blanket.
If Sam were still in his life he would have brought him. That had been his plan. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t get how having the cat nearby calmed him down enough so he could say and do what he wanted to say and do, but it did. Maybe that made him insane, and if that was the case then Lola shouldn’t be with him anyway.
“Are you going to open that?” Lola indicated the wine bottle in his hand.
“Oh, yeah.”
It gave him something to do as he fumbled for the opener, screwed it in, then popped the cork. Lola held the glasses while he poured, and his hand was shaking so violently he spilled wine on her leg.
She laughed and wiped it off, but he didn’t miss the concerned look she gave him. “You okay?” She seemed to ask that question a lot, with good reason.
“Fine.” He took a swallow of wine. Then another, and another.
“You sure? Because you’re acting kind of strange.”
“I’m sorry if you don’t like who I am.” He refilled his glass. She hadn’t taken a single sip. “I’m not cool.”
She frowned, trying to understand.
“I’m not cool, and I’m not witty. Well. I am, but not with you. With you, this is who I am.” He gestured with his hand, a sweep from head-to-toe.
“I’m not looking for a cool guy.” Lola put her wine glass aside.
“I think you are.”
“No, I’m not. And anyway, you’re wrong about not being cool.”
In a movement that seemed diversionary, she opened the cloth bag she’d dropped to the ground—one of those handmade things that a lot of girls carried. She dug inside and pulled out a small cardboard box, opened it, and produced a cupcake with pink frosting, topped with a black-and-white cat, also made of frosting.
“Look. It’s Sam.” She turned the cupcake so he could get a better view. “Melody made it. Do you want a bite?”
Emerson shook his head.
She peeled the wrapper down enough to get to the cake and took a bite, pink frosting sticking to her upper lip. She licked it away, then extended the cupcake to him, close to his mouth. “Sure?”
He recoiled. “Really. I’m fine.”
“Are you?” She was getting mad. “Are you really fine, because you don’t seem fine at all. Why did you invite me here today just to be rude?”
“Sorry.” He struggled to explain something he didn’t understand himself. Shyness. How did you explain that to somebody? Shyness was something to be ashamed of, something he didn’t want her to know about. He’d rather she think he was a jerk.
“You’re like two different people,” she said. “One of them I really like, and the other one… Well, the other one is someone I don’t even want to know. The other one is someone I don’t even want to be around. He’s the guy from the repair shop, and he’s the guy who walked away from me when we were dancing, and he’s the guy who’s sitting here right now acting rude. So which one is the real you?”
“Care to take a guess?”
“This one. I think this one is the real you.”
“You are correct,” he said with the inflection of a game-show host. “This is me. This is who I am. This guy right here.”
“And all the other stuff—the notes in the rose garden and the dinner the other night and being afraid of me and the tender sex and feeding me orange slices—that was an act.”
He wanted to tell her no, that it wasn’t an act, that it had all been real, but he wasn’t sure if it had been a hundred-percent real. And if he could never be that guy for her, then he didn’t deserve to be here. And now she was crying, and the cat cupcake was still in her hand.
“It was the cat,” he blurted out.
She was like a baby caught in mid-sob, attention diverted to something bigger than her misery. “W-what?” she asked in disbelief.
“The cat. When the cat’s around, I’m that guy. The guy you want me to be. But Sam’s gone now. The owner picked him up yesterday.”
“The cat? You’re saying Sam the cat was behind your miraculous transformation?”
“I don’t know how, but he was.”
She let out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all but more of a jeer. But at least she’d stopped crying. “Oh-my-god. You are so-full-of-shit.” Each word was enunciated. “Blaming your behavior on a cat. A poor cat.”
She glanced at the cupcake in her hand. “I’ve got a cat for you. See if this cat will make you cool.”
She shoved the cupcake in his face, smashing it against his mouth, then letting it drop to the blanket. She grabbed her shoes, got to her feet, and strode away.
Her skin still glowed in the sunlight, and her hair still blew in the breeze.
Watching her fade into the distance, Emerson wiped the cupcake from his face and licked his fingers. Then he finished off his wine, her wine, and the wine in the bottle.
Emerson
Chapter 18
Once the wine was drained, Emerson recycled the bottle in the proper container, tossed the cupcake in the trash—in the proper container—then packed up the rest of the picnic, shoved it in his backpack, got on his bike, and pedaled down the middle of the street.
Behind him a car honked and Emerson veered to the side, into the bike lane, giving the unseen driver a buzzed wave. After a bottle of wine, he still wasn’t where he wanted to be. Wine was weird that way, where you never really felt drunk even though you knew you were.
He stopped at a neighborhood bar near his place and began drinking beer. He challenged somebody to a game of pool, lost, then played some darts and also lost. Somewhere along the way he started telling this guy about Lola. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his billfold, and extracted two photo-booth photos from the backyard party and showed them to the guy.
“She’s quite the looker.” The man pointed. “What’s the story with the cat?”
Emerson let out a sigh. The cat. How did he explain the cat? He told the guy about losing Lola, and that he’d never really had her anyway. And that it was all because of the cat.
“This cat—” He blinked at the guy, trying to bring him into focus. Beard. About forty. “This cat was making me say things and do things.”
“You mean like controlling your mind?”
“I think they were things I would have done anyway, but it was like the cat gave me this push. Like the cat made me brave.”
“I don’t mean this in a mean way, but have you maybe forgotten to take something lately? Are you off your meds? It’s not good to stop medication, buddy. I hope I’m not offending you.”
“Oh, hey, I hear ya. I get it. I’d be thinking the same thing if I were you. But, no. No meds.”
“Maybe you should think about starting some. Like see somebody. Listen, why don’t you go home? You have a home, right?”
“I do.”
“Go home. Sleep it off. Then think about seeing a doctor about this cat thing.”
That made sense. A lot of sense. “I don’t know why I didn’t do that before.” Emerson let out a snort. “Cats can’t get into somebody’s head.”
“No, they can’t.”
Emerson straightened. If he got himself medicated then maybe he’d have a chance with Lola.
“Okay, I’m going home. I’ll sleep it off. I’ll see a shrink. You’ve been great.” And then he headed out the door and was walking home when he spotted a bike that looked just like his. Wow, same Let It Be stickers on it, too. What were the odds?
Wait a minute.
He looked closer, then fumbled in his pocket, dug out a key, tried it in the lock. It sprang open.
What do ya know.
He pulled the bike from the metal rack and rode home.
Inside, music was blaring and the place was body-to-body people.
The tattoo party.
Somebody shoved a beer in his hand, and the conversation he’d had at the bar about getting his head fixed was forgotten.
Sometime in the early morning hours Chris found him in the kitchen talking and laughing it up with a bunch of strangers. He and Chris were buddies, but they didn’t run with the same crowd, not that Emerson ran with a crowd. Chris was a social butterfly, Emerson a social misfit.
“The tattoo artist is ready for another person,” Chris announced. “Anybody else getting a tattoo?”
Emerson put his beer aside. “I’ll get one.”
“Cool. Upstairs. My room.”
On his way, Emerson stopped by his own room, dug through the trash, pulled out one of the flyers he’d made of Sam, and walked with purpose toward Chris’ bedroom where the tattoo artist was waiting.
Emerson
Chapter 19
Emerson woke up to blinding sunlight, an aching skull, and a throbbing arm.
He rubbed his head, then rubbed his arm to find it covered with plastic wrap. He pulled one corner of the wrap free and there it was, a tattoo of Sam staring smugly at him. Emerson smoothed the tape back into place, vaguely recalling telling the tattoo artist that he’d restore an amp for him in trade.
He showered and got dressed, found a bottle of Advil, washed down a couple of capsules, looked at the clock and realized it was only 6:30 a.m. and there was a really good chance he was still wasted.
He headed out the door, hopped on his bike, and pedaled as fast as his head could stand to the businessman’s condo. He was going to get Sam back.
He caught the owner heading to his car, briefcase in his hand. Crisp white shirt, pale gray tie.
“Hey!” Emerson jumped from his bike and let it drop to the ground.
The man gave him a blank look and tried to sidestep.
Emerson sidestepped back. “I’m the guy who found Sam.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“I mean George. Your cat.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” The guy managed to maneuver around Emerson and hit the unlock button on his SUV.
Emerson ran after him. “How’s George doing?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
The guy opened the driver’s door.
“I was wondering if I could see him. Maybe visit him.”
“Visit a cat?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I miss him. And if you ever need anybody to watch him—like if you go out of town—you can call me.”
“Are we talking about the same animal?” The guy tossed his briefcase in the SUV, unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them up a couple of turns. “This is what that crazy shit did to me.”
“Wow. Those are deep. Like they might even need stitches.” Sam had never once acted aggressive with Emerson. “Why not let me take that crazy shit off your hands? I’ll get him right now. Just take a minute. You’ve got a minute, right?”
The guy rolled down his sleeves over tan, hairy arms. His face was really tan too, and Emerson bet he golfed. “The cat’s gone.”
Panic fluttered in Emerson’s chest. Gone. He didn’t like that word. Gone. “Did he run away again?”
“After he attacked me I sent him to a shelter. He’s gone.”
“What shelter? What’s the name of it?”
“Valley Animal Shelter.”
“That isn’t a no-kill place.” Emerson had read a disturbing piece about it in City Pages. “Why would you send him there?”
“Because he needed to be put down, that’s why.”
Emerson’s mind raced. “They don’t put them down for a while.”
“Because of his behavior, and because the cat was violent, they put him down yesterday. Right away. So forget about it. Go get yourself another cat, one without claws. Or better yet, get a dog.”
The guy ducked into the SUV, turned the key, and blasted away, leaving Emerson in the middle of the street.
Lola
Chapter 20
At 6:30 a.m., Lola gave up on sleep and tossed back the covers, shuffled to the kitchen, and put a kettle of water on the stove. She hadn’t slept the entire night thanks to the asshole.
She opened the refrigerator to stare at a jar of mayonnaise, some ketchup, a box of leftovers from a week ago, and a few beers. She let the door fall closed, searched for the bag she’d taken to the park yesterday, dug out the cardboard box, and rescued the second and final cupcake. The cat was now an unrecognizable blob.
Once the water was hot, she made herself a cup of tea, put the cupcake on a vintage plate, found a fork and sat down at the counter, starting with a bite of pink frosting.
Asshole.
Three bites in and half a cup of tea later, she tossed down the fork, marched to the bedroom, slipped into a pair of jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, then grabbed her car keys and headed for her Corolla parked at the curb.
She drove too fast, and when she took corners her tires actually barked, something she didn’t even know they could do. And then she was pulling up in front of Emerson’s house, shutting off the car, slamming the door hard when she got out.
She marched up the sidewalk and pounded on the front door. Because a cat cupcake to the face hadn’t been enough.
She wasn’t going to take this kind of treatment without at least calling him on his bullshit in a much bigger way than she’d done yesterday. She needed closure. She was tired of letting people get away with stuff.
Finally she heard someone say he was coming, and then a guy in plaid flannel pajama bottoms and blond tangled hair answered the door. Behind him, the house was trashed with beer cans and beer bottles and plastic keg cups. He scratched his chest. “What can I do ya for?”
A party.
So that’s why Emerson had wanted to get out of their evening together. He w
as having a party. Her anger moved to the red zone.
“I’m here to see Emerson.”
The guy tipped his head back and shouted at the ceiling. “Emerson!”
They both waited.
“Go to his room if you want.” He stepped aside and Lola walked past him. “Left at the top of the stairs unless you were already up there last night.”
She paused and turned to glare at him. “I was not up there last night.”
“Hey, I’m not judging.” He shut the door. “But I am going back to bed once I take a piss.” He shuffled off down the hall while Lola went upstairs.
Bedroom on the left.
It was empty, blue sheets tumbling to the floor as if somebody had left in a hurry.
Stereo. Two guitars—one acoustic, one electric. Amplifiers that seemed to be in various stages of repair. Three windows, all almost too dirty to see through. A white radiator and an ancient wooden floor that slanted toward the street.
On the wall were a couple of framed local band posters. Next to the bed, beside a lamp with a thrift shop shade painted like the north woods, was a notebook and two empty beer bottles.
She tore her gaze from the bed and the notebook to land on a black violin case. She crossed the room and opened it to find it full of red envelopes. Her red envelopes.
From outside came the sound of something hitting the front porch, then the door opened and she heard someone running across the floor, then pounding up the stairs. She dropped the lid and straightened just as Emerson burst into the room, steadying himself with the doorframe when he spotted her.
Out of breath, chest rising and falling, he said, “Oh, hey.” He let go of the door and began scrambling around the room, lifting the notebook, dropping it, grabbing clothes, digging into pockets. “I can’t find my car keys. Shit, I can’t find my car keys.”
He stopped in the center of the room. Elbow high, he grabbed his hair in what looked like an effort to recall where he’d left the missing keys.
