I hesitate, not sure I want to know. “What kind of bones?”
“Birds, mostly. Big birds, picked clean, and with the heads gone.”
Ugh! “That is disgusting!”
Ojiisan chuckles. “It is, isn’t it. Although we should be grateful that they’re clean.”
“Do you really think it is a bakeneko?”
“Oh, undoubtedly.” He shrugs seriously, but his eyes still have that brightness to them.
“But . . . couldn’t it be a raccoon dog? Or something else?”
“It’s a bakeneko. I am sure of it.”
I nod. “So how can I help?”
“Your grandmother and I, we think it moved in after old Ten died.”
I nod. That makes sense, cats are territorial.
“So we thought, the best way to get rid of it would be to introduce another cat.”
“And you thought I could help choose?”
Ojiisan grins. “You did such a good job choosing Ten. Do you remember how we used to sit and watch him stalk the dragonflies across the yard?”
“For hours! Yes!”
“That’s settled then. Your grandmother will be pleased.”
I imagine Bah-Ba sitting by the kitchen stove, a kitten curled upon her lap. And I am glad that we have come.
• • • •
Staying with my grandparents is like stepping back in time. Although they have electricity, when it comes to dinner we sit down to eat by lamplight, which casts a gentle glow across the room. Bah-Ba has left the door ajar, so that the autumn breeze can join us at the table, and the lanterns flicker gently in the sweet night air.
“I hope you are hungry, Sora,” Bah-Ba says as she puts a plate before me. “It’s your favorite.”
I look down at my plate, and I am five years old again, my legs swinging miles from the floor. I breathe in the smell of a thousand memories.
“Thanks, Bah-Ba.”
Bah-Ba used to make me omuraisu every time I came to visit. Fluffy rice, peas and carrots, sometimes ham, all stirred up with ketchup and wrapped in the thinnest, lightest omelet in the world. Nobody makes omuraisu like my Bah-Ba.
Mama frowns. “I hope you have gone lightly with the ketchup.”
Not a chance. Bah-Ba likes it just the same as me.
Bah-Ba slides dishes in front of Mama and Ojiisan, and then sits without a word.
“All right. Let’s eat.”
Five-year-old me does not need to be told twice. I shovel in a mouthful bigger than is probably polite, and grin across the table at my grandmother. “It’s great. Thank you!” I mumble, mouth still full.
Halfway through a meal silent with hungry mouths, Bah-Ba says, “So, how are you feeling, Sora?”
I wish they had not asked me that. I do not want to lie.
“All right.”
It’s true. Comparatively.
She nods. “That’s good. So what has my grandson been doing with himself?”
My grandparents lean in, expectantly.
I wish that I could tell them that I had been top of the class for the entire semester, that I was looking to study abroad and start a life full of adventures that would make her proud. I wish I could tell Ojiisan that I’d been climbing hills, flying kites across the meadows, sliding into home plate. “Reading, mostly.”
Ojiisan’s eyebrows knit above sad eyes for a moment, then he leans back and takes pity on me. “So,” he says loudly. “I have been telling Sora all about our little problem.”
“Problem?” Mama’s voice is wracked with worry.
“We have a bakeneko.”
“A bakeneko?”
“Yes, my girl. It’s haunting us.”
“A bakeneko?” Mama does not believe in ghosts and spirits.
“Yes.” He stares defiantly, but his eyes twinkle in the lamplight. “We need another cat to scare him off.”
Bah-Ba stands to clear the dishes to the sink. “If I have to clear up one more carcass from the front steps, we might be knocking on your door to stay. So, Sora, will you help us choose a champion cat?
“Yes! When?”
“I thought we could go down to the shelter in the morning.”
• • • •
I wake up in the dark, and the wind reminds me where I am. It has snuck in through the cracks and waltzes across the room, caressing everything it touches like a drunken lord. I shiver, snuggle deeper down beneath the blankets. The house creaks. When I was small, I used to wake up to the wind and the noise of wood shrinking from the cold, terrified that the whole building would collapse on top of me. But now it just reminds me that I’m home.
It is strange being down here though, with no stars, no moon peeking in at me. I wonder about getting out of bed, wrapping myself in a blanket and slipping out onto the porch. It is cold, and my limbs are lead, but the air outside is sweet. Just as I have made up my mind, and shrugged off the heavy blankets, the wind yowls.
I know it is the wind, but still, what if Ojiisan was right, and there’s a bakeneko on the doorstep? I picture a huge cat-thing with pointed ears and giant fangs looming shadowlike above the door, just waiting for me to cross the threshold.
Would it tear my limbs apart right there, leaving bloodstains for my grandparents to find when they step out for morning tea?
Or would it carry me away to a far corner of the garden where it will not be disturbed?
Or perhaps the bakeneko hunts like any household cat and it would pounce, then let me go, then pounce again until it tires.
No. It’s cold, and my limbs are lead, and there is always tomorrow for admiring the moon, when the wind has dropped and it is warmer.
And there is a cat asleep beside the hearth.
35
Bah-Ba stops at the ARK pet shelter gates. I twist around in my chair so that I can see her. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just praying to the universe that the perfect cat for us is in here, waiting.”
“He is.”
“All right, then. Let’s go.”
“Good morning, madam.” The receptionist talks over my head at Bah-Ba. “What can we do for you today?”
“We’re looking for a cat.”
“Oh, great. Are you looking to adopt today?”
We nod.
“Excellent. We just need to check a few things first. Do you have your paperwork? We need—”
Bah-Ba hands over a stack of papers—proof of address and photos of the house, everything the shelter needs to see that she and Ojiisan have the perfect kitten paradise ready and waiting.
The woman flicks through the documents, chewing on her bottom lip, nodding as though she’s ticking off a mental checklist.
“And you’ve had cats before?” she asks, still reading.
“Oh, yes. Always. Old Ten lasted fourteen years with us.”
“I’m sorry,” says the woman. “It’s always hard. But maybe we have a replacement . . . or, another feline friend . . . for you today.” She stops reading, taps the edge of the papers on the desk to straighten them, then nods. “All right. I think that’s all in order. Would you like to meet the residents?”
We nod, eager, and she steps out from behind the desk and shows us through a door.
As we push through into the next room, I expect the smell of hopelessness. I expect bony, balding creatures, staring at us with sad eyes and yowling through cage bars. But there is none of that. In the first cage, two young tabby cats are curled up in one ball, only their four ears giving them away. In the next, a tiny scrap of ginger wrestles with a fluffy mouse.
Bah-Ba pushes me along the corridor, slowly, taking in each cage as we go.
“See anyone you like?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she half-whispers, “they’re all lovely. How do you choose?”
Most of them ignore us, snoozing on cushioned mats or hiding in boxes. The smaller ones tumble over one another, all stubby tails and enthusiastic teeth. They remind me of children charging about with wo
oden katana. Do cats have an imagination too?
Grrrowl. I’m a TIGER. A pirate tiger! I’m a-get you!
Yeah? Well I’m a two-legs! NOTHING CAN DEFEAT ME! Rarrr!
A few cats pace their cages, up and down the glass, and up again. I wish that we could free them all.
But Bah-Ba is only looking for one. And there is nothing to distinguish between them.
And then Bah-Ba stops.
“Look!” She points excitedly.
A rugged gray cat sits in the middle of his cage, upright and proud. His left ear is half-gone, and he has a bald scratch across his nose. And he watches us with one open eye as green as the first spring leaves.
Bah-Ba moves closer to the cage, to read the information tacked up beside it.
“Cat Twenty-three. Male,” she reads aloud, “approximately three years old. I have a ferociously playful side; no mouse nor socked feet can escape me, but I’d like a warm lap, too.”
Cat Twenty-three tilts his head, as though he’s listening to Bah-Ba’s voice. She stops, and presses her fingers up against the cage. He leans toward her, and I swear I hear him purring through the glass.
“Hello,” she whispers.
• • • •
We take Cat Twenty-three home with us. He is quiet all the way, except when we go past the fish market, when he pokes his paws out through the door and yowls.
Bah-Ba leans over my shoulder to croon, “Okay, okay, there will be something nice for you at home.”
Back at the house, Mama and Ojiisan attempt to poke their noses up against the bars and bestow their welcome on him, tell the cat how handsome he is, and promise that he’s landed on his feet, but my grandmother quickly pushes them away.
“Let the poor thing settle.”
She places the carrier beneath the kitchen table so that she can guard him from their baby talk while she prepares the lunch.
Cat Twenty-three peers out with interest, his nose and whiskers working overtime. My grandmother lifts fresh blue prawns out of the fridge and pushes one into the basket. The cat swallows it whole and then looks hungrily for more, but Bah-Ba has already bustled off. And when she starts to sing to the rhythm of her chopping knife, the cat curls up and goes to sleep.
36
Most cats seek the dark spaces when they’re somewhere new, but not Cat Twenty-three. Freed from his cage, the first thing he did was jump up onto Ojiisan’s knee and claim the old man as his own. Now, two days later, you would never guess that this house had ever been without a loud gray cat.
When Ojiisan sits down for his breakfast, the cat appears from nowhere. Mwong! he says, and stretches up to say hello.
“Good morning, young man.” Ojiisan rubs the cat between the ears. “And how are you this morning?”
Mwong!
“Very well, thank you. Now, how about some breakfast?”
Cat Twenty-three hops up to Ojiisan’s lap with a Mrrrp and sits, his head peeking up over the table as my grandmother slides a plate of rice balls in front of them.
My mother wanders in, her hair dripping down her back. She helps herself to coffee, then sits at the table.
“How did you sleep, Azami?”
“Well, thank you.”
“No more bakeneko bothering your dreams, you see,” he nods, stroking the creature on his lap.
Mama smiles. “I’m glad. Maybe he’ll get rid of the mice now too.”
“There was one dead by the hearth this morning,” Bah-Ba says, finally sitting down to join us.
Mama shudders. “Mother!”
“What, dear?”
“Talk of dead things, at the table?”
“Oh hush, it is no different from the chicken on your plate at dinner.”
“Yes it is! Those things have diseases. And they’re still, y’know . . .”
“Still what?”
“Furry. And you can see their eyes.”
“This one had its head off. I expect the young man ate it.”
“Eurgh!”
I slide a glance at Ojiisan. His mouth is clamped tight, and I can see from his shoulders that he’s trying not to laugh at the pair of them.
“Maybe we should skin the rest of it? Put it in a stew?”
“Mother!”
I imagine tiny paws reaching up from the middle of a soup dish, tails hanging over the side like wayward noodles. And Mama’s face, green with disgust. And I cannot help it. I feel the laughter rising up my chest, tugging at my lips. At first it’s just a little giggle, but it sets Ojiisan off, snorting as he tries to hold it in, and I am done for.
Mama and Bah-Ba stare at us with daggers in their eyes, but then my grandmother chuckles, and finally, Mama’s waterfall laugh joins in.
Cat Twenty-three looks up at us, bemused.
37
Somehow, I can’t sleep through till dawn in this house. It’s as if the new day calls to me from its slumber, drags me up to meet it. It is still dark when I wake. I like it, though. The air is quiet and still, and friendly now the wind has passed, and I find myself wanting to get out of bed and out into the yard to watch the sun rise.
I pull on a sweatshirt, settle in my chair, and yank a blanket from the bed to drape across my knees.
This morning, Mama is already up, sitting in the kitchen in the dark, hunched over a glowing screen and muttering, “Oh, come on.”
I cough gently so as not to startle her.
“Oh! Sora!” She starts, freezes with an index finger millimeters from her touch screen. “Hi.”
“Working?” It is not lost on me that Mama brought us here to get away from everything, and yet . . .
“Ehh . . . Not really. Trying to. I can’t get reception up here though. Anything could be happening in the office and I’d never know. And what if the hospital tries to make appointments?”
“Mama!”
“Listen, I was thinking. When we get back, there’s a doctor. He’s American—”
“We’re on vacation.”
“I know, but life doesn’t stop just because—” She sighs, and pushes her tablet across the table, away. “You’re right. And your grandmother will be up soon. What d’you say we make some tea, surprise her.”
She lifts the heavy iron kettle to the stove and rifles through the pantry. She pulls down a bag of oily black tea leaves and scoops them out into the bottom of the pot, scattering a few leaves on the worktop as she goes.
“Ehhh, why doesn’t she just use bags?”
“Because they’re cheating.” Bah-Ba laughs, scolding as she wanders in, still in her nightgown. She takes the pot from Mama and inspects the contents. “Use a bag and you’re robbing yourself of the experience.”
Mama rolls her eyes.
“Besides. The leaves move around this way. It tastes better.”
“And takes twice as long to brew and longer still to clean up all the mess.”
“What’s your hurry, little hare?”
“Ugh, don’t call me that.”
Bah-Ba smiles. “Don’t rush, that’s all. Time isn’t going to pass you by.”
And then her eyes fall on me, and she goes quiet.
“Tea.” She nods, that same “new topic” gesture Mama has, then glances at the clock on the wall. I don’t know why. It has not worked for years. “Who’s hungry?”
• • • •
Later that day, as the sky turns gray, I sit out on the porch alone. I love my grandparents, and their home, but after four days I long for my computer.
My grandparents have tried so hard, including me in trips to the store and the shelter, cracking jokes. Bestowing kisses that, were I not in this chair, I might have shied away from. But there are things unsaid. I see their furtive glances, and I hear the things they do not ask. How much time does he have? Will we see him again? What if we break the crippled boy?
The secret silence is exhausting.
I want to go online and scream and scream until my lungs run dry. I want to talk to MonkEC and NoFace, tell them how my legs
ache from the damp air, and how they itch to run up the already snow-capped hills. How the attic calls to me, and the bathroom here is awkward. And I want to share the good things too; to send them a picture of Cat Twenty-three, to tell them all about the bakeneko and delicious food, and ask them whether they believe in spirits.
And I want to escape into their worlds as well. What have they been doing in my absence? Has Mai stood up to her mother yet, insisted that she is going to try to carve out a career as a superanimator? And Kaito, has he reached the final level of his game without blowing up the girl he’s supposed to rescue? Or has he thrown his console through the window?
I love it here, I do, but it is a sort of limbo house where nothing ever changes, and all the things I used to love are out of reach.
When I was small, my grandfather and I would spend hours in the yard, pitching baseballs. I caught my first ball out there, and I was so proud that I lapped the garden twice before I ran into his arms. I think we spent the whole summer outside. Bah-Ba would bring us iced green tea onto the porch, and we would gulp it down and then go back for more.
And when it got too dark to play, we’d lie on our backs and watch the moths try to hit the moon down from the sky.
I close my eyes, imagine spreading my arms out like an airplane and running, weaving back and forth, then leaping for a ball, hitting wood to leather and racing to the finish.
“What’re you doing, Champ?”
I open my eyes to see Ojiisan stamping up the porch steps. It must be too dark now to work.
“Just thinking.”
He sits beside me, resting one arm on the edge of my chair, and sighs.
“You do a lot of that, these days, I expect.”
I nod.
He stares out at the shadowed grass, and I wonder whether he’s remembering the baseball summer too.
We sit, listening to Mama and Bah-Ba clattering about inside, and the darkness deepens.
“It’s cold tonight,” he says.
“Yes.”
“About as cold as your grandmother’s electric refrigerator, I should think.”
“How can you tell?”
“My knees. They creak whenever it drops below six. And there aren’t any crickets tonight.”
The Last Leaves Falling Page 10
