“This is not a blind date,” said Cara. “He comes to the dances at least once a month and I’ve seen him at Vitello’s Deli. Name’s Alex Cacciato. He wrote his telephone number on a napkin—”
“Which you mysteriously can’t find.”
“It’s in my car. I thought I put it in my bag, but it must be in my car.” Actually, Cara had ransacked her VW Rabbit, even under the floor mats and in the seat cracks. But the guy had to be okay. Lived in the neighborhood, Mayfield and Murray Hill, Little Italy. Her territory. A local, or maybe one of the artist types who were moving in, seeking low-rent studios.
“Cara, don’t let him in. Say you’re sick and don’t let him in.”
Cara took the phone away from her ear and took three calming breaths. Then she returned it to her mouth. “Judith, I’m thirty-three. The ol’ Timex battery is running down. If I’m going to—you know—”
“Get married. Say it.”
“—to have a lover, or even any fun, I need to risk. This morning I found a spider vein on the back of my leg. Listen, he has this sexy mustache. Green eyes. Buns to die for. He’s so cute—”
“So was Ted Bundy.”
Cara rubbed her finger around the edge of the phone, torn. Judith had been her friend throughout library school, but Judith lacked Cara’s earthy touch. The minute Judith had landed a job, she had moved into a singles complex on Lake Erie. Cara had kept her old-fashioned apartment in Little Italy. Sure, Cara could afford a new place, but she liked the patch of sun on the kitchen linoleum, the claw-foot tub in the bathroom, the jungle of spider-plants she raised on the porch, the landlord’s indifference to her ginger tomcat.
Should she let Judith talk her out of the date? Alex was due—oh, God, now!
Judith said, “Don’t let him in. If he’s legit, he’ll call again—”
“What if he doesn’t? I can’t let this one slip away! After Gene—”
“Gene tried to run over your cat.”
“An accident. Also, cats aggravated his Borna-Tupaia syndrome.”
“Gene was a rat. Dumped you because he found a cat-hair in his carrot juice.”
Cara’s felt glum. “The guy probably won’t turn up, anyway.”
“He might. Creeps flock to you like rats to garbage. No, that’s mean. I meant flies to honey.”
Cara felt even worse. She looked at her nails, painted two different colors because Claws von Pumpkin had batted the Porcelain Pinkie off the dresser, forcing her to finish with Iceberry Slink. “Gotta be some nice guys out there.”
“But you keep ending up with vermin. You’re a masochist, girl.”
Judith was right. Of course, Judith didn’t date, but she read many books about relationships, such as How to Find an Almost Nice Guy and Men Who Make Fun of Woman and How to Embarrass Them.
“Judith, I gotta do it. There were sparks. Chemistry.”
Judith paused, and Cara figured she was lighting a cigarette. “Yeah, chemistry. As in chemical warfare.”
The phone felt hot, slippery as a vibrator that had been running too long.
The doorbell rang.
Without saying goodbye, Cara hung up.
Morituri te salutamus.
* * * *
He was just as hot as she had remembered. Copper-colored chest hair peeked out above the buttons of his denim shirt. “Alex! I hope you’re not allergic,” said Cara, opening the door wide. “I’m sorry my apartment is so—”
“Just like my place.” Alex squeezed past her into the kitchen.
Shit. Had she left that burned pan in the sink? Had Claws von Pumpkin left a giant turd in the litter-box? Not really sure Alex would keep the date, she had tidied up only halfheartedly.
Thank God Claws von P. was outdoors. He always got friendly with visitors who were violently allergic.
Cara scurried after Alex. Oh, shit! Slimy chicken skin in the sink drainer! Smelly tuna in the cat dish! And Alex was peeking into the refrigerator.
“It’s not, um, quite ready.”
“That’s okay. Just wondered what we were having.”
Oh no! With her luck, he was a vegetarian! He was sort of on the thin side. Wiry, really.
Nice build.
Now, Cara, she scolded, going to bed with this strange man right away would be dangerous.
But lots of fun.
“You’re a vegetarian?” she asked.
He shuddered. “Only if force-fed.” He moved bottles around in the refrigerator. Made himself right at home. Still—so cute. Thick auburn hair, green eyes. His jeans hugged his butt so nicely, and the blue shirt stretched over his shoulder-blades.
“Nice shirt,” she said.
“Thank you. I borrowed it, and guess what? There was a twenty in the pocket.” He leaned toward her and inhaled. “Mm, smells good.”
Had she turned the oven too high? “Chicken.”
He yawned. “Not me. I’m pretty bold. How about you?”
He brushed his cheek against her hair. She caught a woodsy scent, clean, but not out of a bottle.
He leaned over and tickled her neck with his mustache. Immediately, she felt her panties get wet.
Judith, she thought, see what a slut I am?
In a tiny voice, she said, “You’re going too fast.”
Alex stepped back and, looking confused, smoothed his mustache.
* * * *
Lady crowned with hawthorn, Mistress of the white owl, Beloved of the Day Lord, listen to our pleadings.
* * * *
Alex ate neatly, eyes narrowed with enjoyment, avoiding the broccoli. And he had three helpings of ice-cream. “So what do you do when you’re not at home?” he asked.
“I’m a bibliothecary.”
“You are not! You’re a librarian.”
And Alex? He told her he worked in security. She relaxed. How could he be a mass murderer? He told anecdotes about the evil dog who lived with the Russos, her downstairs neighbors, then gazed at her with dreamy interest. Suddenly he said, “Did you see that Now You See It episode where they made people think animals were talking?”
“I like it when they serve people weird food in restaurants.”
He sniffed her daisy centerpiece. “Claws von Pumpkin is a stupid name for a cat.”
“Big orange tom—what else would I call him? Maybe ‘Screwdriver’?”
“Sandy,” said Alex. “You should call him Sandy. Or Red.”
“He won’t answer, whatever I call him.”
“Cats have feelings. They’re very intelligent.”
“Sure, I suppose they learn their letters and numbers, from watching Sesame Street.”
He licked his ice cream spoon. “And now what?”
Her hormones screamed, Take him! Take him!
A wiser voice said, Screw him on the first date and you’ll never see him again.
So she opened the newspaper to the movie schedule.
* * * *
They saw a show about sharks and jewel thieves. Alex enjoyed the movie so much his eyes glittered. In the quiet parts, when sharks weren’t eating people and thieves weren’t grabbing the Koh-i-noor diamond, he caressed Cara’s ear with the tip of his tongue, getting her amethyst earring damp.
She liked that.
* * * *
Turn your bright face upon us, Lady, for our hearts are breaking.
* * * *
At the door, Cara had a flashbulb epiphany. Alex wouldn’t call her again. He would disappear, because that was the way men were. Easily bored. For some reason, men only enjoyed one-night-stands. If she went to bed with him, he would fade like last summer’s suntan. But if she didn’t, he would still disappear.
No, only did men not stay with the same woman, they also never got married. Only women got married, not men.
All this stuff in the media about both sexes getting married was just P.R. for the wedding industry. That was why newspapers never printed the photo of the groom, just the bride. When it was necessary to show both bride and groom, they hired a mod
el.
Children were not really produced by couples. They were decanted in a baby-farm in Akron and given false memories of childhood.
Her friend Judith was right. A relationship was not in the cards.
Still, Alex was hot. As long as he was going to dump her anyway, she deserved one night of bliss.
“Hey, Alex, how about another dish of ice-cream?”
He followed her into the apartment, went into the bedroom, and sprawled on the bed.
“Bashful, aren’t you?” she said.
Alex looked confused. “Didn’t you want—?” He started to rise, but she flung herself on him.
They rolled around, nibbling each other’s lips, ears, and necks.
He stroked her neck, then attacked the buttons on her blouse, nails catching on the silk.
“Let me,” she whispered. He watched her undo the zippers and buttons, his eyes half-closed with sensuality.
She stroked his luxuriant bronze body hair, then brushed herself against him. He leaned into her caress, exciting her.
“Yes! A screamer,” he said.
* * * *
In the night, twice, he woke her, nipping the back of her neck. It was lovely.
“Don’t leave me,” she moaned.
“Oh, I’ll be back, in a while.” He slipped out of bed. She waited, expecting to hear the toilet flush or the shower run. At length, exhausted and satiated, she dozed off.
* * * *
Lady whose substance is light, You change all things. Longing or fulfilled, the wisest of us honor You.
* * * *
And in the morning, Sunday morning, Alex was gone.
He won’t call, of course, she told herself, and moped around in a ragged chenille robe, slurping coffee and watching Galaxy Queen.
She went through her purse again and found the napkin with Alex’s number on it.
The creep!
He had written her number on it.
And yet—he had been delicious. And he used condoms without being asked. Call the whole thing an adventure, almost risk-free.
Still another part of her thought, He was sexy, so engagingly direct. If only he would come back, just once!
Toward noon, the doorbell rang.
Cara threw off the old robe and sprinted for the closet. Her red satin kimono wasn’t too wrinkled. She threw it on, kicked off the beat-up loafers, fluffed her hair. Makeup? No time! She slapped her cheeks in lieu of rouge and opened the door.
Aw shit.
Judith stood outside, with Claws von Pumpkin draped over one arm.
Judith said, “Look what I found in the basement, lying on the Russo’s clean laundry again. And he had a dead rat.”
“It’s just you,” said Cara, defeated.
“Don’t tell me you slept with that Alex guy!”
“Judith, shut up.”
“What could I expect? Last night was the full moon.”
Claws von Pumpkin jumped out of Judith’s arms, rubbed his muzzle against Cara’s ankles, and sauntered into the bedroom. On the bed stand was the melted remains of Alex’s fifth dish of ice-cream.
Purring avidly, Claws licked the dish.
Back in the living room, he settled on Cara’s lap to watch Spiderman, Meercat Manor, and, later, Now You See It. In this episode an actor impersonated an exterminator.
* * * *
Lady of Light, avatar of Bast, in the dark of each cycle we await the return of your power.
THE CAT-TRACKER LADY OF ASAD ALLEY, by A. R. Morlan
Because she had no human relatives, the Cat-Tracker Lady of Asad Alley had listed me as her “next of kin” on the tiny bi-fold business card from one of the local funeral homes, which she kept in her wallet next to her green Wisconsin Non-Driver ID, the one which firmly stated that she was not an organ donor, nor did she wish to make any sort of anatomical donation after her death.
By the time the hospital where she was taken after she was found lying face down near one of the Dumpsters which lined Asad Alley called me, the organ donor vultures had come and gone, sans their little foam coolers filled with dry ice and human carrion. The nurse-receptionist-whatever who called me actually managed to insert that into her conversation with me that morning, “—and what’s really sad is that Ms. Quies wasn’t an organ donor, what with her being found alive…she seemed healthy otherwise…just such a shame—”
“You don’t know who she was, do you?” I snapped, while trying to remove the snap-on plastic lid from my latté one-handed, and cradling the office phone against my ear with the other hand. Over four bucks for a cup of coffee, and they forget to put enough sweetener in there—even as the reality of Areille Quies’ death bloomed in my mind like a slow-spreading stain on a napkin placed over a spill of java on a countertop, I found myself stubbornly clinging to the personal, the mundane, the ever-so-slightly annoying problem of a latté that just wasn’t sweet enough…anything to make the news stay at bay, even for a few more seconds—
“Well, she only came in a couple of hours ago, and we just found the card with your contact info on it, but her name is on—”
“Areille Quies was the Cat-Tracker Lady…or didn’t anyone notice the cat fur all over her coat? Do you ever read the papers, check out the Internet? She was all over the news…she had Toxoplasma gondil in her system. That’s why she couldn’t donate her organs, or sell blood. Her blood was infected, and so were her organs—”
“She wasn’t wearing a Medic-Alert bracelet, so we didn’t—”
“I don’t think they sell them for toxo—besides, did you notice her age? She was a little past organ donating age—”
“Oh, we take organs from people older than she was…they’re considered high-risk, but some people are willing—”
The lid on my cup wasn’t budging, and that perky twerp on the other end of the phone wasn’t about to even consider the possibility that anyone who came into the hospital with a pulse but no brainwaves wasn’t prime organ procurement material. No wonder people got rabies and HIV from homeless donors. Taking a less-than-sweet sip, I mentally counted to five, and said, “Forget about the organ donation…do you know when I can collect her remains? Ms. Quies had very specific funeral arrangements planned in advance with us—”
“Oh she did?” I could picture the disappointed flap and downward flutter of the vulture’s wings as yet another chance at the dead body was denied. “Usually in a case like this, the body is donated to science, y’know, for dissection—”
“What-time-can-I-pick-her-up?”
“Oh, any time after the doctor signs off on her…we’ve been busy here, and—”
“I will be there—and she better be there, too. In one piece,” I snarled, before putting down the receiver with a hollow plastic clatter. Around me, the other volunteers at Friends of Feral Cats sat motionless behind their small desks, hands poised over keyboards, necks craned my way. Finally, that intern from the veterinary college, Ursula Something Or Other, said softly, “Don’t tell me that Areille’s—”
“I don’t have to tell you then,” I said through a sudden welling of phlegm and tears in my throat, before picking up my purse and slinging it over my shoulder, and exiting the Feral Cat Rescue and Rehabilitation Society’s headquarters, leaving my half-consumed latté on my desk. Behind me, I heard the others speaking softly and a couple of people started crying, but I couldn’t pay attention to them, not if I wanted to drive myself to the hospital a couple of miles away, in the downtown section of the city.
Areille had gone out that morning on the same mission which consumed her life for the past thirty-some years—to feed her feral cats, in that alleyway behind Asad Avenue, where all the Muslim shops and restaurants were located in the loosely-configured Middle Eastern conclave in the southeast part of the city. The businessmen there welcomed her presence; being part of a religion whose founder was an ardent cat-lover, they helped her buy the food she lugged to the alleyway each morning in two stained and slightly smelly cream-colored cloth shopp
ing bags, and since she claimed that a well-fed cat was a better mouser/ratter than a starving animal, no one who frequented the numerous establishments fronting Asad Avenue ever had reason to complain about rodent droppings in their food, or heat-seeking rats rubbing against their legs while they waited for their ride at the open-fronted bus stop in front of The Emerald Crescent Bookstore.
And since all the restaurants donated their left-overs to either a homeless shelter or a farmer’s co-op (the latter took the scrappy-scraps, for animal feed for chickens and pigs, even though the latter was a forbidden food among devout Muslims—Areille once told me that she figured the restaurateurs got around this by rationalizing that their donations to the local porcine population was a way of “giving back” after all the bad feelings over 9-11; Areille was like that, making slightly paranoid remarks about just about everything…she was the one who used to call the organ procurement folks “vultures” toting “human carrion” in their little BioHazard foam coolers), that left nothing for the feral cats to eat besides the mice and rats which just might be contaminated with poison. Or so Areille often said, as she’d put out the fresh aluminum pie pans on the ground near the center-most cluster of Dumpsters, then wait for her feral friends to come running out of their hidey-holes all along the alley, before pouring her special mixture of dry cat food, chopped up hot dogs, and—once a month only—wormer paste mixed with people-tuna, onto the round pans. Working for an agency which supported the care and population control of feral cats throughout the Midwest, I was used to seeing people who fed alley cats, but there was something about Areille Quies which was just a bit different. No one else was able to make the cats literally dance for their dinner. That was what brought her to the attention of Friends of Feral Cats in the first place; some Dumpster diver looking for aluminum cans happened to catch the dinner matinée, and made a video of the event on his camera phone, which was seen by someone who had access to YouTube, and one it was downloaded onto the Internet, people started sharing it and, eventually, someone emailed me and said:
U—Must—check this out!!
Everyone in the office who saw the clip thought it had to be photo-shopped—there was this older woman in a dirty-looking red-and-black parka, standing there in an alley next to a chained-shut Dumpster, surrounded by cats…all of whom were standing on their hind legs, front paws paddling the air before them, like feline sleepwalkers, and one by one, she’d hold their paws and sway in place with them, in a lurching two-step, then another cat would gingerly trot forward, to repeat the pattern.
The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New Page 3
