I can picture Bob. I can picture him rolling, scratching his back on the red brick patio. I can see him sitting on the roof and waiting for pigeons to land, and I can hear people saying what they always said: “That cat has a good life.” That cat was the embodiment of a good life. Looking at that cat snoozing in the sun, you felt hope for your own retirement.
You did a good job, Bob. Thank you. Thank you for giving me the courage to love. Thank you, Bob, for ushering me into married life.
He looks peaceful. He’s breathing short, quick breaths, as cats do. He is so thin. But his whiskers are still strong. I think of those whiskers as swords. Swords of a fighter, a champion. He has a tear on his ear, a jagged edge. Oh, God, Bob. Remember that fight? Bob came inside a beaten-up Ram-Bob, torn up. But we patched you back up.
Bob has freckles on his lips. Bob has freckles around his eyelids. I think Bob is Irish on his mother’s side. Bob has a bone on the top of his head, a little nub that sticks up. It’s his sweet spot. It’s the spot he loves me to touch the best. I take my index finger and gently scratch.
I can feel a purr, the tiniest purr from him, resonating into me, my ribs, my lungs, my core.
I love you, Bob.
The truth is sometimes so simple, it sounds stupid. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to speak the truth.
“I love you, Bob.”
But love doesn’t mean you’re strong. You can be a weakling and still love. I am a weakling. If I were strong, I would go with Bob. I would be with Bob, hold him, cradle him when they put the needle in him and he falls asleep for the last time. If I were strong, I would be there with him. This is the act of love that should be my final gift.
And I can’t do it.
I am sorry, Bob. I am truly sorry. But I’m not going to go.
Instead, Alex will do it. Alex will be with Bob, hold Bob while life leaves him. Talk about an act of love.
You’ll never get a chance to meet Sassy, Bob. Or Cricket either. I wish you could have made it until the wedding, Bob. At least until the wedding. Or maybe until my thirty-ninth birthday. But that is just my wish for me.
I look around this room, the big room, the room where the dancing will be. This room will be so full. I’ll twirl and stomp and be a bride, and I wonder if I’ll think of Bob. I wonder if I’ll forgive myself for not holding him as he dies.
I am not strong enough.
Instead I lie here, doing all I know to do. I scratch his sweet spot. I talk to him, but not technically. Because I never say the words out loud. And Bob does not talk back with any cat telepathy or anything. We’re normal, me and Bob. We are not the kind of overinvolved cat and cat owner you see in photographs on bags of premium cat food or anything. But we are a unit, me and Bob. Soon, a sleeping unit. I’m drifting. He’s letting out a little snore, a gentle jiggle in his throat. I scratch his sweet spot. I am a crusader for the eternal life of all animals, Bob. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
MORNING IS A BLUR. ONE OF THOSE DAYS YOU can’t wear your contacts because of the tears that won’t stop. I feel like a delirious toddler, waking up from a bad dream, but not waking up at all.
Amy is here. Other family members will start to arrive tomorrow to help with the wedding. Amy says she’ll go with her dad. She’ll hold Bob in the car so he doesn’t have to be in some uncomfortable cat carrier.
Amy picks Bob up, cradles him.
Riva is in the kitchen, her arms crossed tight, crying. “Bye-bye, Mammala Bop. I love you, Bop.” She kisses him. She reaches out and strokes him with her thick, muscular hands, hands of power, hands of mercy.
The dogs have gathered. I don’t know how they know, what they know. But they’re here. Amy kneels, and one by one those dogs go up to Bob. First Betty. She sniffs. Then Wilma. She licks Bob on the head. Then Marley. He sits, looks, cocks his head. The three of them now, sitting here lined up, gazing at Bob. They look as if they might soon break into a mournful three-part harmony of “Amazing Grace.” How do you account for sorrow on the part of two mutts and a poodle?
Riva, Alex, Amy, the three dogs, and me. All of us standing here, forming a good-bye circle around Bob. For so long, I was all the love Bob had, all the love he needed. And now look. Now he is surrounded.
“Good-bye, Bob,” I say. I touch him one last time, a gentle scratch on the sweet spot.
Alex and Amy get in the car, and they take Bob away. The car goes slowly down the driveway, making that crunching sound, the crunching sound of leaving. The worst sound in the world.
I head down to the barn. It’s hot. It’s so hot. And I can’t see anything. And I’m sweating. And I wish it would rain. It’s so hot. I get a shovel and a pick and some other tools that look like they might do the job.
I trudge up the hill. The hill I fell in love with. The hill that today just feels like hard work to climb. I go to the magic tree. It’s a most beautiful tree, standing here alone and free. I guess you could call it a mournful tree, the way the branches hang so low, the way the whole thing droops. But in the spring, the blooms are white and hopeful. And everyone visits this tree. Everyone who ever hikes up this hill visits this tree. It’s our most popular tree.
I take the pick, hold it over my shoulder with two hands, and with all my oomph pitch it forward, over my head and down, thud, on the ground. The hardest ground. Thank God. I am grateful for this packed earth that barely moves, barely budges, even with the piercing of this pick. This is dry ground. This is dried clay. This is the worst kind of dirt to dig. So I will be here for hours, it seems, digging this grave. Is this how digging graves started? Is this how the first humans got the idea to bury the dead? Because they needed to pound … some … thing. Really hard. Just … pound … and … poke … and … jab … over and over again … sweating … and … sob … bing … and expelling and howling in the thick summer air.
I wish I would faint. I wish I would keel over with sunstroke. There must be some way out of my steaming hot head.
It feels like a century passes before I have the hole deep enough. Well, I guess this is deep enough. I mean, I don’t know how deep to dig. How big to make this hole. How am I supposed to know? I’m thirsty. I’m done. I am doing everything in my power to erase the picture of Bob in my head, the picture of a needle, the picture of life leaving him without me there.
I go down to the house to wait for Alex and Amy. I open the door and see Riva sitting on the couch, watching a soap opera with Marley. Riva has been escorting Marley into a full-blown soap opera stage. It suits him. He’s happy. He’s relaxed. Riva is twirling his poodle curls, which have grown back so rich and full.
“Did you finish?” she asks.
“Yeah. When they come back, we’ll take him up. Will you join us?”
“I cannot,” she says. “I am sorry but I cannot.” Something about her family. Something about all those graves that never got dug.
“I understand,” I say, even though I know I can’t.
Roo roo roo roo. Betty announces the return of the car. I look out the window. I see Amy get out with the box.
I go outside and meet them. It’s hot. It’s so hot out.
“Hi, baby,” Alex says, reaching for my shoulder. “It was really peaceful.”
“It was,” Amy says. I’m looking into her blue eyes, focusing on her eyes, because I don’t want to look at the box.
“Let’s bury him,” I say. “I really need to get this over with.”
Alex carries the box. We head up the hill. I mean, I guess we do. I don’t know where we’re going. I’m looking down. All I see is ground. Blurry ground. Like a kid in a baseball game who just missed the ball and lost the game and everyone is yelling, berating, saying you’re no good.
Soon we are at the hole in the ground. Alex puts the box in. That’s it. Just a shoebox in the ground. Size seven and a half. Pink lettering. Something about cushioned soles. He covers the box with a shovelful of dirt. It lands, clunk. He shovels more in. And more. He pats the earth.
“You want to say something about Bob?” he asks.
I shake my head back and forth fast, sort of like I did in seventh grade when my home ec teacher asked me if I meant to start that fire, which I truly did not.
“I’ll say something,” he says. “Thank you, Bob,” he says. He tells how Bob welcomed him into the South Side yard, at a time he didn’t feel welcomed much of anywhere. He tells us Bob made a difference in his life.
We put a big rock to mark the spot where Bob is. I plant a purple mum.
I sob the whole way back down the hill, apologizing to Amy, saying I know this is so stupid.
“It’s not stupid,” she says, grabbing a handful of Queen Anne’s lace, offering it to me. “It’s not stupid at all.”
“Let me cancel the appointment for you,” Alex says as we head into the house.
“No, I’ll be fine by then,” I say. The appointment is for tonight. My God, of all nights. Wedding World. My final bridal gown fitting. Oh, God, if I have to face that lady with those knots in her hair. Oh, Lord.
“Just go to bed and eat bonbons,” Alex says, leading me into the bedroom. “Don’t even think of doing anything today.”
“I’m taking this kind of hard, don’t you think?” I say.
“No,” he says. “I think you’re taking it soft. I think your heart is very, very soft.”
“Mush,” I say.
“I think a soft heart is the strongest kind.” He pulls back the covers, fluffs the pillow. I get in.
“But I’m afraid I’ll never get over it,” I say. “A cat! Isn’t that stupid?”
“Loss is loss,” he says.
“And grief is grief,” I say, remembering the lesson.
“And a friend is a friend,” he says. “Bob was your friend.” He puts his hand on my cheek, because he knows this is what my father did when I was a kid, a crying kid, this was what he always did.
“And I don’t think anybody ever gets over loss,” he says. “I think you get through it. You let it get through you.”
He knows. He has experience with death. But he doesn’t have calluses built up. Instead, I think his heart has become elastic. His heart can hold a lot.
He steps out of the room. I can hear the screen door open. “Come on, girl,” he says. Betty. He brings Betty in. God, I feel like a crazy lady heading into a coma, and he’s bringing in the loved ones. “Up here, girl,” he says, patting the bed. Betty is never allowed in the bed. Betty can’t believe this is happening. Betty seizes the opportunity, jumps up, curls beside me.
I scratch her head. She has a bone on the top, a little nub that sticks up. It’s her sweet spot. I scratch the sweet spot.
She stays with me all day, snoozes, lies on her back, and sticks her right foot up high in the air like a TV antenna. Which I don’t actually need. I have five hundred million thousand TV channels. I have a satellite dish. There is nothing on the five hundred million thousand TV channels. I fall asleep. I awaken. I fall back asleep.
I awaken. I think how I had to pick today of all days for a wedding gown fitting. Good Lord. What a stupid day to have a wedding gown fitting. But if I don’t go, the gown won’t be done in time. I wonder if they’ll be able to tell I’ve been crying. I wonder when the hell I’m going to stop crying.
I emerge from the bedroom, feeling like Bette Davis or one of those old lady actresses who could really do loony.
“You’re okay?” Riva says as I enter the kitchen.
“I’m okay,” I say. “You?”
“Terrible. I am missing Bop so terrible.”
“I know. You were his angel, Riva. Thank you.”
“My little Bop. He is feeling no more pain, no more weakness.”
“I have to go,” I say. “I have to go to the stupid wedding gown store.”
“I know this,” she says. “Alinka say me. Alinka and Aminka, they went to buy food. They will prepare for us a very nice meal. They will take care of us.”
I love that Riva is sharing in my sorrow. I love her for this.
I grab my keys, tell her good-bye, head out.
It feels good to drive up Wilson Road. It feels good to get away. Not as good as a tranquilizer, probably, but definitely in the right direction.
I go zooming. I zoom down Daniel’s Run Road, my official favorite tar and chip road. I blast the radio, blast it big, feel the roar of sound bouncing in my pores. I pass cows and chickens and pigs. I pass pretty little barns and a stately old farmhouse with a pool. I’m late. I should have left a half hour ago. But hey, a bride’s gotta go on her own clock. A bride! Here comes the bride! I am in my bride stage. Big-time. A bride should not have to … A bride! A bride should not …
My God! These tears. Why can’t I stop crying? I am eight years old, trying to make it through one day of school without crying. One stinkin’ day.
I don’t have crying brakes. How do you get crying brakes? A bride! A bride should not be this miserable.
I am zooming. I see cows and sheep and a few horses passing by my window, and I see—whoa! A chipmunk darts in front of the car. Screeeeeech! I jam on my brakes, narrowly missing it. I inch toward it, to confirm that I missed it. I roll down my window, turn down the radio. I look out my window and see—wait a second, it’s not a chipmunk at all. It’s a little gray kitten.
Kitten?
That is one tiny kitten. I hop out of the car, look around for a house, a barn, a cat. A mother. But there is nothing here. Nothing but cornfields. This kitten is too little to be away from the litter. This kitten would fit in the palm of my hand. I pick the kitten up.
A kitten.
I look up at the sky.
You have got to be kidding, Bob. You-have-got-to-be-kidding.
I look at the kitten. Does the kitten have …a message or something?
Oh, this is ridiculous.
I must have let you watch way too many made-for-TV movies, Bob.
I look everywhere for the source of the kitten. But everywhere is corn. There is no way this kitten will survive if I leave him here. A bird will come. A dog will come. Or the kitten will starve.
A kitten.
I put the kitten in the car, make a U-turn.
Okay, I am not going to talk to you, Kitten. I am not going to start talking to you. Bob, if this is your idea of a joke, I don’t know….
I head back to the farm, pull up the driveway, go running inside. It’s not been ten minutes since I left. Riva is sitting in the kitchen. She looks at me. I am speechless. I hold my arms out, presenting her with the gift from the sky. Or the road.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth drops. She holds her hands in the air. “It’s a miracle!” she says.
I am so glad she said that, because there is no way I could say it.
“Can you believe it?” I say, and burst back into tears.
She bursts into tears.
This is really getting ridiculous.
We go into fits of laughter, bending over, folding over, tears and laughter all jumbled up. The kitten is on the kitchen table, chasing its tail.
“We can’t call him Bob, though,” I say. “We really can’t.”
“Of course, of course, of course,” she says.
She asks me to tell her how it happened that I found him, exactly how it happened. And so I do. I tell her I was zooming, I saw a chipmunk—screeeech!—I got out, saw that it wasn’t a chipmunk. She listens carefully, as only a person fluent in eight languages can listen.
“Screech,” she says, looking at the kitten, stroking his tiny head, barely bigger than her thumb. “Rivka has named the miracle cat Screech.”
TWENTY-ONE
BOB IS GONE. SCREECH IS HERE. SASSY IS ACCEPTing carrots. Marley is mange-free, is walking normally, is enjoying The Young and the Restless every day at noon. My dress fits. The wedding is a week away. On the one hand, you could say things are really coming together.
Well, one little slip. Marley caught a groundhog the other day. This put a damper on things.
“You’re regressing, Marley boy,” I said to him when he showed up with the floppy thing hanging from his mouth. “Regressing.”
I am standing on the roof of the garage, watering mums. I put the mums here, temporarily, to keep them away from the dogs. It’s a flat roof. A red roof. I like it here. I am at peace here. On top of the farm, on top of the people I love, on top of the world I have come to call my own. Watering mums. Very thirsty mums. Because still we have no rain. And still the tractor is not fixed. Still the grass is brown and long.
I should call Nancy. I should verify that a bride should not, repeat not have to worry about these things.
A bride. I am the bride. My inner princess is fully present. I like my inner princess, I like her just fine. Although I have to say, she and I don’t have a lot to talk about. Well, you don’t expect intellectual stimulation from your inner princess, any more than you expect it from sheep. Basically, my inner princess and I, we shop. We buy fancy toiletries, and we primp for long hours in the tub. We discovered exfoliating the other day. Oh, she thought that was a blast. “Party time!” my inner princess said when I opened the jar of Aloe ’N Peach body scrub, scooped out some of the scratchy gook, wiped it on my leg, and started sloughing. “Excellent!” she said. It was a whole new way of relating to dead skin.
I go along with this. Because I am the bride.
One thing I am finding is that farms and brides are not the most natural match. When you are a bride, your need for perfection is heightened. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect groom, perfect mother, perfect sister, perfect … farm?
I am so, so far away from the ordered life I once had.
The farm is still not ready for 150 guests and lots of cameras. It really is not. We need to mow. We need the tractor parts to come in. We need those UPS workers to get back to work. We need rain. We need to put these mums around.
It has taken me a long time to accumulate all these mums. I had some setbacks. I drove around for days in the Elly May Clampett pickup with bullet holes in it, buying mums. I spent six hundred dollars on mums. I placed them carefully in a sunny spot behind the barn and watered them. Wilma chewed about two hundred dollars’ worth. She did this one morning, while we were all up at the Century Inn making plans. I came back, saw all the chewed mums, and yelled, “Willl-maaa!” I taught Wilma to stay away from the mums, and while I was at it, I lectured Betty and Marley, too.
Fifty Acres and a Poodle Page 25
