Kitty Stark and The Ginger Cat

 

There were two schools of thought about Kitty Stark: One, that her madness had overtaken her so slowly and so discreetly that no one had noticed for several years and two, that it was a quiet kind of madness, not likely to put anyone in the community at risk.

“Long as she don’t bother us, ain’t no need to bother her none,” as Sparrow put it, “I heard tell it’s called peaceful coexistence.”

“It’s called everybody mindin’ they’s own bidness,” Long John said sourly, “I reckon we could use a little more of it.”

Ruthie and I had just turned 10 the summer Kitty began talking to the ginger cat about what the Moon People had to say. Kitty herself was just shy of her 42nd birthday. She and the ginger cat lived in the attic of the house she’d been born in, midway between Bill Albright’s still and the old cemetery, a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. The house was in a state of mild disrepair but the attic window offered an unobstructed and bright view of the ocean and the evening moonrises were clear and close as day. Kitty and the nameless ginger cat watched them nightly, hearing and seeing impossible things as easily as falling off a log and never once questioning that it might not be real.

One mild summer morning, Nana woke with an itch for blueberry fungy. She gave Ruthie and I each 3 shiny quarters and two plastic pails and sent us up island to pick blueberries at Miz Kitty’s.

“But Nana,” I halfheartedly protested, “Everybody knows Miz Kitty’s crazy. She talks to the moon!”

“No, she don’t,” Nana said and gave me an encouraging pat on the bottom, “Kitty Stark talks to the cat and the cat talks to the moon. They’re both harmless. Now git!”

We got to Miz Kitty’s about noon and found her in a rocking chair on her front porch, shelling peas and listening to a Red Sox game. She’d already set out a pitcher of milk and a plate of peanut butter cookies for us and the ginger cat was innocently napping on the window sill. Every now and again his tail would switch slightly but otherwise he was still as a statue.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” Miz Kitty said with a shrug, “I ‘spect he jist wants you to know he’s listenin’. He listens to most everything but don’t say much ‘cept to me.”

“Folks say he talks to the moon,” Ruthie blurted out with the boldness I so envied, “And that the moon talks back.”

“Do they now,” Miz Kitty said impassively, “What else do folks say?”

I started to speak, thought better of it and would’ve stayed quiet except that Ruthie gave me a sharp elbow jab in the ribs.

“That he kin tell the future,” I said reluctantly, “Like when a boat ain’t comin’ back or a still’s gon’ blow.”

“Or if’n you’re in the family way, whether it’ll be a boy or a girl,” Ruthie added.

At this, Miz Kitty laughed so hard she nearly spilled the bowl of peas. On the window still, the ginger cat opened one eye and gave us a quick, suspicious look then twitched his tail, stretched expansively, and jumped lightly down. He began the delicate process of grooming his paws and whiskers and, as cats do, keeping an eye on his audience while pretending we weren’t there.

“I declare,” Kitty Stark said with a definite smile in her voice, “I reckon if’n one old cat could do all that, he’d be some slick. Now I’m thinkin’, you might get to berry pickin’ or you’ll be late to supper.”

We each dutifully handed over our two quarters and Miz Kitty pocketed them, thanked us and nodded in the direction of the blueberry patch.

“Mind you, keep an eye on the sun,” she called after us, “It’s a ways back to The Point and if you don’t get there by dark, your grandma like to skin you alive.”

It might have been my imagination, but I thought she called once more. I could’ve sworn I heard her say “Leastways, that’s what the cat says.”

Chaos Theory

 

Sometimes you just know.

I don’t need quantum physics to know that the overturned kitchen trash can or the rolls of eviscerated paper towels are the work of the cur dog. He might as well have signed his name.

Similarly, credit for the chewed up house slippers and the desecrated cactus plant goes to the girl pit mix. Their tastes are different but the end result is always the same: destruction. Only the little pit mix, standing watch at the window in case of backyard intruders, is innocent. He’s loud and obnoxious and aggressive, often nippy and the first to get on my last nerve, but he’s never been destructive. Oh, sure, he can find a discarded plastic dog food container with the accuracy of a heat seeking missile, but he’s quite content to chew it and only it to pieces. The girl pit relies on Michael’s absent mindedness and usually finds only those targets of opportunity he leaves in plain sight – shoes and slippers are her favorites with weather stripping and linoleum close seconds – but I have seen evidence of search and destroy missions for pillows or couch stuffing. It’s the cur dog who is the most agile and determined. He is undeterred by gates or closed cabinet doors or high shelves – he has, as best we can tell, learned to climb, jump or otherwise propel himself onto counters and sinks etc to reach his goal. He’s also quite partial to used coffee grounds or filters, we’re not sure which. Michael absolutely swears he recently jumped from a second story window to the concrete front porch at the sight of a squirrel but I’m not convinced. Seems to me he’d have broken a leg or two, at the least, but I perhaps he just bounces better than I imagine. Michael thinks he could’ve cleared the concrete and the iron gate, landed in the shrubs and then jumped the gate to get back on the porch. The dog isn’t talking so we may never know.

I pick up a pair of underwear, the remains of a toothbrush, a roll of duct tape, a half eaten tape measure and what’s left of its packaging, a dry erase marker, several miniature candy wrappers, a sheet of stamps and a handful of what appears to have started life as a kitchen sponge. In the office I stumble across a bagful of plastic shot glasses, chewed and cracked and shattered almost beyond recognition, a cell phone charger cord with the charging end missing,

the pieces of a Bic lighter, and the forlorn remnants of a scented candle, glass holder and all.

The kitchen floor is littered with empty sugar packets, more ragged pieces of sponge, a tattered leash and dog collar, a couple of dishtowels, a small scrub brush and a half dozen or more torn up paper grocery bags.

The evidence strongly suggested a two pronged attack, concerted, focused and certainly highly organized. “My, my, my,” I could hear Tommy Lee Jones saying as he surveys the bus crash scene from The Fugitive, “What a mess.”

The dogs pranced and danced around me and each other as if I’d been gone for years, completely oblivious to the damage and destruction they’d created in just four hours, anxious for attention and food. I shooed them out the back door and down the steps and set about cleaning up. There are times when you just need to embrace the chaos.

Deliver Me

 

The salon is quiet as a tomb and I sit in the chair, trying not to fidget while Anna snips and cuts and hums softly to herself. One reason I like her is that she’s slow and meticulous, another is that after a minute or two of small talk (she asks after my dogs, I ask after her kids) when I first get there, she’s all work. She never feels the need to chatter at or entertain me. I dislike these visits, always feel that something more is required of me rather than just to shut my eyes and let her work but I’ve never known exactly what it is. A trust issue, perhaps. Putting my hair in the care of another after I neglect it for months. I often expect a gentle scolding for waiting so long between appointments but unlike other hairdressers I’ve had, Anna seems to understand and she never raises the issue.

I always make a “first thing in the morning” appointment and I’ve gotten accustomed to being the only client. On this day, however, a second stylist and a second client, both considerably pregnant, arrive. It’s eight in the morning and I’m remarkably unprepared for the conversation that follows. They are two chairs away and I can hear every word and grisly detail about dilation widths and how long it takes, the pros and cons of epidurals, contraction timing, an animated debate about the value of amniocentesis and the C-section vs natural childbirth debate.

Finally there is a graphic discussion of afterbirth and stitches.

“You want to be cut not torn,” Anna says casually, “They can stitch a cut in a straight line but if you’re torn, it’s ragged.”

Both pregnant women enthusiastically agree. As best I can tell, the number of stitches is a badge of honor. It takes me a moment or two to realize that somewhere between natural childbirth and stitches, I began to feel lightheaded and a little shivery. A voice in my head kept repeating Dear God, please, no more, but there’s no mercy and no escape. Anna doesn’t appear to notice my discomfort and the two pregnant women chatter on. Fortunately, their conversation turns to child raising rather than birthing and then to the husband’s role in the process, all the way from conception to the delivery room.

“Imagine,” one cackles, “If men got pregnant!”

“Tell me about it!” the other replies and laughs.

“All done!” Anna announces with a final fluff of my bangs.

You have no idea, I think to myself and run for the exit.