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.”
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