Chapter Eight #3
I’d never had a cat, but growing up, my family had lived with a basenji.
Trixie’d had a beautiful red coat with white markings, adorable pointy ears, a sproingy curled tail, and a calculating mind that knew exactly how long to wait for Riley and me to leave the room before destroying our favorite toys.
Her bark had sounded like a yodel, she had stolen food directly off our plates, and she had refused to walk on grass.
I had loved our mischievous and rotten dog, but Trixie had been devoted to my mom and hadn’t given a fig about the rest of us.
Cory had been raised with a number of Labradors.
“They’re big, they’re playful, and they wear down my boys,” his mother had once told me.
Cory was the youngest of three brothers, and when they were together, they all had fighting-wrestling energy.
Cory and I did want to get a dog eventually.
We planned to adopt a mutt from the shelter, but we were waiting until we had a fenced yard.
I felt a surge of triumph at this glimpse into our future: a dog. We would have a dog. Yet despite my love of dogs, this vision didn’t fill me with excitement or longing.
“Edmond? Ed? Eddie?” I set down the key and my tote bag and then inhaled, deep and slow. The air smelled like Macon. My heart panged with loss.
A black-and-white tuxedo cat slinked into view.
“Hi there. Am I allowed to pet you?”
Edmond seemed interested but uncertain.
“Want to show me the kitchen? It’s back here, right?” I pressed the buttons to turn on more lights as I moved through the house. My footsteps echoed through the quiet rooms.
Edmond followed behind me at a cautious distance.
The feeding and care instructions were on the kitchen counter, exactly where I expected to find them.
The handwriting gave me a second pang. It felt good to be close enough to somebody to be able to recognize their handwriting.
Seeing it was almost like seeing the person themself.
The disheveled yet precise scrawl in front of me distinctly, unmistakably belonged to Macon.
I touched the piece of paper and felt the indentations left by his pen.
Edmond stirred behind me, reminding me of my purpose. I fed him a mackerel and lamb mix, rinsed out the can, and plopped it into the recycling bin. The instructions informed me that changing his water bowl and cleaning the litter box were morning activities.
Beside the sink was a dish that contained two bars of soap.
The note didn’t specify which was for my hands, so I guessed.
Then I snapped a picture of Edmond eating and drafted an accompanying text.
All is well! Hope you made it to Durham safely and hope your aunt is okay.
After a moment of deliberation, I added a red heart emoji and hit send.
I often added hearts to my texts, so I knew he’d understand that it was out of concerned friend-love as opposed to anything romantic.
A text from me would be more suspect if it didn’t have a heart.
Edmond was still eating. His plate gently scraped against the tile floor, and the disgusting scent of wet meat wafted through the room.
“Mm, yum. Does that taste good?” I asked, bending down to pet him.
His ears flattened against his head, and he backed away from my outstretched hand. He wasn’t ready for any physical interactions with a stranger. I understood and respected that.
“Loud and clear, bud. See you in the morning.”
But halfway to the front door, I paused.
The ghostly loneliness of the house swept through me.
It had been built in the thirties, and the structure itself looked as if it had resisted modernization.
The floors, trim, and fixtures seemed to be original, and the overall appearance was of a lot of bare wood.
The walls and surfaces were mostly empty.
In the dining room sat a breakfast table, two chairs, and nothing else.
The living room was unusually long, stretching across nearly the whole front of the house, and Macon had created a sitting area with a tired couch, a coffee table, and an end table with a lamp.
Across from this setup was a dusty television.
The rest of this large space was desolate apart from a scratching post and several fur-covered blankets and beds scattered around, proving my suspicions correct: Macon did spend more money on Edmond than on himself.
The darkness in the back of the house beckoned to me. I turned on the hallway light, and four doors appeared, three open and one partially closed.
In my memory, these rooms were small and the first one was a study, so I was pleased to discover that it still contained Macon’s desk and crowded bookshelves.
Naturally, I took a few minutes to inspect the spines.
His collection was separated into fiction and nonfiction, and everything was arranged alphabetically.
Tons of classics and Everyman’s Library editions, some still stickered with prices from the used bookstore.
Tomes about the environment and history and science and economics.
Several worn and beloved novels from his childhood.
Gardening books, some of which I recognized from our Friends of the Library sales.
A cat care book that looked like it had been purchased new.
My chest ached with recognition. If I had been shown a list of these titles, I would have known exactly who they belonged to. Everything here was right.
The room beside it used to belong to Dani.
The walls had been crowded with furniture and other items, but the center of the floor had contained only a circular rug, a lavender zafu, and a low table with a bell.
The room had stunk of incense. Now it smelled like a litter box.
Honestly, the incense might have been worse.
Cardboard boxes cluttered the floor, a perch was positioned in front of the window, and the litter box and all its accouterments were tucked into one of the corners.
Edmond darted past me, startling me, and leapt onto his perch.
“Does Macon call this ‘Edmond’s room’? I bet he does.”
Although he could have gazed out the window, his body was facing me. His vigilant eyes were green and intense.
I moved along. The next room was the bathroom—the old house had only one—and I took the opportunity to use it.
It was even smaller than the one in my apartment, but it was also significantly more appealing.
Like the rest of the house, the fixtures looked original, and the tile was in good condition.
With a fresh coat of paint and some decorative touches, it could be darling.
I washed my hands with another bar of soap that smelled like Macon.
I sniffed my fingers, and sorrow draped over me like a shroud.
Unexpectedly, tears threatened to well up.
Edmond was waiting for me back in the hallway.
“Oh. Hey there.” I reached out my fingers for him to sniff.
He didn’t budge. He was intrigued, but I required further observation.
The final room had the partially closed door.
It was the only one I hadn’t seen on my previous visit.
I glanced back at the cat as if he might tell on me, then gingerly pushed the door open.
I couldn’t bear to turn on the light. Instead, I stood on the threshold of Macon’s bedroom and looked at what the hallway light was strong enough to reveal.
It wasn’t much. A large dresser and a mirror, a bed that was made, two side tables and two lamps.
Sadness returned and enveloped me. Aside from the two chairs in the dining room, these tables and lamps were the only evidence I’d seen of a second person—or the hope of a second person.
I didn’t know if Macon wanted to date again.
It was one of those subjects that we never broached.
His future self lived inside my mind in both versions: in another long-term relationship and peacefully alone for the rest of his life.
I pulled the door back to where it had been.
He hadn’t mentioned the porch light in his instructions, but I turned it on anyway.
It was too upsetting to leave Edmond and the house in the dark.
I locked the door and lifted the planter to return the key.
But… it was mine to keep until he returned.
I lowered the planter and tucked the key into my pocket. It glowed warmly inside.