Chapter 10
I showered, trying not to imagine what pizza with benefits might look like with Malone. The strains of “All Too Well” wafted down into my bathroom from the one above with some kind of Swiftie sorcery.
Good. I needed to be reminded of breakups and the general perfidy of men.
It should be noted that I had no problem with Taylor Swift, but the ten-minute version on repeat? Could we mix it up a bit? More importantly, I was beginning to worry about the mental state of my upstairs neighbor.
I was considering banging on the ceiling with a broom handle à la the eighties-sitcom cliché when I heard a tiny cry.
No, more like the mew of a kitten.
Great, first the anguished wail of Taylor Swift, and now I was being invaded by kittens.
Or, worse yet, rats.
I shuddered before googling “what sounds does a rat make.”
Squeaky noises.
Relief washed over me, but the mew came again, this time more insistently.
First, I searched my bedroom and then my sparsely furnished living room. Nothing behind or under the love seat. Nor under the table.
I paused and heard . . . nothing.
“Maybe I’m losing my marbles.”
Mew.
I looked in the cramped laundry closet, the bathroom, my closet. I even checked the world’s tiniest kitchen. Still nothing.
Mew.
The sound seemed closer, more frantic.
Oh. The patio.
A quick peek beyond the blackout curtains showed a scraggly kitten sitting in the shadows of my patio.
No mother. No brothers and sisters.
My heart jumped up in my throat.
And this kitten doesn’t even have a Nana cat to step into that void.
Shoving that thought away, I searched my phone for “what to do if you find a kitten” even as I wondered how the creature had managed to get over the waist-high wooden barrier. Maybe it had climbed over the top and then didn’t know how to get out?
After gauging the age as somewhere between four and six weeks, I checked again for any sign of a mother or a nest and found none. Then I searched the web for a rescue shelter. Closed for the day, of course.
The kitten—a tiny calico, probably flea-ridden—stepped out of the shadow and looked up at me with sad eyes. My own words came back to haunt me: Maybe I’ll extend my sabbatical to a lifetime. Become a cat lady or something.
I looked heavenward. “Very funny. I’ve never had a pet before, and I have no idea what to do with a kitten.”
Even so, I couldn’t leave it out there, could I?
What if a hawk swooped in? Or a big dog jumped onto my patio?
I yanked at the door before remembering the sawed-off broom handle I’d placed in the runner to appease Nana’s anxiety about the safety of sliding patio doors in ground-floor apartments. With the help of a four-letter word, I removed the handle and opened the door.
The kitten backed away from me as if I might be a predator, but I scooped it up and hugged it close, fleas be damned. The little rascal nestled into the crook of my arm and began to purr.
“I don’t know what to do with you, though.”
The cat wiggled and mewed indignantly, as if to say, “Google is free. Make another search.”
With a sigh, I began research on cat ownership before looking down at my new roommate. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll probably take you to a shelter next week.”
The tiny creature gave an impossibly big yawn and promptly fell asleep. My resolve weakened ever so slightly.
At least I wasn’t talking to myself anymore?
Despite my aching muscles, I made a quick trip to the store for a litter box, kitten chow, and everything else necessary for my new roomie.
I even got a bag of flour, not because I wanted to bake, but because one website recommended dusting the ground with flour so I could search for paw prints later to see if the mother came looking for her baby.
The whole way to the store and back, I pondered the probability that one kitten would magically land on my enclosed patio. My conclusion? Highly unlikely.
More probable? Either Havisham or Salcedo had decided to prank me because I’d said I was going to be a cat lady. Havisham seemed the likelier culprit—I knew Salcedo still felt bad about the fallout from the glitter-bomb incident.
I texted the former to come over and then went about combing the kitten for fleas as a precaution and to double-check the search I made before heading to the store.
I found none, which was good since it was too young for a flea collar.
It—I had no idea if I was dealing with a he or a she yet—could eat canned food, though.
It ate as though it had never eaten before, then looked over its shoulder with a growl once it had licked the dollop of food clean from the saucer.
“What?”
An indignant mew was my answer.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been hungry, and Dr. Google says to give you only small amounts. Just in case.”
The kitten stalked out of the kitchen, its pointy tail pointing skyward, and sniffed its way across the living room. When the doorbell rang, it jumped straight up in the air and fuzzed out completely. I scooped the creature up and answered the door to see Havisham.
“I have thirty minutes before my bar shift begins. What do you want?”
“Havisham. It’s so good to see you, too.”
“Seriously, Stark. Time. It’s of the essence. The little stuff life is made of. Et cetera.”
“I want to know why you tossed a kitten on my patio.”
“What?”
She looked down at the miscreant, who was currently pricking me with its surprisingly sharp little claws. I put it down. “I made that joke about being a cat lady, and then I find a kitten on my patio. Very funny.”
Havisham frowned. “I didn’t do it. I haven’t had time for such shenanigans, although I kinda wish I’d thought of it now that you mention it.” She sat on the couch, and the kitten sniffed her ankles before climbing her pant leg like a tree and curling up in her lap.
Little traitor.
“You want me to believe that a kitten that’s barely old enough for store-bought food just magically appeared on my patio.”
She shrugged. “As you have seen, they have claws. They can climb.”
“Then why didn’t it climb out?”
“Oh, stop calling the kitten an ‘it.’” She lifted the creature’s tail. “I’m no expert, but I believe this is a she—seems to be missing some equipment. Also, every calico I’ve ever met has been female.”
Why hadn’t I thought to look that up?
Probably because you were busy worrying about fleas and food and because neither your mother nor your nana ever allowed you to have indoor pets. Well, any pets.
“Fine. Why didn’t she climb out?”
“God has a sense of humor?”
“Well, you’re older and thus in need of a cat sooner. You can have this one,” I said. “I’ve got a starter kit for her for you and everything.”
“Oh no. This kitten is yours.” Havisham put the cat on the couch and stood. “The universe wants you to have it. You put out a request, and behold . . . the cosmic cat-distribution system has answered.”
The kitten in question cocked her head and then mewed. Loudly.
“Good luck!” Havisham said as she reached the door.
“But what if I have to do surveillance? I can’t leave her here by herself, can I?”
“Of course you can. You’ve got a litter box, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Put her in the bathroom with food, water, and a litter box, and be sure to play with her when you get back. She’ll be fine.”
“But that seems so . . . cold.”
Havisham snapped her fingers. “Good call. Put a warm blanket in there for her to curl up on. Maybe one of your sweaters so she’ll have your scent.”
“You’re no help!”
“Au contraire, I’ve just been remarkably helpful, a fount of knowledge. Besides, you wanted to be a cat lady. Toodles.”
Havisham left. The kitten ambled over to my feet and batted at my untied shoelace.
My heart contracted from the cuteness but then hardened. Nana had once said she wouldn’t have another pet because losing her last dog had almost killed her. I vaguely remembered her bichon frise, Buffy, a fluffy sweetheart who had been too old to play by the time I came along.
Then, when I was ten, Mom had dated a guy with a golden retriever named Skip. We’d go to the park sometimes, and she’d hold his hand—the man’s, not the dog’s—while I played fetch with Skip. At one point she even gave me the speech about how I was going to have a stepdaddy.
Then poof! Both the guy and Skip disappeared from my life. When I asked my mother why we hadn’t seen them in a while, she looked me in the eye and said, “No sense in getting too attached to anyone or anything. They all leave you in the end.”
As if to prove her point, she promptly took herself off to Florida, leaving me with Nana once again.
Funny how I could remember the dog’s name but not the name of the guy who’d almost been my stepfather.
The kitten rolled over on her back and grabbed my shoelace, chewing on the aglet while her little back feet kicked together against the lace. I started to bend and pick her up but thought better of it.
Mom and Nana never agreed on anything, but they somehow shared an opinion on the subject of pets and people: They all abandon you eventually.
I told the cat, “Don’t get too attached.” But I had to wonder if I was talking to her or to myself.