Sixth Annual Wild Violet Writing Contest Winners (2008)
Fiction
— Third Place
Boss
Cat
By Nina Bayer
(continued)
I took the freeway to the ferry landing, then took the ferry across the
Sound to the Peninsula. Within half an hour, I was deep into a rural,
pine-filled section of northwest woods. No one knew the Boss Cat there;
he could not find his way back home. I stopped the car, opened the trunk
and grabbed the Boss Cat before he could bolt. He struggled in my arms,
biting and clawing at my leather gloves, but I was able to clip off his
collar and throw it into the trees before he could squirm his way down
to the ground. When he did, I let him go and he ran off into the darkness.
I shut the trunk and returned home.
For
the rest of that week, the neighborhood was quiet. People went to and
from their jobs; kids played road hockey in the street; the Yuppie Guy
smoked and drank and used my hose as he always did. No one said anything
to anybody, not even about the sudden absence of the Boss Cat. I stayed
in my house and took care of Jameson, enjoying the reprieve.
The
following Saturday, a meeting of the homeowner's association was held.
I was there; the Yuppie Single Guy was there; most of the other homeowners
were there, as well. As our president stood to address the group, I wondered
if I had been found out, if someone knew about Harley, the Boss Cat, and
had filed a complaint. But the president simply told us how much he enjoyed
living in our community, and commended us all for getting along so well.
I slid down in my chair. When he asked if any of the members had a complaint
to raise or a concern to voice, we all sat on our hands, even the Yuppie
Single Guy. I slid down further.
A
mixture of relief and guilt swept over me. I thought about Jameson cowering
under the maple, and I wondered if I was cowering, too. If I should step
up to the podium and confess what I had done — take the blame, feel
the heat, endure the disgrace — in front of the Yuppie Guy and all
of my fellow homeowners. But I didn't. I slipped out the back door a coward,
before the cookies and coffee could be served, before the homeowner mingling
could begin.
The
next day, I returned to the Peninsula and the woods where I had loosed
the Boss Cat. He was nowhere to be found. I began knocking on doors, trying
every house I could find within a mile of the trees. No one had seen him.
I looked for flyers on telephone poles and grocery store bulletin boards.
I checked the local shelters, called the Humane Society, even bought a
newspaper and read the "Found Cat" ads. I searched for hours
and hours but came up empty. Even the collar had mysteriously disappeared.
I
felt sick. Defeated. Miserable. I was going to hell for sure.
I
wanted the Yuppie Guy to come knocking at my door, to tell me that he
knew. I wanted a chance to apologize, to offer to find him a new cat,
to promise to keep Jameson indoors, anything to relieve the guilt I was
feeling. I needed to come clean, in a bad way. I stepped out of the house
with Jameson right on my heels, but when I walked down our driveway and
stepped up onto the Yuppie Guy's front porch, Jameson dove for cover under
the Japanese Maple.
Scaredy-cat.
The
Yuppie Guy was there, sitting cross-legged in a wicker chair with a beer
in one hand and a cigar in the other. I was about to spill my guts, to
beg forgiveness with a vengeance, when a flash of gray caught the corner
of my eye. It was the Boss Cat, asleep in a basket on the side of his
porch, as fat and happy as ever. What the….?
"Isn't
technology great?" The Yuppie Single Guy said. He took a long drag
on his cigar.
"I'm
sorry?" I said.
"Harley's
collar." He nodded in the direction of the cat. "It has a GPS
tracking device imbedded in it. Didn't take more than a couple of minutes
to find him, once I had located the collar."
Damn
the Yuppie, and damn his blasted toys.
But
in my heart I was relieved.
"Yes,"
I said. "That's great. In fact, I heard he was back. I just stopped
by to say I'm glad. I mean, that he's home, that everything's okay."
"I
appreciate that," he said. "I really do. Harley means a lot
to me. And to the kids."
A
low blow, but I deserved it.
"Well..."
I awkwardly rubbed the toe of my sneaker on the boards of his porch.
"And
hey," the Yuppie Guy continued. "I'm sorry our cats don't get
along. I've been meaning to talk with you about that, to try and work
something out."
Oh,
God. He's being nice.
"Really?"
"Yeah,
but I've been busy, you know, with the kids and all. Ever since the divorce,
I've just been trying to do things with them."
Ouch.
I thought about the spider webs and jet skis, his concern for speeding
cars and tall grass in the park.
"Of
course," I said.
Then
something rubbed the bottom of my pant leg. I looked down and saw Jameson.
I picked him up and held him to my chest.
"Jameson,"
I said, "this is..."
"Andrew."
"Andrew.
And that's Harley." I pointed at the Boss Cat.
"They've
met." The Yuppie Guy smiled, stubbed his cigar into a potted plant.
"Yes,
I suppose they have." I smiled, too. "Well, anyway, I'm Melanie."
"Say,
would you like a beer, Melanie? They're cold." He started to stand
up.
"Uh,
sure. That would be nice."
I
set Jameson down. Andrew motioned for us to come into the house. Both
of us.
"Hey,
Andrew," I said, following him into the kitchen. "It's funny.
There's this thing I've been meaning to talk to you about, too."
Jameson nipped at the hem of my jeans. I pulled my leg away.
"Oh?
Something funny?" Andrew opened the refrigerator, bent down to get
me a beer.
"Well,
not funny exactly. Not ha-ha funny. More like odd, curious. You're just
not going to believe..." I was rambling.
"Why
don't you have a seat and tell me?" He pulled a bottle opener from
a drawer and opened my beer, handed it to me.
I
took the beer and sat down in a kitchen chair. "Okay," I said.
I took a large swig, and then another. Where to begin?
I
looked around for Jameson and found him cowering behind my chair.
The
big chicken.
