The Cat That God Sent Page 10

Emma swept into the waiting room, wearing her doctor’s coat, unbuttoned, with a blue T-shirt underneath, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She may not have been wearing any makeup. The “natural” look often appeared to be totally natural, meaning Jake usually could not tell the difference between none and natural.

  Back in Butler, when he was still one-half of a couple, Jake assumed that Barbara Ann Bentley always wore makeup. She would not leave her apartment without carrying a large nylon bag she called a “clutch,” which seemed to be jammed with all manner of small jars and tubes and cylinders filled with powders and gels and ointments. The bag rattled when she picked it up. Barbara Ann always looked pretty, even more so when she kept Jake waiting an hour for a dinner date.

  “Well, well, well. Petey and the pastor. Another injury? A barber recommendation?”

  Jake reached and smoothed his hair flat. He had skipped the haircut last week, and now he was sure his hair had reached the semiscraggly stage, as Pastor Gust often described it. “Get that scraggly hair cut, Wilkerson. This is not some television church where people don’t get their hair cut so they can look all hip and cool to the audience. This is a church, okay? A real church. Not some stage version of a church.”

  “Actually, I’m on my way for a haircut. Are they open on Monday?”

  Emma scrunched up her face. “You know, I don’t know. Let me call Jeff. Even if he’s off, he’ll open the shop for you. You are a paying customer, right? American money?”

  “I am. No Canadian dollars or euros.”

  “Good. And I see you brought Petey with you.”

  Jake had almost forgotten.

  “Oh, yes. Sure. Petey. Maybe you could look at his paw. The bandage is getting sort of raggedy, and I thought either it should come off or be replaced.”

  Emma smiled at him, as if she assumed that Petey’s paw was pretty much an excuse for the visit. But Jake couldn’t tell for sure, and he was pretty sure that Emma couldn’t know for sure his intentions, so Jake may very well have been in the office with a semivalid reason.

  “Sure. I’ll take a look. C’mon Petey. You know the way.”

  Petey and Jake followed Emma into the same examination room as before. Petey jumped up onto the table and sat down, holding his bandaged paw up.

  “A special cat you have here, Pastor Jake,” she said, and took out a small pair of bandage scissors and began to snip away. She swabbed what remained of the bandage with alcohol and it slipped off with ease. She took a towel, then squirted his paw down with water. She bent to look closely at the bottom.

  “Healed up very nicely. No infection. No swelling. Hardly even a scar. So if Petey wants to get into paw modeling, there won’t be anything holding him back.”

  “He’ll be relieved to know that . . . Emma. Or should I call you Dr. Grainger? What’s the proper protocol?”

  “Emma is fine. I have never really gotten used to being Dr. Grainger. Makes me sound stuffy. Or old. Or both.”

  “Okay, then. Emma.”

  Emma scratched Petey’s neck and he began to purr.

  “I hear Petey made an appearance at church this week.”

  Word does travel fast in a small town.

  “He did. He pulled open the back door and sat on one of the chairs and watched me talk.”

  “I heard the congregation liked it.”

  “Well, they all laughed. I hope it went okay. It’s hard to know if the message was appreciated or not.”

  “I’m sure they all loved it. Your predecessor at the church was no ball of fire, if you ask me.”

  “Did you ever hear him? Did you ever visit the church?”

  “No. But he tried to sell me insurance just before he left town. I know insurance isn’t the most exciting subject, but he even seemed bored with it. I know I was.”

  “Did you buy any?”

  “No. I have a cousin who’s an agent. Have to buy from him or I would be drummed out of the Grainger clan.”

  Jake stopped talking. Often, he felt at a loss for words or subjects. This was a long conversation for him, and since the other participant was an attractive woman, the right words felt more distant than ever.

  Petey broke the silence with a loud meow. He then flopped onto his side and rolled onto his back.

  “He does that a lot,” Jake said.

  “A sign of being comfortable. When a cat shows its stomach, it means that it is feeling very much at ease and there is no threat nearby. It’s a sign of trust.”

  “So . . . he trusts me, then? Or you? Or us?”

  “I guess. He does seem like a very intuitive cat.”

  Jake liked being trusted—even if it was by a cat.

  “Jake . . . Pastor Jake . . . what do I call you? What’s protocol?” Emma asked.

  “Jake is fine.”

  “Okay, then. Jake,” she said, her hand gently scratching Petey’s stomach. “I know you will think this is horribly forward—and maybe it is. But would you like to see a movie this weekend? Friday? Your church doesn’t have any rules against movies, does it? And please don’t think I’m doing this to appease my mother—who, unfortunately, you already met.”

  Jake was indeed surprised, very pleasantly surprised, almost shocked, really, and he hoped that his face did not register just how surprised.

  “No. No rules against it. It’s like, a regular movie, right?”

  “Sure. We actually have a movie theater in town. I think it’s the only functioning theater within fifty miles, so you’re in luck.”

  “Okay. That would be nice.”

  “Okay.”

  That’s when Petey rolled over, stood up, meowed once, jumped off the table, and headed toward the front door, as if to say his work here was done.

  “I guess we’re done,” Jake said as he followed the cat. “What time on Friday?”

  “Every movie starts at 7:30. Come around 7:00?”

  “Okay, then,” Jake said, feeling a lot lighter than he did when he entered.

  As Petey exited the examination room, he stopped, all but sliding on the polished wood floors. Standing in the middle of the waiting room was a large, snorfling, heavy-breathing, overweight bulldog with unappealing breath. Petey’s nose wrinkled as he caught a good whiff of his scent, or odor, more appropriately.

  Egads, dog, don’t you ever bathe?

  He could hear Jake and Dr. Emma talking in the room that he just left.

  Are you a mean dog? Or just a stupid dog? Those are the only kinds of dogs I know.

  Winston sniffed loudly, as if he had adenoid issues. He attempted to grin.

  A good-natured dog. As long as you know your place—and your place is . . . out of my way.

  The dog lurched backward and sat heavily on his haunches, his back legs splayed out in multiple directions, or so it seemed.

  Why would an obviously intelligent woman person like Dr. Emma be associated with a . . . dog? No offense, dog, but you two do not seem to go together. She should have a cat. A good cat.

  Then Petey tilted his head, as if truly puzzled.

  Maybe there aren’t enough “good” cats to go around. That means humans, even smart humans like Dr. Emma, have to settle for a dog. That has to be it. There are so few smart cats that there are not enough to go around.

  Dr. Emma came out of the examination room first.

  “Oh, I see you’ve met Winston.”

  Winston? That’s much too refined a name for such a slobbery dog, Dr. Emma. Maybe something like Puddle Accident or Smells-like-Raccoon. Those would be more appropriate.

  “Winston’s been with me since I graduated from college. I got him just before I started veterinarian school. He had been abandoned.”

  No wonder.

  “He’s sweet and very harmless. And it seems like he and Petey get along famously.”

  Petey stared up at Jake and meowed. It sounded like a warning.

  If you and Dr. Emma start something—like a relationship—the dog has to go. Okay? Promise?

  Jak
e bent down and picked Petey up.

  “Petey, I don’t know what you want, but you’re not going to stay here and play with Winston. We’ll arrange a play date later, okay?”

  No! You’re not listening! No!

  Jimbo whistled as he measured out coffee for the Mr. Coffee. He was in a good mood this morning. Lloyd Cummins had called him on Sunday afternoon and asked if he could come to work on Monday. “I got at least three or four weeks of work signed up. I can’t promise anything, but I bet we’ll have work through the summer, anyhow.”

  Betty came into the kitchen, also whistling. It appeared that she was in a better mood than her husband. She filled the toaster oven with four slices of white bread, and gathered the jelly jar and the slippery yellow tub of almost-butter from the refrigerator. “Doctor says to stay away from butter, Jimbo. You gotta listen to what he says.”

  Betty took two plates from the cabinet. “You make enough coffee for your Thermos?” she asked.

  “I did. But the job’s in town today, so I could always run to McDonald’s if I run out.”

  “Where’s the job?”

  “Mondock’s Garage. I guess they been losing water pressure. We’re going to drill deeper and put in a new line. Couple of days.”

  The toaster oven dinged, and Betty spread each slice with a fat, thumb-sized glob of the almost-butter. “Doesn’t taste like butter unless you use a whole lot of it,” she had once declared.

  The two of them sat at the kitchen table, the dog staring at Jimbo, and ate in silence.

  “So did you think the new pastor did okay?”

  Jimbo was reluctant to commit until he discovered how his wife felt about the sermon and the pastor’s demeanor on the platform.

  “Okay, I guess. The cat was funny. I got a kick out of that.”

  “Yeah, that was funny. But . . . I don’t know. He should have locked that door or something. Shouldn’t have cats in the service. I think that might start something. Like people bringing their dogs to church. You know who would bring their dog if the pastor said it was okay? Alice Kamarski. That’s who. I swear she would adopt that dog legally if she could.”

  Jimbo narrowed his eyes, as if thinking deep and hard.

  “I bet he won’t say it’s okay for animals to be in church. It was kind of an accident.”

  Betty stirred her coffee for much longer than necessary. “I don’t want animals in my church. That’s all I’m saying. And somebody should do something to make sure it isn’t the start of something. Don’t want people laughing at us. Bad enough he needed a haircut. No sense in starting up with animals. Next thing you know, we’ll have drums up onstage with some sort of rock guitar music. That I can’t take. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Jimbo was just about to remark that whenever his wife said, “That’s all I’m saying,” it was never all she said. He looked at his watch and smiled. “I have to get going. Don’t want to be late.”

  Big Dave added three sugars to his coffee, already pale with two French Vanilla cream packets. The trio of unwrapped Drake’s Crumb Cakes waited, so his breakfast was nearly complete.

  The electronic bell chimed and Big Dave looked up. Carl Miller, one of his regular customers, hurried in and mixed two kinds of coffee together in a large plastic cup. He snapped on the lid and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter.

  “Heard your church was interesting yesterday,” Carl said as he wadded up his change and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “It was kind of interesting,” Big Dave said with a grin. “Never had a cat in church before. And you know what? That cat just sat in that chair during the whole sermon and looked like he was listening to every word. It was the dog-blamedest thing. Or cat-blamedest, I guess.”

  Carl sipped at his coffee.

  “When he starts inviting dogs up front, let me know. Maybe I’ll bring old Cutter with me. That dog could use a dose of manners, you know?”

  “I do know that, Carl. I do. And I’ll take you up on that. You should come and check it out. I bet you’d like this new guy. Seems real down-to-earth. Like a normal fellow, you know?”

  “You can’t be serious. Me? In church?” Carl said, his hand on the door. “Your church got insurance for getting hit by lightning?”

  “I’m pretty sure we do. Let me know, and you can sit next to me. Okay? I like living dangerously.”

  Carl stopped, then looked back.

  “Maybe. We’ll see. If a cat can go. Maybe.”

  The field of plastic pennants flittered in the wind, a combination of hissing and crinkling, amplified by a thousand multicolored triangles. When the wind was just right, the pennants nearly blotted out the sun on the western side of the car lot.

  Dan Rummel had his arm around the shoulder of a potential customer of Honest Dan’s Used Kar Emporium.

  “This is one honey of a car. Nearly mint. I had the new pastor of that church down on Dry Run Road come in, and he was giving it a serious once-over.”

  “The one with the cat?” said the customer, who might have been named Smet or Smote—Dan wasn’t that sure he heard correctly.

  He brightened. “One and the same, sir. I tell you, he was pretty interested in it. So if you’re thinking of making an offer . . . well, no time like right now. Get a jump on the competition.”

  “And the cat just sat there and listened the whole time? Like he knew what was going on?”

  Dan steered Mr. Smet or Smote toward the office. “He did. Like he was some sort of angel watching over things, you know? That’s what I thought. Like a cat angel.”

  The three bells from the door sounded as Dan and Mr. Smet/Smote entered the small office.

  “Would you be interested in financing or buying it outright with cash?”

  Petey slipped out of the parsonage and stepped into a dense layer of early morning fog. He stood for a long moment, on the top step, just sniffing.

  I smell a fox. They stink worse than dogs. Must have gone through the field last night. A lot of mice there—that’s why.

  Jake had busied himself that morning with a third cup of coffee and buried himself in a commentary on Ephesians. Petey thought it wise of him to now focus on the Scriptures, kind of like those TV preachers do. The church now knew his background. They felt comfortable with his story. That’s what Petey surmised. He wasn’t a mind reader, but the people of the church appeared satisfied and happy, most of them. There were a few that Petey could not tell how they were feeling. Angry? Maybe. Concerned? Maybe.

  His repaired paw remained tender but not painful.

  He walked to the big house on wheels and stood on the steps that led into the middle of it. He meowed as loudly as he could while tapping at the door with his right paw—not scratching really, but tapping.

  The door opened just an inch or two.

  “Petey! What are you doing out there? You want to come in for a while?”

  Petey chirped three times and slipped inside.

  This is big. Real big. Like a house. With wheels. And a thing to steer it with. That is so cool.

  Tassy watched Petey as he walked around the living room. He jumped up on the sofa and stared out the window, back toward the church.

  He chirped softly, looking directly at Tassy.

  “I know. It’s really nice, isn’t it? This is the nicest place I have ever lived in. Absolutely the nicest.”

  She carefully carried a half-cup of tea to the sofa. She had been extra, extra careful since she first stepped foot in the RV not to spill anything, not to damage anything, and to keep everything picked up and as clean as could be. She realized this was an unforeseen opportunity and something she did not want to damage by being slothful and unkempt.

  “Now, Randolph, he was a perfect slob,” she said to Petey. “Never picked up anything. His idea of cleaning a room was to take a snow shovel and shovel away the empty cups and food wrappers. The jerk.”

  Petey waited until she was settled, with her teacup within reach. He scrambled off the back of the cushion and mad
e his way into her lap.

  She’s very soft. And she has small hands. Very gentle. I like that in a person. Jake’s good, but this person is better at petting.

  “Aww, Petey, of course, I’ll pet you.”

  And she commenced to doing just that as Petey settled in and closed his eyes.

  I didn’t anticipate this person would be here. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to know about her. But she is nice. The funny thing is, every time I’m with her, I want to protect her. Not usually a cat thing. Dogs protect better. They are bigger and stupider and bark louder. But cats can do almost anything. Right?

  Tassy hummed as she petted the cat, an almost tuneless melody. But a pleasant tune, nonetheless.

  I wonder how I am going to do that? If that fox shows up—well, to be honest, I’m not sure I can beat a fox. They look like scrawny dogs. With big teeth. But I would try. I would have to try. That much I know.

  Tassy took another sip of her tea.

  “Do you think they’ll let me stay here, Petey? It is awfully nice of Vern and Eleanor to let me use this. Eleanor is so nice to me. Like I wish my mother would have been. But I’m not sure about all this church stuff. I guess there is a God and all that. But if there is, he hasn’t done me all that many favors. Well, that is, up ’til now. Is that what this is, Petey? Like God doing me a favor? Do you think he’ll keep it up? Or will I have to . . . go to church and sing those weird songs and all of that? Does God want me to do that? I guess I could if it means staying here longer. You know, just ’til I figure things out. Does that sound normal to you, Petey?”

  Petey opened his eyes and looked back at Tassy. He hadn’t been paying all that much attention to what she was saying, but she seemed to calm down as she talked on.

  He meowed back to her in his best reassuring cat voice.

  I’m pretty sure she’ll understand me. She appears to be more intuitive than most.

  “You mean that, Petey?”

  He chirped again.

  “Well, I guess I can hope for that, then. I can hope.”

  Jimbo felt awkward pushing a grocery cart. He had felt awkward pushing a baby carriage—when his kids were small and that was more than twenty years ago—and a grocery cart felt the same way. He didn’t like it when Betty sent him to the store. He didn’t like grocery lists. He didn’t like trying to remember where everything was. And to make it worse, each grocery store in Coudersport was arranged differently. So the olives in aisle four of one store would be in aisle six in another. And then if Betty just wrote down olives, Jimbo would be in a real pickle. What kind of olives? Green? Black? With those little red things in them?