The Cat That God Sent Page 4

  Winston let himself fall on his right side, and a rumbly woof escaped.

  “I will admit that he was sort of cute. In a boyish, naive, lost sort of way.”

  Emma leaned back in her chair and stared out the back window. The copse of aspens at the far end of the yard had just started to green.

  “But I don’t know about him being a preacher. Didn’t seem the type. Like he wouldn’t be the type to ask hard questions. Something about him suggests that. Do pastors have to believe it all in order to get the job, Winston?”

  Winston closed his eyes. One of his behavioral tics was the ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. No hats had dropped, but the bulldog was already asleep, snoring louder than a dog had a right to snore.

  “Preachers are supposed to be tolerant, right? Live and let live. Accept everyone. Love and forgiveness, right? Big tent people, right?”

  Emma leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the desk. She had eight appointments this afternoon, and decided that a short rest now would give her the strength to be her normal, cheery self.

  With eyes nearly closed, Petey watched Jake as he drank his coffee.

  Coffee. I don’t understand how anyone drinks that. Smells like a raccoon. Worse.

  Petey saw Jake stare out the window and into the field beyond with a faraway look in his eyes.

  He’s looking for something that he can’t find or doesn’t know is lost. He looks like a dog. Well, like most dogs. Some dogs are better at finding things than others. But most dogs are simply simpleminded, small-brained woodland creatures. And lost much of the time.

  Petey laid his jaw on his good paw and his eyes fluttered to half-closed.

  He’s here and doesn’t know if he’s here. He’s in this place, but at the same time, he’s not here. Humans can get that way. Dogs are always that way. Yes, I know they cover it up by being all cute and snuggly and pretending to be so loyal. They’re not. They would leave one human for another human who offers better food. In a heartbeat, they would leave. Cute and innocent? It’s an act. Smart? Please. Put them in a room behind a closed door and they’ll whine and whimper and cry, and probably try to gnaw and claw their way through the door. Put a cat in a room and close the door—a good cat, of course—and the cat will just take a nap until you open the door again.

  The cat began to vibrate softly, a purr forming in his chest. Petey wasn’t sure why the purr started now, but he realized that this was the safest and most comfortable he had been in many weeks, or months, or had it been longer than that? He shook his head, just a bit.

  I know that if I talked to him—that would make my job easier. But I don’t do that. I know that some animals might. I recently heard a story about a dog that talked to its owner and told her all about God and what he wanted for her life.

  The cat adjusted his back paws and let his tail coil around them.

  To be honest, that’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. First of all, I’m not sure if there are any dogs anywhere near intelligent enough to actually speak. I know I’ve never met one who is that smart. And even if the dog were smart, why would the dog bother? Humans don’t learn from words; they learn by experiencing things and finding truth from that. Truth, to humans, does not come from words. I suppose I could tell Jake what God wants him to know—or what I am pretty sure God wants him to know—but that wouldn’t work. Jake wouldn’t believe it. He has to find the truth on his own. With some help. Obviously. From me. I am a smart cat, after all.

  The very tip of Petey’s tail began to twitch. It did that when he sensed something was about to happen. Either a mouse was going to show up, or something was going to happen—maybe to Jake.

  I know some humans don’t believe that God ever uses an animal like a cat to do things. Some cats don’t believe it either. However, I am not like that. There are cats that are delusional—like they’re really in charge. But I’m not a megalomaniacal cat. I’m not. I’m a good cat. I listen. I hear things. Whispered things. Almost silent nudges. Things only a good cat can hear. I heard what I was supposed to do—or more precisely, what I was needed to do, so here I am—with Jake now. I am certain that God uses small things at first, like a cat, instead of resorting to thunder and lightning first thing. I am nearly positive that I have been sent. Nearly so.

  He does use cats. Good, smart cats. I’m sure he does. Cats like me.

  Wouldn’t it be better for a cat to lead a lost person to the truth rather than that person getting struck by a bolt of lightning tossed by God? I am not delusional. I’m not an angel—I know that—but cats can be like angels. We can help humans find the truth, and then they can feel like they found it all by themselves. It’s better that way. It’s the way of the cat. God uses cats because he likes cats. He protects them. He protected me. He found a way to fix my paw, didn’t he? God cares for me, and he cares for Jake. Maybe I can get Jake to see that.

  Petey closed his eyes but would not fall asleep just yet. The sunshine did feel wonderful on his back, and it was nice to have the pain in his leg begin to ebb, like melting snow on a warm day.

  I need to be here. I don’t need to talk. After all, God whispers at first—and I am just a little louder than a whisper. A heavenly cat whisper. That’s me. I think. A cat sent by God.

  And with that, Petey almost fell asleep, a seminap, his tail twitching every fifteen seconds or so, as if giving off a silent warning about what was soon to transpire.

  Jake slid into a slouched position on the couch.

  Comfortable.

  He balanced the empty cup on his stomach. Back in Butler, in his little apartment, there were end tables at both ends of the couch. Not here. Not even a coffee table. Jake knew he would have to buy a few pieces.

  Does Coudersport have a furniture store? It is spring. That means garage sales. I guess it would be okay for a pastor to look for bargains at a garage sale.

  He took a deep breath and watched the cat as he closed his eyes.

  A nap. That sounds great.

  But there was all that stuff in the truck. It had taken him a week to pack it up. A careful packer, he saved up a month’s worth of the Butler Eagle newspaper and wound up using only a few issues. A careful packer, yes—but a packer with few breakable possessions.

  He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

  If this is the most I’ll have to deal with here . . . then I’m in pretty good shape. An injured, orphaned cat. A pretty veterinarian who doesn’t like church people. A sticky front door. Not bad. I can handle that. No need to call faith into question. Like I said: works can begat faith. Works will begat.

  Begat. Now there’s a funny word.

  And the shoulder again. Sharp. A dig into the muscle.

  I’m going to have to have this looked at. That much I know.

  He put his hand around the empty cup.

  That much I am sure of.

  Jimbo pulled the TV tray closer to him. If he didn’t, bits of tuna fish would fall on the floor and the dog would go ape trying to find them and probably knock the tray down before Jimbo finished lunch. He didn’t want that to happen. Roscoe, the dog, sat two feet away, staring at Jimbo as if he were the most beautiful creation in the entire dog universe, his dog eyes never wavering from the sandwich as it moved from plate to mouth.

  Jimbo’s wife, Betty, sat in the recliner catty-corner to Jimbo’s. She had already eaten—in the kitchen, like a civilized person. She hated eating in the living room but refused to bring the television into the kitchen. Besides, she had argued, they would have to get a longer cable for the TV and neither of them knew how to do that. Eating lunch separately was a compromise she decided she could live with.

  “It’s not easy having your husband underfoot all day,” Betty had complained to her neighbors, often several times a day, often when Jimbo could hear her.

  Jimbo had been laid off from the Coudersport Well Drilling Company for the last seven months. New construction was down, and when construction was down, so was well dri
lling. The owner, Lloyd Cummins, said business looked like it was picking up, and he promised Jimbo a call as soon as he had enough work lined up. Betty was a praying woman and told everyone she prayed for Jimbo getting work every evening.

  “So what’s the new pastor like?”

  “You met him,” Jimbo replied, mid-mouthful.

  “I heard him preach. I shook his hand. I wouldn’t call that meeting him.”

  Recently, for the last seven months actually, Jimbo and Betty lived at the very edge of a permanent tussle, at the verge of a dust-up, a tiff, a spat. With spring coming, hopefully work would pick up and Jimbo could get out of the house. While she prayed for that every evening, Jimbo did the same.

  “Well, he seemed nice and all that,” Jimbo replied, selecting a single potato chip and chewing it noisily.

  Betty winced. It was obvious she considered the way he ate potato chips to be so disconcerting that she would often have to look away, or turn up the volume on the TV, just to drown out the whole process.

  “And?”

  Jake remembered that their old pastor went on and on about communication between couples. That was right before he quit.

  “Well,” he said, picking up one more chip and examining it, “he didn’t have much stuff with him. Just filled the back of a pickup truck. You know, clothes and sheets and books and stuff.”

  “Well, he’s not married. Single men don’t have much. Remember when we got married? You didn’t have anything.”

  Jimbo chewed. “But I was living at home with my parents. I didn’t need anything.”

  Betty crossed her arms.

  “A single man. And the elders were okay with that?”

  Jimbo tried not to sigh audibly.

  “Yes. We all knew it. So did the whole church. You knew it. He didn’t keep anything secret, you know. He said he was single when he came to visit. It was on his resumé. And the whole church voted—that means it was okay. And to be honest, since I am the church treasurer, it’s much cheaper this way. Only one mouth to feed. Saves a lot on insurance, let me tell you. The old pastor and his wife—that was expensive. She seemed to get sick every week.”

  “But no wife means not having anyone to play the piano or teach Sunday school or anything.”

  “Verna Ebbert plays the organ and piano. She’d be more than a bit tussled if you tried to take that away from her.”

  “I’m just saying, that’s all,” Betty said. “You know he’s from a big city? He’s not used to small towns like Coudersport.”

  “Butler ain’t a big city.”

  “Bigger than here. We’re country folk. Simple people, you know.”

  Jimbo shrugged. It felt like she was trying to pick an argument, so he backed off some. He wanted to watch Wheel of Fortune in peace.

  “All I know is that he preached a good sermon. He was funny, remember? You were laughing.”

  Betty uncrossed her arms.

  “Okay, you got me there. He was pretty funny. I do like a preacher who can tell a joke now and again.”

  “Me, too,” Jimbo said as he crammed the last quarter of the sandwich into his mouth. He wanted to be done eating before the show came on, and the theme music was just starting.

  Jake jangled awake, tipping over his coffee cup, still on his chest, which he thankfully discovered was empty. He blinked his eyes several times and rubbed his face with his free hand. Within seconds, he realized where he was. He sat up straight and took a deep breath.

  He stood up. Petey looked up, only moving his eyes.

  Well, might as well unload the truck.

  He left the door open and began to bring the boxes in, one by one. Clothes and sheets he took to the bedroom, books to the office, pots and pans and dishes to the kitchen. Still, he wound up with a waist-high stack of boxes that resisted an obvious destination.

  Just where do knickknacks go? Does my diploma go in the office? What about my stereo—the office or living room? Fake plants? Throw rugs?

  Petey stayed coiled, lying in the chair, content to watch. Apparently he knew he had plenty of time to investigate all of these things later, Jake thought. To investigate now was to run the risk of being stepped on. And for a cat with a bandaged paw, being stepped on was not a pleasant thought, Jake was sure.

  As Jake hefted boxes to one room or the other, he watched the cat watching him. Never having had an animal, he could not be certain if the cat’s calm observation was normal behavior or not. Jake felt pretty sure it wasn’t all that normal. He also felt as if the cat were judging him, as to his possessions and his amateur unpacking technique.

  During the afternoon, the phone rang three times, each time scaring Jake and causing Petey to raise his head and point his ears forward. Each time the caller was one of the church’s elders, welcoming him to the area, to the church, and asking if he needed anything—anything at all. The last call was from Chester Sawicki, who nearly insisted that his wife “carry over” some stuffed cabbage rolls. Jake was pretty sure he didn’t like stuffed cabbage rolls, not being certain if he had ever eaten one, but they did not sound all that appetizing, and Jake ate within a narrow range of acceptable foods. Cabbage rolls lay far outside his accepted range.

  Jake lied and told him he was cooking a pizza in the oven and it was just about to come out. Chester accepted the statement as true, and Jake then felt morally obligated to turn the oven on and pull out one of his frozen pizzas—just in case Chester, or his wife, would show up, unbidden, with a casserole dish filled with cabbage and whatever it is they are stuffed with.

  The bedroom was done, for now. Sheets were on the bed, clothes from the large wardrobe box were hung in the closet, each on its own separate wooden hanger. Jake liked wooden hangers. He could be precise in some areas of life.

  He set up the stereo in the living room, on the large bookcase near the fireplace. He put the speakers at either end. He placed his diploma in the office. It would wait until he found his hammer and the small package of nails that he was sure he had packed in one of the boxes. The box that held his diploma also held the picture of his mother. He had no idea of what to do with that too-large picture. He placed it in the office as well, since that is the one place he was sure his mother would want to watch him.

  He ate the pizza, standing at the counter, staring at the assortment of half-empty boxes between bites. His dishes were mostly unpacked. His forks, spoons, knives, and utensils were mostly unpacked. By the fourth slice, he realized that he could easily finish emptying out most of the boxes marked KITCHEN but didn’t. Something felt final about emptying the last box, something that felt too permanent.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  Even then, don’t some families take weeks to fully unpack? I can take a day or two, right? I don’t have a time clock to punch.

  By this time, night had come to Coudersport. Jake stepped out on the front steps of the parsonage and stared up at the dark spring night sky. The heavens here in north central Pennsylvania were much darker, deeper, and encompassing than the skies in Butler. Here, no ground lights cluttered the darkness. There was no intrusion of streetlights or houses or stores. Just the stars and the dark.

  He sat down and looked up.

  Petey joined him on the step and stared up with him, as if the cat noticed a nocturnal bird flying by.

  “Well, Petey, that’s the first day. It wasn’t so bad, was it? If this is a portent of things to come, then I think I’ll be all right. Omens have been positive, haven’t they? The people seem nice and friendly and not judgmental at all.”

  Petey pushed his head against Jake’s arm. Jake scratched behind the cat’s ears.

  “This will work out, Petey. Here, I am sure I will find my faith again. I’m sure of it. It’s just a dry spell for me, isn’t it? Just a dry spell. I’ll be okay. This will all work out. Nothing to worry about. Ebb and flow.”

  The cat meowed quietly.

  “We’ll be okay, Petey. We’ll be fine.”

  Petey meowed in agreement
.

  “Petey?”

  Petey meowed.

  “It seems like you understand what I’m saying.”

  Petey meowed.

  “Do you really understand?”

  Petey meowed again. This time his meow was longer and lower and more nuanced, as if saying, “Of course I understand you. I am a good cat.”

  “Are you a good cat, Petey? Really a good cat?”

  With that, Petey stood, and carefully made his way onto Jake’s lap, taking care not to bang his bandaged paw. He growl-meowed.

  “So I can talk to you and you’ll understand?” Jake asked. Even Jake wasn’t certain how serious he was.

  Petey answered with a meow that sounded a lot like a yes. Or felt exactly like a yes should feel, Jake thought.

  Jake petted the cat’s head and scratched behind his ears. He had assumed that a cat liked that sort of attention. Petey seemed to enjoy it. After a few minutes of silence, only the early crickets sounding in the chill, Jake asked, his voice low and careful, “Petey, are you the sign I asked for? Does God do that? Send cats?”

  Jake knew he was being way too snarky for north central Pennsylvania.

  With that, Petey stood in Jake’s lap, balancing skillfully on his back legs, and faced him, their noses only a few inches apart. Jake could smell a hint of beef ’n’ liver on Petey’s breath. Jake had smelled worse, but not recently.

  Petey stared for a long moment, staring directly at Jake’s eyes. Then he meowed, a calm, assured, songlike meow, as if telling Jake that he was absolutely correct and Petey was congratulating him for being so perceptive. Perceptive for a human, that is.

  “Okay. You’re the sign, Petey. Just so I have you to talk to, okay?”

  Petey chirped a reply.