The Cat That God Sent Page 7
“Tea would be great,” Tassy said. “Do you have any honey?”
She dropped her back pack, switching Petey between her left and right arms and took a seat at the kitchen table as Jake boiled water. He poured it into a mug, offered her a teabag, and put the honey on the table. He made himself coffee while Petey chirped, happy, content.
“There might be a hotel in Coudersport—on the east side. There are stores that way.”
“Are they on this highway?” Tassy asked, pointing to the highway in front of the church. “The Grand Army of the Potomac Road.”
“Yes,” Jake replied.
“And is Coudersport that way?” Tassy asked, pointing in the direction she had just walked.
“Yes. If you followed the highway, then you saw the town.”
Tassy sighed and put the used teabag in her spoon, with a tired, world-weary look on her face.
“Well, then Coudersport doesn’t have any cheap hotels that I could see, because I walked that whole way and didn’t realize that I passed through a town. And I would bet that they don’t have any . . . like, homeless shelters, either.”
Jake wanted to nod, but didn’t. He was pretty certain that Coudersport did not see many homeless young women just walking through. But he was not positive.
“Tassy, how did you get here? This church is sort of in the middle of nowhere.”
“I was with someone,” she explained. “We left Philadelphia a while ago and were sort of making our way to California. We had a fight. He said, ‘Out of the car.’ And he called me a name I don’t think preachers want to hear repeated. Several names, each worse than the other. Then he threw my backpack out on the road and drove off. I guess that was where he and I called it quits. So I started walking, ate at McDonald’s, and now I’m here . . . and I don’t really know what to do next.”
Her bottom lip quivered, just a little, and Jake could tell that she was doing her utmost to make it stop.
Petey meowed softly to Tassy, then turned to Jake and stared at him—hard. He then offered a long, low, rumbly meow, almost insistent, that grew louder each second.
Jake hoped some sort of cogent answer would come to him. For a year now, maybe longer, Jake and the Almighty had not shared a common wavelength. Oh, Jake would readily admit that he was a believer and knew all about God and the Bible and all that, but never really felt at home, never really felt listened to. The gulf continued to grow wider—even as Jake pretended to be a pastor. It was hard work, pretending to be faithful without faith.
No. I wasn’t pretending. I was a pastor. And I am a pastor now. That’s the job I was born to do. Right? There is an ebb and flow to faith. Weak then strong. It will return. Like day follows dark.
He pursed his lips, as if in thought.
It will come back.
Remembering the start of becoming a pastor brought him back to when he was twelve-years-old and his father left without ever saying good-bye to anyone, and his mother took to running the house and his life. It was better to let her have her way than to try and construct an alternative. She wanted her only son to be a man of God and that is what she got. Inevitability. Set in stone. Immutable. As if commanded from on high. From his mother.
I have no idea what to do right now. I could call the elders. Maybe this sort of thing comes up all the time. I could call . . . who? Social Services? I bet the closest office is in Bradford. Or maybe Kane.
She needs help. I don’t think she’s making up her predicament. How do I help?
I know I don’t have the experience that I should.
He looked up, subtly, to the heavens.
Maybe you could drop me a hint about what I should do next?
A person without faith, Jake thought to himself, had no business praying, feeling more than a bit hypocritical going through the motions. It wasn’t that he was hedging his bets. It was that he felt as if he were simply pretending.
Please, Lord.
Jake had not shut his eyes while he almost prayed, and worried, a little, that not shutting eyes might invalidate the prayer or further weaken its effectiveness. His former pastor was very good at praying and often would go ten minutes without once looking at notes—just off the top of his head. Jake knew he could never do that.
His prayers all too often included a lot of “justs” and repeating what was obvious to God and everyone else in attendance.
The cat looked up at Jake and meowed. And again, it wasn’t a normal cat’s meow. It had more to it, like the cat was trying to tell him not to be nervous. And by meowing like he did, Petey was trying to tell Jake that Tassy was a nice person, a person to be trusted, and that something would work out.
That is what Jake thought the cat was saying.
That is what Jake hoped the cat was saying.
I’m depending on a cat for my spiritual guidance now. What next?
Well, this is a surprise. I was not expecting this person to be here. I heard nothing about a young girl with curly hair. I listened carefully. I am sure about that. No one said anything about a girl with curly hair. She has a very soft lap. Like a cat is soft. I bet she has a lot of bones. Not like a dog. Maybe she isn’t supposed to be here. Maybe this is a test. For me. I’m good at tests. First, Jake helped me with my paw. Now he should help her. I could get her a mouse. There are a lot of mice in the field outside. She looks like the kind of person who would really like a mouse. Like Jake.
Jake knew he had to say or do something, but he wasn’t sure of what that might be. The phone rang, saving him from thinking on his feet, an unpolished skill. A phone was mounted on the wall in the kitchen.
“Jake Wilkerson . . . Pastor Wilkerson here,” he said, trying to sound like a pastor.
“Oh, hey there, Pastor Jake. This here’s Jimbo calling. Jimbo Bennett.”
“Hi, Jimbo. How are you? Something I can help you with?”
Jake could almost hear Jimbo thinking of how to phrase what he was about to say next.
“I’m fine. But, Pastor Jake, well . . . the Missus said I had to call. Sort of warn you.”
Jake felt a coldness in his face.
Already? They’ve found out why I was fired. I knew it.
“I got a call from Vern. Vern Waldorf. He was—or is, I guess—like a founding member of the church. Been around forever.”
And he wants to take back his vote?
He called Pastor Gust in Butler—I knew it.
“Well, last year it seems like Vern went and bought this giant RV in Bradford. It is one big unit, let me tell you. Long as a city block, or just about. We all tried to talk him out of it, but he said he wanted to see the country. But the blamed thing is, well, huge, and sort of tricky to drive, and Vern is not the best driver in the best of times, and since he had his hip replaced this winter his driving has gotten way worse. His neighbors are trying to get the city council to ban RVs in town ‘cause it’s on his lawn and makes it look like he’s got two houses on the lot.”
Jake waited.
What does this have to do with me? Or the church? He didn’t call Pastor Gust?
“So Vern doesn’t want to sell it or anything and he doesn’t want to pay a fine or go to a city council meeting seeing as how he and the mayor don’t get along at all anymore—ever since the Fourth of July fireworks fight back in ’94. Holds a grudge, Vern does.”
Okay. But why are you telling me this?
“Anyhow, Vern’s wife called Betty to tell her to tell me, sort of warn me, and she said Vern was climbing in the RV carrying the keys and claimed he was heading to church. She says I should warn you. He wants to park it at the back of the church lot. Now, I don’t think there’s any harm in that. Maybe the elders have to vote on it or something. I don’t know about that—the rules and the constitution and all. But I wanted to let you know he was coming . . . and I guess I’m telling you that he can park it there. At least for now. The RV, I mean.”
“Well, okay, Jimbo. That’s fine . . .”
“And his wife is foll
owing him in the Buick. She can’t see all that well, so if she pulls in, make sure you’re well out of her way, okay?”
“Will do. Vern’s on his way. I’ll be ready.”
That’s when the cat issued a low, rumbly growl, almost doglike, and stared out the small window above the kitchen sink, watching as a shadow moved across the opening, like a planet stepping in front of the sun.
The RV was as large as Jimbo said. Massive. Like a semitruck. Maybe bigger. Jake could only see the crest of a head behind the wheel, covered with wisps of white hair, like a tiny, well-worn doll wedged into a toy truck. The unit rumbled to a stop at an angle to the church and creaked and groaned as the engine shut down. The driver’s side door opened with a pneumatic swoosh, and the old man who must have been Vern shuffled out, taking each step individually, holding on to the railing with both hands.
He blinked in the bright sun. When he laid eyes on Jake, he called out, “You there—you the new guy?”
Jake said, “Yes. I’m the new pastor. Jake Wilkerson.”
Vern scowled. “I know your name. Couldn’t tell if you were the same fellow. You’re not wearing a suit. In my day, pastors always wore suits. And ties. You don’t have a tie on.”
“I . . . I . . . I’m still unpacking, sort of. I arrived yesterday. Still have a lot of work to do.” He didn’t, really, but he hoped it was a good excuse for a pastor wearing jeans in the middle of the week in Coudersport.
Vern craned his head around and spotted the white pickup.
“And in my day, pastors drove Buicks. Or maybe a Chevy. They didn’t drive trucks. You look like a carpenter driving a truck.”
Jake had dealt with prickly people before. After all, he had worked at a church. He wasn’t all that good at it, but he had learned that it was best to say very little and nod a lot. Jake nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, hoping he sounded differential and not peeved.
“I told Jimbo’s wife that I was parking this here. She said he said to go ahead. So here it is.”
At that moment, the parsonage door opened and Petey stepped out into the shadow of the RV, graceful on three legs.
Vern heard the door and stared.
“That a cat? You got a cat? In my day, pastors didn’t have money for pets. And it’s not a dog.”
“No, sir. And I don’t really have a pet. It sort of showed up here yesterday morning.”
Vern pulled his face into a grimace that was even more prunelike than what existed naturally. “Two days on the job and he’s taking in strays. That’s what’s wrong with the church these days.”
The door creaked open again and Tassy stepped out, her arms folded across her chest. She smiled at the two of them. “The cat was crying by the door. I let him out. Is that okay?”
Vern triangulated the three of them, then scowled, as only a small, white-haired old man can scowl. The scowl was nearly as big as he was.
“You’re not married,” Vern declared.
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Then who’s that? The cleaning lady? Cats. Trucks. Blue jeans. Women. I tell you, Sonny, I don’t like the looks of this one bit.”
Jake remained calm, like a proper pastor should remain.
“Mr. Waldorf, that girl is Tassy—she’s homeless and needs a place to stay.”
“So you’re taking her in?” Vern sputtered. “Sonny, you got a lot to learn about what it is that a proper, moral, law-abiding, God-fearing pastor does. Taking in women off the street is not one of them. What does that look like? Like sin, if you ask me. This church will become the laughing stock of all of Potter County. This is not the big city. Maybe big city pastors do that, but God-fearing people out here—they don’t. I don’t think we even have any homeless people in Potter County. They know better than to come through here.”
Vern wiped at his face with a leathery hand and muttered to himself, knowing that Jake could hear him, “I knew I should have been there to vote no on this guy.”
And as Vern muttered, a large, old, gray Buick, with a series of dents in both front fenders, veered off the main road and aimed itself at the parking lot. Jake could not even see the driver of this vehicle. The steering wheel eclipsed the driver. The car missed the drainage ditch by a matter of inches, bouncing through some half-hidden ruts and furrows at the edge of the gravel. Momentarily, it hissed to a stop. A very tiny, white-haired woman emerged from the car, clutching a purse that was nearly as big as she was.
“Vern!” she all but shouted. “I said I wanted to follow you, you old goat. But no, you don’t listen, do you? You take off and leave me at the red light, you driving like a bat out of . . . you know where the bat is out of, Vern. I told you to drive slow!”
Vern waved his right arm in the air, palm facing her, as if it were batting away the charges of reckless driving like batting away a swarm of gnats.
“Listen, Eleanor, if I was going to make sure you were following me, we’d still be on the road. Keep up! I was shouting out the window. Keep up! But you poked along like we got all day or something. Speed limit is fifty out here. Five-oh. Not oh-five.”
By this time, the tiny, angry woman was within arm’s distance. An angry glower lighted her wrinkled face, her eyes flashing. Then, like switching off a light, her demeanor changed and softened to a grandmotherly glow. Deep lines formed around her eyes, as if she had spent a fair amount of her life smiling.
“Pastor Wilkerson,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m Eleanor Waldorf. We met when you preached. It’s a pleasure to see you again. And you have to excuse my husband, the old goat. He thinks the whole world revolves around him and him alone. I keep telling him, ‘Vern,’ I say, ‘the world is changing and you’re still stuck in 1930.’ And back in 1930, he was already old and cranky.”
“Glad to see you again, Mrs. Waldorf.”
Eleanor caught sight of Tassy and the cat, both standing at some distance, both bathed in the bright spring sunshine. Tassy’s hair illuminated her face like a thick, curly halo.
Eleanor’s eyes went back and forth like she was attempting to solve a particularly difficult word jumble.
“She your girlfriend?”
“No, ma’am. She’s homeless. Tassy. She just showed up at church asking if there was an inexpensive hotel in the area. She needs a place to stay. Her boyfriend tossed her out of the car and left her out here.”
Vern was about to sputter again, and then Eleanor narrowed her vision to laser slits and aimed them right at her husband. “Not a word, Vern. No more. I’m tired already. I’m tired of you ranting on and on about the Democrats and Episcopalians and the mayor and the Irish. I’m done with you for now. You hear me? No more. Not a word.”
Vern raised his arm as if he was about to point a jagged finger in the air, then he thought better of it, and slowly deflated. “I hear you, Eleanor. Loud and clear, okay? Like anyone in the county couldn’t hear you.”
The last sentence was said almost under his breath, but everyone heard it, including Eleanor, who glared in response.
She called to Tassy, “Young woman, please come here. I’m old and I don’t like to walk more than I have to.”
Tassy and the cat hurried closer. Tassy offered the assembly her best and most innocent smile. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia,” Tassy responded.
“Did you leave home?” Eleanor asked. “Did you run away?”
“I had to leave,” Tassy said, her voice just a whisper. “I couldn’t stay there anymore. I have a new stepfather, and . . . well . . . I had to go. It’s complicated.”
Eleanor must have been a grandmother, because she reached out and took Tassy’s hand. “It happens, dear. It’s okay. Really.”
Petey looked up at the old woman, then at Tassy, back and forth, following the questions and answers like a tennis match.
I like this old human. She smells like vanilla pudding.
“You don’t have a place to stay?”
Eleanor waved her hand in the air, a smaller, more feminine version of Vern’s whole body wave of dismissal. “Nonsense child. I’d invite you to our house, but all we have is two bedrooms and one of them has all of Vern’s junk piled in it, so we only have one bedroom. And no one should have to be around this old goat more than necessary.”
Petey stood up and walked to the old woman and rubbed against her leg. She looked surprised and looked down. “Is the cat crippled?”
“A thorn in his paw. He’ll be fine,” Jake said.
“Runaways and cripples,” Vern muttered. “We might as well move to Philadelphia. Fit right in. With all the other degenerates.”
Eleanor hissed, “Hush, Vern.”
She squeezed Tassy’s hand. “Listen, honey, there’s a giant RV right here that we’ll never use, as in never use in a million years. I can make a few calls. The women of this church love helping out. They can get some food for you. Extra sheets and towels and the like. Maybe some clothes, if you need them.”
She eyed the young woman.
Vern looked like he was doing long division in his head. “Wait a dog-blamed minute. You’re saying that she can stay in my RV? Just like that? I don’t know this . . . this . . . person. Maybe she’s running from the law. Maybe she’s a criminal—like on those TV shows. Do you think it’s smart for her to be right next to the church? We best talk to the elders. She might just drive off with my RV.”
Eleanor spun around and faced her husband.
“Vern, I would be happy if she did drive off with it—but she won’t. And there will be no calling the elders. She needs a place to stay and we have a place. It’s settled. You go around calling the elders and trying to stir up trouble, I’ll do my utmost to make the rest of your life truly miserable. You hear me? You know I can do that.”
Jake could tell she was dead serious. And he could tell that this couple was inordinately accustomed to resorting to nuclear warfare with each other.