Just a Little Old Cat Lady
Creative Writing - Prose - Just a Little
by Jolene Dawe
The old woman watched the men approach her with an expression of serenity upon her face. This did not suit the men--boys, really--well at all. Rather, it incited them. The leader, a child not yet out of his teen years, snarled at her as they reached her. "It's dangerous, Granny, to walk alone at night down dark alleys. Unless you enjoy this sort of thing."
The old woman remained stoic all through the mugging, crying out only when the knife bit her skin. When the villains had gone, the cats came out of the shadows, one by one. Too late came their leader, a young girl the old woman hadn't seen in decades. Around her the cats swarmed, purring comfort and love as the old woman's life drained out of her. Furry bodies jostled to get nearer the dying woman, feral cats and tame all forgetting instincts that would have them hissing and fighting, claiming territory or mates. This night was special. This woman was special, and she deserved the comfort.
The girl curled up against her flesh, purring as the cats purred, her green eyes luminescent in the growing night. The old woman reached her hand up to stroke the kind face that had once saved her life, that had once, long ago, changed her life.
They stayed long after the old woman breathed her last breath. When morning came only a handful of cats remained, and when the first human discovered the body those cats fled. Without their mistress they would have to turn to the streets. It was a return to familiar territory, and one they would adapt to, but they would forever carry in their hearts the memory of the one who had loved them.
Chelsea gazed steadily at the tomcat that was sitting across her yard. The feral cat gazed back just as steadily. Chelsea could have sworn that she saw a grin in those amber eyes.
She closed her front door firmly and said, "No," to the cat.
The cat gave no indication that he heard her.
She sighed and got into her car, knowing full well that in nine hours when she returned home she would find the same cat sitting in the same spot giving her the same look.
Thus it had been since she had bought the house, two weeks ago. She was going to lose this war--that much she already knew. She suspected that the cat also knew this. She was not, however, going to lose without a fight.
Because that's just what I want, she thought as she eased her car out of her driveway, to be a little old cat lady at thirty-six. No family other than the felines I surround myself with. She shuddered and thought of her Aunt Nellie across the country, who had become just that. Her mother's sister never married, never had any children, and lived alone on the family farm with nothing but the strays she'd taken in over the years. When she was younger, Chelsea used to spend her summers with her aunt. She vowed, at some point in her young teens, that she wouldn't wind up like Nellie. She would marry. She would have a family. No whisker-bearing creature would ever set foot across her threshold.
By the time Chelsea was twenty-eight she had made good on that promise. Chelsea and Charles McGraff. They were an ideal couple, and for seven years she had had everything she wanted. A beautiful home, a loving husband, and a great career.
Chelsea grimaced. Except he hadn’t been the loving husband she thought he was. Or, rather, he was a little too loving. He had so much love he couldn't give her all of it, but had to spread it around. The last year had been a living hell, with the divorce, and the fights, and the moving . . . .
That was behind her now. That life was over, gone. She could rebuild. She could make herself a nice family of one. In time it might grow again, but for now, one was enough.
And it was not, she swore, going to grow with cats.
The cat was waiting on her backdoor stoop when she returned from work that evening. Up close, she could see faint lines of darker brown in his fur. Up close, she could see the marble design in his eyes, as brown and red and gold mixed to form a breath-taking amber color. Up close, she could hear his pleading purr.
Chelsea regarded the cat for a long moment. Her feet were throbbing from standing all day long. Her heart ached from having to wait on so many happy families. She thought of her empty bed, of her empty house, and a bit of her resolve melted away. She teetered on the edge, and a rumble of thunder in the distance was all she needed to fall over.
Chelsea sighed, the force of it slumping her shoulders. "Just for tonight," she told the cat.
He bounded inside the house the moment she opened the door, heading straight for the kitchen as though he were familiar with the house. He stopped next to the stove and scratched plaintively at the floor.
"Have you been in here before?" Chelsea rummaged through her cabinets for a can of tuna fish. The cat sat where he was, watching her, and didn't touch the food until she backed away. "Stay in here," she told him. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
Crazy, she thought, talking to a cat. This is how it starts. Just one cat, and then another, and then another, and suddenly, you have your own little pride.
Half an hour later, when she came out of the shower, she found the tuna bowl empty and the kitchen deserted. Exhaustion pulled at her. Now was not the time to search for a hiding kitty. Let him stay where he was; she was going to bed.
At some point during the night she felt him jump onto the mattress. A small, warm body pressed itself against her legs. Chelsea murmured something soothing to the animal and rolled over to give him more room. It was comforting, not to be alone. Feeling more at peace than she had in months, Chelsea sank deeper into sleep.
He was on the windowsill in the morning, gazing outside with an unmistakable expression. Feeling hurt, and surprised at feeling hurt, Chelsea followed him to the back door and let him out. He bounded away across the yard and into the yard backing hers. She watched him until he disappeared and then turned her attention to housework. Boxes still stood stacked in her living room where the movers had left them, two months ago. She had three days off. She'd get this house settled once and for all.
By sunset she was finished. The small house didn't look any more like her own, for all that her stuff was unpacked. Most of the furniture was new, as were the dishes. She had no curtains to hang, no knickknacks to put up, no pictures to place on the walls. Feeling accomplished yet sad, Chelsea poured herself a glass of wine, tossed herself a salad, and went to her back stoop to enjoy the evening.
The cat was back, trotting across the yard toward her.
Chelsea frowned, more annoyed with the creature than she ought to be. "Typical male," she said bitterly. "Coming and going as you please. I suppose you think you'll have a warm place to stay tonight, just because I let you in last night?"
But the tomcat threw himself at her legs, rubbing vigorously and purring loudly. He gave her a very wide-eyed look and sniffed at her wine.
Her anger dissipated. It wasn’t the cat's fault, for crying out loud, and it looked like it would storm again. "Fine," she said, "but don't get used to this. I mean it."
He curled up with her on the sofa while she read into the wee hours of the morning, and he trotted after her while she prepared for bed. He hopped onto the bed before she reached it, and snuggled against her back, once more offering comfort with his presence.
So, she thought, this is why they do it. For only the second time in far too many months, she slept well and woke up refreshed. This time, he was still in bed with her when she awoke. She made it through breakfast before he asked to be let out. She watched him go with sadness in her heart, then washed her dishes, got dressed, and headed into town.
In town, she spent her day picking out curtains, throw rugs, and new towels. It was an all-around domestic sort of day, and Chelsea forced herself to enjoy buying things without having to consider the tastes of another. By the time she was ready to go home, she was actually humming. On a whim, she stopped at the grocery store, bought a Cornish hen, some fresh vegetables, and more wine. As she walked past the pet aisle she paused.
I shouldn't, she told herself. If he gets his own food, he's going to keep coming back. Do I really want that?
Chelsea regarded the bag of cat food for five minutes before sighing and adding it to her basket. The tomcat was waiting by her back door when she pulled up. Chelsea bit her lip to hide a grin and rounded up her shopping bags. Halfway to the door, she realized something wasn't quite right. There was no welcoming purr. The cat watched her without moving. Even his tail was still.
When she topped the stoop she saw the problem. Hidden behind his large body was a second, smaller cat. Chelsea saw white and ginger and red, and it took her a moment to register the blood on the animal. She dropped her groceries on the ground and knelt, her heart leaping into her chest. "Oh, no!"
The tomcat didn't protest when she picked up the injured cat, nor did the cat in question. Without another moment's hesitation Chelsea gathered the animal to her, returned to her car, and headed for the town's animal clinic.
"It happens a lot," the receptionist tried to soothe Chelsea while the doctor tended the cat. "People let their cats out and they run into coyotes in the woods."
Chelsea wrung her bloodied hands and paced back across the waiting room.
"Or dogs," the receptionist went on. "But she was alert when you got here. That's a good sign. The attack was recent, and the wounds weren't that bad looking."
Chelsea glared at the woman.
"Well, of course they were bad, but I mean, compared to how bad they could have been," the woman hastened to explain. "She's got a good chance, is all I mean."
When the doctor finally returned Chelsea thought she had the whole magazine rack's titles memorized. "We have her sedated," he explained, "and we can repair the damage. Stitches, a cast, a few nights here, and she'll be able to be released to recover. But," he paused, giving Chelsea a knowing look, "she has no tags on her, and you said she's not yours."
"I'll pay," Chelsea broke in. "Absolutely, just do what you need to do."
"It's not just a matter of that. She's going to need somewhere to go after, as well."
"She'll have it," Chelsea assured him.
The vet smiled warmly. "Great. Joyce'll get your information, then, and you'll be free to go. We'll call when she's ready to come home."
"Great." Chelsea turned her attention back to the receptionist, who was grinning in a way that made Chelsea think of the tomcat. Smug bastards, she thought.
"Well, we've got your name. Address?"
"605 Clarrell Road--"
Joyce paused mid-keystroke. "Six-oh-five?" she asked.
Chelsea nodded. "Yes."
"Ah." Joyce resumed her typing. She took the rest of Chelsea's information without another comment, printed out a copy of the bill, and sent Chelsea home with a complimentary litter box and bag of cat litter. "Be seeing you soon," she called after her.
The tomcat was where she left him when she returned. Amber eyes tilted up to her, and he said, "Mrrew?"
"She'll be back in a few days," Chelsea told him, reaching to pet his head. She sat down next to him and the cat inched closer, pressing his body against hers. His eyes closed in bliss as she scratched his ears. "You're quite the hero, aren't you?"
She could have sworn she saw a grin touch the cat's face.
A week later, Chelsea returned to the vet's to pick up the injured cat. Ginger, as she came to call her, recovered quickly once she was home. Hero (Chelsea had taken to calling him that, and he seemed to like the name) stayed by her side whenever Chelsea had to leave, refusing to go outside unless Chelsea was home to watch after Ginger. After two weeks, Ginger had her stitches removed and her cast downgraded to bandages. With her new-found mobility she explored the house from top to bottom and took to following Hero around everywhere. When he wanted to roam outside, Ginger would sit on the stoop and wait for him. Chelsea didn't see her once venture as far as the grass at the bottom of the steps.
Months passed, and the small house became more and more like home. Memories grew in the rooms, of her, of the cats. The house became less of a stranger. Summer bowed to fall, and Chelsea spent a lot of time outside, raking leaves and watching Hero attack the piles. One evening, while sitting out, Ginger jumped up so suddenly that Chelsea yelped. Both Ginger and Hero froze, their eyes locked on something out of Chelsea's range of sight. Chelsea narrowed her eyes and searched the spot they were staring at, but she couldn't see anything. A growl rumbled from Hero and Ginger threw her ears back. All her muscles grew taut and Chelsea saw too late the second when Ginger was going to pounce.
Something collided with Ginger, knocking the cat sideways. She landed on all fours, and the fur along her body bristled before falling back. Hero grew silent, but his eyes remained fixed in the distance. Chelsea blinked several times while her mind struggled to comprehend the small woman kneeling beside Ginger, stroking her with a familiarity that made Chelsea momentarily jealous.
"It doesn't take long for them, these days," the small woman said. She stood up and regarded Chelsea. "I was hoping you would have more time to grow into the place."
She was, Chelsea realized, wrong. Off, somehow. It was hard for Chelsea to look at her. The way she stood, the way she moved. Chelsea's eyes slid off her like silk on silk, unable to find purchase on a sleek surface. She was too short for one thing, looking more like a child than a woman, and the grace with which she moved couldn't be human. Which was ridiculous, really. The whiskers and tail didn't help matters. She looked, Chelsea thought, like a cat and a woman superimposed upon one another. It made Chelsea's eyes water.
"We should go inside," the woman said. "It'll be safer."
Ginger came readily enough, but Hero skulked his way in, glancing over his shoulder while he walked. Chelsea felt numb, not really here, as she followed the woman into her own house. The woman picked the easy chair and curled up as her body would allow. Chelsea got the impression that it was hard for her to wear a human body.
Chelsea blinked rapidly and perched on the edge of her sofa, waiting.
"I was expecting more to return than these two. I wonder what has become of the others."
Hero stretched up to the woman. She lowered her head to him, and they touched foreheads. After a moment the woman said, "Oh." She sat back heavily, her eyes glistening.
Hero jumped onto the couch and pressed against Chelsea. Ginger flanked her other side. Surrounded by warm bodies, she felt some of her shock ease away.
"There are a few more, but they're in hiding. Your reluctance to these creatures has been noted and they feel unwelcome at their home."
"Wait," Chelsea said. Shock or no shock, none of this was making sense. "What are you talking about?"
Impatience twitched across the woman's face and then it was gone. "I keep forgetting that you're not of the family. It's been ages since this house passed into new hands. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Chelsea said. "I'm just confused. You're not making sense. None of this is making sense. Where did you come from?"
"The town," the woman said. "This house belonged to an old woman before you bought it. Do you know anything about that?"
Chelsea frowned. "She died months before I bought the place."
"Months before, yes, but she didn't die. She was murdered."
"Murdered? No one said anything about that. No, the realtor said she had wandered off one night and died. Heart attack. She was sick for a while beforehand, and the sleepwalking had started earlier in the year."
"She was sick," the woman agreed. "She was dying, truthfully. Amelia was approaching ninety-seven. But she had no heart attack, and she hadn't been sleepwalking. They killed her, and then they went after the cats."
"After the cats? What cats? Who?"
"It's because you're reluctant," she said again. "It's not your fault, but they're used to successors inheriting the house. They've decided, I guess, to use your ignorance to their advantage. Can't you feel them?"
"Who?" Chelsea asked again.
The woman seemed disinclined to answer. "They've coveted this land for centuries. Humans, nothing more, but they knew the power contained within these boundaries. It's a place of power, and more than that. It's one of the few gateways left. Amelia's family took responsibility of gate-keeping centuries ago, when the land was wrest from their grasp, and her family has kept it since then. Until she died, childless. There's no one left in her family, so the house went on the market. I'm surprised that they didn't buy it then." The woman narrowed her eyes at Chelsea in a thoughtful manner. Again, Chelsea was reminded of a cat. "Did no one try to out-bid you?"
Chelsea's skin prickled. In fact, someone had. "A man in his thirties. I'm not even sure why he didn't get the house. The realtor seemed more in favor of me getting it." Which she had thought odd, at the time.
"So they did try, then." She nodded. "But you won, and they lost. They want the house. They want the land. They want the power, and they know that you do not. You want . . . what?" The woman twitched her tail which, until now, Chelsea had been able to forget about. "A family. A normal family, neat and quaint. Husband. Children. Success. Stability."
Chelsea shot to her feet, fear making her rash. "It's none of your business. You still haven't told me who you are."
The woman copied her, flowing out of the chair to stand. She seemed taller now, only a few inches shorter than Chelsea. "Stability we can give you. And family. Success, too, if a different type than what you are expecting. It comes to a choice. So far your ignorance has protected you, but that's done with. They are growing bold. You face a decision. Keep the house and accept what comes with it, or move. If you remain, you tie your fate to ours."
The fear fueled Chelsea's anger. "Tell me who you are, or get out of my house," she said, ignoring the woman's comments.
"That answer comes after yours."
"Get out."
Whiskers drooped and the tip of her tail twitched once. For a moment Chelsea thought she might do something, but then Hero was between them. Amber eyes were fixed on the woman and his whole stance spoke of protectiveness. Chelsea's heart warmed to see that he was on her side.
The woman left without another word. Chelsea stood shaking for some time. When the quaking subsided enough so that she could walk she helped herself to some wine and headed to bed.
Snow came before anything more happened. Winter was a gentle affair this far south, and Chelsea sank into the solitude of the season with gratitude. For some time she forgot about the strange woman's visit. Hero made his daily rounds, even with inches of snow on the ground. Chelsea tried to stop him, but he would cry and scratch at the doors and walls and windows until she couldn't take it anymore. A few days after the new year he came trotting back across the yard with two new cats in tow. They streaked into the housed before Chelsea could stop them and when she finally found them they were curled up with Ginger as if they were old friends.
Two days later and Hero returned with another cat. Chelsea began to worry that she'd given him ideas with his name.
TO BE CONTINUED ...