CHAPTER 19
E
ight o'clock on the money. This concept of getting to work on time was actually a good thing, from what Camille could tell so far. She could get settled in without rushing. No more sneaking through the cubicles, dodging her supervisor. No more paranoia about coworkers reporting her repeated tardiness so they could earn an employee-of-the-month parking spot. They wouldn't have anything to snitch about because she wasn't doing anything wrong.
In fact, she was doing everything rightâexcept sleeping at night. Several times, her eyes had simply popped open, as though something or someone was telling her to wake up. If this restlessness didn't end soon, she'd have to find some kind of over-the-counter meds.
She was tied for top scheduling producer this week, along with a guy named Patrick. He was an old-timer; he had been at Aquapoint Systems since the foundation of the company. It was rumored that the only reason he never got promoted was because he didn't want more responsibility. He'd retired from a school district, and now he worked just to get out of the house, not because he needed a paycheck.
Camille could only dream of such a lifestyle. At the rate she was going, she'd never be able to retire. Not comfortably, anyway. Nothing to look forward to except a fixed income and the occasional bingo prize.
But she couldn't think about that now. She had the choirs. She kind of had John David in her corner. And she had one shot at the praise team this coming Sunday. All distractions aside. There was work to be done.
She got herself situated at the desk, and as soon as she entered the virtual system, she clapped on her headset. Every lead counted.
“Cameee-alll!”
She her heard her name sung before the dialer could put her in contact with the first programmed business owner. The voice was unmistakably Sheryl's. “Yes?”
“I've got something for you.”
Seconds later, Sheryl stood directly in front of Camille, bearing a gift-wrapped box with matching lid. She began her speech, “I've noticed how down you've seemed for the past couple of days. I know how devastating it is to lose a pet. So I got you the only thing that can help you get over the loss of a furry friend.”
She shoved the fairly large box toward Camille, who swung her chair around to receive this last little remnant of the Fluffy saga. Whatever the animal-shaped trinket, she'd gladly accept it and kindly discard it at some point in the near future.
Camille set the box on her desk and lifted the lid off the package.
What the heck!
A mass of gray fur all curled up into a tiny ball.
A stuffed kitten.
Then she saw the motion. Swelling and falling, swelling and falling of this mass
.
Its wide eyes blinked.
Oh, snap! It's alive!
Camille jumped out of her seat, backed up against the unstable wall. One of the things she forgot in all this fiasco was the fact that she didn't like cats. Actually, couldn't stand them. “Sheryl. I don't know what to say.”
Her boss flushed with pride and empathy. “I knew you'd love him. I rescued him from an animal shelter. Sure was hard not to adopt his siblings, but I didn't know if you had room for them. I forgot his paperwork at home. I'll bring it tomorrow. Anyway, look at it like this: Through Fluffy's death, he saved a life.”
I don't want no stupid life-saving cat!
Camille leaned toward the container, using only one outstretched arm to shut the top. “Wow. Wow. Um ... this is such a kind gesture. I ... can't keep him, though.”
Sheryl coaxed, “Yes you can. He'll fill your empty heart before you know it.”
“No, really, I can't. My ... apartment complex has a no-pets rule.”
“Oh. So you snuck Fluffy in?”
“No. It's a no
new
pet rule. Management changed in the middle of my lease. They let me keep Fluffy, but I can't get another pet.”
Unfazed, Sheryl wagged an index finger and lectured, “They tried to do that to my friend, too, under these same circumstances. It's against the law. If you paid a pet deposit, you're grandfathered. They have to let you keep a pet until you leave.”
“Oh.” Camille slumped, tried to think of another lie.
Lies are what got me into this mess in the first place.
Maybe she could come up with something close to the truth. “I don't think I'm ready yet.” As in
never
would she be ready to house a cat.
“Trust me. From one animal lover to another. You can't ever
replace
a pet, but taking in a fresh source of love is the best way to move forward. I'll leave you two alone. You might want to take an early lunch so you can take the little guy home and get him settled in.”
No need to get this feline settled in. That early lunch might need to come right now. No way was Camille going to sit at her desk through midmorning with a cat in her midst. “Do you mind if I run home now?”
Sheryl shrugged. “Sure. If you take a thirty minute lunch today, that should make up for the lost time.”
“You're too kind, Sheryl. Thank you.” Camille grabbed Fluffy II's box and rushed to the parking lot. Halfway there, the kitten poked its little head out and meowed at Camille. She nearly dropped the container right there on the concrete.
“Get back in there.”
Now that she'd forced its head back into the box, she could see the little air holes Sheryl had poked in the lid.
Meow. Meow
.
Meow.
Sounded like a newborn-baby whining. Ridiculous.
She set the box on the passenger's seat and weighted the lid with her purse.
Meow. Meow.
Camille wondered if it had to pee or something. She couldn't let that thing roam around in her car. Scratch up her leather seats. Bite off her volume knob.
Nuh-uh
. This cat had to go.
She sat in the car thinking about how to get rid of it. Sheryl had mentioned getting him from a shelter. She didn't say which one, though. Camille wondered whether or not they'd call Sheryl if she returned the kitten. Maybe there was some kind of rule against un-rescuing pets, or they might offer a refund Sheryl didn't even know she was entitled to.
Will this lie ever die?
Perhaps she could go to a playground and release it near a bunch of children. Surely, they'd find him and somebody's momma would take him in. Or not. Then he'd be back at the shelter, they'd be calling Sheryl; bad news all over again.
Meow. Meow.
She could just let him go. He could be an alley cat. They lead good lives. He'd have to hustle every day, probably, but there's nothing wrong with living on the run. He'd make kitten friends. They'd show him the ropes. Better yet, he might end up finding one of those elderly animal hoarders who'd gladly accept him into their happy brood.
Camille revved up the car and drove a few blocks to the nearest rundown-looking neighborhood, where she was sure the animal would be welcome. She stopped near a house with two cats curled up on the porch.
Perfect.
Those grown-up cats could take over from here.
She parked and opened the passenger's door. Threw her purse on the floor and removed the cover again. Sheryl's unwelcomed gift stretched himself tall, raised up, and set his tiny front paws on the rim of the box. He surveyed his surroundings. Then, his little gray eyes made contact with Camille's.
Meow. Meow.
Though Camille had never actually spoken to an animal before, this kitten had made it pretty clear to her that he was afraid, and he was depending on Camille for help.
“I can't keep you,” she told him. “I don't like cats. At all. You need to find another home.”
Meow.
She stepped back so he could have a view of the other cats and the entire world, for that matter. “Go be with your kind,” she pleaded.
Am I actually talking to a kitten?
He relinquished his stance and sat. Looked at Camille again as if to ask, “Are you my momma?”
Okay. Forget Plan A. He was too small and too afraid to fend for himself on the mean streets. A nice-sized rat could take him down.
Great. I've got a scaredy-cat for real
. She closed the box, plopped her purse back in place.
Plan B. The barber shop. Camille figured if barbershop salesmen could find buyers for everything from car tires to furniture, surely they could unearth someone in the market for a kitten.
She crossed a major thoroughfare, two sets of tracks, and rolled out on the other side of the freeway to enter her old neighborhood. There were three places where she could probably find Tyree, the same guy who'd sold her the bootleg computer. The first two shop owners said he hadn't been by yet, but they'd let him know she was looking for him.
Cool Cutz, the shop across the street from her old church, proved the lucky stop. She could see Tyree sitting in a chair next to two patrons who must have been waiting their turn to receive services.
Camille parked, got out of her car, and cautiously entered the small establishment, its cowbell announcing her arrival. The three old men cutting hair, their patrons, and the bench crew looked her up and down, as usual.
Men
.
“Tyree, can I see you for a second? I've got something in the car I need you to look at.”
“All right, pretty lady,” he agreed, rising from his seat. How he managed to keep his business going despite a bad leg and several teeth missing in action was beyond Camille. Tyree shuffled his old self outside. Camille led him to her car, where she promptly opened the door and revealed the prize with a flip of the lid.
“Voila!”
“No, ma'am.” He poked out his bottom lip. “I don't do cats. Only dogs. Pit bulls and Rottweilers, but I don't keep 'em. I'm just the middle man.”
Camille groaned. “You can't think of
anyone
who might want a cat?”
He looked at her above the rim of his glasses. “Don't too many black folks mess with cats, in my opinion. They bad luck. You gon' have a hard time givin' it away, let alone sellin' it.”
Once again, Camille enclosed the kitten.
Meow
.
“Sorry about that. But let me know if you want a tablet. I got the hookup on iPads and Dells.” Tyree wasted no time in pitching his featured items of the week.
Well, if he couldn't help with the cat, maybe he could be of some use in another category. She asked on a whim, “You know anybody who can clear a ticket with the city?”
“Naw, I don't break no laws.”
Copying bootleg movies and CDs, fencing stolen property, but he was too good to break the law. “All right. Thanks anyway.”
With the hour almost gone, Camille had no choice except to take the cat back to her apartment for the moment. She had no clue about the apartment policy on pets. A few tenants had animals for sure. Whether or not they were
supposed
to have those animals was anyone's guess.
As she entered her unit, the kitten's meows turned into yowling. She set the carton on the couch and opened it to determine this thing's problem. He rose up again, standing on his back legs. Looking at her like she could understand him.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
Maybe he was hungry.
What do kittens eat?
She had some lunch meat in the refrigerator. Some salad mix that was about to spoil. Unfortunately, she couldn't remember ever having seen cats eat people food on television. Small kittens might not be able to absorb solid food. The last thing she needed was a sick, throwing-up scaredy-cat on her hands.
She thought about every cat she'd ever semiknown and what they might have eaten. Felix didn't eat anything. Garfield ate everything. The cat from the Cat Chow commercials, of course, at their product, but she was not about to spend good, hard-earned money on cat food.
Meow! Meow!
It cried louder.
Suddenly, a picture of a cat drinking milk from a saucer flashed in Camille's mind. She marveled at her memory, as this mental image was probably something she'd seen in one of her first grade readers.
In haste, she forgot to close the lid as she scampered toward the kitchen and prepared the serving of milk. When she returned to the box, the cat was nowhere in sight.
What!
She looked left. Right. No gray fur ball.
“Here, kitty, kitty. Here.”
Meow!
The sound had come from floor level. Camille set the milk on the coffee table and peeked below her couch. Sure enough, there it was, scrunched in the tiny space underneath.
“Come out, kitty,” she coaxed. “I got you some milk.”
But no amount of kitty-calling seemed to do the trick. If this were a puppy, she could just reach under and pull him out. Cats, however, had scratchy claws. People with cats always sported those tiny marks on their arms, laughing about the scars like they were funny.
About as funny as letting a two-year-old slap you,
Camille always thought to herself.