South of Elfrida (16 page)

Evan said, “I have a cat.”

“Don't let it get at the birds. Except the roadrunner, an evil thing, the cat can have that damned thing. That evil roadrunner scrunched itself down small in that bush over there, and jumped out faster than lightning and swallowed a verdin, a sweet little yellow bird that was just coming down from the feeder. Just swooping down after a feed and, whack, was swallowed by that evil thing. Somebody down the way”—Evan looked along the row of apartments in the direction Alma indicated—“is a stupid fool, and feeds that damned thing hamburger.”

“My cat stays inside. I had to promise the humane shelter. They don't want cats to get hurt by coyotes. And they love birds too, of course.”

“Thank the Lord,” said Alma. She took a carrot out of her apron pocket and placed it under the tree. “This is for the rabbit.”

The Jack Russell in the fenced yard on the other side of Evan's apartment began to bark.

“That dog could use a muzzle,” Alma said. She shook a finger at him. The Jack Russell barked harder. She glanced at Evan. “I have cookies in the oven, why don't you come in?”

Evan was delighted.

While eating oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips she found out that Joe and Alma had been married for sixty-two years, that he was three days younger than Alma, and that twelve years ago they started feeding carrots to the rabbits. “In the beginning,” Joe said, “those dang things were so dumb they didn't know what was good for them.”

Joe was a big man with dry lips. He was wearing a blue shirt that matched his eyes and red suspenders. His long face was blotched from sun and wind, Evan guessed, or just old age. “Alma here had to teach those rabbits the colour orange. Then they caught on, them and the squirrels and that there chipmunk.” He walked to the sliding door and pointed out to Evan a big-eyed desert rabbit, hunched under the mesquite tree, eating the carrot. Next he pointed at a chipmunk waiting in the brush. “That little feller is a regular clown,” Joe said. “They do this most every night. Like a regular
TV
show. That chipmunk will come out—” and Evan saw that the chipmunk did come out, he darted from under the brush, raced toward the rabbit. The rabbit jumped straight up, just as Joe said it would, and the chipmunk snatched the carrot. The rabbit landed and hopped around in a slow circle, looking for his carrot, puzzled. The chipmunk, meanwhile, had run back to the brush, where it snickered.

Evan bought a pair of binoculars and a birder's book and started ticking off birds: the tiny verdin with the little red shoulder patch, the evil roadrunner, the Costa's hummingbird, the Gambel's quail, and the swarms of mourning doves—“their wings sound beautiful when they take off or land,” she wrote in small letters along the margin. A Gila woodpecker, red spot on his crown, figured out how to grasp the perch of the Mountain Dew bottle with his claws and do pull-ups to get his bill into the seeds. He clung upside down—toning his little abs—and flung seeds out recklessly. This exercise gave the impression of being hard for him; he didn't stay at it long. Evan wondered if he did it for the amusement of the mourning doves and the white-crowned sparrows below, happily squabbling and gobbling.

She phoned her brother to share the tales about mishaps in the wash that Joe had regaled her with. During monsoon season, rivers of water could come roaring along and overflow the washes. One year, a dumb Minnesota snowbird in an
SUV
figured he'd beat the water and was carried away, landing in mud two miles from where he'd started, upside down, with a broken collarbone. It happened frequently enough that, Evan remarked to her brother, a person just had to wonder about the intelligence of some people.

She explained the same thing to Darling. “You stay away if you see water whooshing in the wash.” Darling, pressed to the sliding door, eyed the birds, her jaws jittering.

The next day, Evan planned to run into Alma as she was tossing the birdseed to tell her she loved Joe's stories. Alma, tiny chin twitching, murmured shyly, “You know Joe is married to an older woman.”

“Oh, yes, I do know that,” said Evan.

Feeling sleep deprived, Evan had the idea of making a nice nest for Darling in the spare room; the room had Evan's desk and computer, the litter box, and not much else in it. She arranged a nice set-up—Darling's treats, water and food, a cozy cat bed, even a radio turned to a station that played soothing music—said goodnight, and eased the door closed. Over several nights, Darling threw litter out of the box, spilled her water bowl, and batted her dry food around the floor; in the mornings the room looked like ten cats lived in it, and none of them with any manners.

Eventually she gave up trying to keep Darling confined at night. One night Evan rubbed her feet together under the sheets and instantly knew she'd made a mistake. A moment later, Darling pounced and grabbed a foot with her claws. “Ouch!” Evan yelled and kicked her feet in the air. She reached down and batted at the cat. Darling thumped to the floor. Evan heard her growling from under the bed and was afraid to get up. She squinted at the clock: 2:38
AM
. While she waited for her heart to slow down, willing herself not to have to pee, she realized that she would have to renege on her promise to the humane shelter; she would have to introduce Darling to the outdoors.

She bought a red harness that took a while to put on; Darling interpreted Evan's actions as attempts to strangle her. Evan had to wear gloves. The harness went well with Darling's brown and black fur. When Evan managed to clip on the leash, she slid open the door. Darling sniffed, then stepped over the threshold.

The local flock of doves whistled in for a landing in the Jack Russell's yard and Darling ran for cover, hiding under the bush that hugged the building. Evan took Darling's instinctive behaviour as a sign that she was cautious by nature. Over the next two days, Evan untangled the leash from the bushes half a dozen times before deciding that Darling was streetwise. Darling ignored the Jack Russell's obnoxious barking and sat quietly on her side of the fence to drive him crazy, a cocky attitude that made Evan laugh. The next morning she dressed Darling in just a snap-off collar, slid the door open, and said, “Go.” She knew if anything happened to Darling, it would be her fault.

After lunch Evan went outside to look and found Darling hunkered down behind a cactus over the edge of the wash. When she saw Evan, she streaked away. Evan tracked her. “Please, little one, be careful.” Darling meowed at her, then crouched and wiggled her butt. Her eyes, manic slits, sized Evan up, so scary that Evan cried, “Hey! Cut that out, it's me!” The eyes refocused, the hunter vanished, and a kitty reappeared.

She phoned Eric to ask if he would like to come out for a visit. Might be nice to get away, she said.

“Unlike you,” he pointed out, “I don't get school holidays.” Eric worked in a land title office in busy Hamilton County, in suburban Indianapolis. He said Cathy's family was making him do the rounds of Sunday dinners. Cathy's was a big, close Catholic family. Eric was surrounded.

Joe next door fell and broke his hip. He'd had one replacement already. An ambulance pulled up to take him to the hospital. “Fallen soldier,” he said to Evan as the paramedics were loading him into the ambulance. Alma moaned and started to cry and didn't cover her face with her hands. Tears poured over her open lips. “You'll be all right, woman,” Joe said. “Arden will be here day after tomorrow.” Arden was their son, driving down from Montana.

“You could have dinner with me,” Evan said to Alma, as they watched the ambulance drive off.

Alma brightened. “I'll make my famous casserole.” Evan knew the casserole was a tamale pie, made with beef and canned corn.

Arden stayed for two days. When they learned that Joe had an infection and would remain in hospital a while, Arden packed up his mother's things.

“Why are you taking her away? What about Joe?” Evan asked, seeing him throw suitcases into the back of his battered Dodge Ram.

“I have a ranch to run,” he said. “And there's Mother.”

Alma was wearing her favourite apron, with a print of apples and peaches. The apron was faded from the wash, but it was nicely ironed, and the lace around the edges was very white. Evan admired the apron. Alma stopped crying. “You know Joe married an older woman.”

“See what I mean,” said Arden. He helped his mother into the passenger seat and strapped her in. She started crying again, long sobs. “Where's Joe? Where's Joe?”

Everyone had heard stories of javelinas eating small dogs, but there wasn't any mention of them going after cats. Evan forgot to tell Darling about javelinas; she didn't give it a second thought as she tossed broccoli out the door for them and then carrots to the rabbit (to the chipmunk, really). One afternoon she entered the living room and saw Darling on the other side of the path just as the javelinas approached. It seemed wiser if Darling stayed where she was. Evan stood at the sliding door and called, “Don't move, stay there!” but Darling must have thought Evan was calling her and dashed out. The boar lowered his head and ran at her. Darling moved in zigzags toward the Jack Russell's fence and leapt in the air. The Jack Russell was barking aggressively, the javelina was ramming the wire fence, and the other javelinas were milling and squealing. Pandemonium! Evan ran for the broom just as Darling yowled, pinned between the fence and the boar's brutal snout. Evan slid open the door and ran at him, holding the broom like a spear. The boar stamped his feet and made threatening moves toward her. Evan hollered and the boar backed up, bawled, and scuttled over the edge of the wash, the squealing family following.

Evan stood huffing and puffing, the glare of the white sun off the gravel like blindness. “Darling?”

Darling had slipped to the ground, crushed, her middle oozing; just her legs flinched, bent and shocking to see. Evan couldn't touch her; Darling's teeth were bared and she growled low in her throat. The Jack Russell continued to bark. Evan looked at Joe and Alma's empty apartment, drapes closed. Joe would have known what to do. Darling's legs didn't stop twitching for a long time. Evan poked the Jack Russell with the broom, to shut it up. The ground turned red around Darling, blood mixed with sunset. A door down along the strip of apartments opened, then closed. A coyote yelped. Darling died.

Evan flew to Indianapolis to visit her brother. They sat on his porch in an older suburb and drank Jack Daniel's mixed with orange juice and Southern Comfort, a drink he'd started making when Cathy was first diagnosed.

“I think Darling was disturbed. You couldn't pet her.” Evan put down her drink.

“Stop calling her that name. It was a cat. An
SPCA
cat.”

“A humane shelter cat. Yes—but—” Then Evan shut her mouth. Cathy was a human being, a wife, her sister-in-law. Evan had wrapped Darling in a red silk shawl and buried her under the mesquite tree. The woman who worked double shifts, the owner of the Jack Russell, had offered her condolences, handed Evan an overcooked macaroni and cheese casserole, and said she had to run.

Eric swirled the liquid in his glass. He opened his mouth, poured the drink down his throat, and gargled before swallowing. “Be honest, Sis,” he said. “Who do you miss most, your husband or the cat?” Someone drove up across the street and waved at Eric. Eric waved back. “Asshole,” he muttered.

Evan remembered Ray, a slightly built man but strong. After he died she'd thought he had the nature of a Siamese cat, high-strung and demanding. His arms were as strong as the trunks of fibrous tropical trees. She remembered the eager, analytical talks they'd had, sitting on the bed across from each other, sometimes with tears in their eyes when what one of them said was too true. Then she remembered the bottles of alcohol tucked all over the house, and the broken crockery. She eyed her brother. “How can you be so mean?”

Eric rattled ice cubes in response and poured another drink from the pitcher at his feet.

For what felt like the longest time, her thoughts backfired in all directions as she thought about Eric's question. She missed how tight Ray could hold her, how safe he made her feel. She missed the hummingbirds that didn't come to the feeders because Joe was gone and no one filled them with syrup, and she felt sorry for the Mountain Dew birdfeeder that had broken loose in the wind and lay on the ground. She missed the daily life of worry, having her cat. “Darling,” she blurted. “You.”

The day after she got home, a moving van arrived and took Joe and Alma's things away. Later Evan was sitting on her sofa, the light a slurp of warm syrup over the wash, when she looked up from a new Arizona bird guide and for a moment believed she saw Alma scampering around, flapping her apron, chasing off the roadrunner.

She found Joe at Holy Family Center on St. Mary's Road, in an older section of the hospital, sharing a room with an old man who mistook Evan for someone else. “I can't find my automobile!” he shouted in an Italian-sounding accent. “I don't know where my pants are!”

“I don't know where they are, either,” said Evan. “I'm sorry.”

Joe reached out to shake her hand. “I need another three weeks of antibiotic treatment. Could leave tomorrow if Alma was here. Arden's got her doing tests.”

“Are you going to Montana?”

Joe didn't answer. Instead, his fingers fiddled with some papers. “Aw, naw. The boy's got enough on his plate, what with Alma and that big ranch. Now here,” he said, looking up, “here's the stuff I got to get to.” He showed her the list of calls he needed to make—the
HMO
, home support care, various motels he might be able to stay in. Joe had worked as a railroad detective, and so, he told her, he knew how to get his ducks in a row. “They overmedicated me at first, and this old fool,” he said, slapping his chest, “didn't know where he was and dialled 911 for help.” Evan watched Joe's face change colour, flushing to a dark red of embarrassment by the time he finished relating the farcical events during his first days in hospital. He couldn't find his billfold, and when the credit card company phoned about unusual charges—well, of course, it was Arden in Montana with Alma. “Lost,” he said. “I was just plumb lost.”