I wave from the sidewalk but she is already gone. Where would I be without Mom? I don’t know and I never want to find out.
The bus comes along and it’s not the same old guy from last night, and I’m pretty sure I know why that is. This is some young guy in his midtwenties. He calls me man, grins at me, and because I’m the only person on the bus, he feels obliged to make conversation. I stare out the window and nod and say yeah when he expects it, which is far more often than I’d like. There isn’t much in the way of life beyond the bus windows; the occasional taxi, the occasional person out late walking a dog, those occasions become more regular the closer we get to town, then less regular once we pass through it. I am more than three-quarters of the way home when I see it. It’s just lying there on the side of the road, still moving. Kind of.
“Stop the bus,” I say, standing up.
“You said. .”
“Just stop it, okay?”
“You’re the boss, buddy.”
He stops the bus, and if I really was his buddy he would give me a quarter of my fare back. The swish of the doors as they close behind me, the purring of the motor, the shuddering of heavy metal, and the bus leaves me behind. We’re about halfway between town and my apartment. It’s a suburb where people who have made poor choices in life live. I rush over the road and crouch next to it. It’s mostly white, with a few streaks of ginger through it. Its mouth is slightly open. It’s not moving: maybe I made a mistake when I first saw it. When I put my hand on its side, it’s still warm. Its eyes open and look at me. It tries to meow but can’t. One of its legs sticks out in that same awkward way as Candy’s arm.
Funny what fate does to us. Two nights ago it wasn’t my place in this crazy, mixed-up world to question the fact that animals are used as tools. They’re used every single day. Chemicals are tested on them so we can have higher-quality health care, higher-quality shampoos, matching eyeliners, warmer clothes. Others are killed for food. And here’s my opportunity to balance the scales for what I did to poor Fluffy.
I pick the cat up, careful to keep my hands away from its broken leg. It meows loudly and tries to struggle, but doesn’t have the energy to struggle hard. The long graze down the side of its body looks bloody and raw. Its fur is matted. Strange sounds are coming from it. Rather than holding it against my body, I remove the plastic bag that the groceries came in from my briefcase and rest the cat inside. I begin to walk home.
After less than half a mile I come across a phone booth. I find the number for an all-night vet and tell them I’m on my way. Then I call a taxi. It takes five minutes to arrive. The driver is foreign and speaks the same amount of English as the cat. I’ve torn the page from the phone book and I hand it to him. He reads the address and starts driving. The cat is no longer meowing, but it’s still alive. I let it out of the bag before stepping through the vet doors.
Inside a woman about my age waits behind a counter. She has long red hair tied in a ponytail. She wears little makeup and doesn’t need it-she’s a natural beauty with soft brown eyes and full lips. She’s wearing a white medical jacket unbuttoned halfway down, as if she’s about to step onto the set of a porn movie. Beneath it is a blue T-shirt. A great set of breasts pushes its way forward. She smiles at me for less than a second before her concern turns to the cat.
“You’re the man who just called?”
“Yeah.”
“You ran the cat over?” she asks in a soft voice, without managing to sound accusing.
“I found him,” I say. “I don’t have a car, that’s why I had to catch a taxi here,” I say, and for some reason it’s important to me that she believes that.
She takes the cat from me without comment then disappears. I’m left standing by myself. I take a quick look around the clinic. Not much to see. Two walls are dedicated to products like leashes, collars, flea powder, bowls, cages, and food. Another wall has a thousand brochures and pamphlets that don’t concern me since none of them is about getting away with murder. I take a seat. I should have been in bed by now. Should have been asleep. I stare at a display of bags of cat litter. I know from experience it’s twice the price here than at the supermarket.
I sit patiently. Five minutes turn into ten, then into twenty. I pick up a pamphlet on flea control. On the cover is an artist’s impression of what a magnified flea would look like if it were wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket and hosting a party in the fur of a cat. On the next page is an actual photograph of a flea, magnified several hundred times. It seems the artist had it completely wrong. I’m halfway through the brochure, thinking about how scary the world would be if fleas were actually several hundred times bigger, when the redhead comes back out. I put the pamphlet down and hold my breath and stand up.
“The cat’s going to be okay,” she says, breaking into a smile.
“What a relief,” I say, almost too tired to mean it.
“Do you know who he belongs to?”
“No.”
“We’re going to need to keep him here for a few days.”
“Sure, sure, that sounds good,” I say, thankful for her help. I realize I’m nodding like an idiot. “Umm, what happens if you can’t find the owner? I mean, it won’t get put down, will it?”
She shrugs, like she doesn’t know, but I think she does. I give her my name and phone number, then pay for the medical attention the cat will need using the money Candy no longer needs. She doesn’t try to stop my generosity, but she does point it out. She says I’m an incredibly nice man. I see no need to argue. She tells me she will call to let me know of the cat’s progress.
I ask her if she can call me a taxi, but she says she’s about to leave, and offers me a lift home.
I glance at my watch. It would be fun to get a ride with her, but where would I dump her body? “I don’t want to put you out. A taxi’s fine.”
She seems disappointed, but doesn’t strengthen her offer. The taxi driver is a large man whose stomach rests on the steering wheel and toots the horn every time we go over a bump. He drops me off outside my apartment, the potholes in my street making him wake up the neighbors in the process. The trash outside my apartment has been added to by more trash, and I have to bat away a few flies as I make my way inside. I’m struggling to stay awake as I climb my way up to my door. Inside I ignore my fish, making me not quite the nice guy the vet receptionist thought I was, opting to spend some quality time with my bed instead. I lie down and close my eyes and pretty much fall right asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Seven thirty my eyes open. Right on time. I don’t have to worry about shaking away any dregs of a dream, because I never dream. I guess I don’t because half the shit people dream about I actually do. If I did, I suppose it would be of being married to some plumpish woman with poor taste in everything from fashion to sexual positions. I’d be living inside a house with a mortgage that would take a lifetime to pay off, getting nagged by two unfit kids every single day. I’d be taking out trash and mowing lawns. Each Sunday morning as I pulled out of the driveway in my station wagon on my way to church, I’d have to avoid running over the dog. A Goddamn nightmare.
I share my morning routing with a feeling I can’t quite shake, like there’s bad news I haven’t been given yet. It becomes so strong that I have to take a few minutes to sit down on the sofa and take some deep breaths. My eyes blur with tears, and even playing with Pickle and Jehovah can’t cheer me up. I think of the cat I saved last night. That can’t cheer me up either. Something bad has happened. I think of Mom and hope she’s okay.