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Filberts and Fragments

If you stare long enough, on a sunny day, into the dark depths of a filbert orchard, the patches of sunlight that fall through the small openings between trees become patches instead of fallen snow. The air is simmering with summer heat, but I am staring at an orchard with uneven patches of crystalline, white snow covering the dark ground for as far as I can see. If I take a step closer, I could make balls of it to throw, or kick it into the air and watch the crystals blow. The symmetry of the rows. The dark trunks. The serrated, furry leaves. They are not the kind of leaves I would rub against my face.

I am told that these are not really even trees, that they are bushes carefully trained. As a result, they produce little fairy wands at their bases, with curling tips. They snap right off and we run through the trees waving them at each other, waiting for something magical to happen. But maybe it already has. One part of the orchard has fruit trees: pears, plums, apples, cherries. We pick the first ones while they are still green and hard, but we’ve waited so long already, we chew on them anyway. This may be the reason that I can, to this day, eat green fruit without consequence.

I find myself compelled to ask you if you would like to sleep with me.

I might like to take in a movie.

I could be persuaded. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sleep with me?

Certain. But a time share is not out of the question.

My daughter, as tall as my knee, gazing up at me, binky in her mouth, eyes huge. She reaches for the dress I hold out for her to see. “Mine?” she asks, her face turning up so she can look into my eyes to be sure that I am not teasing her, that I really mean it. I think what made me cry was the vast dichotomy between her limited and primitive vocabulary at eleven months and her sudden understanding of herself as individual.

You don’t like me.

I never said that. Of course I like you. I married you didn’t I?

You don’t like the way I stare. You don’t like the tales I tell.. or the way I smell.

That stings. I never said that.

Yes. Well. Yes, well… you wrote it down.

Why do you have to be that way?

You never touch me.

What do you mean by that?

You never touch me unless I touch you first. You never just reach out and touch me. You never want to—

Unpleasant childhood memories. There must be someone to blame...

Would you prefer it if I washed myself more often than I do?

Certainly. That would help.

You don’t like me.

I could be persuaded.

Running in the orchard, the trees so old that the branches interweave above, leaving the ground dark. It’s kept raked, so that no grass grows here. Easier to pick up the nuts. Some parts of the orchard are so dark, I’m afraid to go there. Down at the very bottom is a barbed-wire fence (my grandfather always called it bob-wire, and I wondered for years who Bob was and how he’d come up with the idea), and behind it a creek, a very small trickle of water not worth trying to push past the fence to explore. Beyond that, thick brush and trees, mostly fir.

I’ve explored every corner of the orchard. I’ve been told (again and again) that it isn’t ours. It belongs to the man we rent the house from. But having lived here as long as I can remember, it’s mine. Every corner. Every tree (even if filberts aren’t real trees). And every tree is different from its neighbors, each one as unique as any human being. Some are more readily climbed and nestled in. This is my place, where I run when there is nothing for me at home. When I’m lost. But the coyotes howl down at the bottom, so I won’t go there. Common knowledge, or perhaps uncommon depending upon whether one is city or country bred, holds that coyotes never bother people, but down in those depths with the light so dim, hearing their eerie whining howl, I have no desire to test the theory. There could be something larger down there, hiding. Maybe the coyotes are worshiping it. Sometimes the orchard seems a vast garden of rooted plants, and I feel like a tiny creature wandering the land of the giants.

Your lack of respect and continual rejection are wearing on me.

No offense was intended.

It is your job, since you have no other, to pick up my socks. To retrieve my shirts and my underwear. To launder them in timely fashion and fold them carefully. Here is a list of your further duties, which you have failed to fulfill.

And here is yours.

Of course.

The  minister has invited me to his home. I’m very nervous. He tells me that he can save my marriage. But the marriage was dissolved several months ago, I say. It doesn’t matter, he answers. I can repair it. Make it better than it was before. Stronger, faster… all that is lacking is aggressive counseling. Aggressive counseling, I ask. Yes, he tells me, you have not been aggressively counseled, and that is all that is lacking to save your marriage. Immediately, he calls my ex-husband and summons him for dinner with us. Fortunately, my ex arrives with his new fiancée, both looking friendly but puzzled. The minister seems rather surprised, but he covers it well. He looks at me with pity.

My daughter doesn’t like it here. She is completely fluent in e-mail, but loathes it, and her ability to understand and make use of the telephone system is perfectly inverse to the level of competence she holds in texting. There is a serious lack of satisfaction in keyboarding. It lacks something of the human, and often terms are misunderstood, although speech is far more seriously misunderstood, with greater and longer lasting consequences. In five months, she will leave the chrysalis and fly away, the chrysalis which I have lost access to. She will fly away to her own fate, and there is nothing I can do to prevent her being burned by some lightbulb somewhere, or to even minimize the likelihood of burning, either purposeful or accidental. My son doesn’t like it here either, but he flew free long ago, or at least it seems long ago, so I cannot use parental rights as an excuse to draw him near me—except for holidays. He is free. He hasn’t been burned yet, not too much. Just singed. Much singeing to go.

I am in the orchard again tonight, walking up the road that starts between the two barns and heads straight back into the trees. Far up the road, the road for tractors, stand the Walnut trees, huge hulking shapes that I can’t climb because I’m too short and not strong enough. I love the Walnut trees because they’re so tall and noble, towering, but they are off limits for me until I can learn to climb trunks without branches. I walk past the Walnuts, all the way to the back of the orchard. The dirt road that the cars travel on winds around here, skimming past the back of the orchard at this point, but it can’t be seen until you walk over the crest of the hill, with its grand Walnut standing like a sentry. Tonight, there is no crest of the hill, and no road for cars. There is only the great Walnut, and behind it, infinity. Darkness and shapes in shadow stretching on and on out of sight. If I go too close, I will be lost forever. I turn to go back home, but the road for tractors down the center of the orchard is gone, and I see only the trees.

I am going to Valparaiso. I will follow the dog star over the sea, stars burning over my head, moonlight shining on my face. Red light at my left, green light to my right. But I don’t want to be alone.

I am driving, following the winding mountain road I learned to drive on twenty-five years before. My minister’s voice echoes in my ears: “God forbids divorce, you know. Divorce doesn’t just hurt you and your husband, it hurts your children, it hurts your friends, it hurts society. You have damaged the beliefs of those around you that marriage is sacred and can endure. But there is hope, if you repent, if you go back…”

Joseph Campbell says, “Follow your heart and doors will open for you that would open for no one else.” I am falling, but the ground went out from beneath me long ago. Nothing left to lose? I am losing everything, and every passing moment carries me further forward, the only direction I am willing to go.

When I climb trees, I feel safe. I’m afraid of heights, but if I’m in a tree, I feel connected, rooted, and I know I won’t fall. I fell out of a treehouse once, but that’s not the same: that is an artificial construction, tacked on to what is real and alive. Embracing a tree gives one a feeling of amazing peace, as though one is tapping into the life flow of the universe. When someone chops down a tree, or even if one falls on its own, something vital has been lost, and I cry. I’ve seen entire orchards uprooted, trees piled for burning. I can’t describe the pain of seeing this.

My orchard is so big, it seems to go on forever, although I know it doesn’t. I’ve walked to every corner, so I know this. I also know that the orchard near the neighbor’s house is “his” not “ours,” and that the orchard across the road, the road for cars, belongs to the other neighbors, but the trees all look the same to me as they curve out of sight down the hill to the north. Do they know they belong to different people? My parents aren’t sure who all the orchard owners are. I gain permission, through startled discovery, to explore wherever I like, so long as I don’t damage or misplace any pieces of myself. I don’t know. I feel like I did lose something, but I don’t know what it could be.

Van Gogh lived here once, in the house in the orchard: I know because there is a painting of his that he must have done, although he never admitted it, of the front yard. There are many, many purple irises, but only one white one, and all of those marigolds. Just like my mother’s garden. It’s a snapshot of the front yard. A glimpse. It’s interesting that he chose this tiny section of such a large property, and I wonder why he didn’t paint the orchard with its glowing patches of snow. That’s what I would have done.

Tonight, the house in the orchard is unbelievably large. It seems to have an endless number of dark rooms. I love the house and feel so relieved to be back at last, but there is something inside that doesn’t want me there. Something inside the house, not inside me. It’s huge, the rooms uncountable. Some parts look like the house I grew up in, but others don’t. I move my things into the house, and my children and husband are with me. They choose rooms. Everyone can have whatever room they want, whatever they want it for. There are rooms enough for a hundred people. But these are all for us. Sometimes we have friends living with us. But always, it is dark, and the house doesn’t want me.

I remember that the attic was haunted. There was no doubt about it. One night, I was sitting at the table with my family, and suddenly the house went silent. Something can knocking down the stairs of the attic, something small and sharp, like a wooden knob. Knock, knock, knock, down the stairs, too slowly to be something inanimate bouncing. Everyone was frozen. My father stood up, went to open the attic door and look… and I wake up shaking.

We never went up to the attic alone, my brother and sister and I. We went in sorties, each keeping their eyes open in a different direction, back to back. We were allowed to trade downstairs toys for upstairs ones. One for one. All for one. Back to back, we went up quickly, only in daylight, and pulled the string for the bulb. If the bulb came on, we quickly retrieved our objective, left the replacement, and ran down the stairs—we were supposed to always walk, but if one hurried too fast, panic would break out and spark a stampede. [Damn if you forgot to shut off the light, because no one would ever agree to go back up with you to turn it off, and then you had to come down the stairs alone, with the dark behind you.

And never, never run, because something would really get you then.] If the light didn’t turn on, the mission was instantly scrapped and we retreated as quickly as feasible without tripping over each other. A complaint was filed with CO, but this did not usually result in immediate replacement of the burned-out bulb, rather, a reprimand for cowardice was issued and filed. That particular filing cabinet is extremely strained by now, overflowing with these reports.

Another area to conquer was the back bedroom. To achieve this room for one’s own was a trophy. A temporary gain, but a gain nonetheless. Two share the middle bedroom: a nearly intolerable situation. The parents share the master bedroom. But the blue bedroom at the end of the hallway is for one and one alone. Unbelievable mental and physical struggles took place to determine who might gain ownership, temporarily, of the single room. But the closet is haunted. It’s alright as long as the doors remain open. But one should never turn one’s back on it. Who knows what could happen.

My little record player, playing “When the deep purple falls/over sleepy garden walls…” My dresser with its huge mirror, perfect for rehearsing for a life of stage or television. One night, I make the mistake of sleeping with my back to the closet. Suddenly, a hand grips my side, hard, waiting. I lay perfectly still. Not breathing. Hoping it is my father, come to tease me. Nothing. The feeling of the gripping hand fades, but it seems an eternity before I can relax and begin to breathe again. I have no way of knowing how long the encounter lasted. Slowly, I find my courage again, run down the hallway, and find both parents soundly asleep. Brother and sister soundly asleep.

I am screaming. I cannot move. I am still in the blue bedroom and terror is descending upon me. A spider, with who knows what evil intent, descending lower and lower. My mother bursts in, broom in hand, poised as if to chop something down with it. She looks like an avenging fury, her pale hair flowing behind her. When she sees the spider, she sweeps it aside in disgust. “Why didn’t you just move?” she demands. Shaking her head, she walks out. I wonder, did she mean the broom for me? To punish me for screaming or for cowardice? It isn’t until much later that I realize she had been prepared to fend off something horrible, if necessary, to protect me.

For the first time in my life, I am living alone. I am not as afraid as I thought I would be. The apartment is small, but neat. Everything is in its place. There is no one to pick up after. Everything is spotless. The meals aren’t good, but meals are low on my list. With no distractions, I can concentrate on making a life for myself.

My daughter doesn’t like it here. So she stays with her father.

A different book begins.

Your continued dissatisfaction is wearing on me.

I am not dissatisfied.

What do you mean by that?

I was hoping we could continue to date. I was hoping to be pursued into eternity.

What do you mean by that?

Why do you have to be that way?

I am a creature of logic. Your excesses of emotion are wearing on me.

All that is needed is physical affection.

All that is needed is satisfaction with the status quo.

Blaming of parents. Of siblings.

I can see where you’re coming from.

Can you hear me now?

I could be persuaded.

I no longer dream of the house in the orchard. And the orchard is gone. Now there are endless acres of grapes. I don’t think about what happened to all those trees. I am only grateful that they were not replaced by rows and rows of houses. But I have another barn now, a red one, not unlike the white one in the orchard. There are horses here, and dogs. There is a filbert tree in back of the house and two walnut trees at the front. Other trees include: pears, plums, apples, cherries. Other plants include roses, lavender, rosemary, lilacs, dahlias, daisies, daffodils. And everything is neat and clean, and the meals are the best. I take a deep breath.

My daughter doesn’t like it here either.

End


 

My Father and Other Figures from American Mythology

Caramel had outlived his usefulness. It happens. He was old for a rabbit, his fur turning white in places, the caramel coloring slowly paling to tan, and we had been warned that today was his last. Animals on a farm have only two purposes: for breeding more animals, or for eating. Caramel was losing interest in the former and was too stringy for the latter.

Butchering was my father’s job. Despite the advanced warning, all of us were startled when he pulled his pistol out of a drawer and headed toward the rabbit cages.

            My parents’ philosophy was that watching the butchering on our little farm would harden my younger sister and brother and me, preparing us for a harsh world and teaching us to always respect where our food came from. I suppose they felt that watching animals die would teach us to take nothing for granted. Or maybe they were just a little cruel. At any rate, it was Dad’s job to kill, Mom’s job to clean, and our job, at least when we were little, to watch. We were always told in advance when the butchering would take place so that we wouldn’t be shocked, and if we hadn’t been listening, there were always the customary preparatory signs: the butcher block being set out, the hatchet being sharpened, or –if the victims were rabbits— the appearance of the old baseball bat.

            “I’m not using the bat,” was all he would say that afternoon. My mother followed grimly, a good farm wife though she didn’t look it with her pale, flowing hair and tiny, slender body. My father was the opposite, big, broad shouldered, black hair, black beard, red neck. The three of us, ranging from small to tiny, our pale hair echoing our mother’s, trailed behind, reluctant. Caramel had been a favorite for a long time, and we didn’t want to see him go.

            “Do you have to?” my sister asked, but she didn’t expect an answer.

            Like most kids raised in the country, despite our young age we understood aspects of animal husbandry that eluded many adults. Caramel was being replaced by younger, fresher genetics. Keep breeding the same pair for too long, and the offspring begin to come out smaller and weaker. Sibling rabbits can’t be bred together because of the risk of bad genes combining and producing sickly animals. Only the strongest survive, and fresh genes have to be brought in now and again. Get old on a farm, or get weak, and you’ll be replaced.

            With gas prices obscenely cheap, my parents took us traveling and camping frequently. When I was young, I used to have a recurring nightmare that on one of these trips, they would leave me in the middle of the desert. The sight of them driving away was so vivid that I became convinced that it could happen. Once, I got the courage to ask my mother whether she had ever considered it. She stared at me then looked away. “Of course not. It would be illegal.”

            Ah. It was their job, I realized, to protect me. If they didn’t do their job, there would be consequences.  

            Young rabbits are coddled when they’re little, carefully guarded from predators, but when they get old enough, they become meat. Even before they are butchered, we stop seeing them as adorable playthings and see only their ultimate purpose. I suppose this is how we guard ourselves against feeling anything for them when they die. I knew that my purpose was not to be eaten, but I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when I got older, when I was no longer viewed as something that needed protection from harm.

            My father lifted Caramel from his cage in the lean-to beside the barn. It was my job to water and feed the rabbits, and I glanced at the other cages, lulled by the familiar smells of alfalfa pellets and urine. Just another farm task, just another chore. The younger animals watched us walk away, their paws thumping restlessly against the wire bottoms of the cages.

            We lived in a rented farmhouse on an enormous filbert orchard (the Californians call them Hazelnuts now) that seemed to extend forever in three directions, passing right onto neighboring properties and marching away across the hills. They marched far enough to the west and south to hit forest, far enough north and east to butt up against wheat fields. There were three barns on the property: one, classic white, one red, and one weathered with age. The white one was my favorite, with a hayloft filled mainly with narrow shafts of sunlight, mildew and bees’ nests. There were mud-encrusted stalls for animals down below, and room for three old tractors that never saw service while I lived there—Mr. Heesacker, who kept the orchards, used his own. The red barn was red, with storage for filbert harvesting equipment. The third was small and grey, really more of a shed than a barn, with bottles of intriguing, smelly, brightly colored liquid in the attic.

           

Dad’s Sundays were spent relaxing in front of the TV watching whatever sport was on. Unfortunately, Star Trek was also on during this time. Usually, I would wait until the last possible moment, then creep quietly toward the television, one eye on Dad where he snored, his head propped against the couch and one hand under the waistband of his jeans. I would slowly turn down the volume, then click the knob over to my channel. Always, Dad would stir from a sound sleep and snort, “Change it back!” Sometimes my siblings would argue, or I would find my own voice and put up a fight. Occasionally, he would relent, and we would watch my favorite show. He seemed to enjoy it until I would make a comment about Kirk’s resourcefulness, or fighting ability, or command skill, and then the criticism would flow. I would hear detailed reasons for why William Shatner was the worst actor ever born, and why the show itself was nothing but space opera with idiotic storylines that went nowhere. Even at a young age, and even through my fury at having my hero Kirk whittled down to something as mundane as being human, a small voice would suggest the unthinkable: could my dad be jealous?

They were well matched, I thought, in looks, intelligence, and build. I often tried to imagine them in the same room together:

James T. Kirk walks in. My father has stirred from a sound sleep to contest my right to change the channel from the football game, but Kirk has come to uphold my claim with his fists. They square off like growling dogs, eyeing each other. Kirk darts forward, throwing a punch toward my father’s head. My father ducks, coming in low and catching Kirk around the waist, taking him to the ground. They roll over and over. Saber Dance is playing in the background, woodwinds first, lightly.

Kirk breaks free, comes to his feet with powerful grace. He is taller than my father, but my father is more muscular and has also come to his feet. He swings, Kirk ducks and attempts a hammer throw, but my father turns, clutching the back of his neck. He sweeps Kirk’s anchoring foot, but Kirk twists in his grasp. I can see how well matched they are. They fall together. The music accelerates and the horns come in. Kirk leaps to the back of the couch, balancing for an instant before launching himself. My father catches him in mid-air and they tumble. My father twists free, shoves away and runs a few steps into the kitchen to gain better ground. They circle again, warily. My father leaps forward, catching Kirk by the throat. Kirk chops downward with both hands. My father is momentarily stunned. Kirk steps behind his leg and shoves, they go down, Kirk on top. My father flips Kirk. Various wrestling holds until both are exhausted and sweating. It is a draw. My father graciously concedes and allows me to watch my beloved program. Again.

 My parents grew up in the Gorge. My dad’s teen years were spent bucking bales in sweltering heat on the rolling yellow hills south of the Columbia. My mother was raised on a midsize dairy farm, driving the delivery truck for her dad when she was six. She sat propped on a stack of books so she could see over the wheel, a tiny, pale elf of a girl with thick glasses, determined to be the boy her father had hoped for after the births of two older girls. My parents married right out of high school, split sixteen years later, divorced seven years after that. In between, they hunted, camped, fished, boated, explored the countryside, tried out being hippies, and joined the serious workforce. Not ready yet for suburbia, they rented the farmhouse on the orchard, kept rabbits and chickens, raised a calf now and then for beef, boarded a couple of horses.

            When neighbors needed an animal butchered, it was my dad they called. If someone’s dog got hit and needed to be put out of its misery, or the goat was becoming a nuisance, they called Dad. He performed such duties without emotion, but he did enjoy throwing decapitated chickens at his children, doubling over when we fled, screaming in panic as the things seemed to chase at our heels no matter how we dodged. “Everett,” my mother would warn, and he would subside until he had another chicken to throw. “It’ll toughen them up,” he would say firmly (meaning us, not the chickens).

In the red barn was a wondrous device that went from the basement up into the highest reaches. If I were not a coward, I could have climbed to the top and see it from that angle downward. I wanted to understand it so badly. The device had little cups every twelve inches or so, and one could see that when and if it ever began to move, those little cups would rise into the air, go over the top, and come down the other side, upside down. In the basement, they begin their ascent again. Down there—and the best part about the red barn was the secret door hidden behind the blackberries—was an odd tractor with a huge flat bed. There were great metal baskets, for sorting, my mother says. On the main floor is my father’s punching bag. When he hits it, the whole barn booms and shakes, and awestruck, we kids would wonder if it would collapse. “Of course not,” he said, disgusted.

I stole a kitten. Really, it was my kitten, but it was given to the neighbor girl, and there was no taking it back, even if justified. But she was abusive. I tried to file a complaint, but my request that the kitten be returned to my care was denied. I climbed into the barn loft, first with the kitten, then with an empty rabbit cage, then with towels, then with containers with food and water. I was filled with a euphoria that I knew was only temporary. The theft would be discovered, and I would almost certainly be caught, but at that moment, I was stealthy, and I had outwitted that rotten neighbor girl. I was powerful!

The neighbor girl demands her kitten. My parents glance at me speculatively. She makes periodic, obsessive sweeps of the property. Eventually, as I predicted, the kitten gives itself away and is discovered and released back into her custody. After a week of waiting for the undoubtedly impending but not forthcoming indictment, I approach my mother and ask after the status of my case. She states that she and my father have decided on a suspended sentence, reasoning that both agree with me: theft was probably the right answer for this particular situation but simply not feasible given the circumstances. I wonder if this might go on my record as something un-cowardly.

            On the school bus. Five girls have just settled, through an arm wrestling challenge, who will have the privilege of sharing a seat with my sister. I stand alone at the front of the bus, and several pairs of eyes meet mine coldly. As if hearing some spoken signal I’m not aware of, all look away at once. I walk slowly down the aisle. “This seat is saved.” “This seat is saved.” “This seat is saved.” The driver is getting angry and yells at me to sit down. Finally, a small boy with snot-crusted nostrils and an unpleasant odor rising off his filthy clothes says happily, “You can sit here!” So I do… gratefully.

One day, it was too much. I came home crying, and my mother impatiently demanded, “What’s wrong with you?” Sobbing, I described how every girl in my class had followed me around the playground chanting names at me, how three of them later in the afternoon had lured me to the field behind the school with an offer of friendship only to run away shrieking “we really hate you!” My mother’s face tightened, and she turned her back and walked away. I spent the rest of the afternoon on my bed, crying myself into a stupor. When my father came home, I heard muttered voices in the kitchen. To my shock, he came into my room and began to rub my back, explaining quietly that one day it wouldn’t matter anymore. One day, I would be grown up and pretty, and I would have a hundred friends, and everything would be wonderful. I was so surprised at his tenderness, I could only nod.

He wasn’t entirely right about the hundred friends, but I did meet a boy or two, and one reluctantly suggested we get married. Though they’d been separated for two years, my father had come on his motorcycle to talk to my mother, and I found the courage to approach him, to tell him that someone had found a use for me. At least for now. “I’m getting married July 3^rd.”

“Oh.” He froze in the act of putting on his helmet. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… congratulations. I’ll be there.” He looked me in the eye, and I saw a track of moisture running down his cheek. Speechless, I watched him put on his helmet and ride away.

It was the only time I’ve ever seen him cry.

Dad put Caramel down on the ground past the burn pile and took aim. The rabbit simply sat there, sniffing the grass, then starting to nibble. “Why doesn’t he…” my small brother started to ask, and the gun went off. We didn’t have time to cover ears or eyes. I saw dirt fly up just in front of Caramel’s nose. Smart for a rabbit, he needed no further clues as to what was happening, and he shot toward the orchard. For a full five seconds, we could see him run, the white undersides of his feet flashing, and then he was gone.

            I looked up at my father. He was standing there, the gun relaxed at his side, a little smile tugging at his mouth. I saw him exchange a look with my mother, then the two of them reached for each other’s hands and started to walk back to the house. “But what happened?” my sister asked.

            “I missed.”

            We stared alternately at our parents, then back at the orchard where the rabbit had disappeared. My brother’s sticky little hand slipped into mine and gripped.

I don’t know how long it took for us to realize that Caramel wasn’t going to die after all, and that my father was all right with that. Then relief set in. We took off running, racing through the trees hoping to catch one last glimpse of our pet.

            My dad called back, “The coyotes’ll probably get him anyway.”

END

Shelter

My mother’s father could smash a bee in his hand. A dairy farmer his entire adult life, he had fists like clubs, with huge, oversized knuckles and palms like boiled leather. He wore green polyester, heavy boots, a straw hat, and smelled sharply of Corn Huskers Lotion. What I loved more than anything else was to follow him around the farm in central Oregon as he did his chores, hauling irrigation pipe, checking the intake pipe in the creek, following the cows to make sure they weren’t getting into things. We always ended up in the barn, a faded, towering structure with a steep, shingled roof.

Grandpa never moved quickly—of course, he may have been letting me keep pace. Long-legged and wiry, he should have been gangly, but instead he was deliberate. He seemed to consider every move he made, his eyes sweeping the horizon for trouble, or for things that needed done. It was as though he either had too much to do, or too little.

The barn was quiet, the air heavy with the smell of hay and manure and cows. In this place of work, for no apparent reason, there was a rope hanging down from a cross beam above. “What’s that for?” I asked, thinking it must have an important function.

“Swinging.”

“What?”

“It’s for swinging on. Try it.” He gave me that slow grin, pushing his hat up with a finger.

He showed me how to climb up and up and up the piled bales, then he stood below while I built up the courage, rope in hand, to jump off. Planting his feet, he held up his arms and hard hands, like a tree coming to life. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll catch you.” And I knew he would.

Three barns at our rented house: the white barn ancient, with a personality of its own that seems to watch and wait. It’s been alone for so long, yet it doesn’t seem to have accepted the idea yet that its glory days are gone. Gabled roof, white on the outside, it is dark inside, with empty spaces and cupboards and doors left ajar. Old tractors loom, a stone sharpening wheel waits at one side, pitchforks or other tools rest in corners. One has to weave between these to reach the wall ladder going up to the enormous loft. There are stalls for animals, the once muddy floors now gone to hard, dry dust, with ancients imprints of hooves.

The red barn is of a different style, with a pitched roof. The main floor has several small storage areas surrounding a large staging area with an odd contraption to one side that looks like cups on a chain stretching all the way up to the peak of the roof high above, then plunging downward again, disappearing into the basement. The hill drops away to the south under the barn, so there is a mysterious, blackberry-and-willow-covered door at one side through which one can enter the lower level if one has no fear of spiders and dark. Down here, flat wagons with screens for beds wait for their season to come.

The third is small and grey, really more of a shed than a barn, with bottles of intriguing, smelly, brightly colored liquid in the attic. All three were places to retreat when the world wasn’t safe.

I am driving, following the winding mountain road I learned to drive on twenty-five years before. My minister’s voice echoes in my ears: “God forbids divorce, you know. Divorce doesn’t just hurt you and your husband, it hurts your children, it hurts your friends, it hurts society. You have damaged the beliefs of those around you that marriage is sacred and can endure. But there is hope, if you repent, if you go back…”

Joseph Campbell says, “Follow your heart and doors will open for you that would open for no one else.” I am falling, but the ground went out from beneath me long ago. Nothing left to lose? I am losing everything, and every passing moment carries me further forward.

This barn is of French descent. We recently repainted it in its original red with white stripes. Whenever I walk inside, I smell my grandfather. The warm, musky scent of large animals; the heavy odor of hay; the stale smell of dust blended with the tang of manure. Overhead, a buzz of wings as small birds maneuver among the rafters, but only an occasional soft call. There is a silence here that the animals and I agree to, as if we had taken refuge in a church after hours. One of the horses snorts, another steps away, and the wind brushes across the roof, making the whole structure creak. It moves around me, settling in. Then all is quiet again.

I come here when the world is too much, when I have to retreat. I could sit in the car and cry, or I could drive away and find somewhere distant to park and think. But here in the barn, I am safe… alone but not. Here, I can borrow the calm I need. I can imagine my grandfather is here, and that he understands. But this time, I have to catch myself.

Gripping one of my fingers in each hand, she pulls me forward, across the kitchen, down the steps, toward the door. She releases me just long enough to wave imperiously at the closed door, and when I open it for her, she grips me again, tightly, urging me outside. She is headed for the barn, where she has caught a glimpse of her Grandpa feeding the animals. “Da gatch!” she cries, then makes a kind of hissing growl. “Mag gatch! Grrrkkhh!”

It’s getting dark, but she is fearless, stalking forward, leading me to who knows what adventure. She can’t literally stand alone on her own two feet yet, but she’s trying. Cocking her head, she flashes me a baby grin. She knows I will catch her if she falls.

END

The White Barn

I am lying on my back on the filthy floor of the loft, and I am rigid with fear, but exhilarated. First, to climb into the loft of the barn, I had to conquer my fear of heights, my fear of spiders lurking behind the boards of the wall ladder, and my fear over whether those boards themselves, coated with years of dust and neglect, will hold my weight. Second, I had to conquer my fear of the barn itself.

The structure is ancient, white on the outside but dark inside, with cupboards and doors and enclosures and other mysterious, dark, filthy places where who-knows-what-menace might hide. On the ground floor, old tractors loom, a stone sharpening wheel, pitchforks or other tools. One has to weave between these to reach the wall ladder going up to the loft. The first time I climbed up, I made it only half-way, shaking so badly I thought I would fall. My second try, I gritted my teeth and stopped only when I could peer across the upper floor, eyes barely above the opening. Again, I was shaking so badly I thought my hands would give way. Slowly, I lowered myself back down, the images I’d seen stuck in my head: a great hulking pile of hay at the back wall, yards of bare (if you can call boards layered with an inch of dust and bird droppings bare) floor, and a million shafts of sunlight streaming in from a mile above me. My third try, I raised my waist above the level of the loft floor, but I clung, frozen to the ladder, unable to let go. My fifth try, I reached out with a foot and pretended that I might rest my weight on it, imagined letting go of the ladder. But what if I couldn’t find the courage to climb back down the ladder?

My sixth try: shaking violently, I reach out with a foot, place it several inches from the opening, test the soundness of the floorboards. I let go with one hand. My teeth are chattering. Suddenly, I am standing on the floor, beside the opening. I’m still clinging to the ladder with one hand, and my eyes are drawn from the view through the opening of the barn floor so far below to the floor around me, to the scattered hay, to the sloped pile of the stuff against the far wall, to the holes in the roof, to the outline of the great loft door. I look up and up and up, and my eyes follow the line of a rusted metal rod running the length of the ceiling. There is a pulley near the loft door, and an old rope dangling down. The idea of climbing that rope dizzies me. Above the door, the rod runs out side, still following the roofline. I know that somehow the pulley is used to haul bales of hay up into the loft from the ground below, and that the haystack a few yards away was once bales, probably, that have rotted and fallen together. Then something moves near the loft door, in the dark. I am down the ladder in an instant and sprinting out of the barn and back into the light.

“Don’t go up there,” my mother tells me later.

“Why?” I hold my breath, thinking of all the terrible things she could say: the floor will collapse; it’s haunted; little girls have climbed up there only to never be seen again.

“There are bees’ nests in the hay. You could get stung.”

I wait. Nothing more comes. She turns to look at me. “But I saw something move up there.”

“Oh!” She gazes out the kitchen window at the barn. “Well, there’s a big barn owl living up there. You must’ve seen him.”

My seventh try: Determined to see the owl, I climb up, this time familiar with the action of climbing the ladder. I’m no longer afraid of it, having tested it carefully and having taken a broom to any possible hiding spiders. Climbing up above the level of the opening is less terrifying, but as I reach out with a foot to step onto the landing, I am shaking again. It’s not just the fear of falling; it’s also a fear of what may be in the space I’m entering. It’s huge, and it’s dirty, still. Determined and feeling as though my mother has given me a kind of permission (by omission of forbidding me) to explore the loft, I lean away from the opening and let go. For a moment, I am frozen, staring down at the ground below.

Slowly, I turn. Dust motes swim in the slashes of light; a few sparrows swoop and dive far above, silent. Advancing forward carefully, I test the floor, but it seems solid. There is no sign of the owl. In this vast space, I feel as though I’ve found a hidden world… I have entered a space that no one else has been in for longer than I can imagine. Lying down on my back, I imagine that I am a lost princess taking refuge from bandits, finding shelter from a storm—although the sunlight tickling my eyes makes it hard to pretend I hear thunder…

There is a noise from down below, and I sit upright, my heart pounding. Someone is climbing the ladder, hands thumping against the boards with confident assurance. My sister, nearly three years younger than me, comes scrambling onto the landing. “Whatcha doin’?”

END

 

 

A Girl and Her Cat

By A.S. Casey

It would have been just another great party. Nick enjoyed nothing better than to just hang at the apartment with as many friends as would fit into the small two bedroom place, the music thumping, the beer flowing, guys and girls pushing each other’s limits; sometimes a good video game would get going, and half the room would be absorbed in the action on the small flatscreen.

Something had already felt wrong tonight, although Nick couldn’t quite work out what was nagging at him. He was already flunking two of his classes at Oregon State, so it seemed unlikely that he would suddenly suffer regret this evening over having skipped class once again. He was just kicking his feet up onto the battered coffee table, comfortably crushed between two lovely young women wearing short shorts and tube tops when he heard the first scream.

The second scream was louder, longer, and so filled with anguish that the red hair on Nick’s arms literally stood on end. He leaped up, spilling his own beer and knocking the two girls sideways, spilling their drinks as well. He barely heard them cursing at him as he dodged drunk kids to get to the door.

Out on the ratty lawn shared by his apartment building and his neighbor’s tiny, scruffy house, three of his friends were laughing so hard they were doubled over. They were clearly so drunk they could barely stand. His neighbor, an older woman, a small, fragile looking creature they all called the “cat lady,” was kneeling on the grass, her arms wrapped around her chest, wailing. Her anguished cries paralyzed Nick, and all he could do was stare between her and the three boys staggering and laughing. “What…” he looked slowly around, absorbing the scene in front of him.

There was blood everywhere. Blood on the side of her porch, blood across the grass, blood even splattered across the faded blue paint on her old VW bug, parked a few feet away. The sprawled bodies of four cats were covered in what looked like black tar.  It registered then that Mike had a bloody hammer in one hand, Seth had just dropped his pocket knife as he puked in the grass, and Paul’s Nike’s were covered in blood.

“What… the… Hell?!” Nick shouted. “What is going on?”

“They killed my cats!” his neighbor shrieked, her voice ragged with grief. “They killed them!” She hunched over, sobbing hopelessly.

People had come outside to watch, faces appearing in every window along the narrow street. Nick’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t form a coherent thought. He’d known the three boys through high school, had partied with them for years. He had seen them taunting the cat lady on different occasions and had called them off, irritated at how cold they could be, but he’d never imagined… what else had he not noticed?

“You brought them here.” His neighbor was pushing herself to her feet, and her voice dropped several octaves, almost sounding like a chant now. “You brought them, and you paid no attention to what they were doing. You never saw.”

Vaguely, Nick remembered her trying to complain to him about his friends taunting her cats, chasing them, throwing things at them. He’d shrugged, intending to tell them—again— to leave her alone, but somehow his attention was always somewhere else.

“I curse you!” she shrieked. “All of you! You will live what you have done. Live the life of your victims.” Nick felt the wind kick up, throwing the smell of blood into his face and actually pushing the college kids back. Dust and bits of garbage lying in the street blew up into their faces, and the crowd started to disperse. Sirens sounded a few blocks away, and suddenly Nick was alone with his so-called friends and his neighbor. She collapsed on the grass, sobbing.

Two police officers stepped out of two different vehicles; campus security joined them.

#

Kendra shoved her car keys into her purse, tucked her long brown hair behind both ears, and pasted a friendly smile onto her face. “I’m going to run to the ladies room,” she told her date, a tall, solidly built man with an arrogant smile and the extraordinary name of Kirian. It was only fifteen minutes into the blind date, and she was already cursing Alice. What had she been thinking? What kind of men did she think Kendra dated?

One hand tugged the hem of her body-fitting blue dress lower down her thighs, while the other tried to juggle her little clutch purse and her phone. She checked to make sure that the bathroom door wasn’t visible to diners, then looked around. One door led to the kitchens, where she could hear men shouting at each other in what she assumed was Chinese (unless Chang of Chang’s Wok and Grill hired Vietnamese cooks); a second door led to what she hoped was the alley. “Score,” she whispered, sticking her head out. She stepped out into the cool air, tugged again at her skirt, glared briefly at the tiny purse Alice had thought was “cute,” and tried again to stuff her phone inside it. Nope. Car keys and lipstick were just all it could handle.

She lifted her head to determine which direction the parking lot was, and she saw an enormous cat watching her solemnly. He was orange, with patches of white, his fur long and fluffy, and he was lying on top of a garbage can as though he lived there. “You’re a big one!” she said, startled at the intelligence in his eyes. He was, in fact, by far the biggest cat she’d ever seen, easily 40 pounds, she guessed. She’d had a cocker spaniel as a child—a nasty biter—and he’d been smaller than this cat.

As she stared at him in appreciation, he jumped down from his perch and began to wind around her legs, purring so loudly she almost expected people to run out of the restaurant to see what was happening. She laughed, leaning down to pet him. He jumped a little, bumping his big head and shoulders against her hand. “I gotta go, buddy,” she murmured, “I’m on the run!” She started toward her car, then realized he was following. “I don’t have any treats, sorry,” she said, torn between petting him and making sure her “date” wasn’t looking out the window.

At her car, she hesitated to open the door, since the cat seemed determined to join her, but she thought she saw Kirian standing up, looking back toward the bathroom. She yanked the door to her Mazda open, and even as she slid behind the wheel, somehow the cat squeezed in past her and settled himself comfortably into the passenger seat. She glanced at him, then grinned and slammed her door. “We’re outta here.”

She started the car, pulled out onto the street, muttering softly to herself about her date. “Oh, crap,” she said suddenly. “I don’t have anything to feed you.” She drove several blocks, turning onto 213 for several blocks, then pulled into a grocery store parking lot, staring at the cat. “I wonder what you like.” She started to get out of the car, pulling again at her too short skirt, then spun suddenly and leaned both hands onto the driver’s seat. The cat stared down her top. “Oooh! I know! There’s a Pet-Mart just up the road! You can go in with me. Maybe you’ll show me what you want.”

The only employee manning the brightly lit Pet-Mart looked about 15, complete with acne and shaggy blond hair that kept falling into his eyes as he ogled Kendra. He trailed behind her, falling back a bit when the cat glared at him. “That’s the biggest damn cat I’ve ever seen. Cat food’s down this aisle. Every kind you could want.”

Kendra watched the cat. He sat back, looking carefully over the items covering the metal shelves. Canned food in every flavor, bagged dry food, even the large tubes that looked like big sausages. Snacks, treats, in every shape a cat might find attractive. He glanced at Kendra as though evaluating her, then sighed softly. Giving a leap, he batted a big paw against a bright yellow bag with colorful letters and a cartoon cat forming the “M.”

Kendra grinned. “I used to buy that stuff for my last kitty.” She cleared her throat and blushed as though she’d just admitted a past boyfriend in front of the new boyfriend.

“How long have you had him?” the sales boy asked.

“He just found me,” she said, smiling again. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

The cat looked up at her and purred loudly. The sales boy said, “Huh. Well, you’ll need some supplies… litter, a litter box, flea stuff, food and water bowl.”

She wandered the store, collecting items here and there, looking to the cat for any indications of what he might prefer, but unlike his clear gesture in the food aisle, he didn’t seem interested now. Kendra was just walking back toward the register, when he dodged into the toy aisle suddenly and swatted a hard blue ball about the size of a baseball. “You want that, buddy? I’ll get that for you.” She tried to interest him in the other toys, but he simply flopped onto his side and hugged the ball, his back legs trying to disembowel it as he chewed at it. Kendra pried it out of his paws, and he followed with a new bounce in his step as they checked out.

Kendra had a small house on the north side of Mt. Tabor, at the edge of the trees, a little cottage painted pale blue with white trim, a small porch, and a neatly cared for lawn. The whole house had hardwood floors, wide moldings, and was furnished in various pieces in black or white wood. The walls were a soothing pale blue green.

The cat immediately settled himself on the brown suede couch, purring happily as Kendra set out his new bowls, filled them, and stowed the supplies she’d bought. The phone rang. “Ah… hi Larry. No, I wasn’t doing anything.” A long pause, listening. She rolled her eyes at the cat. “Fine. If you think it’s necessary. I can give you an hour, but then I have stuff—Okay.”

She sighed. “It’s always something with him.” She plopped down on the couch with a microwave dinner and turned on the TV.

“Oh! I forgot—you need a name.” She grinned at him around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese. Swallowing quickly, she stared blankly at the TV. “I know exactly what I want to call you.” She put her food down and pulled him onto her lap. He rolled onto his back happily, rubbing his head against her leg as she rubbed his wide tummy. “There’s a story I’ve always loved about a mortal who was stolen by the fairies. He was a knight named Tamlin who was a favorite of the Faerie Queen. One day, he met a mortal woman in the forest, and the two fell in love. He told her the secret to winning him from the Faerie Queen, so the mortal girl hid along the roadside on the night of Samhain and waited. As the fairies rode past, the girl leaped out of hiding and threw her arms around Tamlin.

“The Faerie Queen turned him into various forms, including an enormous dragon that hissed in the girl’s face and threatened her with its teeth, but she held on and wouldn’t let go. The battle went on all night. As the sun rose from behind the mountain, the Faerie Queen and her people vanished, and Tamlin transformed back into a man. The two were married and lived… of course… happily ever after.”

Kendra blinked tears from her eyes, looking down at the cat, who was now watching her so seriously it seemed that he had understood every word. His eyes were the clearest, brightest green she thought she’d ever seen. “Isn’t that a beautiful story? The moral is that when you find true love, you have to hang on with all your might, no matter what happens.” She wiped her face, went back to her food, and became absorbed in the sitcom that was on. “Someday,” she muttered.

The doorbell rang. “And today is not it.” She opened the door to a slender man with thin-rimmed glasses, even thinner brown hair, and a rather sharp face. “Hi, Larry.”

“Kendra.” He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, and she turned quickly away, pretending not to notice. “I brought the proofs. I hope you can help me straighten out this mess.”

They both worked for a local publishing company, assigned to manage their local magazine, marketed toward the more affluent of Portland’s denizens. “Can I get you anything? I was just in the middle of dinner.”

“It seems early for dinner. I was hoping to take you out—“

Kendra turned her back on her guest, shooting a wink at the cat. “Oh, I’m sorry. Well, this way will be quicker. Like I said, I have stuff I need to get done.”

“Sure, sure.” Larry laid his briefcase on the coffee table, spreading out several pages of an article on wineries in the area. They were doing a focus on McMinnville. “Well, I just don’t like the layout, and I can’t figure out why. I was hoping you could apply your special talent to the problem.” He smiled flirtatiously at her.

The cat sat up, looking over the pages as though he was interested. As Kendra leaned forward, Larry looked down at her ass, actually leaning back to get a better view. The cat growled low in his throat. Both Larry and Kendra started. “I’ve never heard him do that,” she said, surprised. She noticed that he was glaring at Larry, and she giggled. “He doesn’t seem to like you.”

“I don’t remember you having a cat,” Larry said, clearly irritated.

Kendra focused on the layout. “I think you need a couple more shots of vineyards. Really, when people read about wineries, they don’t just want to look at bottles of wine or happy people enjoying it; they want to see the landscape.” She straightened, grabbing her food again and shoveling it into her mouth. She spoke through a mouthful. “Call the photographer, find out if he has some beautiful shots of grapes curving away from the camera in rows, with rolling hills in the background. If not, send him back out to take some. Shorten the story if you have to, to make room. I’d get rid of this shot,” she said, tapping one of a tasting room full of happy people. “There’s nothing appealing about this one. If want something similar, try a different shot. Make sure that you can see more of the room, more of the décor, and fewer people.”

Larry smiled at her, reaching out to stroke her back. “I knew you could fix this! It’ll be one of our best features this month.”

Kendra smiled tightly at him and rose to take her plastic plate to the kitchen. As she poured herself a glass of ice tea, Larry ogled her legs. Again, Tamlin growled, standing up to stare the man in the face. Larry jumped back and stood up. Kendra stood behind the counter between the living room and kitchen. “Well, thanks for getting that straightened out. It was good of you to go out of your way to stop by.”

Larry spread his hands. “No problem! It’s never out of my way to come see you.”

She smiled politely. “Here, let me help you gather these,” she said, coming around the counter to collect the pages and put them back into the briefcase. Larry’s hand came out, almost as if on its own, to touch the curve of her back, and Tamlin hissed. Again, Larry jumped, stepping back. Kendra snapped the briefcase shut and handed it to him. “I don’t want to be rude, but I really have some things I’ve got to get done. I sure appreciate your dedication to this project. Let me know how it goes with the photographer.” She walked to the door, holding it open.

Distracted with watching the cat, Larry took the briefcase, muttered, “Sure, sure,” then went out. Kendra shut the door. He stood on the porch for a moment, as if he might knock again, then slowly he turned and went down the porch steps and to his car. Kendra stood unmoving, watching until his car disappeared.

She went limp against the door. “Dammit! If I had known he’d be over here so quickly, I would’ve changed the minute I got home. Smooth move, Kendra. Shit… he probably thought I was dressed this way for him.” She glared down at her tight, very short dress. “Crap. I probably just undid all the work I’ve done to try to discourage him.” She shuddered and looked at Tamlin. “You… are a Godsend. Thank you! You’re like a shield between me and the bad guys!” she laughed. Pulling off her heels, she straightened up the house, righting the couch pillows, straightening a couple of photographs of herself with friends, putting her glass in the dishwasher. She patted Tamlin’s new pet bed. “I hope you’ll be comfy, buddy. I’m off to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Tamlin watched the bedroom door shut, heard an electric toothbrush, a couple of thumps, then all was quiet. He turned and gazed out the glass front door, watching the sun set. As the landscape grew darker, he heard a thud outside the kitchen window and went to look out. There stood Larry, creeping slowly around the side of the house, rising up on his toes to see in the bedroom window. Tamlin tapped sharply on the glass. Larry gasped, stumbling backward. For a moment, his eyes locked with Tamlin’s, and then he was sprinting away toward the trees.

#

At 5:20 pm, Kendra was home from work. She slammed the door, threw her briefcase and sweater on the floor, peeled off her pumps, and shouted, “That man is such a creep!” She peeled off her khaki work skirt, unbuttoning her blouse on her way to her bedroom. She tossed these onto the floor at the foot of the bed and rummaged through her dresser, pulling out a pair of green shorts and a white tank top. She saw Tamlin watching her from the bed, and she flopped down next to him. “Come here,” she said softly, drawing him up to her face. She cuddled him close, taking comfort in the softness of his orange fur and the deep rumble in his throat. They lay together on the bed, both staring at the ceiling.

“He’s just so weird, Tamlin. Today, he asks me about my date yesterday, then he makes a snide remark about did I take the guy home, did I have a good time. It was disgusting. How did he even know I had a date yesterday? Nobody knew but Alice. Alice and Kirian. What a name.” She let out a cry of frustration, and Tamlin reached across her with one big paw, resting it on her stomach as if to comfort her. “Like it’s any of his business. I had to flat out tell him I’m NOT INTERESTED. But I don’t think it did any good. He seems… awfully focused on me.”

She sat up, pulling on her clothes. “It’s like, everything is about getting my attention. Like last night, coming over here.” She padded into the kitchen, pulling a chicken breast out of the fridge and putting a pan on to heat. “Well, that’s not going to happen again.” She smiled down at the cat. “If he comes anywhere near here, you have my permission to scratch his eyes out.”

Tamlin purred loudly.

It was a nice evening, just the two of them. Kendra shared her chicken alfredo with him, they watched some TV, then Kendra went to bed early again, as the sun set. She liked to go for a run before work, so she didn’t like to stay up too late.

As the valley grew dark, Tamlin prowled around the small house restlessly. He finally stopped, pausing by the kitchen window, back where he wouldn’t be seen. He lost track of time, daydreaming as he waited. Just as he would have given up and gone back to the couch, a figure crept out of the trees. As he watched, a slender man with thinning hair made his way slowly and carefully across the manicured lawn, edging up to the house. Larry peered in through the living room window, lowered his head, crept around the side of the house and disappeared.

Tamlin moved to the bedroom door, listening for all he was worth. Slowly, as silently as possible, he turned the handle, peeking inside. Kendra lay on her side, back to the window, her breath rhythmic. Tamlin moved into the room, moving over to the window on the north side of the room. A shadow rose up. Tamlin darted forward, threw back the curtain and glared into Larry’s face. The man’s mouth opened comically, and he fell backward, scrambling on his ass until he could get his feet underneath him. As before, he sprinted for the trees. It was all Tamlin could do not to burst out laughing. He glanced quickly at the bed, but Kendra hadn’t moved, so he backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Tamlin looked out the west window. A figure stood just within the trees, watching the house. Fighting an almost overwhelming urge to chase him, Tamlin forced himself to move in front of the window, staring at Larry in challenge. The figure backed up and vanished into the trees.

“Oh my gosh, that’s a big cat,” Alice said, coming in through the door. Her blond hair was cut in a pageboy, and she wore her usual khaki shorts with a t-shirt, this time a bright orange one declaring fealty to Oregon State. Tamlin purred loudly at first sight, rubbing against her legs. She leaned down, stroking his back and fondling his ears. “I just love him. Where did you get him?”

“In an alley behind Chang’s.”

Alice choked. “Seriously? You know, that wasn’t at all nice of you. Kirian was really hurt.”

“I don’t think anyone or anything can hurt Kirian, with maybe the exception of his own reflection, should he detect a flaw.”

“He’s not that bad.”

Kendra snorted. “Just don’t set me up on any more blind dates. I’m done. The right guy is just going to have to find me.”

The two women curled up on the couch, talking for hours. Tamlin began to worry, watching the sun sinking toward the horizon. Finally, Alice expressed a need to get home to her boyfriend, but she hesitated at the door. “Kendra, I don’t know if I should tell you, but Larry was talking about you in the break room.”

“I’m getting sick of that man. What did he say?”

“He says you have a boyfriend, some guy living with you. He sounded really bitter about it. I told him he shouldn’t be gossiping about other people, and he just sneered at me. Why would he suddenly start spreading nasty rumors about you?”

Kendra shook her head slowly. “He asked me the other day if I had ‘enjoyed my date,’ but I didn’t get how he knew I went out… if you can call it that. I told him as bluntly as I could without calling him names that I’m not his type. I told him I’m just not interested, but apparently, that wasn’t enough.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “The worst part is, I thought he and I got along pretty well. We used to work well together. Now, I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s creepy, Kendra, the way he talks about you, like you were his girlfriend and cheated on him. Watch your back, okay?”

They hugged, and Kendra stood in the open doorway watching her friend climb into her little car and drive away. She closed the door slowly, then turned and slowly sat down on the floor, hanging her head. Tamlin realized with a shock that she was crying silently. “Mrrrowww?” He bounded to her, rubbing back and forth against her legs and torso, patting her on the head until she laughed through her tears.

She opened her arms and held him close, crying into his fur. “What am I going to do, Tamlin?”

After a while, she pushed herself to her feet and went to make dinner. “Do you like lasagna?” she asked, sniffling a little. Tamlin purred as loudly as he could, winding around her legs until it seemed he was getting in the way. He retreated to the back of the couch, watching her. She poured a glass of red wine and turned on the stereo, listening to the Black Keys. Before long, she had shaken her dark mood and was dancing and singing a little as she made dinner.

That evening, as she settled on the couch, Tamlin’s only focus was her. Would she cry again? He lay with his head in her lap, and she stroked his ears, running a finger gently up the bridge of his nose. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said softly. “I was so lonely. I’m so tired of being alone.” Tamlin purred, gazing up at her. She closed her eyes, continuing to stroke him. Abruptly, she froze, her eyes flying open, and she looked down at him in shock. “Holy SHIT!” Her hands slowly lifted from his head, hovering above him as though she were surrendering to a gunman. “Who… who are you?”

Tamlin felt a rush of ice through his body. Glancing down, he realized he was stark naked… and fully human. “Oh no.” He sat up quickly, grabbed a throw pillow and covered his groin. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

She stared. “You lost track of time,” she repeated numbly. Her eyes fired. “Who the hell are you?” She stood up. “Who ARE you? You were just a cat—just a minute ago, a second ago—“

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He watched her anxiously. She slowly lowered her hands. Looking blankly toward the kitchen, she picked up her glass and poured herself more wine. “I’m sorry.”

She gulped it. “Hang on.” She disappeared into the bedroom, and Tamlin worried that she was calling the police, but she came back holding a large t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts that looked like they might actually fit. Gratefully, he pulled the clothes on. She poured another glass of wine and took a large swallow. “I thought your hips looked about the same size as mine.”

She came to sit on the couch—at the other end, but at least she looked calm. One thin brow rose. She really was rather beautiful, he thought. “So… why were you a cat?”

“You’re taking this awfully well.”

She grinned, but he could see her hands shaking. “You’re awfully cute. And I loved you as a cat. I assume you must be an okay guy if you make such a great cat.”

He sighed. “Yeah.” She was waiting expectantly, so he slowly told her of the night he’d been cursed, of the crime his “friends” had committed, of his own guilty participation by not paying any attention to what his “friends” were doing. “It hasn’t been that bad, actually,” he said. “People have treated me really well. I guess because they like giant orange cats.”

“It does help that you’re so attractive.” She blushed then, her eyes flickering down, then back up at him again. Was she flirting? “So you’ve been a cat by day for how long?”

“I think it’s been about nine months.”

“And those other guys? Are they all cats too?”

Tamlin shook his head. “I don’t know. I have no idea what happened to them. When I woke up the next morning as a cat, I took off. I ran for days, confused, scared. Nights I tried to steal clothes and just… hide. I usually go back the next night and get them from where I hid them just before dawn, but this time…”

Her eyebrow rose again, and she was watching him closely with those beautiful hazel eyes. “This time?”

He cleared his throat and felt himself blushing. The curse of red hair and fair skin. “This time, I met a beautiful woman who I just couldn’t resist. I had to follow you. I don’t know why.”

She was blushing too. “Well, thanks.” She looked down at her glass and realized it was empty. “Would you like some wine?”

He shook his head. They stared at each other for a moment, then stared aimlessly around the room. She finally sighed and tilted her head at him. “You are… beautiful yourself. As a human, I mean,” she said quietly. He was just opening his mouth to try to answer, when she slapped her hands on her thighs and stood up. “Let’s go get you some clothes, buy some more groceries—this explains what happened to the brick of cheese I thought I had and that summer sausage—and we’ll figure out what to do.”

He gaped at her. “Just like that? You don’t even know me.”

“You helped me. Let me help you.” She smiled, charming him.

“Helped? Oh, you mean Larry?” Tamlin tensed. “There’s something you should know about Larry.”

“Tell me on the way to the store.”

#

“He’s WHAT?!”

Tamlin waited, his arms folded over his chest. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“That… creeper!” She shuddered so hard the car swerved.

They rode in silence, entered the store in silence. Tamlin didn’t speak until he had to: she was buying men’s deodorant and shampoo. “I’m staying with you?” he asked quietly.

“Who else ya gonna stay with?” she said, grinning. She stopped suddenly, with the cart behind her, and looked up at him with those lovely hazel eyes. “Maybe I’m nuts,” she said, her wide mouth quirking in a wry smile, “but I really like you. I feel comfortable with you.” Her voice lowered, and she flushed a little. “I feel safe with you.”

Tamlin felt his eyes watering. He couldn’t find anything to say. He hoped he wouldn’t give her cause to regret trusting him. “You are safe with me,” he said, finally.

Back at the house, as they put away their purchases, Kendra paused, staring off into space. “Most stalkers choose victims who are alone, no boyfriend, no husband, no male family members. Easy prey. Stalkers are cowards.” She glanced at Tamlin. “He thought I was alone. And I was, until you.”

“And now he thinks you have a really big cat.”

Kendra chuckled. “Tell me something: did he see you when you were in human form?” At his nod, she laughed out loud. “He thinks I have a live in boyfriend. I wondered what the hell he was talking about.” She laughed again.

“Kendra, this isn’t funny. He could be dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, so am I when I’m pissed,” she muttered.

#

They settled into a comfortable routine. Tamlin wasn’t entirely happy with Kendra being out of his sight during the day, but he had no choice. And Larry couldn’t know that Tamlin was the man in the apartment, or that he was only human at night. Kendra began watching with him, after dark, but they didn’t catch sight of Larry again, if he was indeed still stalking her. Kendra verified that he was still griping at work about her “affair” with a mystery man. People were beginning to avoid him, irritated at his behavior. Larry seemed to sense that he was losing support, so he finally shut up. For a while, things seemed to return to normal.

On Saturday, Kendra was relaxing, reading the Oregonian over breakfast, when Tamlin found the article on Paul, one of the guys from a lifetime ago. He felt frozen as he read the story. Paul Stryker, a student at Oregon State University, was found dead Friday morning. As far as police can tell, he had been crushed in a freak accident involving a sculpture at a nearby park. Tamlin shuddered reading the details. Apparently, the welds on the large structure had failed, and the heavy pieces of bronze had fallen on him, one at a time. No one had actually seen it happen, but investigators had reached their conclusions after careful study of the scene of the death. Tamlin moaned as he continued to read. Kendra’s head came up, and she lowered the front page section to watch him. “That looks so weird… a cat reading,” she said laughing.

The story went on to list two other deaths that seemed linked by two common elements: both the other men, Seth Murdock and Mike Renquist, had been roommates of the first victim, students at OSU, and both had died as violently. Seth had been stabbed to death in an alley, and Mike had been killed with a hammer. No suspects had been arrested.

“What is so riveting?” Kendra cried. She grabbed his section and pulled it around to read the article. “Who are these people? Did you know them?” She watched him nod slowly. “Are these… the three from that night?” He nodded. They stared at each other. “So they each died the way they killed those cats.” You will live the life of your victims.

Tamlin paced the kitchen floor, agitated. Did this mean he would die violently too? Was that part of the curse? He’d brought those men into the neighborhood; it was his fault it had happened. If he had paid attention to the kind of people he was partying with… if he had paid more attention to his life, instead of numbing himself with alcohol day after day, how different things might have been. He’d been deaf, dumb, and blind.

#

Tamlin woke to a scream. Kendra wasn’t in the bed beside him. He leaped up, heart pounding, but she was now swearing angrily, so he went into the living area cautiously. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, yanking an empty garbage bag from the box under the sink. Tamlin stared at the open door. A cat’s head lay there, the blank yellow eyes staring at him. Kendra scooped it into the garbage bag and strode out to the garbage can, banging the lid down. She stood for a moment, running a hand through her hair and staring across the yard. “What does this even mean?” she demanded, looking at Tamlin, who stood on the porch, watching and unable to answer. His heart was racing. There was only one person who could’ve done this. Kendra swept past him, back into the house. “I’m taking a shower. I have to get to work.”

As she hugged him goodbye, he felt a shiver of apprehension. Was she taking this seriously enough? Would she be safe at work?

Tamlin dozed in the sun in the front room. He woke to footsteps on the porch. Shattering glass was his only warning. Larry came through the window, already swinging a baseball bat, and Tamlin scrabbled to get out of the way. “Is he here?” Larry screamed. “Is he here? The naked guy? The creep? I’ve got something for him!” He was shaking, his eyes so wide the whites dominated, his lips curled back from his teeth and spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed incoherently at Tamlin, chasing him through the house.

Dishes went flying as Tamlin darted across the drainboard. The bat slammed down on the counter, just missing his tail. Through the small living room, Tamlin dodged past the chair, under the coffee table, and the bat slammed down, shattering the glass. “I’ll kill you,” Larry was panting, his voice low and hoarse now. “Kill you, kill him too.” Tamlin was running wildly, trying to think how he could get away from that bat long enough to turn on him. He remembered the open door—maybe he could lure him into the trees. A blanket came down on top of him, blinding him. Tamlin bit and hissed and clawed, was rewarded with a yelp of pain, and an instant’s loosening of the smothering weight. Somehow he slipped out and was running free.

Kendra came running up the porch as Tamlin ran out, his feet scrabbled for purchase on the gravel as he tried to turn around. She was snarling. “Cat’s out of the bag, Larry!” she shouted, her eyes as wild with rage as his were. “Everybody knows now, what a creep you are.” She took a breath. “Help me!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Help me! He’s going to kill me!” Her cries were at odds with her behavior, though, as she ran toward the house, grabbing the broom beside the door.

Larry raised the bat with a hiss; Kendra drove the broom handle into his stomach. She followed up by bashing him across the temple with it. He grabbed her by the throat, his grip incredible. Tamlin rushed at him, wrapping himself around Larry’s arm and clawing and biting frantically. He heard a strange growling, gargling sound coming from his own throat, mixing with Larry’s scream of pain. Kendra clawed at his eyes. She was free. “Tamlin, get back!”

He jumped free as the bat came down on Larry’s head. It was over.

Kendra stared down at her stalker, breathing hard. She turned and ran outside, throwing up on the lawn as two of her neighbors finally came running. Tamlin heard a siren, and a police car pulled up—a K9 unit. The dog was almost frothing at the mouth, barking at the uproar on the lawn and the smell of blood and brain matter. Tamlin darted under Kendra’s car.

“Ma’am?”

“Kendra, what happened?” her neighbor, Frank, had brought another burly neighbor to see what the screaming was about. “Oh, man, there’s a dead guy in there.”

The policeman spoke into the radio at his collar, ordered the dog to calm, and went up onto the porch. “Ma’am, what happened here?”

Alice pulled up, jumped out of her car. “Kendra!” she cried. “Did you find him?” She saw the body in the doorway. “Oh… oh gross.” She turned to the cop, a little frantic. “This guy has been stalking her! Ask anybody at the office. He’s been talking about her, making up stories about some guy living here. I’ve known Kendra for years, and—“

“Thank you, ma’am, I’ll be wanting a full statement from all of you,” the officer said calmly. He was still talking into his radio. Another siren was coming closer, another police car. Tamlin, eyeing the dog cautiously, came out from under the Mazda, and she lifted him in her arms, holding him close. They were both shaking badly. The policeman looked at them. “Can you tell me what happened, ma’am?”

“I… this guy, Larry, he works… worked with me. He’s been harassing me, showing up here in the middle of the night. Last night, somebody left a cat’s head on my porch. It’s in my garbage can in a black bag. Then this morning, Larry wasn’t at work. He’s always at work. He’s never more than ten feet away from me when we’re at work. And today, he’s gone. He’s always there…” Kendra looked at Alice, who nodded and loudly agreed. “I knew something was wrong, so I came rushing home—I only work 20 minutes away—and here he was, trying to kill Tamlin. He was trying to kill him!”

“Tamlin?”

“The cat. He was chasing my cat with a baseball bat. He broke in, broke the window, broke stuff in my house trying to kill Tamlin. I came in and tried to stop him, and he came after me.” She put a hand to her neck. “He grabbed me by the throat and would have strangled me, but Tamlin saved me. He came running up and started clawing and biting until Larry had to let go. I yanked free and hit him with the bat.” She looked like she might be sick again. She buried her face in Tamlin’s fur. “You saved me. You saved me.” Tamlin shook his head in denial. He’d been pretty helpless.

“We heard her screaming for help,” Frank offered, and the guy with him nodded.

The officer was making notes. “I’ll need you to come down to the station. We’ll put the cat in a shelter for now.”

“NO!” Kendra cried. “I mean… he can’t go to a shelter.”

“I’ll take him,” Alice said.

Kendra looked into Tamlin’s face. “But it’ll be dark in a few hours.”

“You won’t be at the station that long, ma’am,” the officer said quietly. “I shouldn’t say this, but it looks like a clear case of self-defense. I’ll need to collect more information, and the scene will have to be cordoned off. Is there someone you can stay with?”

“She can stay with me.” Alice went to Kendra’s side and put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. This shouldn’t have happened. We should have paid more attention to Larry’s behavior. We just didn’t realize how absolutely nuts he was.”

“Tamlin knew,” Kendra said softly. “He knew from the first moment he met him.”

#

Hours later, when all the official hoops had been jumped through, Alice drove Kendra and Tamlin to the store. Tamlin waited in the car patiently, perfectly happy to avoid shopping. The women climbed back into the car, Alice complaining, “Why won’t you tell me why you needed those men’s clothes?”

“Because it’ll be dark soon,” Kendra laughed. For a moment, she seemed to fade away, and it looked like she felt sick again, but she shook it off when Tamlin climbed into her lap. She fondled his big head. “There was a story in the paper a couple days ago, about these three guys who died really violently. They were all from Oregon State. Isn’t that something?” She seemed to be talking to Alice, but her eyes were on the cat. “The article went on, on the next page, and mentioned a fourth guy, a guy everyone seemed to really like, a guy named Nick who disappeared after the three guys killed his neighbor’s cats.” Tamlin looked away and started to purr. “The neighbor said she was sorry he was gone. She said that wherever he went, she hoped he would have a good life.”

Alice glanced at them, confused.  

“And by the way, mister,” Kendra said sharply, “do NOT spray Alice’s front door like you did mine. We’re gonna have to work on that impulse.”