Cat Tales 30
I jiggled the flag key in the lock. As I cajoled the door into opening, I hea rd the disgruntled me ow of May’s cat, Cleo, demanding breakfast, demanding the wonde rful old lady whose lap he usually occupied. I glanced at the carved redwood sign above the door, May and Cleo, and shook my head ove r the way my mothe r-in-law adored this particular cat.
When the door finally opened, I asked, “Are you hung ry, Cleo?” and laughed at the almost human cadence of his reply. I leaned over to scratch behind his ears. A sturdy Siamese/alley cat mix, Cleo’s aristocratic ancestry was evident only in coloring and voice. He fell at my feet and lolled over onto his back. I stroked his stomach and throat before I rose and turne d to the bright kitchen. May’s collection of antique blue -and- white porcelain plates was a splash of color on the walls.
I grabbed a small can of gourme t cat food while Cleo wove figure eights around my jean - clad legs and increased the volume of his demands. I spoone d the elegant fare into his bowl, refilled his special-formula dry food, and replenished his water. Cleo abandoned my legs for his meal, and I returned to the front door to check the mailbox. It contained nothing but a few catalogues and some bills. I’d hoped for something personal, a letter or package, that might shake May from he r lethargy.
The hysterectomy two weeks earlier had gone well. The prognosis was good; the tiny spot of cancer had not spread beyond the ute rus. The doctor assured the family that, even at eighty-seven, May should be up and around by now. But she lay in bed, inert, unable to rouse the slightest bit of enthusiasm for living. When she was transferred to a convalescent home, she sank deeper into despair. The entire family rallied to bring back the sparkle to those aged eyes. We made and delivered the juicy apple pie she loved. She thanke d us and picked at it without enthusiasm. We sought out the latest novel by her favorite author, Rosamund Pilcher. It lay unread on he r nightstand. We offere d to bring her kni tting, so she could finish the lovely pink mohair sweater she had started. She shook he r head. Great grandc hildren toddled in with ribbons in their hair and home made get-well cards clutched in chubby little fingers. Nothing worked. Days passed, and May became more and more listless. The doctor was as puzzled as we were.
As I turned from the door, mail in hand, Cleo leapt gracefully to the top of the bookcase. He stared at me, awaiting the attention that he considered his due. I sank into the flowered chintz wing chair beside the telephone, and Cleo jumped to the floor and then up into my lap. He s ettled in with an appreciative rumble. I dialed the convalescent home. “Please connect me with May Cooke in room 222,” I said. After the third ring, my mothe r-in-law’s usually crisp voice came on the line. “Hello.” She seemed distant, half - asleep.
“Good morning, May."
"Oh, hello, dear.” Her voice faded off. “How are you today?” I tried to be chee rful but sounded stride nt even to my own ears. “About the same."
"I was calling to see if there was something you’d like. How about a strawberry tart from the Fre nch Bakery? How about your knitting basket? You could work on that beautiful pink sweater."
"No . . . nothing.” There was an odd resignation in her voice. To me it said, I may never eat a strawbe rry tart or knit again. I didn’ t know what to say.
“How’s Cleo?” May asked. “Purring loudly at the moment, because he’s in my lap. But he misses you.” I scratched Cleo’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes in pleasure. “Just as long as he’s okay."
"He’s fine. I’ll be by for a visit as soon as I water your geraniums. They’re at their peak of bloom. Gorgeous."
"That’s nice."
"Good-bye, May. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
After hanging up, I let my head fall against the back of the chair. Cleo kneaded my jeans and purred. I felt helpless, unable to do a thing for this woma n I loved so much. I knew that if nothing intervened, May would simply fade away. Finally, I set Cleo on the floor and walked purposely out the front door. Candy-striped geraniums hung in baskets from the eaves and tumbled ove r the railings on the porc h. I watered them and then re turne d to the living room, whe re Cleo had curled up in the pink mohair in May’s knitting basket. “No, Cleo!” I said sharply. “May would have a fit if she saw you in there.” I tipped the basket, and Cleo reluctantly crawled out. I went out the back door into the small, enclosed yard. May’s neglected herbs hung their heads and the roses drooped. I made the rounds with the hose. The cool splash of running water and the serene beauty of my mothe r-in-law’s garden usually refreshed me, but not today.
I was more distraught whe n I returne d to the house to find Cleo once again snuggled in the pink wool. I took two quick steps toward the cat, intending to shoo him out and to put the basket away in the closet. But as I leaned closer, I was captured by the soft rumble of his purr. He slumbe red peacefully, curled into a tight ball of sable and cream fur. Ever so gently, I eased two skeins of fuzzy pink mohair from beneath Cleo and spread them over hi m, concealing him from all but the closest inspection. Then I hooked my arm through the handle of the basket and ope ned the front door, a relieved smile beginning to tug at the corne rs of my mouth. Ten minutes later I slipped into the convalescent home, past the aides at the desk, and carried the baske t down the long hall to May’s room. From he r nest of pillows, her curly white hair limp around he r pale face, May frowned as I set the basket on her bed.
“I don’t feel like knitting,” she said. Cleo stirred at the sound of May’s voice. He poked his head from beneath the pink wool, tumbling a skein onto the bed. He inspected May and the room and the n leapt gracefully from the basket onto the be dcove r. After exploring the bed, he composed himself in May’s lap with a satisfied purr.
“What will the nurses say?” May inquired, her fingers stroking the soft fur of Cleo’s neck.
“They’ll never know. I smuggled him in. I’ll just smuggle him out again.” I heaved a theatrical sigh. “I brought him because he was so lonely without you. He needs you, you know.” Her face softened. She was near tears. Once on the subject, I couldn’t seem to stop.
“He’s not eating much. I’ve tried every brand of gourme t cat food. He turns up his nose at them all.” May clutched Cleo to her chest. “I thought you said he was fine.”
“I was trying to reassure you so you wouldn’t worry.” I shrugged, hoping my karma wouldn’t suffer from little white lies. “I decided you should know the truth.”
When I departed with Cleo in the knitting basket, my mothe r-in-law sat propped upright in the bed. She was ringing the nurse. That afternoon May informed he r doctor that she was needed at home to care for her cat. By evening she had badgered him into releasing her the following morning. She finished the pink mohair sweater at home with Cleo purring in her lap.