Cat Tales 7
I can’t take him with me,” she said. “I can’t get him out of the closet."
"He’s a cat, not a wild mountain lion."
"You try it.”
The closet wasn't very big, just a garden-variety recess in the wall with sliding doors that had a tendency to fall off the track and onto your head. I turne d on the hall light to see into the back of the closet. Just as I caught sight of the furry shadow with glowing ambe r eyes in the far corner, the light went out. I jumped and screamed. Reflex. “I told you so,” Marla said.
“Does that always happen?” I reached into a box and pulled out a lightbulb. “Wow! This box is full of lightbulbs.”
I centered the step stool Marla brought me under the ceiling light, climbed up, and replaced the bulb, dropping the burned-out bulb into Ma rla’s hands. “Every single time.” She sighed. “It’s not scary really, just strange, and it’s only this light.” She slid the closet door shut. “Mr. Hyde came with the apartment, and now he’s yours."
"I wanted a pet, but I was thinking a kitten."
"You could still have a kitten, but Mr. Hyde stays.” I glanced back at the closet. “Does he ever come out of the re? How do you feed him?"
"Put the food out. He’ll eat.”
Marla picked up the box of lightbulbs and headed for the door. “He prefers Tender Vittles.” As if unable to make up her mind, Marla hesitated at the door, looked down at the box, and set it back down. “You’ll need these,” she said, and left, leaving me with a cat. A black cat.
I shook my head and smiled. Maybe he’ d be like Shadow, who used to lie in front of the keyboa rd while I worked and sleep on the pillow next to me, whe n he wasn’t stretched out across my neck, apparently unaware he was no longer a kitten and weighed half a ton. Afte r unpacking the dishes and putting the m away, I checked the ref rigerator. Empty. I needed food; so did Mr. Hyde. Right, Tender Vittles. Maybe they we re on sale.
Over the next few days the food disappeared, but Mr. Hyde made not a single appearance. Three bulbs burned out bef ore I stoppe d looking at the corner where the shadows were darkest and two large yellow orbs blinke d up at me. Clearly, he wasn’t starving, but I began to long for the feel of soft fur and the sound of conte nte d purring. But Mr. Hyde evidently wasn’t the kind of cat that slept on desks or pillows. I gave up trying to coax him out and enjoyed my new apartme nt with the fireplace in the bedroom.
A week later, Mr. Hyde came out of the closet. I had just stretched the kinks out of my back and was settling in for two more hours of work. Just as I put on the headphones and settled my fingers on the keyboa rd, I jumped straight up out of my chair, with Mr. Hyde’s claws firmly anchored to my backside. He dropped off and landed softly on the floor as I looked at the blood on my fingertips. He stared up at me, golden eyes all innocence, and meowed. He was coal black, without a single white hair anywhere, with eyes a rich, clear amber. He was beautiful. As I bent down to pe t him, Mr. Hyde meowed again, got up, walked to the door, and stoppe d to look over his shoulder. He wante d me to follow him.
I did. Right into the kitchen.
His water bowl was empty, and only two pieces of kibble were left in his bowl. He sat down and waited, silently and patiently looking up at me. I obliged and filled his dishes. Mr. Hyde put out a paw and tippe d over the bowl. He looked up at me. I filled the bowl, and he tipped it ove r again. I mopped up the wate r. Before I put down anothe r bowl of water for him to spill, on a hunch I washed out the bowl, filled it, and set it back down. Mr. Hyde drank delicately and then tucked into his food. I was dismissed.
Over the next few weeks, betwee n sudden attacks of lancing claws in my backside and Mr. Hyde’s yowls when I forgot he was lying behind my chair and slid back, catching his tail fur in the wheels, which was beginning to look quite bald in pla ces, we settled into a comfortable working relationship. He even venture d to sleep at the foot of the be d on the unoccupied side, but wouldn’ t move any closer. For a year we rubbed along very comfortably, or at least he did, since I couldn’t figure out how to sink my claws into his tende r hide. But the n he couldn’ t roll his chair over my tail fur and leave me bald, either. Our relationship worked, except when I had guests. A knock on the door sent Mr. Hyde skidding across the tile floor into the closet, pas sing through the closed doors as if by magic.
My friends thought I had lost my mi nd, leaving out food and water for a phantom cat. I could never coax Mr. Hyde out of the closet, and the bulbs kept blowing out when I opene d the closet door to prove he was down in the corne r behind a box of Christmas decorations. I suppose it was no weirder than some of my friends’ pets, or relationships. Then the time came for me to move again. “You’ll love Dallas,” my boyfriend said over the phone, “and I know you love me."
"I don’t want to move to Texas,” I said, glancing out the window at the trees and the little green shoots showing between patc hes of melting snow. I’d planted crocuses and tulips the fall before, and soon the roses would be in full bloom. “It doesn’t snow down there, and it’s hot and dusty."
"We get snow, occasionally.” He sighed. “Don’t you want to ma rry me?” I did, but . . . “Yes."
"All right then. How soon can you get here?”
“A month."
"That’s too long. I miss you."
"A month. I nee d to make arrangement s, get some things into storage, pack, and . . .” I looked around. The re woul dn’t be a fireplace in the bedroom in Dallas. “A month.”
How would I get Mr. Hyde out of the closet? I didn’t want to leave him behind. I handed the keys to Phillip. “Well, that’s it. You know how to work the propane heate r, and the plumber will be by to fix the sink tomorrow. The truck should be here at about four o’clock to pick up the bookcases.” I picked up the box of lightbulbs and handed the m to Phillip. “You’ll need these, too."
"Why would I need that many lightbulbs?"
"For the hall light near the closet.”
Phillip chuckled. “Oh, the phantom cat."
"He likes Tender Vittles, and make sure to wash his bowls every time you feed him."
"No one has seen your cat."
"And yet the food keeps disappearing.” I took his arm and led him to the closet, carrying the step stool with me.
Opening the step stool and centering it under the ceiling light, I held out a bulb. “Go on. Open the door and look inside.” Phillip reached for the door. “Be careful, or it will . . .” The door fell on his head. “It does that sometimes.” Phillip rubbed his forehead. “Thanks for telling me. Anything else I should know?” He proppe d the door up against the wall. “You’ll see."
"Will it hurt?” I gestured to the clos et. “See for yourself.” Phillip opened the door and looke d whe re I pointe d. “Hey,” he said, “there’s something in the re.” He’d spotted the glowing amber eyes in the darkest shadow in the corne r. “It’s a cat.” The hall light went out. “That’s Mr. Hyde. He g oes with the apartment."
"I don’ t want a cat.” Placing the lightbulb in his hand and urging him to climb the stool, I nodded. “He’ll get used to you.” He handed me the burned-out bul b, and I tossed it into the trash on my way out the door. “One more thing, Phillip. Never sit with your
back exposed."
"Why?"
"You’ll figure it out.”