Peculiar Tales (8 page)

FOR I AM A JEALOUS GOD

I
just love my little pussycats. I don’t care what the neighbors say. The little darlings have been my only comfort since Desmond passed away eleven years ago—twelve years come the day after this next Candlemas. And twelve kitties is not so many for a house as big as this one—they keep the rooms from seeming so awfully empty. I’ve just never been able to bring myself to shut the rooms up...it seems too much like closing a grave.

I don’t really see much of the rooms anymore anyway, of course, since it’s gotten so hard these days to get up and down the stairs. In fact, there’s not much reason for me to ever go anywhere but the kitchen, bath and parlor. I surely never go into the cellar any more. There’s no way I could trust these rickety old legs to those even more rickety old stairs. Besides, there’s no reason to go down there...I’m afraid there may be mice, squirrels or even, God forbid, rats. Of course, I realize that a rodent would have to have taken leave of what little senses a rodent must have to even consider wandering into this house. But they do, sometimes. I’ve seen them. Perhaps even mice get depressed and suicidal. I wouldn’t know about such things, of course. I don’t like to think about mice. They give me the fantods.

My friends think my kitty cats are a terrible waste of money, but they are not, not at all. Why, I hardly notice the expense, it’s so little. I mean, I receive a small income from Desmond’s pension and have nothing else to spend it on so why not my kitties? The house is mine free and clear, my health is adequate and I don’t require much to live on. I’ve never been a big eater. I have no children, so what else do I have to spend my money on?

Besides, it’s the very least I could do for my little friends. It’s small recompense for the companionship they give me. They really
are
devoted to me, no matter what anyone may tell you about cats. I don’t know about anyone
else’s
pussycats, but
my
little darlings wouldn’t know what do without me. They follow me everywhere, like a flotilla of little ships, if flotilla is the word I want, their tails sticking up like masts...but without sails, of course. And when I’m feeling poorly, which, in spite of my general good health, is bound to happen as it might to anyone my age, they lie in bed with me. The darlings can sense that I’m not well and bravely try their best to comfort me. Of course, there’s little they can do beyond curling up alongside me or sit on my lap, purring as loudly as they can to bring surcease to my discomfort.

As I was saying, I require so little for myself that it’s no sacrifice to spend the remainder of my income on my loyal friends. After all, how could I not treat them as well as they try to treat me? They do the best they can, given their limited facilities, so the least I can do is my best for them in return. Besides, as my nosy neighbors don’t seem to realize, canned cat food purchased by the case is surprisingly inexpensive. Much the same can be said for the occasional fresh fish or the many other delicacies of which my feline darlings are so fond. They drink scarcely a couple of quarts of milk every week. Every Sunday, of course, they share a pound of ground beef. As for myself, I get by very nicely on toast, peanut butter, tea and my vitamins, which I take religiously since one cannot be too careful about one’s health.

Emira Mae Slate, my neighbor to the north, is a perfect example of how little people understand or, for that matter, even try to understand. Not that I mean to say anything against Elmira Mae, understand, she is a decent enough soul as such go and I really have nothing I can say against her. Yet she’s never made even the slightest effort to understand my situation. “How can you live like you do?” she asks me at every opportunity. “Shut up in that dreary old house with all those filthy animals!” See what I mean? Filthy animals indeed!

Just this morning, in fact, Emira Mae was over—entirely uninvited, of course, as usual. She probably realizes that I would make some excuse if she called first. If I had a telephone, that is, which I do not. And what do I need a telephone for anyway? I never leave the house. The boy comes from the grocery every Thursday morning to see what I need, I pay my water and gas and electric bills by mail, I do not own a car (and would not know how to drive one if I did), so you can see that I am wholly self-sufficient and that Elmira’s concerns are entirely without basis.

Anyway, Emira was over this morning, as I said, bringing me some fresh-baked bread, half a leftover lamb casserole and some preserves. She does this because she thinks I am starving, but she is a superb cook so I certainly appreciated her gifts regardless of the misguided motives that may have inspired them. As soon as she stepped through my kitchen door, I saw her nostrils flaring to twice their normal width—and I don’t think anyone could honestly deny that Emira already has the nostrils of a horse.

“My dear Petunia, I simply don’t understand
how
you can stand the...well, the
odor
of these
dread
ful animals!”

“They are not dreadful, Elmira! They are my dearest friends!”

“Dearest friends, indeed! Why, if the health department ever got in this place...”

“Well, they
won’t
. I’m perfectly happy living just as I do—you know that as well as I do!”

“Well, I think it’s just a scandal. And you know I’m only speaking to you as a friend who has your best interests at heart.”

“Oh, I know you do. I’m sorry I was so snippish. It was certainly very kind of you to bring these things over for me. The boysenberry preserves look delicious. They will be wonderful on my toast tonight.”

“That’s just what I mean, Petunia. The way you
eat!
Toast! No one can live on a diet of toast and tea!”

“And peanut butter, Elmira, don’t forget the peanut butter. Peanut butter is just chock-a-block with nutrition.”

“It should be
you
eating well, Petunia, not those...those
darn
cats of yours. I know you can afford it.”

“Oh, but Elmira, you just don’t understand! I’m over eighty years old and never leave the house. I don’t go anywhere or do anything—I don’t even go upstairs anymore. Tea and toast and peanut butter suit me just fine. But my pussycats need their vitamins and minerals and protein and, and, and all of those other nourishing things—
you
know. What does an old lady like me need who doesn’t do much more than breathe regularly? Besides, they enjoy their treats so much! How could I disappoint them?”

“They are selfish little opportunists! If you stopped spoiling them the way you do they’d disappear so fast you wouldn’t believe it!”

“That’s not true at all! Why, my little darlings are devoted to me!”

“Hmph! Like a cat has ever cared about anyone beyond wondering when they’re going to get their next handout.”

“Would you care for some tea, Elmira? I have peanut butter and saltines to go with it.”

“That’s very kind of you, Petunia, but no, thanks. I must get over to the church hall—it’s quilting bee Tuesday, you know. Now there’s a good idea, Petunia—you should come over some time, meet the girls. Be good for you to get out of this old house now and then, meet some new people.”

I told Elmira that I would think about doing that sometime, though, of course, I had no intention of ever doing any such thing. It wasn’t really a lie because I
did
think about it...just for a couple of seconds to keep my conscience clear. Elmira simply doesn’t understand. How could I leave my babies all alone? What if something were to
happen
? What if they needed me and I wasn’t there? I know this sounds awfully silly, but it
isn’t
. Last summer I went to a lecture at the public library given by a gentlemen who’d been to Peru, with color slides, and when I got home I discovered that Captain Wow had gotten himself all tangled up in an extension cord and was already half throttled to death when I found him. Why, if I hadn’t gotten home when I did goodness knows what might have happened.

So you see what I mean.

Although I hate the idea of having to go down to the cellar—and I’ve told you why—I’m afraid I must. I searched the house for my boxed set of chromium-plated crochet hooks before I remembered they were in the old red trunk in the cellar. Not that I needed them—my fingers are much too arthritic to do anything fiddly like crocheting any more—no...I thought perhaps I could talk the grocery boy into taking them over to Mr. Guildersleeve’s pawn shop. I receive plenty to live on from Desmond’s pension, of course...but there’s not much left over for extras. And I had seen something wonderful in the latest cat catalog: a mechanical mouse I was certain my precious kittens would just utterly adore.

I hadn’t gone down to the cellar for years and if it weren’t for thinking of the delighted
meows
I would soon be hearing I would’ve turned back at the top set. The sight of those rickety wooden steps disappearing into the gloom was daunting. Somehow the single fly-specked light bulb seemed only to make things darker.

I took a deep breath, grasped the handrail and started down, trying to concentrate on each step and not think about the necessary return journey—which I would have to deal with soon enough. The cellar was a vast, dark, gloomy cavern and I didn’t like it at all. I felt something furry brush past my ankle and I nearly had a palpitation until I realized it was only Woody, who had followed me down the stairs. I couldn’t help but chastise him because he was sure to get his paws all sooty and his whiskers all tangled up with cobwebs. But when I saw his sweet little expression, I could only smile. What a little darling! He’d surely followed me to make certain I was safe!

I looked around, realizing I had no idea where the old red trunk was. I was reluctant to start poking around in all of those dark corners when I suddenly realized that I wasn’t alone. Chester was rubbing against my leg and, dear me! there was Captain Wow, Wally and Skeeter as well. They weren’t rubbing against my legs, though—they were merely sitting in a half-circle around me, gazing at me quietly with the strangest expression on their sweet little faces. Well, I decided, whatever I might find in the cellar I certainly had little to fear from rats!

I must’ve searched for an hour to no avail. Just about the only place left was the old coal room, which hadn’t been used since the house had been converted to oil heat in 1972.

I unlatched the door and looked in. There was some light because the opening for the coal chute had been converted into a small window. It was tiny chamber, barely larger than a small closet. It was easy to see that the trunk wasn’t there, but I found myself staring nevertheless. It wasn’t much...in fact, at first I dismissed it as a pile of sticks and twigs and other trash...but there was something vaguely familiar about it. I kneeled and took a closer look. It looked something like those little voodoo dolls the heathens make, like the ones Reverend Snyder showed the church group after his missionary trip to Haiti. It was about a foot tall and made of all sorts of bits and pieces crudely twisted together into a human-like shape. There was a ball of frizzy grey stuff on the head and a tattered bit of faded calico wrapped around the body. It was stuck in a small mound of dirt so that it stood upright. There was something about the nasty little thing that inexplicably nagged at me. Then I realized what it was: it looked familiar. More than that, it looked like
me.

The ball of grey frizz was just like my hair and the bit of calico was exactly like one of my dresses...in fact, I was sure the fragment had been torn from an old dress I’d discarded some months ago. It was then I noticed what else lay on the floor at my feet. The weird figure was surrounded by a circle of dead mice. They were all arranged neatly, heads pointing toward the figure, tails away.

I heard a faint, rustling sound and turned to look. All of my kitties were there in the doorway, staring silently, tails erect as flagpoles. A whole minute must have passed like that. And then I knew.

I knew just how much my precious little kittens adored me. Why, they loved me so much, they’d built this adorable little—little
shrine
to me! And how difficult it must have been, too, with their little toes and having no thumbs. Such
effort
and all for me!

The first time I found the...well, there really isn’t any other word for it...the first time I found the
altar
, I didn’t know what to do. And the darlings looked so
expectant
. But I had a sudden inspiration, remembering how I would sometimes find a mouse or mole on the kitchen porch. So I gathered up the furry little corpses, mustering the best smile I could so the kittens wouldn’t realize how disgusted I was. I carried the mice up to the kitchen and hurriedly ran them down the disposal before anyone could see what I had done with them.

The next day there was another circle of dead mice around the stick figure and this time the cats were waiting for me, their eyes wide with expectation and adoration. And again I gathered up their offering and ran it down the disposal. Tears ran down my face the whole time. Not because I felt any sympathy for the
mice
, goodness knows, but because I had never before realized just how
devoted
my little pets were, nor how much they worshiped me. Don’t say anything...I felt blasphemous writing that word.
Worshiped
. Or at least shamelessly conceited. But it really
is
the truth, don’t you see? I could understand exactly how the kitties must have felt. For years I had brought them food and water and made warm, dry places to sleep and gave them scratches behind the ears and under the chins whenever they wanted them.

The least I could do now was start buying them regular tinned tuna, salmon and chicken—not the stuff made for cats, which must be filled with all sorts of awful things, but the real stuff made for people. And I started serving them cream every other day and on Sundays I increased their ration of ground beef by half a pound.

I had to start buying my bread from the day-old bin at the grocer’s, but it tasted just as good as the fresh, really.

Elmira Mae has started bringing her grandniece with her on her weekly intrusions into my affairs. I have to admit that the girl—for all her unfortunate physical resemblance to her pudgy ancestor—is lucky enough not to share Elmira Mae’s personality. Indeed, I rather like the girl. She is eighteen years old. A short girl and pretty with the kind of wholesome, open good looks one associates with farm children. She has a shock of golden hair and bright blue eyes. Her name is Susie and she just adores my cats.