Orange Tabby

The hospital loomed into view about 5 miles north on Highway 97 – two massive brown cubes dotted with bulbous windows that seemed float above the pine trees.

The parking lot’s yellow lights glowed in the black air as Michael eased his blue sedan through the entrance. The frozen steering wheel stung his hands. Weaving his way, preoccupied with the cold burn pulsing in his fingers, he didn’t notice the small figure crossing in front of his car. There was a thump. He slammed on the brakes and got out in the middle of the lane.

The wind scalded his cheeks. He bent his fingers at the knuckles then let them go straight again. Breath floated from his lips in and disintegrated into the cold. There was a shadowy lump on the asphalt near the rear left tire. As he drew closer the lump became clearer piece by piece; legs, a small head, slender frame, long, curled tail.

An orange and white tabby cat lay motionless on the blacktop. Its mouth hung slightly open with tiny teeth protruding. Little puffs of breath escaped over a small pool of blood. Michael knelt beside it looking helplessly from side to side. The animal’s half-open eyes were faint green and speckled with blue and gray. Michael’s stomach knotted and he began to gnaw at his inner cheek.

He reached out his hand and pulled it back. The cat let out a slow, strained wheeze, like a balloon deflating. Michael reached out again and stroked the creature down the curve of its back. Its body winced slightly at first touch but then relaxed. He could feel its crooked spine just beneath the orange and white fur and his hand crested up and down on the shallow rise and fall of its chest. The breathing slowed and slowed. Michael just knelt there, his sore red fingers passing slowly through the soft hair, until the breathing finally stopped.

* * *

The hospital hallways smelled of antiseptics and echoed with the muffled hum of televisions, the shuffling of files and charts, and the squeak and squeal of rubber wheels on frigid linoleum.

Michael slipped into an elevator. As the reflective metal doors closed he realized he had forgotten the room number. His mother had told him a number of times. He had forgotten it. He looked at the floor numbers as if they might nudge him into remembering. His gaze fell back to the metal doors in front of him and his own distorted reflection. The fluorescent light gave his image a sickly tone. He could just barely make out one of his eyes on the mutated face. The elevator stopped on the third floor and the doors creaked open.

A young nurse stepped in. She flashed a brief smile, her blue eyes ringed with small lines of fatigue. Her face was pale and delicate with a small, rounded nose. Her mouth was tiny but her lips full. The light-blue V-neck scrubs revealed the curve of her breasts. As she pressed her floor he could smell her perfume – a pleasant, flowery scent. He got a slight erection and immediately hated himself for it, telling himself that it was perverse to think about sex at a time like this. He fixed his eyes on his own grotesque reflection. He began to sweat. The doors opened on the sixth floor and the nurse strode out. Michael forced himself to refrain from taking another look. He closed his eyes and rose aimlessly to the top floor.

He stepped out of the elevator like a teenager coming home drunk and past curfew. The top floor housed no bedrooms or recovery wards, just a wide corridor leading into the enclosed aerial walkway that connected the hospital’s two main buildings. The walkway was carpeted and the walls paneled with huge plexi-glass windows. He looked down at the formless black mass dotted with lonely lights trailing north to be swallowed up by the Long Island Sound.

There came a subtle whooshing noise and his face was brushed by what could only be described as a breeze. It was a tepid autumn breeze suggesting crushed brown leaves and faded sunlight. He could almost feel leaves crunching under his feet as he inhaled deeply the next soft gust, his ears picking up faint echoes of activity; near-naked branches rustling, children in brand-new sweaters stirring up dirt. He was once a child like that, appallingly unspoiled and unafraid.

Crossing into the other building the air reverted to stillness, the sounds subsided, the scent faded dismally away and he felt hollow inside, the urge to cry welling up suddenly in the back of his throat. He paused a moment to regain his composure but failed and the tears flowed freely over his face. He knelt down, leaned back against the wall, and cried silently into his hands.

The tears eventually stopped. But the sense of relief that usually follows a crying spell was missing. Instead he felt utterly disconnected. He recognized the sensation. His body felt transparent, as if it were dissolving. The tears that had seeped into his mouth tasted metallic and artificial. He was evaporating, being sucked inwards from behind his retinas. He stood still for thirty seconds breathing in deeply, through the nose and out through the mouth, repeating a single word to himself. Relax. His heartbeat slowed, the fear lifted. He entered the elevator and blankly pressed a button at random. Traveling a few flights down, the doors opened and his mother was standing in the hall, leaning back against the aquamarine wall, her head turned towards him, one cheek flush against the paint.

He hugged her.

“It’s over,” she said.

“Oh?” he muttered

“I guess it’s a relief.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“He left a while ago.”

“He never forgave him.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“I never forgave him either.”

“Well you’re just as goddamn stubborn.” Her severity surprised them both. “He loved you.”

“That’s grotesque.”

“You have to understand that what he did... it was still out of some pathetic form of love – some kind of love, however twisted and misguided.”

“Wrong.”

“He was confused. Tortured. He was different back then. He didn’t know what he was doing,” she was on the verge of tears again.

“He’s your father, you’d have to believe that.”

“I know I can’t force you to understand.”

“No.”

“I’m tired,” she said blankly.

“Let’s go home.”
He took her arm and guided her down the hall.

* * *

Michael sat in the kitchen of his childhood home and drank a glass of red wine. The room was unfamiliar to him now. Years of renovations and remodeling had fundamentally altered the look and feel of the place. The table was the same and he had memories of eating dinner there when he was younger, but the memories had no connection to physical landscape of the kitchen as it was now. In his mind the room he ate in as a child was a completely different room from a different house.

He remembered one night in particular, when his grandfather first came out of the psychiatric hospital – a tense, awkward supper. His father ate in the other room. Forced to remain at the table by his mother’s imperious glares, Michael ate as quickly as possible and then asked to be excused to go do homework in his room. His grandfather kept his head down the whole meal, slowly and methodically shoveling food into his mouth. That was the last time Michael and his grandfather were in the same room.

The sun was coming up. He finished the rest of his wine. There was something he felt compelled to do. He went outside and rummaged in the garage for a shovel, tossed it into the back of his car and drove off.

He found the cat just where he had left it. He lifted its broken body into the trunk. This time he had gloves on and his hands did not sting. He drove south for a while, stopping at an old, overgrown park. He picked a spot nestled behind a patch of oak trees, laid the orange and white cat down beside him, and began to dig.

He looked towards the hospital. It still stood, clumsy and arcane, the morning sun glaring off the protruding windows, encircling the structure with garlands of white light. He imagined he was witnessing the first explosions of lift-off. Soon another great orange and white burst would erupt from beneath the glowering hospital, launching it ever upward into an awkward orbit.

July, 1985

The drive to Rhode Island was a long one that year. The family left home at noon but stalled out on the highway and had to flag down help from a talkative old man with blue coveralls and jumper cables. It was well past dinnertime when their beige minivan rolled into the small beachside town.

Waking from an uncomfortable sleep, the boy peered out the window at the rows of boxy two-story hotels lining the shore. The buildings were old, wooden structures covered in layer upon layer of white paint. Each hotel room had a small veranda that peered out over the dunes, the volleyball nets, the barbecue grills and the gently rolling waves. A boardwalk stretched out parallel to the water, dotted with carnival games and carts selling French fries with vinegar. The crowning jewel of the boardwalk was a tall, curving water slide made of red plastic. Children ran up its winding stairway to careen down the slide on spongy foam rafts, sometimes sneaking two at a time when the lifeguards were too busy to notice. To the young boy the slide seemed unbelievably massive, taller than any structure had a right to be.

Almost as soon as they arrived a massive storm crept in from the east and settled over the town. Tossing his bags down on the hotel cot, the boy rushed onto the terrace to look at the churning sea and the enormous canvass of swirling gray clouds hovering above it. Lightning slashed through the sky. The beach was deserted except for one man in a yellow raincoat walking his dog, coat flapping violently in the wind. The dog bounded around gleefully barking into the gusting air. The boy begged his parents to take him walking on the sand but they refused. There were rumors of a tornado touching down a few miles away.

The clouds hovered, the water churned and the atmosphere swelled with a delicious sense of menace but it didn’t start raining until around 8 o’clock, when thick warm droplets poured from the sky. The power cut out soon after. A girl came knocking, offering complimentary candles from a tray. She was the daughter of the hotel’s manager. The boy caught a glimpse of her when his mother opened the door. In the flicker of the candlelight her round cheeks looked like golden glowing apples. Her hair was short, red and curly with a white flower perched just above her left ear. She must have been about sixteen. The boy peeked through the front window blinds to watch her leave. She shuffled down to the next room in tiny blue shorts and a thin white cotton sweater dotted with raindrops, the gentle smack of her flip-flops echoing through the hall.

Another knock brought the boy’s aunt, uncle and cousin, carrying a bright orange cooler. The adults moved outside to the balcony and sat around a small white table, sheltered from the rain by a large umbrella with red and white stripes. They spread out a banquet on the table and as they ate and drank their talking and laughter became louder and more jovial. The boy asked to try the red drink with the green stalk that his mother was drinking but he recoiled at the strange spicy flavor. His mother laughed and gently urged him to go inside and play with his sister and cousin.

The kids dashed around the room playing freeze tag with flashlights. The yells of the children and the rumble of their feet rose up above the steady plink and patter of the rain outside. The entire floor became an electrified ocean teeming with eels and sharks and alligators and the children leapt from bed to bed to avoid falling in to a certain death. The boy gave his cousin a little shove and he plunged into the murky water, writhing and screaming.

The commotion brought the boy’s father inside. He asked if anyone was hurt and told them all to be careful and not to rough house. As soon as he left a war erupted. The boy’s cousin exacted revenge for his watery death. He snuck up behind the boy, pillow in hand and unleashed a furious barrage. The boy’s sister screeched with delight. In a few seconds everyone had taken up arms and the room exploded in a hail of feathers and cloth.

In the chaos a lamp fell over and shattered. The cousin stopped a moment to look with awe at the flying shards. The boy took advantage of the lull to land a powerful blow straight across his cousin’s face. There was an instant of complete quiet and then he burst into tears, blood streaming from his nose.

All of the adults rushed in, his father letting out an exasperated yell. His sister started crying too and pointing her finger at him. The furious rush of attention overwhelmed the boy. His eyes darted back and forth from his cousin with his bleeding nose to his sister and her tears and the angrily inquisitive looks of the adults. In a panic he rushed out the door made a haphazard left and dashed up a winding staircase.

On the roof he heard laughter, though it was muffled by the rain and reverberating strangely, as if from a great distance. A beam of light caught his eye and lured him across the patio past the rows of picnic tables and reclining chairs intended for sunbathing. The laughter grew closer and more distinct, trilling above the low steady rumble of the rain.

She lay on her back on a long recliner, shielded from the downpour by a picnic table umbrella. A flashlight aloft in her hands sent jittery light dancing through the darkness as she squirmed under the weight of a blond-haired teenage boy. She wrapped her legs wrapped around his back, giggling and tousling his hair. He slowly slid up her cotton sweater to unveil her smooth stomach and taut skin and then gingerly pulled it up over her head, exposing her breasts. As the shirt fell away the young boy saw the white flower tumble from her curly red hair. The teenage boy buried his face in her chest, his mouth careening wildly over her breasts and nipples, and she arched her back and let her head roll to one side. Her eyes closed in dreamy detachment, lips pursed wanly, and it looked to the boy as if something, whatever soul or essence her body possessed, had been emptied from her, leaving only a limp and writhing form.

There was shouting and the glare of flashlights, coming from behind him. The teenage boy seemed to leap backwards off the girl as she clutched for her sweater and pulled it back over her frame, concealing once again the firm, round breasts and swelling nipples. She shot a glance in the young boy’s direction and for a moment they locked eyes. He stood rigid and petrified and thought for a second he saw a smirk pass over her face. He swerved around to see his parents coming up the stairs, flashlights in hand. A beam caught him directly in the eyes and tears welled up to blind him. Suddenly a hand gripped his arm firmly but reassuringly and led him away. As he tramped down the stairs he peeked back towards the reclining chair but the girl and her companion were gone.

* * *

The storm moved on by morning. The family awoke to the cackling of seagulls and the steady swish of the waves. Brilliant sunlight flooded the hotel room through the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. The boy lay on the cot watching the light creep further and further up his bare legs.

The power was on again and the boy and his sister sat cross-legged on the rug watching TV as they ate their breakfast of cereal with banana slices. Their parents sat at the small table by the window drinking coffee and reading yesterday’s paper, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun. No one said more than two words all morning.

After breakfast they all went walking on the beach. Dashing out across the boardwalk and onto the sand the boy felt his sandal land on something hard and brittle and heard a crunch from under his feet. Looking down he saw shards of crab shell scattered in the sand. He glanced to his right and saw his sister kneeling down to examine a similar sight. To his left his father poked a carcass with a stick, a quizzical look on his face.

All across the beach were the shattered remnants of hundreds of crabs. Gulls pecked at the broken legs and crushed bodies, littering the sand with serrated chips of shell. The boy and his sister wandered in awe among the wreckage as the birds circled overhead whistling and cawing. The wind occasionally gusted up in a mild reminder of the fury of the previous night’s storm, but the air was warm and pure and the sun glistened brightly on the pliant sand, still wet from the newly receded tide. The boy walked off alone, head down, gazing at the vast array of fractured shells. How jagged and angular they were, so different from the smooth and soft figure of the girl on the roof. He heard his parents call his name. He turned around and squinted and saw them waving to him, two tiny silhouettes under an endless blue sky.

Editorial Interjection

It appears that my promise of daily updates was a tad too ambitious. So, I'm gonna move towards weekly posting. There's a piece I'm really enjoying in the works and it should be up soon, its just taking longer than expected.

Thief

The cloud cover bursts,
beading your cheek with opaque drops,
matting the hair to your almond skin, as

my thoughts melt down
to a wax impression of
warm streetlights and cold summer gin,

when, sure of your engagement with family vacation,
I broke open the front lock to your house,
crept in, and

stole a
black shirt that smells of the curve of your shoulder -
a token of nights without sleeping

and sad songs on
the car radio. I wear it
sometimes, watching the traffic creep by in the rain.