Of parents and pests

The car ride home was silent. We’d left the house as clean and sanitary as we could. An unspoken vow was made to never speak of it again. At least I made the vow.

Bowie was left with some food in his bowl though the cat seemed clever enough to manage foraging amongst the neighborhood bird community and neighbor’s indirect charity to his cause. Something in the way he looked at me with those mismatched eyes told me that I was working far harder to assist him than I should. I understood why Miss Almost-Aunt kept him around, he was far more likable company than the other inhabitants around the block, though I did find Bowie a little snooty.

 We found no air fresheners of any modern variety; instead we lit some incense located close to the air conditioning unit. The smell of lavender filled the air, hinted with a tickle of chemical wash. It would have to do. Considering the rank odor of decay and lingering death that we walked into, this dizzyingly fresh aroma would suffice.

Rebecca and I didn’t speak for a few days. After the trip there was reason for her to be angry with me. It was unfair that her family was the one laying down the minefield that I stumbled through. This was of course not on purpose but some days I’m left to wonder, paranoid delusions and all.

I also found myself growing an aversion to meats. This lasted several days. By the weekend I could not stand it any longer and purchased a crispy chicken burger at the closest drive through dive. I was not quite up to the hamburgers yet. Seeing meat in the grocery store conjured images of blood, red washed walls and that tiny potato leaned on the crisper drawer like a child’s forehead pressed on stained glass. Come to think of it, I didn’t purchase fries with the chicken, this may be the cause. Post traumatic stress must be something more acute than this. Therapy may be in store down the ways for me.

When we did talk again it was with reservations on both sides. Like dating at the beginning all over again we didn’t want to dredge up any stories the other might get upset over. I know that should she mention her ‘aunt’ I would sour and if I mentioned that refrigerator or Bowie her face would darken. So we talked about my job and career hunt, chatted about her school work. We had lunch quietly and spent the week apart.

Something in all of this didn’t sit well with me but this whole trip to her ‘aunt’s’ was the last in a series of unfortunate events. Granted some of it was drama on my side but we saw it all through together. For now we needed some time alone to process it.

After the week long contemplation I got a call on my way home from my menial job tending to the general populace’s every drugstore need. Rebecca was on the other end and sounded better than when I’d last seen her. Actually she sounded downright chirpy. The way she asked how I was doing and her obvious excessive smiling on the other side of the line. “What’s going on?” I asked her.

I thank God sometimes for Rebecca’s honesty in the face of certain direct questions. She didn’t squirm or miss a beat. “My mother’s coming for a visit.”

I can, within a marginal doubt, say that everyone has heard the song, The Devil Went Down to Georgia. Now having said that, this has little to do with Rebecca’s mother, for instance, there is no fiddling, and at the end of the day the devil collects. I have watched Rebecca fiddle hard against the woman but age and the bitterness that comes with it have hardened her mother to any young fiddle technique.

“Is your dad coming?” I ask, hoping for a silver lining. Her father is a lot like me. Though I guess psychologically that makes sense for Rebecca.

“Not this time.”

“Did she eat him?” I ask, a sheepish grin growing on my face.

“What?” I could hear her suppressing a laugh.

“You know, unhinged her jaw, clasped him with those clawed and colorful appendages and stuff him slowly down her gullet. Her body bending and expanding to compensate for his mass and her saliva slowly…”

She coughed and stopped me. “Will you come by?” She sounded better.

“Sure.”

 “Tomorrow night.”

“What?” The short notice was a little startling. “When did you hear she was coming to see you?”

The line went quiet. “A few days ago.”

“Shit hon, I need at least a few days to brush up on my Aramaic and dust off my King James Bible and crucifix.”

“Shut up. I haven’t had the best week.”

“Considering the few month’s we’ve had this has been the easiest week yet. Between my cousin and my dad, your family and their,” I paused to find a polite word, “crap.” couldn’t find one, “I would say that this week has been pretty relaxing.”

“Does everything have to be a joke?”  Her hackles were rising, but I, following the guidelines set by my father and his father before him and all men everywhere, was clueless.

“Sure takes the edge off of things.”

She began to huff and seethe. “Forget it, don’t come by. I’ll deal with it myself.”

“Deal with what? Your mom? There’s nothing to deal with just lay down, play dead and soil yourself, she’ll grow bored and move on.”

I’ve made her hang up on me before. Not proud of those days, like I’m not proud of this one. I hung up and drove a little faster than I usually do, home. 

I knew that I should call her back and apologize. Instead I did nothing but wait.

My family is far from perfect. In fact my family is as dysfunctional as Rebecca’s. I think the idea is that each has their own style but screw up their kids evenly. Depending on the kid we deal with it or don’t and move on or remain where we are.

Rebecca’s mom, Agatha, was one hell of a woman some time ago. Strong, bold and just the right mix of sexy and stern. I don’t say this from experience. This is all second hand from the look that Rebecca’s dad gets in his eyes when he looks at his ex-wife. That sort of love lost.

When she met Henry, he was a climbing writer, sharing his views about things in some editorial that’s become either modernized by the internet or has faded into oblivion. She on the other hand was some top notch mortgage broker and was on her way to some executive position. So when Rebecca and her older sister came along it was decided that Henry would stay home with the girls.

The abridged version of their life growing up was that the older girl grew close to her mother and Agatha loved having a protégé while Rebecca grew close to her father becoming her father’s closest thing to a son. Somehow Agatha resented Rebecca for choosing her lowlife father.

               Divorce came and went. The girls went with their mother and Rebecca learned to grow a thick skin and mature quickly. She moved out when she started college and met me. There’s a lot missing but those stories have their place.

               The following day I dressed at the end of my shift, put on a deep blue dress shirt. Touched up my hair with some moisture from the water fountain and made my way over to Rebecca’s place.

               I stood in front of her apartment door preparing myself. My frustration and opinions bottled away. Just before I knocked the locks began to unlatch. I stood frozen watching the doorknob turn just a few inches from my grasp. When the door swung open Rebecca’s face filled my view.

               She’d brushed her hair and put on that quick touch of makeup that lets her face come alive. I was speechless when I saw her. “What are you doing here?” her forehead creasing with concern, fear and anger.

               “Sidney.” Her mother cheered behind her, “I was just asking Becca about you. You’re coming to pay for dinner, right?” She laughed at her own joke, “Nonsense, it’s my treat.”

               Rebecca locked the door and stalked past me. Agatha placed her hand on my shoulder, her nails inches from my jugular. After slitting my throat, I wondered, would she bath in the fountain of my blood or drink from it like a garden hose? “So how’s finding a job with that degree of yours?”

               My mouth remained closed as she guided me along. I knew a one sided conversation when I heard one.

               “Tough times these are. Difficult for some of us to stay afloat.” She smiled at me, nearly perfect teeth like a brand new grand piano winking back at me with a glimmer of reflected light. “Shame, my daughter Cici had her job lined up the first day out.” Cici is Nancy, Rebecca’s older and flawless sister.

                I felt a thump of pulse on my forehead and sighed. Agatha talked me all the way to her car, where Rebecca stood, arms folded against the back door.

* * * * *

               We had dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. I was forced into sitting next to Agatha while Rebecca sat alone on the opposing end of the table. I don’t know quite how I ended up on this end of the table, I’m sure that I was placed by a very persuasive hand. The woman was a marvel, she could control a person’s actions with applied pressure to the shoulder and the grace of her tongue, no matter what nonsense it spewed it was all about tone.

               Agatha spoke on about her last visit to the restaurant, the food she had tasted, company she kept. She told some humorous anecdote about embarrassing a waiter. I couldn’t tell when she segued into different topics, I was busy not existing behind my menu. Rebecca was burning tiny eye holes through hers trying to penetrate my shield listing the daily specials.

               When the waiter came and introduced himself, he took a moment to look back and forth at the three of us. He blinked harder than normal and droned on about the soup and fish of the day. Agatha asked him about the soup as I took a peek over the top of my menu to see if the stare down had taken a reprieve.

               Rebecca was watching her mother as the older woman rambled. Rebecca rolled her eyes and resigned herself back to the menu. When she noticed me watching, her eyes hardened and I quickly dove beneath the ramparts of the specials section. I waited out the siege while deciding that I would order a burger and not over complicate the evening.

               Appetizers came and went. Agatha had ordered popcorn shrimp and chuckled at how cute each crustacean looked battered and crisped golden. I remained quiet and smiled when spoken to. Agatha praised me on my securing of a job, albeit a simple one, and my success at living alone. All the while Rebecca just sat watching her mother lay brick after brick of praise, building a foundation on which to build walls of cooperation or a structure she could demolish should I prove less than useful in whatever scheme she schemed.

               When my burger came Agatha asked me to evaluate and present her with a review of the meaty sandwich should she ever deign to eat like the masses do. I grumbled an agreement.

Rebecca received her meal with a blank stare and a hollow thank you to the waiter. The way she sat with her shoulders slouched reminded me of our trip to Miss Almost-Aunt’s house. It reminded me of any time she spoke with her family, with an exception for her father. I extended my leg under the table and gently tapped her calf. I hoped that it would provide reassurance that I was still here and with her. She looked up at me and pulled her lips tight across her face in a rough attempt at a smile.

The waiter came by and asked if we were alright or in need of anything. Agatha smiled at him and graciously thanked and excused him. As he walked away she turned to her daughter and in a rare moment of decency spoke to her without hint of malice. “Dear, are you alright?”

Rebecca looked up in surprised. She began mouthing something but couldn’t find the words. Her voice had been replaced by awkward quiet noises.

Her mother smiled and continued, “Isn’t the waiter cute?”

I choked on a particularly luscious piece of bacon and medium-cooked beef.

Agatha ignored my sputtering noises and talked to her daughter in loud confidence, “He looks like he takes the time to work out.”

“Excuse,” I coughed the word and tried to clear my throat, “Me.” The words sounded weak to myself.

Rebecca’s brow furrowed, fear and confusion consumed her features.

Paying Rebecca and me no mind, Agatha went on, “Imagine the size of his penis.” The words hung in the air.

Finally choking down the food and clearing my throat I took a deep breath. “What is your problem?”

Agatha turned slowly to me, her surprise was almost genuine. “Excuse me?”

“Agreed.”

She huffed and smiled, “Just how do you think you can disrespect me?”

“What?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

Rebecca took a deep breath and closed her eyes. I imagine she was trying to push the whole situation aside with her mind. Had I not been so invested in the coming argument I may have noticed.

“What do you have that makes you believe that anything you say has weight or merit?” Agatha’s words cut into and infuriated me.

“What allows you to be a bitch towards…” my words were cut short as a woman a few tables over screamed as though her soul was being wrenched from her earthly body.

I turned to see what the commotion was about. The table had erupted into a flurry of napkins sprung from laps and utensils clattering to the floor. The napkins floated amongst the chaos like gliding doves as people screamed “Rat!” and “Roach!”

I turned back to our table to find myself eye to eye with Agatha. Our eyes locked for a moment when she struck me across the face. The blow shocked me and snapped my head hard to the side where I saw a large brown splotch dart around the floor, a blur of speed and fear.

“Mom!”

I barely heard Rebecca’s cry over the ringing sound from my ear being clapped. Likewise I heard little of the cacophony of noise playing through the restaurant as people wailed and others tried valiantly and clumsily to stomp out the brown splotch from the earth.

Agatha had lost the hint of a smile playing at the edge of her mouth, replacing it with a look of scorn. I imagine the social game she had planned for the evening didn’t go as planned. I believe she didn’t expect me to call her a bitch so quickly. Our previous arguments had seen me endure worse before cracking and fighting back. Never had I crossed the line of verbal abuse.

I turned back to the table with my sight unfocused and my hearing slowly returning. Rebecca was beginning to find herself amid the maelstrom and drew herself up. Agatha was brimming with retaliation.

Waiters began pouring into the dining area of the restaurant trying to triangulate the creature’s position with the guests while issuing apologies by the handfuls. The manager and his assistant ran public relations while the employees scattered and formed kill squads.

Agatha looked at Rebecca and with a hard word barely audible over the mass panic and persistent ringing, ordered her to the car.

Rebecca deflated and her eyes glossed over. Whatever spirit had risen there had fled.

They fought their way out of the restaurant and through the waiters posted at the door like sentries, silencing the guards’ protests with a look.

I was late in realizing what was happening. With my wits still uncollected I stumbled through the crowds as they turned from frightened mob to enraged patrons.

The manager and his faithful sidekick tried to argue down several tables but were out shouted. As I neared the door I heard the sound of shoes mounting a table as the manager shouted for order. I pushed through the guards while the manager began addressing the crowd amidst the claps of shoes stomping after the brown splotch and orders being passed between squads of cooks and staff.

As I exited I shouted for Rebecca’s attention, calling her name in an attempt to break the spell. She stopped and turned to look at me.

Agatha stopped and said something to her daughter with a scowl contorting her face. Rebecca ignored her and walked over to me. “Don’t.” She said. My heart stopped for a moment on seeing the look in her face.

“Let him find his own way home, the little,” her face twisted and she seemed to struggle against herself when she yelled, “prick.”

“Please don’t.” Was all I could hear. Rebecca turned and walked away. She didn’t look like the girl I had spent the last few years with. Instead she looked like the girl I met. In fact she looked and acted exactly as she did when she first introduced me to her mother. I felt like I had lost her again for the second time in these last few weeks.

Rebecca walked away as her mother whispered, “You can do much better than that…boy.” They began to walk to the car. Agatha took one long last look at me and chuckled.

Inside the restaurant there was a final slam and someone screamed, “Yeah!” 

The birds and heterochromia

It was really crappy for me to walk away from her while she buried herself in the filth and corpse that was that mess but I…

You have no reason not to be there. I told myself, You’re not supporting her by being out here.

My conscience and thoughts fought savagely in my head while I walked the narrow streets calling for Bowie just loud enough to ease my guilt but not loud enough that anyone would stare at me from their windows with a perplexed gaze. It didn’t matter that these were people I’d likely never see again, something small inside me only asked that I not embarrass myself to myself.

After five minutes and walking around the small block of condos I arrived back near almost-auntie’s corner. I stayed far from the door and windows to not catch the blood boiling leer that would be leveled at me. Best saved for the car ride home in my opinion, when my death will have consequences.

I briskly walked past the door and window then slowed as I approached the neighbor’s door. This one was kept in shape, it retained its murky black paint on the gate and the wood on the door looked to have been recently washed with a hose. Not a huge step up but a moderate one. A wind chime depicting birds hung from the ceiling of the porch and the door had a knocker with what I can only assume must be a robin carved out of wood.

The knocker looked to be fragile or at least that’s the reason I thought when I knocked instead. A woman of some advanced age and curled figure opened and peered up at me through curled purplish gray hair. The lines were etched softly on her face, the age suited her and she looked to have gracefully stepped into it.

“CAT!” she cried. An incriminating and gnarled finger rose to aim its leather self at my chest. Gracefully aged may have been generous. “Get that fucking cat out of my house.”

“Bowie?” My words came quietly and meek having suffered the ear pain and mental distress of having an old woman bark fuck at me.

“No, the cat.” The bony finger swung round and pointed into her home. “Get him now.”

Obeying the decrepit digit more than the threat of further verbal abuse I slipped past her and into the house. The door slammed shut behind me and gave me pause as I turned to see her eyes narrow and the finger still hovering angry and trembling at me.

I followed the trajectory made by her wrath and saw Bowie happily perched upon a shelf laden with wooden depictions of birds. His tail swished back and forth as he watched me with a grin on his face and mirth in his brown and blue eyes. “Just like Bowie.” I muttered as I shuffled slowly across the tile.

“Just like the devil himself!” The woman shrieked from behind me.

Bowie looked up at her with his eyes; clearly he was bothered by her boisterous rage. The cat visibly sighed and leaped off the shelf onto her television set leaving teetering figurines in his wake. A howl erupted as she sped past me with speed no one that old should have. Her leather hands enveloped the miniature birds and her eyes softened with concern. Immediately though she turned and bared her teeth at the cat. I resolved to end this quickly.

Bowie sat upright on the television and whipped his tail along its screen like an inverse windshield wiper. Stretching his leg, he looked at me with a resigned sigh and dropped to the floor. Curling around my leg he walked past with a slight limp to his back right leg and stood at the door. He looked back over his shoulder and seemed at a loss for how inept I was to leave the door shut. He sat and waited, the tail flicking this way and that on the tile.

Slowly I walked over to him, waiting for him to come to his senses and make a dash for a kitchen cabinet or laundry hamper. Instead Bowie sat there and watched me, his mismatched eyes rolling at my sluggish approach. A wide yawn escaped him and he licked his lips and allowed his eyes to go to half mast. The cat was becoming impatient with me.

I opened the door slowly; as the sunlight streamed in he pushed himself between the small opening and rushed from the house before I could completely open the door.

The old woman was at the shelf tidying up the spots where Bowie had stood. She whispered things to herself, probably things that cats would find offensive and considered slander. Looking over at me while I stared at the slit of light in the doorway she asked, “Do you know what that beast did?”

Shaken from my stupor I looked back at her. Suddenly the room came into focus and I felt a tinge of awkwardness from bearing witness to someone’s clear perversion and psychosis. The room was cluttered with avian things and devices. If something was not clearly bird related it bore images of birds through stickers, magnets or colorful and tasteless sheaths. I mention the last one because I was transfixed by the bluebird sheath she had around her remote control and the parrot cosie gently embracing her drink. I looked for a place to sit but was unable to because of the expression of a clearly perturbed toucan staring back at me on the face of a throw cushion. I imagine he was molested by many an ass seeking cushion on him. So instead I stood and answered her question which seemed odd considering what she did to her home. “Something about a canary.”

“Something about a canary.” She echoed back to me. I wondered if she was mocking me or losing her already slipping grasp on reality. “Just a canary?” Her head turned slowly with the question making me anxious. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and found it less comfortable than the first but remained there. I feared she would sense my apprehension.

“Yes ma’am.” I felt like I was back in kindergarten starring up glassy eyed at some domineering woman who demanded we call her ma’am. Somehow this old woman’s tone and ire were causing me to regress back.

“Let me tell you a story.”

I gingerly moved the toucan to the side of the chair and sat. Folding my hands and placing them between my knees. Eyeing the toucan I reconsidered and turned him so that he could lay his hate into the armrest, then refolded my hands. Yes definitely regressing.

               “That cat use to sit on the shared fence between my and Samantha’s backyard.” I wondered if the small patch of patio they had was considered a backyard. “He use to sit there and stare at my birds.”

“You had canaries?” My voice sounded childish in my ears. I wondered if my testicles had rescinded into my body. In the same thought I wondered if my voice would begin cracking again.

“I had many birds. Some you would not know about.” She said this with an incredulous voice that made me feel ashamed for not having been better prepared for this trip. “Among them all I had an African Grey named Sweetie.”

“So it wasn’t a canary.”

“No!”

My hands curled to my chest in reflex, balling up into fists. I took a deep breath and tried to remember that I could possibly out run her. Then I remembered her rushing to the shelf and quivered.

“That cat would stare at all my lovely birds and wave his bladed tail. Each day that I caught him I chased him from my fence with an old racket of mine.”

The thought occurred to me of a racket circumscribed with feathers to appear as a turkey if oriented correctly.

“One day though he struck the cages and tried to eat my loves. He tore at the cages with his claws and tried to take them from me. I heard the whole thing from inside.” She began visibly shaking and not the old person shake this was either angry shake or sad shake. “I rushed out and tried to get him away from them.”

               I imagined her with a kitchen knife rushing to her sliding door and out into the yard brandishing it against the cats.

               Her story was filled with very vivid emotions. I found myself frightened and worried that I may not be permitted to leave. The cat had teased her. Dancing around her yard as she tried to harry him away but he nimbly dodged her movements and continued his siege upon the cages, many of them clattering to the floor from their hanging or standing positions. The birds went wild with frenzy of fear and panic. The woman stepping around them, trying not to fall and to evict Bowie from her yard as they chirped and screeched their terror.

Bowie was enlivened by the sounds and became all the more ferocious. The woman must have envisioned him with several heads and cleft hooves, hissing fire between purrs of damnation. In any case he landed on the cage containing Sweetie and licked his nine fangs while his serpentine eyes drank the soulful final wails of the bird. With a flick of his paw he managed the cage door open. The bird cried loudly and Bowie sank his head through the cage frame.

At this moment the woman’s foot caught bowie by his backside and launched him into the fence. Injured from this blow, he collected his wits and scaled the fence, disappearing back into his yard. Sadly the madness and tension in the air took Sweetie’s life. The woman found him dead on his back in the toppled cage lying on the floor, abject fear in his wide grey eyes.

She told me that she held a tasteful ceremony for him with his brethren in attendance. The words she spoke were apparently beautiful and an albatross soared overhead while the birds sang a dirge at their companions passing.

From that day forward when Bowie did escape from his owners home and made his way onto the fence the woman hurled things at him. Screws, cups or whatever was at hand was lobbed at the feline with malicious intent. Suddenly the story of neighborhood cats beating on him took on a whole new meaning.

“Well thank you for ridding me of the cat. I called you over an hour ago but you did well removing him from the house.” She swept her hand around which I took as the cue to stand and prepare to depart. “I called you well over thirty minutes ago but I won’t complain.” Her face grew dark, “Though I will express my displeasure that you did not…” She let the words hang.

She showed me to the door and closed it behind me, her mad eyes and smile covered by the wood and robin knocker. I shook myself and walked back to almost-aunt’s house.

The door stood open and presented me with an aroma of bleach and lemon freshness. My woman was on the porch absently stroking Bowie’s back. “Found the cat.”

She did not mean me.

“Good.” Was all I could say as I sat beside her. My head dropped and I closed my eyes. The heavy cloud of Clorox hanging over the two of us, making me dizzy.

               Bowie purred softly, looking up at me with his mismatched eyes, half lidded, and showing me his indifference to my suffering.

               She did not say a word to me while we sat there waiting for the air to clear. The words were locked away inside her head, the anger suffused over her weariness. I would bear it soon enough. We sat there smelling like a public pool as the sun began to set.

I moved my hand to stroke Bowie’s back. He leered at me but allowed it, the warning having been issued. I caught hers midway and held it. After a few moments she squeezed mine. That her teeth were clenched as she did it didn’t bother me in the slightest. It was just nice to be normal for a moment.

Almost-Aunt and a crime scene

               My phone spasmed in my pocket sending a tingling sensation up my spine and alerting me to its urgency, of course this had to happen while I’m  driving home from work. Gingerly, while keeping my left hand affixed to the wheel I worked to withdraw the device from my left pocket. This is of course contradictory but I favor my right hand greatly, if asked directly I will say it is my favorite with my left hanging forlornly at my side. The phone was not difficult to extract. Pressing on the bottom portion of my pocket to draw it to the surface like you would a tenacious pimple or a willful roll of toothpaste. Eventually it slid from its nest and ceased demanding. Grumbling to myself, I flipped it open and squeezed the keys til a dial tone murmured through the ear piece.

               The excited and always encouraging voice of my woman caressed my ear, that tart way she can say hello that would discourage relatives from remaining long on the line. “Hello dear.” I respond as honey-dipped as I can muster while wrestling the contraption to form to my face.

               She softens, “Hi there.” A great weight rolling off her shoulders with a soundless crash to the floor. “I was just calling you.”

               “Seemed like you were expecting someone else?” It sounded like a statement but I toned it to fit either scenario.

               “My aunt,” Her voice quieting with a sigh, “she’s been calling all day about her place.”

               I concentrate and try to either read her mind or recall enough details about the aunt she may be speaking of to seem involved. Neither comes through. “Family aunt or one of the…” I trail off seeking the kindest way to place it, “one of those family friend, almost-aunts?”

Hope I did well enough. I think to myself.

“Almost-aunt.”

“What about her place?” The cars around me don’t understand my need for concentration, they veer and turn aggressively forcing my hand back to the wheel and my neck to contort in efforts to seize the phone.

“She left to go see her family and has some neighbor checking her place.”

I can feel the length of tale about to be spun and try to head it off. “So what does she need from you?” Grinning to myself for my maneuver.

“Well apparently she doesn’t trust the lady and there’s some bad blood over the neighbor’s bird being killed or lost and having to do with my aunt’s cat...”

“Almost-aunt.” Even with the correction my smile still faded.

“…Almost-aunt’s cat. So there’s no trust and it ends up that she wants me to go and check on the house and make sure that the canary woman isn’t duping her.”

“It was a canary?” My mind slowly returns to concentrating on the road. The question fires without my knowing.

“It doesn’t matter what it was or is. We have to go check the house.” Her anger begins to simmer.

My mind works out the logistics but my mouth replies dumbly, “Is? To imply that it’s not dead? What’s this about ‘we’?” I know that the questions are dumb but that doesn’t stop them from feeding the flames of her fury, they begin to leap and lash at me.

“Are you going to pick me up or am I meeting you at my aunt’s house?”

Her fury and the coming arguments are beyond my control now; my mouth decides to go for it. “Almost-aunt and I’m on my way to get you.” I can feel her trying to focus on not hanging up and throwing her phone. I mutter a quick goodbye before she growls her farewell.

The phone call ends and I nestle the phone between my thighs to prevent having to retrieve it again from my pocket.

I will say that I love this girl, what I will not say is how much her family bothers me. Right now though, I have to deal with her dealing with them dealing with their crap. So I guess from what I learned in math about transitive relationships, that whole a equals b and b equals c so whatever equals whatever, means that I’m dealing with her family’s crap.

* * * * *

The car ride from picking up Rebecca to her ‘almost-aunt’s’ ensues in silence. I know how mad she is at them and how mad she will be at me for it that I enjoy the passing tranquility. The quiet washes over me, cleaning me, marinating and preparing me to be presented as the feast for my woman’s scorn. If it wasn’t for the ambiance of traffic and radio static it would almost be Buddhist.

I look over to her from time to time, her shoulders droop each time her family calls and this time is no different. Her eyes stare blankly at the glove compartment and her hair is a mess, probably from grabbing at it in frustration. I do hope that the hair thing is over her family and not my aggravatingly cute nature or so it’s been called.

 My hand seeks hers like a blind pig digging for truffles. It roots around the edge of her seat then makes its way onto her thigh and searches high and low. Finally she grabs my hand and squeezes. I look over for a second to asses if the squeeze is bad or good. Her eyes look at me weakly and she fabricates a smile. I squeeze back and can only imagine the level of insanity that her family wrought this day.

After half an hour of driving I exclaim, “How fucking far does she live?”

Rebecca smiles and looks out the window at what I can only imagine must now be farmstead and cattle herds or possibly Canadian wilderness and overly friendly bears.

Because my sanity demands it and I’ve lost my zen nature with this particular ride I ask, “So who called first?”

In her reflection I see the smile vanish, the shoulders descending into her ribs. “My mom.”

“Of course.” I mutter to no one.

Her distance from me grows, our words are scripted by now, we’re just playing our parts. I try to change the subject to bring her back to me. “So what’s the story with Mistress Finch and the supposed homicide?”

“My aunt’s cat…” it pained me to sit by without cutting in, “use to free roam at night. Mix it up with the other cats I guess. Came home every morning before God and my grandmother woke just in time for her to wake herself and feed it.”

“Is it just the one cat? Typically crazy aunts travel in packs or prides I think they’re called, with many cats.”

“No just the one anyways…”

The drive continued for 10 minutes while I heard some story about a cat that killed and probably ate a bird was accosted by an old, angry and emotionally shaken woman with a broom. He was called oh so many names but was never charged with avicide. Eventually he was placed under house arrest on suspicion alone. The cat’s street reputation apparently never recovered and when he does escape he typically returns with an assortment of cuts and bites that require tending by an oh so lonely and out of touch, almost-aunt.

* * * * *

               Apparently this woman lives in a condo located in the middle of no way out and good luck finding me. When we arrived, couldn’t believe that we were checking in on the place.

               The windows were all but sealed shut and curtained from the inside. The door had seen better days and should probably stand besides a warning about splinters not to mention the iron gate which should also have a sign but instead that reads “Seek immediate medical attention if jaw begins to lock after opening.” Vines limply held onto similar iron bars protecting the kitchen window. I wondered if the almost-aunt lived like this or had left on vacation some decades prior.

                I let Rebecca out while I circled the lot looking for some faintly painted visitor spaces. Finding them and walking around the neighborhood back to the house I found the gate open but had to risk my gentle skin to pressing to wooden door open.

“Bowie.” Rebecca’s voice sounded pleading as she called for the cat to show itself.

“David Bowie?” I called in after her.

“Different colored eyes.” Then she continued, “Bowie.”

I walked through the house noting how squarely this woman fell into the spinster category. Although there was an aroma to the air that was not the musty smell of an attic long forgot. I followed it.

“Bowie.” Rebecca continued to call as I followed the smell that was becoming a stench.

It peaked in power and repulsion in the kitchen. My mind began to hum as it numbered the possibilities. Dead body, dead bodies, dead cat, possibly long dead bird. As my brain rounded on more logical ideas I shouted back, “Did your almost-aunt cut the power?”

“Bowie! Yeah she did. BOWIE!”

I stared at the refrigerator the same way I imagine Pandora must have stared at that box. That feeling curling tight inside me knowing that I should not  while the desire arrested me with the need to know what. Unlike Pandora I did not believe that once the evil within was let out that there would be hope left alive inside the refrigerator much less within me.

My fingers curled around the handle as Rebecca poked out from the stairwell. “I can’t find…” Her statement paused while she watched me ignore her and satiate my dark curiosity.

The door peeled open with a wet and sticky sound and burped a bubble of sick revolting gas into my face. My throat contracted to prevent the vile air from entering my lungs or stomach. That I could both taste and smell it set my stomach upon itself, attempting to implode and leave me with its contents.

The jars along the door were leaking and gelling with their various sauces and condiments. The milk stood resolute and stern daring anyone to try and stir it from its vigil. The contents of tupperware on tupperware had been claimed by a teal organism that I swore winked at me with its cheekiness at having stolen leftovers. But none of these were the culprits of the lurching my stomach was doing.

Along the sides of the refrigerator and down the edges of the door frame, hardened blood streaked down the walls. Crimson claws had raked down this interior and left this ruby remainder. Down it went into a pool upon the bottom shelf. It had been too much for the subtly depressed shelf to hold. It had slipped down into the crisper drawers where it lingered with the vegetables that I could only imagine had gained the ability to sing and fruits the skills to dance. In the blood soaked drawer a single potato watched me with one of its many eyes through the tinted plastic. Its demeanor begged for death.

Rebecca was slowly walking towards me, staring at the contents of the refrigerator and approaching slowly. She made little noise as to not startle me or the refrigerator but I think it was more the refrigerator.

My eyes traced the bloodied lines up to the freezer door. Having come this far and still holding my breath I reached for the handle. Rebecca mouthed quiet protest from behind me in vain. This door also came open with a slick and wet crackle.

The true nature of the odor was revealed to me like an epiphany. Enlightening and humbling. My fascination alone kept me from dropping to my knees in grotesque worship then doubling over and adding my own liquids and smells to the mix.

Within the freezer lay a chicken waiting its judgment. Several steaks and a pound of ground beef were beginning to collect and reform the shape of a cow. Sausages lounged in their intestinal casings conversing about the pleasant shift to a warmer climate. The water that must have once filled the ice trays had long since left, leaving flys to hop between trenches as their children crawled over each of the meats present at this corrupt council.

Tearing myself away from the sight and smell, I ran to the door. When I next occupied my head I found myself staring at the porch ceiling. My back was sweat soaked and pressed against the hot brick tile porch. Inside I could hear scrubbing. Not bathtub cleaning scrubbing, industrial machine maintenance and sanitization scrubbing.

I rolled up onto my feet and held steady against the wall as my body reoriented itself with, well, itself. Staggering in I found Rebecca elbow deep in the refrigerator with a cloth tied round her face like a bandit and thick yellow gloves on her hands. The gloves were already splotched with blood, it looked like I had walked in on the cleanup for a nasty homicide. The blood that once dripped down the walls was now smeared across the sides tinting them pink. Nearby a garbage can sat unhappily with contents that did not require my inspection.

“Sweetie,” My stomach felt as though it had already vomited even though I saw no evidence of where and threatened to do so again, “why don’t we just leave this and agree to tell no one.”

She ignored me and continued to grind at the walls with a towel wrapped around steel wool.

“Baby, we can drag this fridge out and set it on fire. No one will know.”

Still scrubbing.

“Beccy please just walk away from this.”

Her eyes darted up to mine then as quickly as they had risen they fell back to their work. In that moment I felt that she would have no problems cleaning up my murder if I persisted.

“I’m going to go look for the cat then?” I smiled in hopes of drawing some mirth out of this dismal situation.

She continued scrubbing.

I walked away before sighing and started looking for this almost-aunt’s acquitted bird murderer.

Around the room for introductions...

               So every session starts with a quick circle around the room to introduce ourselves. I will go by Jaded. I am a listener and scribe. What I will share with you are stories. Some are personal and deal with ideas like love and which pair of shoes to wear with a particularly splendid pair of pleated pants. Others will be flights of fancy, tales that wrestle with a human condition through abstract means like the story of the cat who could not understand why the fly flutters with such proximity to the light only to become entranced by its luminescence.

Enjoy.