LITMIR.BIZ

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suply the pattern.

      Call 555-8743 p.m.”

      “4-Sail: One (1) used trailor top, like new.

      Also almost-new RV, and new child-size RV.…”

      “To Give to GOOD Home; two Persian kitties,

      litter-traned and gentile—”

      Arlene had to laugh at the part about the kittens being Christian, even as she mourned the ignorance of the person who wrote the message. There was an address as well as a phone number on the piece of lilac notebook paper, on 7th Avenue East, less than a two—block walk from the depot. For a few sec­onds, Arlene wavered, torn by her inner mis­givings.

      On one hand, she had vowed not to take in cats that someone else might want, yet on the other hand, Silky was lonely, and needed a young cat—or cats—to run with.…

      Thinking that no one would mind, Arlene tore the piece of paper off the depot wall, and stuffed it in her pockets along with Guy-Pie’s rocks.

      * * * *

      “I said will you shut them kids up already?” The young man pushed his long limp blond hair out of his colorless eyes (and past a whey-­colored expanse of forehead) as he yelled at his wife in the other room. The shapeless young woman in the thin cotton maternity top only shrugged in reply and shut the door connecting the living room to the sunken back bedroom. The din of the six (seven? surely the young woman had to have been babysit­ting some of them) children was muffled by the door as the sweatshirted young man went on, “That sign’s been on the depot for two weeks now. I was almost set to…you know…the kittens.” The pale man made a two­-handed gesture indicative of something being drowned, forcibly. Arlene nodded dully.

      “I told my wife that she’s gotta be careful who Mr. Clean mates with, but my wife lets her out into the yard any old time—”

      “I take it Mr. Clean is a queen?”

      “Huh?”

      “A female cat,” Arlene said succinctly, thinking, And he claims he’s breeding cats? while the young man bent at the waist to scoop Mr. Clean up as the plush red cat saun­tered by.

      “The kids named her ’fore we sexed her. Name stuck. But she’s pure, I got papers somewhere,” the man lied glibly, not knowing that no cat is ever issued papers unless it has been sexed.

      Arlene let his faux pas go. She couldn’t wait to pick up the kittens, be they pure Persian or not, and get out of this tiny house that smelled like old French fries and stale beer.

      Rocking in place on the littered carpet, Arlene asked, “Are the kittens in the house? All my cats live indoors, period.”

      Nonplussed by her pointed remark, the man pushed a stingy lock of hair behind his ear and said, “They’re in the garage. Play in among the old engines and stuff. Course we got rid of the good ones, sold the last of ’em this week. These two aren’t for breeding. They’re objectionable, y’know. If that makes a difference, I mean.”

      It was Arlene’s turn to be confused. “‘Objectionable’? As in—”

      The young man led her through the sunken kitchen, out a back door which con­nected directly to the garage, saying, “Their coloring. It’s red, but not the right red. They got tiger stripes on their heads, but no tiger markings on their body. Their Ma, she’s pure red. Most of the kittens were, ’cept these guys.” The man scooped up two wiggling balls of fluff crawling near an engine on blocks, and handed them to Arlene.

      She let out a soft “Ooooh,” and cuddled the kittens under her chin. They were gor­geous, pure Persian as far as she could tell (although one little tail did look a tad too long), with orange eyes and pale orange pug noses. Not quite Peke-faced, but with ador­able dips in their noses, and wide flexible white whiskers. They reminded her of those little Troll dolls popular in the l960s, those pug-ugly dolls with the long manes of odd­-colored hair and flat round eyes, only Troll dolls were never this adorable.

      “What do I owe you?” she asked as a for­mality, remembering that she had left her wallet at home. Luckily for her, the man shrugged and said, “Aw, let it go. Saves me the trouble of having to kill ’em. You will have ’em fixed, won’t you?”

      “Certainly. I believe in prevention,” she added, realizing that the jibe would go over his head, but feeling the better for having said it.

      After fitting the kittens into her pea coat (her breasts had shrunken from age and disuse), Arlene hurried away from the sorry prefab on 7th Avenue, toward her home to the south. The rocks in her pockets beat against her hips with every step, but it was a good ache.

      * * * *

      As she expected, Silky and the new kittens (both males, whom she dubbed Puff and Fluff) got along famously—after a few “I-was-here-first” hisses on Silky’s part. And as she patted the stones into a rough heart shape over Guy­-Pie’s grave, she reflected that maybe things just worked out for the best, no matter how painful they seemed initially. One cat died, she went to look for stones for him, and she saved two kittens from death. A minus, but followed by two pluses. She still hurt, but she would heal.

      And Silky began to act like a kitten again.

      * * * *

      Come December, Arlene guessed that Silky had to be going on ten months old, but he just wasn’t growing. True, his body had no more hollow spots, and sleek muscle had covered the painful bone, but he just wasn’t any bigger. Even Puff and Fluff grew; they were close to his size after a month in her house. And it was too cold out to go lugging him to the vet just to have her tell Arlene that she had to expect mutant cats to be different. (Dr. Hraber al­ready called Silky “Bug-Eyes” in honor of his still-bulging eyes.)

      Arlene had already held off getting Silky neutered; occasionally he sprayed near his pan, and attacked at least one of the dogs each day, hugging with his big-toed funny paws as he chewed on a big floppy ear, but Arlene kept hoping that he’d get a late growth spurt and fill out properly. Even as she knew in her heart of hearts that he was done growing. He hadn’t gained weight since November, and nothing about him had changed since Octo­ber. (On Halloween some children who came Trick or Treating spied him looking through the window and asked—albeit innocently, “Is that a Spuds Mackenzie cat?”)

      Once she’d gotten over her fussing and fuming, she had to admit that Silky did re­semble the tiny-eyed dog in the beer commer­cials. But she never loved a cat more than Silky, not even beautiful, patient Guy-Pie, Lord rest his soul. Silky was always there, showing up in the oddest places; at her elbow while she rolled pie dough, on her lap when she went to the bathroom, dropping down onto her shoulders from on top the high bookcases flanking the front door, purring all the while.

      Puff and Fluff took up some of Silky’s time, but not all of it; every night, he curled around her head on the pillow, strange soft paws gently kneading her thinning hair. No other cat was allowed on the pillow—on the bed yes, the pillow never—but Silky rested there as if he belonged in such a high up, exalted spot. He reached inside her and filled the hollow spot left after Guy-Pie’s passing, filled it and then some. Long after he’d chosen her for his Mama, she chose him to be her Best Boy. She still loved the other cats and dogs, in her own way, person to animal. Silky was…different. Not only in looks; she’d long ago gotten used to his looks. In spirit, in soul, he was different.

      But it wasn’t until that January that she learned just how utterly different Silky was from other cats.

      * * * *

      Arlene was making hamburgers in the kitchen, from meat she’d found and oatmeal, onions and spices she’d bought. Knuckle deep in the gooey reddish mixture, Arlene heard the cats doing something in the living room—something noisy enough to hear, but soft enough not to be easily identified—and yelled out, “Cats, you be good, hear? Or no supper tonight!” (She never made good on the threat, but it nonetheless usually worked.)

      The noise continued, a puzzling muted wooden thump (like someone pounding on a board

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