Watching for Tiny

Burrowed under layers of blankets topped with a heavy wool military-issued green cover, I attempted a stretch until a toe left the safety of my cocoon. I quickly returned to a crunched position. I’d made a small opening allowing fresh air to enter. My nose hairs didn’t freeze, so I presumed it was not as cold as usual.

It should have been strange to wake up in the bed I had when I was twelve. It was a folding cot; a thin mattress of cotton batting on top of a lattice of metal slats attached by rusty springs to the gray frame. As children continued to arrive, we’d run out of beds and places to put them. Mine was positioned in the hallway at the top of the stairs, butting up to the wall. If I pressed my eye to a crack, I could see outside. I peeked out of the blankets. My breath turning to steam, I notice the glistening powder of fine-snow on the top cover. I didn’t need a weather report to tell me it was going to be a harsh morning to get up.

I grabbed the school clothes I’d placed nearby and tucked them under the bedding to warm up. If anyone had lit the furnace, I’d have dashed downstairs and danced on top of a heating vent. My nightgown billowing with hot air, I’d dress, as my younger sisters would do in about an hour. It was my job to be the first up to light the fire.

Without fail, cold mornings woke me like an alarm clock, winter or summer. The North does not have mild mornings. Making sure no heat escaped, I dressed under the covers. I let my body heat work through the garments thoroughly before I threw back the covers and started a countdown. I knew in ten beats; the accumulated heat would dissipate. 10-9-8, my dash down to the kitchen to stuff stockinged feet into rubber boots. 7-6, lumbering down the cellar stairs and throwing open the hearth door. 5-4, two handfuls of kindling tossed onto hot embers from the evening fire. 3-2-1, using a whisk broom, I’d fan the flame while feeding it more substantial pieces of fuel.

I piled on the logs with the damper fully open until the fire roared. Taking a moment before the hectic routine of feeding and dressing six uncooperative youngsters consumed me, I stared into the flames. They had a hypnotic effect, and I tried to imagine my future. I wanted to believe there was more to life.

***

I found myself flat on my back under a stark white blanket in a brightly lit room. The beeping of machines, distant at first, grew louder. It dawned, I had lived that future, and it hasn't always gone as planned. I hadn’t built a fire in the furnace of the house located in Clifford, New York, since the sixties. A lead weight dropped in my heart when I thought of my cat, Smokey. My parents had tolerated him when he could hunt and kept the rat population down. When my darling became too old, he spent his time indoors. I didn’t mind, but the rules were animals had to be useful or food. One day, off the school bus, I rushed to my bed where Smokey waited for me. He wasn’t there and never was again. My parents said, “Smokey got old.”

What had I made of my life? The familiar voice of my only child penetrated the fog in my mind. I couldn’t tell if I was sick or drugged or both. Since my daughter was a doctor, her presence comforted me. I drifted back to the house in Clifford.

***

I sat on a small covered stoop facing the orchard in the rear of the property. I’d placed my mother’s most recent baby on a blanket, so I could watch the entire tribe while they scurried up and down trees picking apples. The building had seen paint once, but now it was more brown than white. The three-storied home was much like every farm in the North. The first floor, a basement, housed the utilities, storage for canned goods, and many field rats. The second and main floor contained the kitchen, sitting areas, a bathroom, and a grand suite for the adults. The third floor, an attic where the “squatters,” known generally as children, would reside until the adults could find a way to rid themselves of their responsibilities.

Smokey, young and healthy, laid at my side, ever alert for a rat, fox, or any other intruder. He was fearless. I stroked his sleek gray fur, and he leaned into me, occasionally turning his face up to gaze at me with loving dark eyes.

Baskets full of fruit now, I picked up the baby as the tribe dragged their treasures into the back room. Protected from rain and snow, this was where we split and stacked wood to dry, where the walnuts aged, and where we stored muddy boots, potatoes, onions, and apples. It was dark and naturally cold, except for the hottest days of summer. The unfinished wooden plank floor meant I didn’t have to fuss at anyone about their mess.

Smokey dashed off to scold a crow trying to eat something in the vegetable garden as I followed the children inside. “Great job, everyone. We should get some nice cobbler, pies, and applesauce from this bunch. If I use lots of sugar, you might want to eat it.”

They laughed. Crab apples were hard and sour. To make a decent dessert from them would probably take more talent than I possessed, and they knew it. However, it had kept six children busy for almost an entire day. That alone was worth the effort.

“Okay, bath time starts now!” I announced. “It takes hours with all of you so let’s get to it. Oldest first.”

My older brother puffed out his chest and cuffed a younger sibling, “That’s right. Oldest first!”

I shook my head as the injured child began to cry, followed by the baby in my arms.

That one is going to end up in prison.

The future inmate strolled away whistling.

***

My heart sank as I felt the hardness of a bed under my back and sensed the bustling of activity that accompanied the beeping of machines. The smell of alcohol rub informed me I was in a medical facility, though I had no idea why.

My last thought in Clifford seemed evident to me then. I wasn’t surprised to recall my older brother had gone to prison. It taught him not to get caught. He’d died as he’d lived, reckless and without purpose.

I felt my daughter’s palm in mine. It was familiar, though it had been a long time since she’d reached to clasp my hand. Her voice carried into my heart. “If you’re in pain, squeeze my fingers, and I’ll ask the attending physician to up your meds, Mom.” I squeezed because I wanted to let her know I was back, and then I was gone again.

***

I sat on a loveseat covered in fabric destined to become a testament to the 80s. A football game flickered on an old television, the color off by most standards, with my second husband screaming from his recliner at the screen. Neither Schroeder nor I was impressed.

Schroeder was my daughter’s cat, but we’d never let her stepfather in on the secret. He always had to be humored. To gain his approval, we presented Schroeder as his gift. A tiny gray and white kitten someone had brought into the factory where I worked.

I had hoped the second marriage would succeed where the first had failed. A selfish man, his charm faded dramatically when a sudden illness threatened to end his young life. Lacking in courage, he made an armor of beer cans. His religion, self-pity. Abuse, his revenge on the healthy. I learned I could not love someone enough to live their mistakes, and I wasn’t magical enough to fix them.

I had already moved the money, nothing so significant it would change his lifestyle. The home would be his. Nothing in his world would change. I’d been sleeping in the guest room for nearly a year. He’d barely notice when I left him, but Schroeder would.

I knew disappearing with the cat would be worse than taking the savings, my car, or anything else in the home. He thought the cat was his. Schroeder had to remain behind, but I was confident he’d be okay.

Schroeder had adapted to our life and had an exterior of iron. He was not Smokey with the big black eyes, grateful for every stroke. This cat would insist upon affection when he required it. A hint was a nip of my hand. If I stopped his cuddles too soon, both paws would hold my hand in place. He’d speak up when the food dish was empty, the litter required addressing, or he was in a mood.

When the game had ended, I took Schroeder to my room. It had never been his habit to sleep with either of us, but this night, he nestled in, rested his head on my cheek, and purred.

***

A sound whirred behind me as I lay in a dimmed hospital room. I remembered the second husband had succeeded in killing himself with alcohol despite his mother’s strenuous efforts to save him from himself. He told me once that Schroeder ‘got old.’ I was acquainted with the code people use to excuse themselves from caring for an animal. They never say the animal was sick or suffering, or that it stopped eating. It was old, so they killed it. It’s more socially acceptable to say that than, ‘I couldn’t be bothered.’

A distant voice penetrated the haze where I floated. My daughter nearby on a call? Yes.

“No, I’m not even going to tell her that I called you. I doubt she’d hear me anyway. I just thought you’d like to know. She’s slipping faster than I expected, and she did raise you guys.”

There was a pause as the hospital intercom announced a call for Dr. Love and the other party on the phone spoke at length.

“I didn’t know. Yes, but if it were me, I’d want to say goodbye at least, so you have no regrets.”

Silence followed, punctuated by irregular footsteps coming closer then fading away.

“Yeah, that’s fine. I thought I was doing you a favor. Your sister’s dying. She’s not going to know or care if you visit. You’ll know, and if you don’t care, then I certainly don’t.”

Another pause. I could picture my daughter’s face, knowing her well, and the funny expressions she used to let her opinions be known silently.

“Party? No, I won’t be there, and I don’t care if you call it a ‘Celebration of Life,’ I know what you’re doing. You're a bitch.”

I smiled inside. Still toddlers, every one of them. Let them live with their regrets, baby girl.

***

I stood in front of the house I’d bought with my third husband for our retirement. We never made it that long. I’d volunteered to pet-sit while he continued the single life he’d never given up. I’d long since stopped caring about his social life. My only concern was for the animals I’d had to leave behind. I rang the bell and the man I called ‘the toddler’ answered the door.

The two tabby cats we’d adopted in happier times were shy of strangers, and only slightly friendlier to me since I’d become an infrequent visitor. Still, Contraband came out and immediately yowled as if to give me hell for abandoning her. Smuggler remained aloof until I came back from shopping with real food.

We’d had three rescue cats when I left my cheating husband, and I could only take the youngest with me. He’d chosen the only treatment for his illness that wouldn’t allow him to work. Because I could, I had let him keep the house, everything in it, and some savings. It didn’t leave me in a good position to care for all three cats, so I took the one who had suffered repeated attacks from the older two.

There was also a new dog the toddler said he found. I was sure the real story involved a bar, a bet, and probably a woman with a puppy. The cute bundle of nervous fur was dumb as a box of rocks. After ten walks and lots of encouragement, he still crapped on the kitchen floor.

It was supposed to be a day of pet-sitting, which turned into two before the toddler sent a text that he was going to be gone a week, maybe two.

I put an appropriate amount of distance between us to avoid another trap, begin a life without abuse, but I’d often wonder about the animals. I had a strong feeling he’d put them down if he had to take care of them by himself. When we were married, his reaction to seeing a hairball was to shriek like a child and point at it while he waited for me to clean it up. I remember putting my hands on my hips once and demanding, “Are you not seeing yourself?”

I spent my retirement daydreaming about winning the lottery and buying a rescue ranch where I could care for any soul in need. My first move would be to get the tabby cats and even the goofy dog.

***

“Code blue, Room 102.”

I wondered what my room number was. I’d know if I was code blue.

The feeling of a hug from Contraband was still real to me. I’d always hoped for the best, that one of the ex-husband’s conquests would be an animal lover. At least, I still had Tiny.

Please, someone take care of her until I can.

***

At the high-top table in the dining area, I approached the topic of the small black cat I’d seen in a cage at a local pet store. I always stopped, not intending to adopt but to give the animals some attention. Tiny was mellow, laying on a shelf just inside the cage, and when I spoke to her or put a finger in to stroke her head, her little paws opened like fans in appreciation.

I thought she’d be suitable for the older cats. A younger cat might be the right balance. A kitten could be considered a toy, and an older cat a threat, but a young cat would be neutral to my thinking.

“Please, pay a visit,” I begged my third husband during a rare visit between business trips. “If you still don’t want to deal with another rescue, fine. But we have this big house now, and there’s room for three. If we can take in an animal, I think we should.”

My mate made a jerking-off gesture and stomped away. I was optimistic.

I came home from work, and there was Tiny. The family who had rescued her gave her the name, and we kept it. She was sleek, all black, and she didn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. Eventually, the two older cats would try to kill her. Thanks to the man’s ‘Let’em work it out’ policy, they nearly succeeded.

Tiny and I had been binge-watching a favorite show when I--

***

“Time of death, one-fifty-five. Let’s clean her up so her relatives can pay respects, people.”

I hovered over the bed I’d been lying on just moments before.

Code blue, who knew? I guess now I know what they meant when they said your life flashes before your eyes. It’s not literal. You get to revisit certain portions, the ones that were important to you. I guess I’m glad I--

***

I found myself in the tall grass of the field next to the Clifford house. I looked around. Well, let’s face it. It’s all tall grass when you don’t mow.

The sun shone, and a warm breeze bending the wildflowers blew my hair from under the brim of my hat. Long brown strands fluttering like a skein of tangled silk threads caressed my shoulders. I felt seventeen again, and when I looked down, I realized my youthful figure had returned. A dark skirt topped by a sheer blouse, a bohemian necklace hung almost to my waist. It was my style. Whoever dresses the dead does an excellent job. I smiled.

I caught my hat before the wind whipped it off and shaded my eyes from the bright sunlight. Off in the distance, the grass parted indicating movement in the undergrowth. I watched, waiting, and eventually, I felt several cats winding around my ankles. Smokey, Schroeder, Contraband, and Smuggler were following each other in and out of my legs, purring and mewing. I heard a yelp, and it was the dopy dog my last husband had adopted.

***

Most days I’m happy in the Clifford house. I didn’t expect any of the children I raised there to visit. Some had passed before me, some after, but none of them perished as a friend. During their young lives, I’d been their servant and a despised authority figure. They’d never learned to appreciate or respect me. As adults, they either abused or dismissed me, just as our parents had taught them. I can’t say I’d want their company either, here in the house where I waited for my future to find me. I want to believe there’s more to death.

There are afternoons when I return to the field where my beloved pets found me, where it’s always a summer day, and there’s a gentle breeze. I shield my eyes and spend the afternoon watching for Tiny.