Lost Cats and Life in the Middle

"Dammit."

Seth stared at the gray calico cat mangled in a heap at his feet, the blood mixed into the gravel along the belly, the upper teeth bared in its lifeless face, as if it died angry. This was the third. His mother warned him that the street was too busy. That cars are killers. That he was better off waiting.

He picked up the heap of fur and brittle bones. Even though this was the third time it happened, he was still unprepared for the dead weight draping over the edges of his hands, like a wet wool blanket. He placed the body into the grocery bag, grabbed the handles with his right hand, and supported the bottom with his left hand. Then he sauntered back towards his apartment. He hated how heavy the bag felt, how he was the only one who knew what was in it.

Back at his apartment complex, he snuck around to the blue dumpster behind the building, checked that no one was watching, and gently set the bag down inside. He wanted to bury it, but where could he go? He didn't have a shovel anyway.

"Here's your rent notice, fella." Tom, his landlord, held out a white envelope smudged with gray thumb prints along the edges. His teeth were yellowed from years of cigarettes, but they looked even darker surrounded by his white beard hairs, bleached with age. Tom's face had always reminded Seth of a wax sculpture. The wrinkles around his eyes and the edges of his mouth seemed more like permanent residents than guests that arrived in his 40s. Seth nodded, took the envelope, and then felt a smaller one beneath it.

He trudged up the stairs, unlocked his door, kicked off his shoes, and fell into the lounge chair by the window, next to the coffee table.

He shuffled his phone out of his jeans and slid it across the table. It fell off the other side. He tried hard not to pick it up. But it was pointless. He slammed it back down on the table top just as it started to ring. The image of a smiling, slightly insane-looking woman with rustled silver hair popped up on his screen. "Why do old people take selfies?" Her hair always reminded him of an old bird's nest, but it looked worse in the photo because her smile suggested that she thought this really was a good picture.

"How's my Seth? Your anxiety doing better?"

"Hey, ma. It's fine."

"I got your cat one of them feather toys. I'll bring it over this afternoon."

"I'm a little busy, ma. Maybe tomorrow."

"What's the matter, Seth?" There was a pause.

"Did your cat get hit by a car again? Seth . . .?"

"Ma, I don't feel like talkin."

"Awww, Seth. I told you! I says not to get another cat til you could move!"

"Ma, it's fine. I don't wanna talk now."

"I'm coming over."

"Ma, no. Don't." She'd already hung up. Seth set the phone down on the table next to him, squeezed his eyes, and then felt for his Moleskine on the coffee table next to him. As he grabbed it and his chewed Bic pen, he knocked his rent bill off the table, and the small envelop beneath it landed on his foot. He picked it up and laid it across his journal cover.

"Henry" was written on the front in navy ink, in what Seth called "old person writing." That was all.

Without thinking, he tore it open, slicing the side of his left index finger on the tongue of the envelope. He clasped his thumb and index finger together to keep the blood in.

Inside was a note written on the 3x5 card with dirty bent corners, and a check.

I never wanted to hurt you or your mother, and I wish I had more time to get to know you. This is all I can give, the rest of my winnings. Write your name in. Please take it, and remember me after. - CTH

Seth stared at the check in silence, trying to make sure he saw the number correctly. At first he thought it was 1,500. Then 15,000. But no: 1,500,000.00.

His heart beat like a mallet on anvil. He felt as if his hands weren't his own, but he watched them take the pen, spread out the check on his journal, and write his name on the line: "Seth B. Green." He swallowed heavy, felt a little surge of panic in his spine, and then reached for his orange bottle of Xanax on the coffee table. Only seven pills left. He took a deep breath in, held it for five seconds, then let it out slowly, feeling the oxygen rush into his head.

The bank was just across the street. But they'd never believe him. He'd need to have a story ready. No . . . he'd just deposit it at the drive-through and then run back. The idea sounded perfect as he walked back to his door, slipped on his shoes, grabbed his wallet, and took off down the hallway. He looked out the window above the landing by the front door and could see his mother shuffling across the street with a white plastic bag in hand, swinging it like a pendulum. He turned and bolted towards the back entrance.

His mother hobbled up the steps, shifting her weight from right to left, wheezing by the time she reached his door. She knocked and let out her hot, stale cigarette breath.

"Seth! Open up; it's ma."

In her left hand hung the plastic bag, a fluorescent green feather sticking out the top. In her right hand was a Tupperware overfilled with chocolate chip cookies, grease and butter smearing the plastic walls.

"Seth, come on'!"

She paused for a few moments, catching her breath and staring at his room number, 770.

"You can get another one. The SPCA's still open til noon. I'll go with you."

Tom opened his door and looked down the hallway.

"Gladice? Everything alright?"

"Hey, Tom. Yea. It's good. How you doin?"

"Seth not answering?

"Na. I think his cat died again."

"You mean the cat that's not allowed in the building?" Tom was smiling.

"Aww, c'mon, Tom. He loves cats. It's all he's got right now. Raised him to love cats."

"Yea, I know."

"I ain't seen him all morning. Must be out." Tom wasn't sure why he lied. It just fell off his lips.

"Na, he's in there. I was just talkin to him."

"I can get the master key," Tom said, turning back inside towards his own room."

"It's alright, Tom. He gets mad when you do that. I'll just wait a bit."

"You wanna chair?"

"If you got one. So out of breath this morning." Tom disappeared for a minute and came back out with a dark mahogany chair, upholstered with worn, navy blue fabric. The thread was light blue on the corners, and a few stray threads lifted up and out like tendrils.

"Thanks, Tom."

"You bet."

Gladice reached into her bag and pulled out the cat toy. It was a long wooden pole with a hole in the end, which held a thick string about two feet long. At the end of the string was a rubber ball the size of a large marble, with three green feathers sticking out of it. She tugged up and down on the pole and watched the ball bounce off the dark green carpet at her feet.

Then she looked at her wedding band, hugged by her pudgy, freckled skin. She checked her phone for the date and sighed a smile. February 25th.

"Fifteen years," she mumbled. "Since you been gone. . ."

Tom was watching her out the slit of his door frame. He wanted her to keep talking.

"Seth'll be alright, John. He's like you. His mind is keeping him from doin what I know he can do . . . . But he'll get it. You watch. Mark my words . . . he'll get it."

She picked up her head and turned towards Tom's door. He moved away from the crack, but it was too late. She'd seen him. And he felt so embarrassed. He hadn't felt like that since the third grade, when he borrowed a purple crayon from Eileen Winthrop without asking. He thought about apologizing, but he was frozen behind his door. He waited two or three minutes. Then he pushed it open swiftly to make it seem as if he were busy before.

"I can call you, Gladice. I can call you when he's back."

"Could you? That'd be good, Tom. I can't sit here all day. I've got to run to the bank to deposit my social security check."

"Big money," Tom said, grinning.

"Oh, yea. Real big." She chuckled and pushed her body up from the chair.

"When you see him, Tom, can you just tell him something?"

"Sure." Tom looked at her face, and her eyes met his. This meeting of the eyes struck both of them, pulling them into a moment of sincerity, which neither had expected.

"Tell him we'll get another cat. Tell him we'll get past this. And tell him that I love him."

Tom smiled without showing his teeth, and Gladice matched it. This made both of them start to laugh, but they caught themselves before it spilled over.

"Yep. Sure thing. I'll tell him."

"Thanks, Tom. You're a good guy."

She nodded at him and then hobbled back down the hallway. Tom watched her go. Just as she closed the door, he heard the back door to the complex open. Up the stairs came Seth, his face glazed with sweat.

"Hey, Tom." Tom nodded.

"Your mother was just here."

"I figured. What'd she say?"

Tom paused for a moment. "Said she loves you, and you can get another one."

Seth coughed out a laugh and shook his head. "She's said that before."

They both nodded to each other and then turned to their rooms.

Then Seth shot his head back out into the hallway.

"Hey, Tom." Tom backed up and looked at Seth with tired blue eyes.

"What would you do if you ever won the lottery?"

"With the money?"

"Yea, what would you do with it?"

Tom looked at the floor for a few seconds and then picked up his head to look squarely into Seth's face.

"Find someone to give it to, I guess. . . . I'm old. Don't got much use for money anymore. It doesn't change much."

Seth stared at him in quiet wonder. Tom himself seemed lost in thought, nodding at the green carpet.

"Why'd you ask?"

"I don't know . . . I don't know." Seth said this because he legitimately didn't know, not because he was at a loss for words.

"I got to go . . . got some stuff to do."

"Mmmhmm," Tom hummed.

"We all do."

He smiled and closed his door. The latch clicking shut made Seth feel alone. He sat down in his doorway, pushing his hands into the carpet, rubbing the fibers in the same direction. Then he closed his eyes and rested the back of his head on the molding.

"I'm not old yet," he said to himself.

"Not old."

He went back into the apartment, picked up his Moleskine, and rested it on his lap.

Then he started to change the world.