A Little Life On The 12th Floor

“Damn,” Keke muttered, stepping in the gooey paste. “There goes any anonymity.”

She’d jumped the fire escape from her 12th floor apartment down one level to Matilda’s small studio, hoping she’d be able to sniff around without leaving a trace. Keke knew Matilda would be napping all afternoon, and that the window would be open just slightly enough for her to crawl through. Of course, Keke’s tail got the best of her, and before she knew it she’d thwacked over an open jar of peanut butter in the kitchen, leaving one little paw print in her wake.

Matilda stirred at the soft bang of the jar; Keke froze and stared. Matilda kept snoring, her dark curly hair splayed across the pillow.

Slight Spring breezes blew past the pale blue window curtain as Keke deftly strutted between Matilda’s bookcases, haphazard boxes, and piles of clothes. A few liquor bottles lined the front hall. Very unlike home, Keke thought, sniffing a purple shoe. Keke’s Human Paul was a stuffy, neat-freak CPA, always vacuuming the floors with a sigh. He loved her, Keke knew; but she constantly saw in his eyes how he reconciled having a fluffy Calico cat, with maintaining a sparkling home.

She’d decided, early on, NOT to talk to Paul. They went about their little, calm life in the West Village, their days filled with his work and her sleep, their nights filled with chin rubs and treats and television. Paul would go out, sometimes; every now and again he’d bring a man home, and they’d spend time in Paul’s bedroom for a while, and Keke would eat and roam around the living room and sleep, and eventually the man would leave. Keke would watch the sun rise from the window the next morning, and the city sounds would crawl their way into the apartment as coffee brewed, and the two of them had their rhythm, and contentment, and all was well and fine.

The thing was, Paul didn’t know that Keke could talk.

She’d been able to talk since her days as a stray kitten on the streets. She thought she was alone in this strange fate; she soon learned, here and there, that other city strays could also communicate with words. “It’s just sumthin’ we got, kid. Use it wisely,” an old Tabby they called Stripes said to her once. He looked deep into her wide green eyes. “Pay attention. You’ll know when you need to open your mouth.”

She’d listen to Humans talk about food and weather, and she’d lead fellow cats to fresh trash bins, and out of the rain, and life was okay on the streets, until one day city rescue scooped her up and placed her in a shelter. She kept hearing the Humans say how much safer she was there. She did like getting head rubs, and food delivered to her nightly. But her gift, she thought desperately, wanting to make Stripes proud- she wasn’t sure if she should use it there. So she clammed up, resolving that she wouldn’t talk - until the time was right.

Paul excitedly took her home a few months later. She’d hide, at first, and cautiously watch him from under his couch. But she heard him on the phone: “She’s beautiful, Mom. She’s so soft. I’m naming her Keke. She likes Turkey.”

Soon all became well and fine with Paul, and their little life on the 12th floor.

****

One day, Matilda moved in one floor below. Keke was happy, for there had been a college kid there before, and he had been so loud and screechy. She’d perch from her fire escape, listening to her new neighbor, sniffing new scents.

Keke couldn’t help but constantly perk her ears- because Matilda mostly cried.

Keke would inch closer to Matilda’s window. She could hear Matilda on the phone with a friend: “24 years, Olive. I haven’t been alone for 24 years. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t think I CAN do this.”

Matilda’s husband just didn’t come home one day, Keke learned, and sent Matilda a letter: he didn’t know who he was, and he had to go figure it out. Matilda would read the letter out loud, and cry, and drink, and cry some more.

Keke sat. And listened. And would stare out at the city nights and its lights, as the soft tears turned into slumber from the very sad woman below.

Keke knew that going into Matilda’s apartment wasn’t necessarily allowed. She knew she was risking a stern talking to by Paul, and a potential shriek from Matilda.

She hadn’t planned on staying.

But she couldn’t stop thinking of Stripes: “Use it wisely.”

****

Matilda slowly opened her eyes into her beige cotton sheets. She could tell the sun was setting by the way the light slanted on the wall.

The nightmare of her current reality crashed into her mind, again. It was dulled, only somewhat, by the pounding headache of last night’s vodka.

She stretched, feeling the pull of her middle aged flesh. She felt heavy. She felt exhausted. She felt despair. She felt nothing.

She slowly rose up, and gasped. There, in the window, was a beautiful, fluffy, Calico cat, looking at her calmly, sitting curled up like a little loaf.

Matilda’s jaw dropped. “H- hello there. Where’d you come from?”

“Upstairs. I live one floor above you.”

Matilda gasped again, her eyes widening with shock. She clutched the sheets up to her chest, terrified.

“What- is this a trick?! You can talk!”

“Yes.”

“Cats can’t talk!”

“I can.”

Matilda’s heart pounded, as she looked into the Cat’s calm green eyes. Everything about this was crazy; and yet….

“Your curly hair is pretty.”

Matilda’s eyes widened.

“… Thanks ...um... your Calico fur is lovely ...”

A softness swirled, floating in the air between them.

“My name is Keke.”

“... I’m Matilda.”

For the first time in months, Matilda smiled.