A Way to the Park of Gardens (Chapter 4)

Chapter Four - Aunt Fran

****


As an orange, black and lightly white spotted cat lay in a misshapen heap, his legs this way and that, his body forced up against the hot black steel guarding the fire, he moaned in a pool of his own pee. His body broken, he meowed as pathetic as any feline could meow. A woman stood over him with hands on hips and leg cocked.


***


He never knew what it felt like to fly. Oh, he had ideas. There was the time when the bluebird flittered about the far tree line diving after crows who were close to it's bird house on the fence. The incredible number of times it banked to the left, then right as the birds made dance moves like airborne ballerinas. He watched, too enamored to give chase even though his instincts pricked at every muscle to join in. Why couldn’t he jump in the air and fly away like a bird? Would his long tail control his direction? Would his ears fold back giving him a better aerodynamic? Would it be simple to breath without opening his mouth? Would there be tears in his eyes, as there are now? How could he know that the friction from flying fast would cause tears to flow easier then from the pain he was experiencing in his current condition. And his current condition was dangerously close to detrimental.

He had come upon this immaculate house with the pristine yard a skinny, crazed with hunger, dirty and tired cat. He was far from the house he once lived in, trekking for days up into the hills, following the tweets and chirps and caws coming from deep in the woods. He hadn’t eaten for days, just munching on any grass he could find growing under the canopy of the trees, or if he was lucky, a berry. When he came upon a clearing right past a grouping of short euonymus bushes he thought he ended up in a heaven specifically for cats. Birds of all shapes and sizes were whizzing about onto small hanging containers of bird food: blue jays and chickadees, cardinals and sparrows, finches, purple and golden. They were all flying about bird feeders hanging from tree branches and iron posts and spots off a house. There were even squirrels who were hanging from all different angles off the feeders eating what they could with their tiny paws. There were so many bird feeders of different sizes, shapes and colors it looked as if there wasn’t a spot left in the sky. It couldn’t be more perfect. He hunkered down to skulk. His stomach rapped a chorus with the beat of his heart and it was beating a fast tune. His long days and fruitless nights of searching for a meal of any type would finally come to an end.

Wait...wait....wait.... There!

He saw morning doves, a pair, pecking at the ground for seeds fallen from the feeders above. His eyes widen. Quietly he lowered himself, his empty stomach scrapping the ground, limbs aching and slowly stalked his prey. The grass, just on the outskirts, was not tall but it was enough for him to hide close by. He bid his time. He was anxious, for he was sure the birds soaring about from feeder to branch and back again would catch a glimpse and sound the predator alarm. But maybe luck was on his side and he would finally eat something other then a plant. When one of the doves turned its back he decided to make his move. As quick as his legs could move, he slung his long body forward baring his claws and went for the closest one.

He was not fast enough.

The doves scampered as well as ground birds could scamper and flew upwards just out of the cats outstretched claws. The rest of the menagerie cackled and cawed and chirped and made such a racket the whole of the woods knew of the event. The alarm had sounded. The area once teeming with life emptied and grew silent.

With nothing to show he slumped to the ground, his breathing shallow and his spirit deflated. He had no energy left other then to die.

Having just watched the spectacle from inside the screened door, a woman went to the cat and carefully picked it up. “Come on inside,” she whispered. “Mama will take care of you now.”

He had been in this house now for close to two months, although being a cat and not knowing the land had made it difficult to gauge time. The woman had brought him inside the house, fed him, gave him a place to sleep, talked to him in human talk and occasionally brush his fur. The house was warm, especially by the place were a fire roared and crackled. He would lay in front of the black iron guarding the fire on a small mat and rest for most of the day. The woman would sit in a chair watching, or read a book, or rest. She was always close by. The days went by quick as she went about her business around the house cleaning and dusting, adjusting this knickknack or that, especially the things that were on top of the wooden mantle overlooking the fire. His life could not have been much better then it was now. He did not have to be outside ever again. He would close his eyes as often as cats did and think back on those days of gnawing hunger, cold nights and the endless search for a place of being. He finally had a real home and achieved what all cats strive for, a comfort.

One day he decided to leap atop the wooden mantle over the fireplace and look about as cats do, always from the highest spot in the land. He normally did this when the woman was not around. But he saw something interesting and his curiosity took over. A scream and a lightning quick slap forced him from the perch. He raced to the opposite side of the room hissing and hid under an old cushiony sofa. He did not come out for the rest of the day. After that, things were never the same. No longer was he fed, brushed or allowed to sleep by the fire. Oh, he was talked to, but with shouts and words that even a cat could understand were not of a good nature. Any chance the woman could get was to torment him. If he had one moments chance of any kind of relief it was when the woman went to sleep. His once idyllic life, one that was saved that day after chasing the birds, his feeling of comfort, were over. His only thoughts now were to escape. At night he would silently search throughout the house for an exit back to the terrible life he had outside. Terrible was better then abominable, which his daily life was now. He went to every door but to no avail, all were locked tight. He jumped onto window sills and scraped, but the glass was strong and his claws could not dig through the wood frames. At times he would wait until the woman was ready for her excursions outside, watching from a hiding place as she dressed in extra clothing. As she went to the door in the front of the house he’d look for that tiny opening she’d make as she opened the door, only to be beaten back by the broom she had at her disposal leaning against the door frame, shouts and curses and spit raining down. By the end of the second month he had all but given up.


**


She had the nasty bastard just where she enjoyed all her misbehaving felines, back against the fireplace inches from the pit of fire. Small clumps of hair were still visibly stuck to the black grating from previous incidents. In fact, taking the fireplace guard out of the equation, the room was as immaculate as it was the first day she moved in all those many years ago. She prided herself in keeping it as clean and antispetic as a hospital. Visitors marveled. “How do you keep it looking this way?” They’d asked. ‘Spit and polish and a lot of hard working.’ She replied. And they believed every word. How could you not? Everyone wondered why she wouldn't open the place up as a bed and breakfast, with the beautiful land around them, the clean air, her famous cooking and all the rooms on the second floor that were not used but looked to want to be. She laughed. ‘Time.” she said, ‘Time is needed, and my time is always taken up by my husband and my kids.” It would take her visitors aback when she spoke about ‘her kids’. But to her, her cats were and she had many: calicos, persians, Russian blues, abyssinians and domestics came and gone. Yet, unlike actual kids, if they were out of line; peeing where they were not suppose to or miss the litter box, vomit hair balls on her antique rugs, get into the pantry, knock to the floor a valuable knick-knack, tear at the furniture with their claws or, God forbid, took a swipe at her, they were then deemed ‘dead to her’. And dead they would become.

It took the fifth leg kick to the head of the once pretty orange, black and white male domestic to end his short time in her company. As she went to sit in her chair to catch her breath satisfied the little beast was dead the phone suddenly rang. Panting and sweating, Aunt Fran went to the old dial-type phone and answered.

“Claria,” she said still trying to catch her breath. “No, I was doing my work. Had to be done.” She looked down at the mess in front of the fireplace. “Still more work to be done.”

She listened to her niece and how she and her husband wanted to take some time off and go somewhere warm and if she could watch their siamese cat, Miles.

“A siamese,” she said. “I haven’t had a siamese in this house.” She sat down twirling her short locks of kinky hair around her index finger. “Noisy things if I recall reading.” Her niece told her all about her ‘little man’. She understood the meaning, ‘little man’. She had those feelings once, too. Fleeting, but they were there. She pushed them down deep into the back of what little soul she had left. Little men, little women, little cats, all to be pushed down into the dark black ground eventually, like the love she once had.

“Of course, my dear.” She replied when ask if she could help. “You will supply all the necessary items, okay?” Her niece agreed and could they drop him off soon. “When will you be here?” Aunt Fran asked. “Tomorrow?” She thought for a moment measuring up the chore of burying the dead bundle of twisted fur in front of her. Shouldn’t take long, about three hours. Go in the basement, get the long handled spade she used for the nasty business. Must find a spot close to the others, just beyond the grove of evergreens not too far to the garden where the others were resting. He’s orange and black with a bit of white so maybe mark him with oriental poppy. She had her queer routine, for each feline buried mark the spot with a flower that matched the fur or personality. The one in the living room now not living should have the orange and black oriental poppy. That would be perfect. She had the seeds down in the basement stored in their appropriately marked containers neatly arranged in cubbyholes in a wooden wall shelf unit built by her late husband.

“Okay, dear.” Aunt Fran said pulling the short cord of the phone so as to crane her head closer to the front window. “I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring the cage, just in case and make sure it’s nice and clean.” Her niece agreed and hung up.

Aunt Fran placed the receiver back onto its perch and rose from the chair. Keeping her eyes peering through the front window, she looked for any movement. Since her house was atop a high spot in the Red Hills, the occasional hunter would show himself down close to her driveway over by the winding road. Seeing no one about, she set about the task of disposing of her latest victim; basement for shovel, her boots and a special plastic bag that breaks down over time. Even though she was in fine shape for her age, she would eventually get tired and need to rest and with sundown approaching, the seeding would have to be tomorrow and as early as possible.


*

Miles had no idea how long he was out. It could have been as long as the last time, but he didn't know. What he did know was he was still inside the carrier, it was still hot and he was still hungry. He looked forward and noticed the door to his carrier was open. He froze.

“Pat, he won’t come out.” Said Claria with her hands on her hips bent down to see inside. “That bird really scared him.” She got on her knees. “Miles, come on, there’s only me.”

Miles wasn’t about to move. Not only did that bird scare him, but he had a nagging feeling of doom if he stepped outside. He backed as far back into the carrier as he possibly could and cowered.

“I’m going to lose my mind!” Bellowed Pat stomping around the carrier in circles. “We have to go!”

Claria was about to reply to her husband’s childish behavior when in the distance, off to the right side of the house back behind a grove of evergreen bushes, she saw her Aunt Fran.

“There she is!” Claria shouted, pointing. “She’s right there!” She waved trying to get her aunts attention but for some reason her aunt seemed off in a distant place looking about the woods as she walked towards the rear of the house.

“About time,” said Pat with a huff. “Let’s give her Miles and get out of here.”

Claria heard him but just stared at her aunt. Her aunt’s actions seemed unnatural, other worldly. It sent a chill up her spine and kicked in a fear to gather everyone back into the car and head back home.

“Fran, Fran!” Shouted Pat. “Over here, we’re here!” He went running to her in sheer desperation.

Claria could not help but watch as her aunt stopped in her tracks, dropped what looked like a small spade and work gloves she had on to the ground and welcomed Pat with arms extended and a hug. A curious thought crossed her mind and she looked back to Miles. For a split second she placed herself in her cat’s place and wondered what might happen once she and Patrick left. Would her aunt who had this look of loss of place be able to take care of Miles? Would she forget that Miles was an indoor cat and leave a door ajar? Would she somehow forget to feed him for the week? What if Miles became ill, would she know how to take care of him? Her mind raced with each scenario coming up with multiple images of chaos and a disjointed sense of doom. She knew her aunt had raised all kinds of cats, but still. As her instincts reached a critical juncture, the sound of her husband’s calming and jovial voice snapped her back to the earthly plane of normalcy.

“....so we wrote down the Vet’s number and our cells if anything happens.” Pat said to Aunt Fran. “I know your history of handling cats will put Claria at ease.” He continued, looking at his wife smiling, who shot him back a crooked smirk. “We really didn’t want to have the neighbors have to deal with him, you know.”

“Yes, I know all about that.” Replied Aunt Fran. “I know all about it, yes.” She held his arm in hers holding onto him tightly and with a sparkle in her eyes. “Don’t you worry, Mama will take care of everything. You have a good time and enjoy your trip.” She grinned mightily and extended her arm towards Claria.

Claria stood back and took in the sight of her aunt. She had not seen her since the day of her marriage to Patrick. Just before the reception Aunt Fran had just lost her husband, Claria’s Uncle Joe from a swift illness. Her Aunt had put up a gallant front, keeping a smile on her face the whole of the evening. It was evident her mind was elsewhere when she had asked a friend of Claria’s and Pat’s to get her another plate of food from the hall’s kitchen only to find out he didn’t work there, of course. When Claria’s friend filled her in later about the incident they both laughed. But she understood. Losing someone dear, someone you spent time or wanted to spend time with, someone you loved or wanted to love and shared all the joys and sorrows thrown in your path had to be harder then anything. You can work on how you overcome the death of a loved one or one to be loved, but when it comes you realize how ill prepared you are. She knew. It changes you. But she also knew it’s how you change that matters most. You can move down a choice of two different paths; the path of domineering despair or the path of enlightened hope.

As she watched her aunt walk towards her, a kind of sickening despair seemed to hang on her aunt. She wanted to look away.

“Oh, my dear.” Aunt Fran chirped, letting go of Patrick’s arm and grabbing hers. “You look so healthy and ready for some fun.” She squeezed Claria’s arm tighter with each word. “You just let your old Auntie take care of your bundle and you go off and enjoy your time away from all the pressure and pain.”

“I really appreciate it.” Clara said taking in the smell of dirt, grass and something else oozing like a sore from her Aunt’s soiled clothing. “We needed some time and we can’t thank you enough.” She said measuring each word carefully.

“Oh, it’s going to be fine, really.” Aunt Fran said catching the pauses in her niece’s voice. “Now,” she continued looking about. “Where’s my visitor?”

Claria turned towards the car where they left Miles when suddenly her Aunt placed her hand over her mouth and said, “Oh! You left the carrier door wide open! It could be anywhere, now!”

Her reaction startled Claira. “It’s okay, Miles doesn’t like the outdoors.”

Aunt Fran wasn’t convinced. She had her share of cats who seemed one way but ended up being quite another altogether. The wild ones who’d seem to not want to stay indoor were content to just sleep on the chair every moment of every day close to the fireplace or find one of the second floor rooms where the sunlight bathed an enormous bed for most of the afternoon. Every instance a swat with the broom or a smack with whatever was handy had them running for cover. She’d have to break out the vacuum and clean the fur those beasts shed from every nook and cranny. “Oh, those hairy little beasts!” She’d cry over and over. So how could this one not be any different.

“We’ll see,” Aunt Fran muttered as she walked towards her new visitor. Claria followed her Aunt as Patrick opened the car door and started the engine.

Bending down, resting her hands on her knees, Aunt Fran craned her neck and peered inside.

“My, my, what a pretty one.” She purred.

Miles moved back. This woman had a smell other then the grass and earth scents. This woman had his senses working triple time and red lining like they did back home when the thing with the buttons made the ringing sound. He moved back so his body was sideways not giving the strange woman any means to touch any part of his body.

“He has some nice color.” Aunt Fran complemented. “A just fancy cat.”

“We got him from a large litter,” explained Claria. “He just stuck out.”

“I can see,” Aunt Fran said trying to reach inside to get a feel.

Miles wanted to scratch the woman, but the red lining nausea began to creep up through his guts and her smell, like something decomposing, was making it more severe by the second. He wanted to run and never have to smell this woman again.

Aunt Fran gave up and stood, hands on her hips and her lips taunt and creased. “This one seems spoiled, my dear.” She barked towards Claria. “Did you not teach it?”

“Teach it?” Claria shot back. “Teach him what, to lick your hand?” She couldn’t help feeling attacked by her Aunt. “He’s only a cat.”

Beep! Beep! Pat laid into the car horn. “Hon! Let’s go!” He shouted hanging out the window. “We can just make it if we go now!”

Claria was torn. The bad feelings she had when she saw her aunt come from the woods and especially with how she was just talked to, questioning how she was raising her ‘little man’. It was audacious and all too much.

BEEP! Patrick continued with the horn and shouting. She looked down at the cage and then at her aunt who smiled like she did that night those many years ago. And for a moment... “HON!”

“Okay!” She shouted in frustration. She looked to the ground and swallowed. Stepping to the carrier, she bent down and reached inside. Grabbing Miles by the front legs, she gently pulled him forward and out. Standing up, she cradled the still shaking cat like an infant and slowly rocked. All the while Aunt Fran watched like a hawk.

“My little man,” Claria whispered to Miles. “You be a good boy and don’t cause any problems.” The fears and nausea and redness and all the tension from before slowly ebbed from Miles. It seemed for just a moment he was back in the warmth of his home and all was good with the world.

“Here, here,” interrupted Aunt Fran, “You must go, don’t make your husband angry and ruin your trip before it even started.” Yanking Miles from Claria’s arms with the force of a wind gust, she grabbed him by his front legs leaving the rest of his body dangling.

“AHH!” Claria cried out, feeling like she had just lost something more precious then her own life. Tears formed in her eyes. The emotions that overtook her weeks ago came flooding back. She stood motionless and afraid.

“Come on, Hon!” Shouted Pat over the hum of the car. “It’s now or never!”

Again, her husband snapped her back. “You have our cells,” Claria said emotionless, turning to the car.

“Don’t worry,” Aunt Fran said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Claria slid into the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. She rubbed her eyes and began convincing herself that it was just her emotions getting the better of her. All these bad thoughts were all made up in her mind. There was nothing to worry about. Her aunt had cats practically all her adult life. She was always told how healthy and content they were by others in the family. She shook her head, smiled and grabbed Patrick’s hand. As they pulled out of the stone driveway she turned and watched as her aunt placed Miles back into the carrier, closed the front and lifted the carrier off the ground walking towards the house. She turned back looking forward up through the car windshield at the clouds drifting quickly wondering if they too were heading south.

“It should be nice,” Pat said as happy as can be. “To finally get away from it all.”

“Yeah,” Claria murmured. “Get away.”