Crenshaw

46

That evening, Crenshaw and I went out to the backyard.

Crenshaw liked night.

He liked the way the stars took their time showing up. He liked the way the grass let go of the sun’s warmth. He liked the way crickets changed the music.

But mostly he liked to eat the crickets.

We lay there, me on my back, Crenshaw on his side, with Aretha nearby gnawing on a tennis ball. Every so often she looked up, ears cocked, sniffing the air.

It felt good, talking as the night took over. It almost made me forget that we were leaving the next day. It almost made me stop feeling the anger and sadness weighing me down like invisible anchors.

Crenshaw trapped a cricket under his big paw.

I told him crickets were considered lucky in China.

“Crickets are considered delicious in Thailand,” he replied. His tail looped and snaked like a lasso at a rodeo. “And in cat-land.”

I chewed on a piece of grass. It’s a good way to distract yourself when you’re hungry. “How do you know that?”

Crenshaw glanced at me. “I know everything you know. That’s how imaginary friends operate.”

“Do you know things I don’t know?”

“Well, I know what it’s like to be an imaginary friend.” Crenshaw slapped at a moth with his other front paw. The moth fluttered over his head like it was laughing at him.

“I hate moths,” he said. “They’re butterfly poseurs.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Butterfly wannabes.”

“If you know everything I know, how come you know words I don’t know?”

“It’s been three years, Jackson. A cat can do a lot of learning in that time. I read the dictionary four times last month.”

He tried for the moth again and missed.

“You used to be faster,” I pointed out.

“I used to be smaller.” Crenshaw licked his paw.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you why you’re so much bigger. You weren’t this big when I was seven.”

“You need a bigger friend now,” said Crenshaw.

My mom walked by with a box of clothing to put in the minivan. “Jackson?” she said. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

“I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”

I cast a look at Crenshaw. “Just talking to myself. You know.”

My mom smiled. “An excellent conversational partner.”

“Do you need any help, Mom?”

“Nope. Not much to pack, when you get right down to it. Thanks, sweetie.”

Crenshaw lifted his paw. The cricket scrambled for freedom. Down went the paw. Not enough to kill the poor bug. Just enough to annoy him.

“Do you ever feel guilty about the way cats torture things? Bugs, mice, flies?” I asked. “I know it’s instinct and all. But still.”

“Of course not. It’s what we do. It’s hunting practice. Survival of the fittest.” He lifted his paw, and this time the cricket made a quick getaway. “Life isn’t always fair, Jackson.”

“Yeah,” I said, sighing. “I know.”

“In any case, you’re the one who made me a cat.”

“I don’t remember deciding that. You just sort of … happened.”

Aretha dropped her ball in front of Crenshaw. He sniffed it disdainfully.

“Cats do not play,” Crenshaw told her. “We do not frolic. We do not gambol. We nap, we kill, and we eat.”

Aretha wagged wildly, still hopeful.

“Fine.” Crenshaw blew on the tennis ball. It rolled a few inches. Aretha nabbed it with her teeth and tossed it in the air.

“That was playful of you,” I said. I plucked a new piece of grass to chew on. “For someone who doesn’t play.”

“I fear you may have made me with a hint of dog thrown in.” Crenshaw shuddered. “Sometimes I actually want to … to roll in something stinky. A dead skunk maybe, or some ripe trash.”

“Dogs do that because—”

“I know why. Because they’re idiots. I also know you will never, ever catch this fine feline specimen stooping so low.”

I sat up. The moon was thin and yellow. “Anything else I put in the mix?”

“Well, I sometimes worry I have a bit of fish in me. I rather like water.”

I thought back to my first-grade self. “I liked fish a lot when I was seven. I had a goldfish named George.”

“Of course,” said Crenshaw. “You liked a lot of animals back then. Rats, manatees, cheetahs. You name it.” He groaned. “Bats, too. No wonder I like to eat mosquitoes.”

“Sorry,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“At least you worked with animals. I have a friend—nice guy—who was made entirely of ice cream. Hated hot weather.”

“Wait.” I let that sink in. “You mean you know other imaginary friends?”

“Of course. Cats are solitary, but we’re not completely antisocial.” He yawned. “I’ve met Marisol’s imaginary friend, Whoops. And your dad’s.”

“My dad had an imaginary friend?” I cried.

“It’s more common than you might think, Jackson.” Crenshaw yawned again. “I feel a snooze coming on.”

“Wait,” I said. “Before you go to sleep, just tell me about my dad’s friend.”

Crenshaw closed his eyes. “He plays the guitar, I think.”

“My dad?”

“No. His friend. Plays the trombone, too, if I recall correctly. He’s a dog. Scrawny. Not much to look at.”

“What’s his name?”

“Starts with an F. Unusual name. Franco? Fiji?” Crenshaw snapped his fingers. Which is not something cats generally do. “Finian!” he said. “It’s Finian. Nice guy, for a dog.”

“Finian,” I repeated. “Hmm. Where are you, Crenshaw, when you’re not with me?”

“You’ve seen a teachers’ lounge, right?”

“I’ve peeked. We’re not allowed in. Mostly I saw a lot of coffee cups and Mr. Destephano napping on a couch.”

“Picture a giant teachers’ lounge. Lots of people waiting and snoozing and telling stories about exasperating, amazing children. That’s where I stay. That’s where I wait, just in case you need me.”

“That’s all you do?”

“That’s plenty. Imaginary friends are like books. We’re created, we’re enjoyed, we’re dog-eared and creased, and then we’re tucked away until we’re needed again.”

Crenshaw rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. A good cat fact to know is that they only expose their tummies when they feel safe.

His purr filled the air like a lawn mower.