Christmas Cats: A Literary Companion

Jim Edgar

The Christmas light displays along Tacoma's Division Avenue formed the same configurations as last year, and the year before that. It was this consistency that made Vincent smile as he walked along the sidewalk admiring the various spectacles. On one lawn, brilliant diamonds formed reindeer and snowmen, while the house next door was a flashing kaleidoscopic nightmare. It's enough to give a cat a seizure, Vincent thought.

He trotted down the street to a house adorned with twinkling icicles. A year earlier, he had been standing in the same spot watching a white female kitten jumping along the sill of the house's large front window. The window's curtain was closed this year.

The velvet satchel that hung around Vincent's neck was growing heavy, its contents demanding delivery. It can wait, he thought. Christmas only comes once a year.

A soft glow exuded from the side of the house. Vincent crept across the lawn and followed the light to a low window. He jumped to the sill and peered in. The same family as last year; mother, father, son. The boy had grown quite a bit. How old was he now… six perhaps? More handsome, a bit more blond. Vincent imagined the boy playing with the kitten, giving her treats, stroking her back, opening her Christmas presents for her. The boy giggled and climbed to his father's lap on a large recliner. Vincent sighed and let his gaze wander, searching for the white kitten.

Around the far corner of the living room she came at full speed, dodging the coffee table and barely missing the bounty of gifts piled beneath the family Christmas tree. She slipped on the linoleum of the dining area and disappeared around another corner. Vincent waited for her return from the other room, wondering which gifts were hers. Finally, when she didn't appear, he jumped from the sill and crept back to the sidewalk.

He turned to look back down Division Avenue. Lights as far as he could see. Lights on houses, houses with families, some families with cats. But none of the houses were his and none of the families were his. Vincent stood alone and watched the lights blaze.

He walked away to make his delivery.

Three blocks away, Vincent was still enchanted by the Christmas lights when he was surprised by Sammy of Hilltop. So surprised that he struck out at Sammy with a six-clawed right hook.

"Hey, Vinnie, it's me!" Sammy cried, barely avoiding the potentially lethal swipe.

"Sorry, Sammy! You surprised me! You should know better."

Sammy was catching his breath as he spoke. "Rolfondo told me to find you, in a hurry too. He needs you to make one more pickup in Old Town."

Vincent sighed. Old Town Tacoma took him farther out of his way than he would have liked—all the way down to the original Tacoma waterfront. He only wanted to drop off his collection sack and go home to be with his solitary thoughts.

"The Phuong brothers?" Vincent asked, annoyed that the reverie of his evening would likely be marred by violence.

"Yeah. He said you know them best, so you'd have more luck."

Vincent nodded. When the brothers first arrived in Tacoma, the eldest, True, had struck out on his own, finding employment with Vincent's boss as an enforcer.

More muscle than brains, True had looked to Vincent for help more than once on assignments and had even shared Vincent's home for a year. Rolfondo, Vincent's boss, had finally had enough and sent True back to his own family.

"How much do they owe?"

"Dunno, probably a lot. They haven't paid anything yet."

"Okay," Vincent reluctantly agreed. "Can you do me a favor and take this back to Rolfondo for me?" he asked, motioning to the satchel hanging from his neck.

"Oh no, Vinnie. You know how that stuff messes me up," Sammy said.

Vincent knew. He had seen Sammy flip out over lesser quality catnip before. The thought of taking an almost-full sack into Old Town made him nervous, but losing it all to Sammy's instinctual feline reactions would be unforgivable. Their boss didn't accept such lack in judgment.

"Okay," Vincent said. "Tell Rolfondo I will see him in an hour."

The waterfront was fifteen minutes away, at a good clip, and from there only half an hour to the warehouse. This gave Vincent some extra time to check out the light displays on the boats docked along the old piers. They always brought cheer to his loneliest time of the year.

"Alright, Vinnie. See you later." Sammy turned and trotted down the street.

"Hey, Sammy. Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," Sammy said over his shoulder. "You too, Vinnie."

Vincent sighed. He had yet to have a merry Christmas.

On his way to the Old Town, Vincent noticed the houses along the way. A few were draped with colored strings of lights, some flickering, some not. None of them approached the grandiosity of Division Avenue, but they evoked emotions nevertheless. He thought back to his first Christmas five years earlier.

He was only a few months old, and living with a carcass of a man who made his way in life as a personal injury attorney. The man had decided, in a drunken rage, to visit an opposing counselor and took Vincent along for the ride. While the attorney spent most of the night cursing the man from outside his house, Vincent sat in the car watching the Christmas lights along the street flash on and off. When they arrived home, Vincent was left, forgotten, in the backseat of the car amid legal briefs and empty beer bottles. Finally the man returned for him, but not before Vincent had had an accident on the floor of the car.

Vincent recalled the rest of that night with a shudder. No one should have to spend their first Christmas alive like that. And the next two years were not much better. The lawyer became increasingly violent as his life deteriorated from alcohol abuse. Often finding himself at the business end of a counterfeit Bruno Magli, Vincent developed quick reflexes, but he never raised a polydactyl paw against the man. Through all the injustices suffered at his hands, Vincent still felt pity for him. But not enough to stick around forever.

The best day of my life, Vincent thought, was squeezing through that barely open window and leaving the drunk to die miserable and alone. He looked at the lights twinkling in front of him now and put the memory behind him. The first three years of his life were barely worth remembering. They were not without merit, though. Without all the drunken abuse, I would not be the streetwise, tough guy I am now, would I? Vincent thought. But do I really need to be a tough guy? All I ever really wanted was a warm place to sleep and a family… a family that doesn't kick me around the room for fun.

That's not too much to ask for, is it? Vincent wondered, looking up into the dark sky above.

Vincent looked both ways and crossed Ruston Way, arriving at the old Tacoma waterfront. He meandered between the bustlingf alehouses that now lined the shore to the kluges of rotting pier pilings, remnants of Tacoma's golden days as a proud port city. Carefully, he crawled down to the craggy rocks among the pilings, rocks that had claimed the lives of too many cats. Slimy stone and frigid tides were not a feline's best friend.

Still, he liked coming here when business was not involved. He remembered the stories he had heard of the old neighborhood, full of colorful longshoremen unloading the freighters coming in from parts unknown. Now these old docks were the refuge of the occasional homeless person, or in this case, a rogue gang of fish-poaching Vietnamese felines.

It was these poachers, the Phuong brothers, to whom Vincent owed this late night visit. Vincent's boss, Rolfondo of Washington, had given them permission to intercept a small shipment of prawns destined for the Tacoma fish markets. They had turned a tidy profit on the job, but were very delinquent in paying Rolfondo his proper percentage. Weeks had passed, and it was time for Vincent to deliver a reminder. He had been doubly gifted at birth with immunity to catnip and with polydactylism: six claws on each paw. These gifts, combined with reflexive skills learned at the foot of the trial attorney, had earned him a title within the Tacoma family and the respect of cats as far south as Los Angeles. He was the only collector-enforcer in the family, capable of bringing in an ounce of 'nip at a time, impervious to its effect, an effect that made simpering blobs of lesser collectors.

This was Vincent's specialty. The three Phuong brothers had arrived from Vietnam on a container ship sailing under the flag of China. While True was testing the waters with Rolfondo's family, the other brothers started trading in foreign baubles and exotic fish. After True's return, they moved primarily into the catnip business and became one of the more notorious gangs in the city.

Amid the pier pilings Vincent now struggled through, they had found a secure niche at the base of a much-decayed concrete foundation and constructed an impressive fortress of some of the strongest crates in the business.

As he approached their enclave, Vincent gave his signature high-pitched warbling mewl, and waited. He watched carefully for any signs of movement. Though the brothers had recently become their own best customers, they were still dangerous. Personal history aside, True could still make trouble for Vincent.

A face appeared above one of the crates. Tran Phuong, the family deal-maker. Strictly business, Tran was the cat Vincent wanted to deal with.

"Ah, Vinnie the Craw!" Tran said, his accent mutilating Vincent's street name.

"Vincent of Tacoma, Tran." Vincent sighed. He had never liked his moniker, "The Claw," but it was tradition and held an air of respect.

"Okay, Vinnie. You don't come around to say Merry Christmas, yes?"

"No, Tran. I come to say you still owe for the prawn job. You are very overdue."

"Oh, payment, yes. Let me see here." Tran disappeared.

Vincent heard whispering and approached the fortress. The Phuong brothers didn't always play fair.

Lesser collectors had returned from their turf with scars to show for it. He crouched and peered inside.

Scattered about were twigs of pine, folded into absurd wreaths bound with soiled crimson ribbon and decorated with bottle caps. In the center of the place was an old cinderblock where two chipped sake cups sat, filled with cold tea.

A Vietnamese Christmas, Vincent thought. Good for them.

Another face appeared. Much larger than Tran, it was True.

"Hello, True," Vincent said pensively. "Is Loc in there with you too?"

"Loc? Oh yes, he is sleeping," True said smiling. "He is waiting for Santa Crause. You came for 'nip, Vinnie, but… we have none. You know how it is right now. We…"

Vincent interrupted him. "You guys have had five weeks. No 'nip in a month? C'mon, I know you better than that."

Tran popped up behind True. There was a slight daze in his eyes. His head rolled to one side as he looked at Vincent. He's high, Vincent thought. So much for no 'nip. At least he won't be much trouble.

"Vinnie," True said. "It is hard times. Not much 'nip come by the old docks right now. Not even dirt weed. We promise, after New Year's, we pay up." Not in the mood to bargain, Vincent stretched, opening his claws wide, and looked at True. True's head hung lower, his eyes half-open. Holy Morris, Vincent thought, they are both high. Definitely not much trouble.

Vincent yowled and leapt at True, swiping a claw just above his head. True lifted a claw in defense, but was too late. Vincent's claw nicked True's ear, drawing blood. True whined from the attack.

Vincent landed behind Tran and easily pushed him aside with his forepaws. He faced True.

"Vinnie, please," True said staggering, "for old times sake."

And Vincent saw something in True's eyes. Something familiar. A silent request, almost desperate, for compassion and leniency.

Vincent shuddered. He knew that look; it was his own, many years ago. It was the same soft plea he had given the attorney years earlier, before being booted across the floor by the drunk.

Vincent sympathized with the emotion behind True's pitiful gaze. Why, he thought, should tonight be the same for the Phuong brothers as it was for me? Roughing these guys up, on Christmas Eve, of all nights. To what benefit? They are sitting down to have some cold tea and wait for Santa Grause and I have to screw it all up because they are too stupid or lazy to keep a couple grams of catnip out of their noses.

"You guys gotta pay up soon, you know," Vincent said.

"Vinnie, of course. I promise. I make it up to you."

How does the billboard go? Vincent thought. You can break the cycle.

"Okay, not tonight." He looked at their silly grins and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Phuong brothers."

Without the standard fare of abuse he usually meted out to delinquents, Vincent found himself with more than enough time to cruise the waterfront. He strolled over to the small cluster of boats that gathered by the old docks every Christmas season.

The boats were tied together by their owners and decked out with amazing arrays of holiday displays. Vincent's favorite was the low-end yacht that kept a menagerie of bejeweled reindeer on its bow. Then the two sailboats that hung a new Psalm, spelled out in flickering lights, between their masts every year. They must never get the presents they ask for, he thought.

He reached the end of the waterfront and headed south to the family headquarters, leaving the boats until next year.

There, in front of the entrance to Rolfondo's office, he saw two St. Petersburg hairless, the feline bodyguards of Samson of Washington, Rolfondo's boss and the head of the state family.

The Peterbalds nodded to him as he approached. "Vincent of Tacoma," they said.

"Alexsandr of Washington, Zhenya of Washington," he replied. He walked past them and scratched a sequence on the metal slab that blocked the entrance. From within the warehouse, the security door was pushed aside. He entered.

The room was rather empty, unusual for a family boss. But Rolfondo was a humble cat, more business than pleasure. He would be the first to tell you, "The more you have, the more you have to lose." And it showed in the simplicity of his official residence. Some pillows lay in the corner of the room, and in front of them, ornately carved ebony food bowls. On two of the pillows sat Rolfondo of Washington and Samson of Washington.

Between them, a slab of fresh salmon lay upon a silver tray. Rolfondo was nibbling at it as Vincent approached him.

"Vincent of Tacoma! " Samson said.

"Samson of Washington," Vincent replied, stretching on his front paws and lowering his head, acknowledging Samson's seniority. Samson smiled wide. He leaned forward and rubbed his nose on Vincent, a rare show of affection from the seventeen-year-old boss. But Samson knew Vincent's story and treated him as the son he never had.

"Thankyou, sir," Vincent said.

"All the other cats are gone for the holiday," Samson said. "What are you doing here? Don't get me wrong, I am delighted to see you, my boy."

Rolfondo answered for Vincent. "I needed him to take care of those Vietnamese down by the old docks. They are too far behind for my liking." He looked at Vincent. "Well, what did you get from those three slack-a-bouts?"

"Well," Vincent started to reply. He looked at Samson and lowered his head, ashamed to show weakness. "They said they didn't have anything."

Rolfondo snorted. "And you believed that? Vincent, you know better than to trust a bunch of 'nip heads like…"

Vincent interrupted him. "No, sir. I didn't believe them. It's just that…"

"Just that what?" Rolfondo thundered. "You could have sent them back to that shithole they call home with one paw tied behind your back!"

"Now, now," Samson said. "Let's hear what he has to say, Rolfondo."

"I have to say," Vincent paused. "I have to say that it is Christmas Evening, sirs. I know they were probably holding, and probably stoned at the time, but… I couldn't rough them up tonight. Not on Christmas, sirs. They don't have much to live for as it is. They only owe a few grams and…"

"Rolfondo, I think he's getting soft in his old age," Samson said, winking at Vincent, who winced at the accusation. He wasn't that old, and certainly wasn't getting soft. He knew Samson was being playful, but he regretted showing weakness in front of his elders.

"Perhaps so, Samson," Rolfondo replied. He looked at Vincent. "Do you have the other pickups?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Vincent pawed at the satchel hanging from his neck until it fell to the floor. He pushed it over to Rolfondo.

"Eh, get that away from me. You know how it messes me up," Rolfondo protested. Vincent swiped the sack into the corner of the room.

"Give the boy a break, Rolfondo," Samson said. "It is Christmas Eve. I know you have a heart somewhere in there." He poked at Rolfondo.

"Ah, I suppose so, Samson, I suppose so. Go on home, Vincent. You've done well as usual," Rolfondo said.

Vincent nodded to Samson and Rolfondo. "Merry Christmas, sirs."

Vincent's neighborhood was conspicuously devoid of Christmas festivity. His friends joked that it was the only all-Jewish area in Tacoma, but Vincent blamed the lack of decoration on the high number of elderly residents, too fragile to bother with the dangers of falling from ladders.

In the backyard of one elderly man, Vincent had made a home in an abandoned camping trailer. Too old to drive, the man paid no attention to it, except for a tarpaulin to keep the rain out.

Vincent hopped onto the top of the trailer and crawled under the tarp to the cracked skylight that was his door. He jumped to the table inside and over to the double bed at the rear of the trailer. There was the woolen blanket Rolfondo had given him on the day of his promotion to collector.

He pushed it into a pile and crawled beneath it. Within minutes he had put the day behind him and fell to sleep.

Christmas morning woke Vincent with a shiver. He climbed from his blanket and looked outside. Giant snowflakes were falling past the window. He purred and jumped to the skylight and pulled himself out.

A little slower than usual, he thought. I may need to find a place without such high ceilings. He jumped to the wall next to the trailer and down to the ground.

He pawed the frosty ground playfully, causing a spray of white behind him. Squeezing through a hole in the wooden fence, he went over to his favorite bush to pee.

A screech startled him.

"Come back here, cat!" a voice yelled.

He looked down the alley. A boy was running toward him. So was a cat. Vincent crouched, ready to spring over the fence and avoid the whole scene.

"Come back with my Christmas present!" the boy yelled. His voice was familiar to Vincent, and then he remembered. The kid lived around the corner with his mother.

When True and Vincent had roamed the neighborhood together, the boy had always tried to coax True into his house with pieces offish. Vincent had felt jealous of the attention paid to True, but he had never mentioned it.

Now the boy was running toward him. But why was he chasing this cat?

Then Vincent recognized the cat. He was carrying something in his mouth as he bounded toward Vincent. Something the boy wanted back.

"True?" Vincent said, realizing it was the Phuong brothers' enforcer. "What are you doing here?"

True Phuong ran up to him. and dropped something from his mouth. "Merry Christmas, Vinnie the Craw!" he said, smiling. Vincent looked at him, wondering if True was still high from the night before.

On the ground was an Army man action figure, new from the looks of it, except for a tooth mark or two.

"Is this for me?" Vincent asked, confused.

"Vinnie! Your Christmas wish is no secret to me. I told you I make it up to you," True said. He turned and ran down the alley past the boy, who was about to reach Vincent.

"Please, kitty, don't take my G.I.Joe, it's my Christmas present," the boy said.

Vincent looked at the toy on the ground. The boy approached slowly and crouched in front of Vincent. The knees of his pants were thinning, his pink skin starting to show through. He must be freezing, Vincent thought.

"I'm Fred," the boy said. His eyes were kind and inviting, his smile genuine. He reached out a hand. Vincent sat still and let Fred rub his head. The boy's touch was gentle. It reminded him of the kindness Samson showed with the rub of his nose. He arched his back and let Fred stroke him.

They sat together for what seemed an eternity, Fred rubbing and caressing Vincent's fur, forgetting about his toy soldier.

"You look cold. Do you want some warm milk?" Fred asked, breaking the reverie. Vincent replied with a long purr and rubbed against Fred's leg.

"I have to get home before Mom worries about me, but she won't mind if you have Christmas dinner with us." Fred stood and looked down at Vincent.

"Unless you have other plans," Fred said.

Vincent had no other plans.

"What a crazy cat, huh?" Fred said, picking up his G.I. Joe. He wiped it off and started walking down the alley.

Vincent took a step toward Fred and then looked back at his home. The trailer will still be there, he thought. And tail up, ears sharp, Vincent followed Fred home.