Cleo

Goddess

A cat is a priestess in a fur coat.

“You do like Cleo, don’t you?” Rob asked over breakfast next morning.

I opened the kitchen window. Another seagull screeched across the agate-blue harbor. The half-eaten curtain cord swayed in the breeze. Steve had already put on his tie and left for the magistrate’s court.

“Yes,” I sighed.

“Good, because she likes you.”

“Of course she does,” I said, smiling weakly.

“No, Mummy. She really does!” he said. “She told me last night.”

“That’s nice, dear,” I said. “Finish your toast.”

“She told me other stuff, too.”

Rob was a sensitive boy. He’d suffered more trauma than any young child should endure. We hadn’t discussed the inquest with him, but he’d probably picked up on the vibes. Now he was dreaming up ideas of the kitten talking to him.

“She said she comes from a long line of cat healers,” he continued.

The poor kid’s imagination was off its leash.

“You mean in a dream?” I asked, fearing for his grip on reality.

“It didn’t feel like a dream. She said she’s going to help me find friends.”

There’d always been a psychic streak in the family, but talking to a kitten was too much. If word got out at school that he was having conversations with his kitten he’d be a target for bullies and all sorts of misery.

“I’m sure she is,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder and kissing his ear. “But let’s keep it a secret for now.”

“You won’t give Cleo back to Lena, will you?” he asked.

I crouched beside him, rested my hands on his shoulders and examined his face, so serious. His body was rigid with tension. “No, Rob. We’re keeping her.”

His shoulders dropped. Relief rippled through him. He put his head down. His hair moved like wheat. His arms wriggled in a subtle dance of joy. Even though he wasn’t looking at me I could tell he was smiling.

Humans were slow to understand how essential cats were to their survival. One of the attractions of giving up nomadic wandering in favor of farming permanent settlements was the reduced risk of attack from large predators. People spent several generations congratulating themselves on this achievement without realizing a more devastating enemy was thriving in their walls, basements and grain stores. The humble rodent was responsible for far greater devastation than its carnivore cousins. A hoard of mice could destroy a year’s crop, leaving an entire village diseased and starving.

Wildcats circled the settlements, drooling at the prospect of mousey banquets. Occasionally some were bold or desperate enough to venture into the villages to hunt rats, mice and snakes. People gradually began to realize the cats weren’t doing any harm. In fact, they were useful pest controllers.

They started to appreciate the creature’s qualities. They noticed its elegance, admired its aloofness and its refusal to submit to human superiority like a cow or dog. The ancient Egyptians were the first to be impressed by the fact that a cat did not necessarily come when it was called.

Felines were decked out in gold jewelry and allowed to share food from their owners’ plates. Punishment for killing one of these creatures was death. Cats often had more elaborate funerals than people. When a family feline passed away its body was displayed outside the home and the entire household shaved their eyebrows as a sign of mourning—behavior that in today’s suburban neighborhood would result in phone calls to local authorities.

As well as saving millions of lives by killing rodents, our soft-footed friends have helped heal countless hearts. Sitting quietly at the ends of beds, they’ve waited for human tears to ebb. Curled on the laps of the sick and elderly, they’ve offered comfort impossible to find elsewhere. Having served our physical and emotional health for thousands of years, they deserve recognition. The Egyptians were right. A cat is a sacred being.

The kitchen clock dragged itself through the morning. The hearing was taking longer than expected. I assumed there was time-consuming evidence against the woman, previous convictions for dangerous driving—anything to explain what had happened.

A mug of coffee. And another. The harbor was a turquoise Frisbee just as it had been the day Sam died. Malevolent in its perfection. While I willed the second hand to circumnavigate the clock, Cleo introduced Rob to an old paper bag she’d stolen from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. She seemed to love the crackling sound it made as she rolled on it. When Rob held the paper bag open, Cleo bounded away from him across the kitchen and skidded to a halt. Turning, she crouched low and focused on the paper cave Rob had created. With pupils dilated, her eyes were almost entirely black apart from their thin green rims. Shifting her balance, she lifted her right front paw and positioned herself for the assault. The preparation was so painstaking and time consuming her audience was in danger of losing interest. Just as we were about to give up entirely and turn our attention to an unopened packet of chocolate-chip cookies, a black dart flew across the vinyl and shot into the crinkled depths of the paper bag.

“Look, Mummy,” he said, lifting the bag that was now satisfyingly round and weighty.

I moved to rescue the kitten from her paper prison, but the bag emitted happy purrs.

Steve returned close to noon, hollow-eyed and semi-transparent in the hallway. His tie, half-undone, hung limp over his chest.

The pity I felt for him was immediately obliterated by hungry rage. “What does she look like?” I asked, surprised at the harshness in my voice.

“Why are you angry, Mummy?” I hadn’t noticed Rob following me down the hall with the purring paper bag in his hands.

“I’m not angry.” My tone was dry and cold.

“Daddy, look what Cleo can do!” As Rob offered him the paper bag, Cleo’s head emerged mischievously from its mouth.

“Not now,” I snapped. “Take her into the kitchen, will you?”

Sensing the jagged atmosphere, Rob left obediently. If only, I wished, one day there could be a time when our son might be able to understand and forgive.

“Well?”

“I dunno,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Ordinary…”

I probed as much out of him as I could. Her hair was brown, possibly fair. Her build was on the heavy side. She worked for the Health Department. She was wearing a coat, probably navy blue. He couldn’t remember if she wore glasses. They hadn’t really looked at each other across the courtroom. She seemed sad, but offered no apology.

I needed more, much more. The shape of her nose, the placement of moles, her smell…I wanted to devour every detail about her.

“How old is she?”

“Mid thirties, maybe.”

“Is she going to jail?”

Gazing over my left shoulder, he shook his head slowly.

“They must be prosecuting her for something. A fine, at least?”

A fly performed a lazy figure eight above his head.

“They can’t.” His voice was calm and kind, as if he was speaking to a lunatic. “It was an accident.”

What did he mean accident?

“There was no way she could’ve seen him running out from behind the bus. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

My brain spun to a halt. He might as well have been saying the sky was green. If Sam’s death really had been an accident and the woman wasn’t at fault, there was no one to blame. I had no right to hate her. I might even be expected to forgive her.

My heart was tight and hard. Forgiveness was for the gods.