Cleo

A Name

There’s only one correct name for a cat—Your Majesty.

“It’s not fair!” Rob wailed. “He’s getting a kitten and a digital Superman watch for his birthday!”

Lifting the banana cake out of the oven, I burnt the side of my hand and suppressed a curse. The pain was searing, but there was no point yelling. Not with an electric sander drilling my eardrums and the boys on the brink of World War III. I plonked the cake on a cooling rack and glanced out at the harbor.

The risk of living on the fault line was neutralized by the sea view framed by hills stabbing the sky. Who cared if the bungalow had been “renovated” twenty years earlier by a madman who used wood one grade up from cardboard? Wandering over its ivory-colored shag-pile carpet, ignoring the lurid wallpapers, we’d echoed the estate agent’s mantra: “Character…Potential.” Besides, Optimist was my middle name. If the town was hit by a serious earthquake the house would almost certainly plummet off the cliff into the sea, but we’d probably be somewhere else that day. Yes, we’d just happen to be inside one of those downtown skyscrapers built on gigantic rollers specifically designed to endure the earth’s groans.

Steve and I were both hoping our differences would dissolve in the bungalow’s magical outlook. A marriage between two people from opposite sides of the world and whose personalities were as likely to blend as oil and water could surely be crafted into survival here. Besides, Steve was willing to renovate the 1960s renovations, as long as it didn’t cost too much. His latest project, to strip back the paint on all the doors and skirting boards to expose the natural wood grain, was deafening.

“Can you turn that noise down, please?” I shouted down the hall.

“I can’t turn it down!” Steve yelled back. “There’s only one volume. It’s an electric sander.”

“Sam has to wait eight more weeks for the kitten,” I explained to Rob, running my hand under the cold tap and wondering why it wasn’t doing any good. “Besides, if you ask nicely I’m sure you can have a digital Superman watch when it’s your birthday.”

“Sam doesn’t even play Superman anymore,” Rob said. “He just reads books about history and stuff.”

He was right. Sam’s new phase didn’t include comic book heroes. A Superman watch wasn’t Sam anymore. Nevertheless, when he’d opened the parcel that morning he’d smiled and been gracious.

“I hate my watch,” Rob said. “It should go in a museum. Nobody has a watch that ticks anymore.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with your watch.”

The sander’s shrieking mercifully stopped. Steve appeared coated in paint dust and wearing a mask and a bath cap.

“You look funny, Daddy,” Rob said. “Like a big white Smurf.”

“It’s no good,” Steve sighed. “That paint’s glued to the wood. I’ll have to take the doors off. There’s a place in town that’ll soak them in acid baths. It’s the only way we’ll get rid of that paint.”

“You’re removing all our doors?” I asked. “Even the bathroom’s?”

“Only for a week or two.”

Lured by the smell of banana cake, Sam wandered into the kitchen. Rata trailed behind, clicking her toenails over the vinyl. If boy and dog were ever twin souls those two were it. She’d arrived, a milk-colored puppy, when Sam was just two years old. They’d grown up together, comrades in arms whenever the fridge needed raiding or Christmas presents unearthing two weeks early from under our bed.

I couldn’t remember exactly when Rata decided she was the senior partner and assumed the mantle of guardianship. Perhaps Rob’s birth, two and a half years after Sam’s, had something to do with it. With Rob’s arrival, Rata took on nanny duties. The retriever would stretch in front of the fireplace, her tongue lolling nonchalantly on the carpet; Rob used her as a pillow while he sucked on his bottle of milk. The drawbacks of living with such an animal—layers of silvery hairs over our carpet and furniture, a pervasive doggy smell that I imagined made visitors balk—were a miniscule price. Rata had a heart bigger than the Pacific Ocean. I hoped that heart could encompass a small furry stranger.

“Have you thought of a name for the kitten yet, Sam?” I asked.

“She could be Sooty or Blackie,” Rob volunteered.

Sam fixed his younger brother with the look of a tiger about to lunge at a chicken.

“I think E.T. would be a good name,” Sam said.

“Noooo!” Rob wailed. “That’s a horrible name!”

Rob hadn’t fully recovered from the movie E.T. His terror of Steven Spielberg’s alien had provided Sam with a wealth of fresh material to freak Rob out. Ever since Sam told him the gas meter on the zigzag was E.T.’s cousin, Rob refused to walk past it without clutching my hand.

“Why not?” Sam said. “The kitten looks a bit like an E.T. with hardly any hair and those bulging eyes. But not as scary as the E.T. I saw in our bathroom last night. He’s still there, but don’t look at him, Rob. If he sees you looking he’ll eat you up and it’s worse than being eaten by an alligator because he’s got no teeth…”

“Sam, stop it,” I warned. But it was too late. Rob was already running out of the kitchen with fingers planted in his ears.

“He makes green slime run out of his nose so he can dissolve your bones and suck you up!” Sam yelled after him.

“Not funny,” I growled.

Sam slid onto a kitchen chair and examined his cake. Apart from the times he was teasing his brother, Sam had transmuted into an introspective soul, so unlike the wild warrior he used to be. I occasionally worried what went on inside his head. Mixing icing in a saucepan, I asked if he’d like to help decorate the cake. He said yes—just a few jellybeans would do.

Sam had kept his word about a modest birthday and invited only one friend, Daniel, from around the corner. He claimed to be sick of “those big parties where everyone goes crazy.” I had to agree. Those tribes of boys who trashed the house and tied sheets together to leap out of windows surely needed medication, or more of it.

At the last minute I’d felt guilty and tried to persuade him to ask more boys. But he said he was happy with just his best friend, Rob, and Rata. The only thing he insisted on was to be allowed to light his own candles. It seemed a small enough request.

I spread newspaper on the kitchen table and spooned the pale icing onto the cake. The texture was about right for once, smooth and easy to shape. To prove I was a half-creative mother, I added cocoa powder to the dregs of the icing in the pot, stirred in some boiling water and trickled a large, wonky “9” on top of the cake. Sam pressed the jellybeans into the sticky surface.

As he glanced up at me his sapphire eyes darkened. He suddenly appeared ancient and wise. I’d seen that look several times recently. It unnerved me, especially when he said things that seemed to emanate from a soul who’d been on earth countless times before and was aware he was merely passing through.

“It’s a good time to be alive,” he said, sneaking a black jellybean under the table to Rata.

“It’s a great time to be alive,” I corrected.

“I’m jealous of Granddad. He was alive when the first cars were made and they started flying planes. He saw towns get electricity and movie theaters. That must’ve been exciting.”

“Yes, but when you get to be an old man you’ll have seen even bigger changes. Things we can’t imagine now. You’ll be able to say to your grandchildren, ‘I had one of the first digital Superman watches ever.’”

He glanced down at his wrist and arranged his lips in a diplomatic smile. I wanted to take him by the shoulders, hold him close so I could savor the delectable smell of his skin.

“I was just joking about calling the kitten E.T.,” he confided, scraping a teaspoon around the pot to collect what was left of the chocolate icing and shoveling it into his mouth. “Her mother looks like an Egyptian queen. I think we should call her Cleopatra. Cleo for short.”

“Cleo,” I said, running a hand through his hair and wondering if children ever understand the painful depth of their parents’ love. “That’s a great name.”

“I’m giving Rata a lot of attention, so she doesn’t get jealous of the kitten. I brushed her coat twice yesterday. We’ve talked a lot about it. She’s going to like Cleo.”

Rata put her head in his lap and gazed up at him with liquid eyes.

“She seems to understand every word you’re saying,” I said.

“Animals know a lot more than people do. Dogs can tell when there’s going to be an earthquake. Birds can fly halfway around the world to find their nest. If people listened to animals more often they wouldn’t make so many mistakes.”

Sam’s connection with animals had become apparent when he was a baby. Our outings were devoted to animal spotting more than anything else. Enthroned in his pushchair, he’d wave chubby arms at dogs and cats wherever we went. One day, he pointed at a seagull circling above our heads and said his first word—“Dird!”

Animals were a tactile experience for Sam, too. He adored the feel of fur and feathers. Mum gave him an old goatskin rug that was black and white and shiny with age. Sam had dragged it into his bed to sleep on its comforting smoothness every night.

He was born with a wild sense of humor, a tool to test boundaries. When he was small I feigned shock at his use of rude words. He retaliated by following me around humming “Bum, bum, bumble bee.” Never afraid of flamboyance, he’d flung himself fully dressed into a bath of water and insisted on wearing a monkey mask with matching feet for the duration of his eighth birthday. Life was too magnificent not to be made fun of. I understood where he was coming from. Teachers were either amused or appalled by him, though none of them complained when, at the age of eight, he scored a reading age of thirteen. While he wasn’t disruptive at school, he enjoyed making bold personal statements, like excusing himself from class if he thought I might be in the school grounds, or asking to have his hair cropped close to the scalp when other boys were diligently growing theirs long.

I knew and loved every part of his body, especially the so-called imperfections: the scar above his left eyebrow where as a toddler he’d collided with the edge of the coffee table; his square hands with their chewed fingernails; the wart in the middle of the palm of his right hand. I adored the chip in his front tooth (tricycle accident), the flecks that made his eyes seem so wise sometimes, his feet (often grubby) and his nuggetty legs toasted by the sun. Without these he’d have been a flawless boy, a cherub too perfect for planet Earth. His scratches, bruises and scars formed a secret code only the two of us knew the history and formation of. Knowing Sam the animal lover and clown, I wasn’t sure what to make of his serious approach to his ninth birthday. Maybe he wanted to prove how much he’d grown up.

The knocker rapped against the front door. Sam and Rata trotted down the hall to answer it.

Daniel seemed to understand it was an understated birthday. The three boys sat around the kitchen table with Rata strategically positioned underneath to collect her share of the feast. I snapped a few photos while the birthday boy lit his nine candles. The atmosphere was rich with feeling, yet strangely somber.

Weeks later, when the photos came back from the processor they were so dark it was hard to make out the images. Even though the kitchen had been flooded with sunlight that afternoon, Sam’s image was cloaked in shadow, with a halo of gold light around the edges. Maybe I was a lousy photographer. Or perhaps it was one of those supernatural tricks some people believe cameras are capable of performing.