A: The Kitten

Chapter: Kitten

We have left so early that sun isn't up, Pam and I under blankets in
the back seat and my mother and father sitting silently in the front.
My father smokes with the windows up, and I can't sleep. My eyes are
burning from the smoke and the early hour. Pam shifts next to me and
sighs. I can tell she didn't brush her teeth. I didn't, either.

We are on our way to a place called Freeport to visit my father's
mother. "You haven't seen her since you were babies," my father told us
the day before. "Call her grandma and be polite." Our mother didn't say
anything. She just sighed and stared at the TV. Our father looked
nervous.

We are told Freeport is several hours from Houston. We are driving
straight through, warned my father, so we have all visited the bathroom
and stood or sat until something happened. We aren't staying
overnight.

My father drives until the sun comes up, and then despite his warnings
from the day before, he pulls into a gas station, the purple car left
running while he runs in to do his business. I sit up and watch him
through the window, talking to a clerk who points to the back of the
store. Eventually he comes back, throws two Moon Pies into the back
seat, and turns the key in the ignition. The sound of scraping
machinery fills the car. "It's already on," my mother says. My father
curses, puts the car in drive, and squeals out of the parking lot.
Somewhere, another car honks its horn.

The car has no air conditioner, so eventually the windows come down.
The air inside the car is a whirlwind of humidity, the seats sticky
with our sweat and Moon Pie crumbs. Pam and I have abandoned our
blankets and lay collapsed against the seats, making faces at one
another because conversation is impossible with the wind's noise. Pam
sticks her tongue out and rolls her eyes, making me laugh out loud. My
laugh sounds like water going down a drain.

I drift off. I wake up to my father saying, "Up and at 'em," a phrase
he's never used before. I crawl out of the car and see my mother
already on my grandmother's front porch. Coming towards us is
presumably my father's mother, a short, skinny woman who looks nothing
like my father. Her hair is the color of tomatoes.

"Well, look at this," she says to me, gathering me up in her arms. She
smells like cigarette smoke and flowers. She kisses me on the lips and
releases me. I lick my lips, which taste like wax, and glare at Pam,
who has retreated to the safety of the porch with my mother. I join
them, trailing my blanket from the car. I don't notice the blanket
until I reach the porch, where I drop it in a heap after noticing a red
smear on my mother's cheek. Apparently she did not escape the
grandmother.

"Come on in," grandma says, squeezing past my mother and sister. "I've
got some breakfast warming up. How was the drive? Watch out for that
cat - she just had kittens and she's mean as a snake." Her voice trails
off down the hallway. I follow her voice while looking around. All of
the curtains are shut, and the place smells stale. Stale with a hint of
pee.

The grandmother has set up a table in the kitchen. The table is blue,
and has chrome chairs. All of us sit down while she hovers around the
stove. My father lights another cigarette. The seats are covered in
vinyl; when I shift in my seat, the vinyl makes small farting noises. I
decide to point this out to Pam later.

"I've got coffee and juice. Water, too, of course. What would you
like?" The grandmother hasn't quit talking since we arrived, but now
she's stopped, facing us with a heavy iron skillet in her hand. She
waits for an answer while we all look at one another.

"Water's fine," my mother says.

"And juice for the kids," my father adds. He is flicking ashes onto
his plate, which embarrasses me. This habit of his seems out of place
outside of our own kitchen.

"I hope everyone is hungry," the grandmother says. She begins dividing
up scrambled eggs onto our plates. The eggs are a light yellow, and
spongy. Steam rises off of them and disappears while the grandmother
puts large spoonfuls of white mush onto our plates.

"Grits," my mother says in answer to my questioning look. I feel
slightly sick. The Moon Pie I ate earlier is making me have to go to
the bathroom. I squirm in my chair, ready to whine, but my mother gives
me a stern look and I sit still.

We eat while the grandmother leans against the refrigerator. She talks
while sipping from a glass filled with reddish liquid. At one point she
holds the glass up to my father, her eyebrow cocked. My father nods,
and soon he is drinking the same thing out of an amber-colored glass.
"You two," my mother giggles, and shakes her head.

Pam is brave enough to ask where the bathroom is, and we both leave
the table. Pam goes first while I hop from foot to foot outside the
door, my butt clenched tightly. Fortunately Pam is quick, and I rush
past her, remembering to close the door behind me. I sit on the toilet,
my stomach cramping, but nothing happens. I push and strain, manage to
pee, but no number two. There is a knock on the door.

"Are you all right in there?" my mother asks. The door handle jiggles.
I don't remember locking it.

"Yes," I say, "I'm almost done." Usually this means Alice would come
in, and finish wiping me, but right now there is nothing to do. "I'm
coming," I say loudly. The door gives a little, as if some weight has
been taken off of it.

Back in the kitchen, the grandmother has taken my seat. "Go on
outside," she tells me. "Your sister is already out there. Watch out
for that damn cat."

I find Pam in the garage, which is separated from the house and so
full of junk that a car would never fit in it. The garage is so
different from the grandmother's house that I wonder at first if it's
her garage. Pam is crouched next to an old wood table, peering into the
darkness. A tiny black puff suddenly darts towards her, and she falls
back onto her hands. She laughs, and soon there are three of the puffs
crawling at her feet. From where I'm standing they could almost be
rats, but if they were, Pam wouldn't be laughing. A loud meow comes
from under the table. I stay at the door.

"Aren't they cute?" Pam says. She picks up one of the kittens, holding
it in her palm. The sound under the table becomes a low murmur,
menacing but sad. Pam seems unafraid of the mama cat, so I step into
the garage. A kitten heads my way. I pick it up, and immediately it
attacks my fingers with its tiny sharp claws and teeth. I am surprised
that this doesn't hurt.

"Where's the mama cat?" I ask. Recently we have seen a movie on
television in which a woman who becomes different people tries to save
a basketful of kittens, only to be chased into bar by a ferocious mama
cat with long fangs. I am fairly certain the mama cat would have
attacked us by now, but still, I want to be sure.

"She's under there," Pam says, pointing to a spot I can't see. "She's
not mean. She's just laying there." Cautiously, I walk over to where
Pam is still crouching, standing behind her. Under the table, I can
barely make out the mama cat. Her eyes catch some light and glow. I
can't tell how many other kittens she has, but there a few lined up
along her stomach. They all look black.

"Did you know that if a black cat crosses in front of you, you'll have
bad luck for a year?" Pam asks.

"Bad luck for seven years," I say, still holding the kitten. It's
trying to crawl up my arm, so I hold it back.

"That's if you break a mirror, stupid," Pam says. I don't argue,
because in fact I don't know. But now I am worried, because how many of
these black kittens have crossed in front of us since we've been here?
Or does it matter that they are kittens, and not cats? Before I can
ask, Pam says, "I wonder if they'll let us keep one."

After learning about black cats and bad luck, I'm not sure I want one
of these kittens, but Pam has a dreamy look on her face. She sits down,
a kitten on each of her protruding knees.

"I'm not asking," I say. I put the kitten in my hand back on the
floor, which is concrete and cool to the touch. I'm pushing it back
towards Pam when it lets out a long, high mewling sound.

"Don't hurt it," Pam says. She snaps her fingers and eventually it
runs towards her sideways, its tail straight up in the air. I
laugh.

We spend the morning playing with the kittens, two of which we manage
to get outside into the grass between the house and the garage. The
mama cat, to my relief, doesn't come searching for them. Sometimes my
mother comes to the back door, checking on us. When she opens the door
the sound of my father and the grandmother arguing fills the year. I
can't tell what they're arguing about, but my father speaks loudly,
just short of a yell. At one point I think I hear the grandmother
crying.

"I think I'll just sit out here with you for awhile," my mother says
on her last trip to the porch. She sits on the steps leading into the
house, her legs crossed at the knee. She is wearing shoes that show her
long toes with the toenails painted a frosty pink. The polish on her
big toes is flaking off.

My mother watches us play with the kittens. "What are their names?"
she asks, but I can tell she regrets asking this by the way she
immediately looks down at her feet, one hand picking at her shoe.

"Can we keep them?" Pam asks, the opportunity too good to pass up.
"Please?

My mother rolls her eyes and sighs. She slaps her hands on her knees
and stands up, brushing her rear end off before turning towards Pam and
saying, "Don't start. What would we do with cats? Who would take care
of them?"

"I would," Pam answers.

"Me, too," I add, although I know my vote won't count. This is to be a
contest between my mother and Pam.

"Please?" Pam whines. She holds up one of the kittens to her face,
rubbing it along her cheek while it cries.

Before my mother can answer, my father appears at the door. Behind him
is his mother, still in the robe she was wearing when we got here. They
join my mother on the porch, crowding my mother onto one of the
steps.

"Well, isn't that the cutest thing," the grandmother says. She is
still holding her glass of red liquid, now full. Her voice is a slur,
and her eyes are puffy. She pulls the robe tight around her
chest.

"They want to keep them," my mother says, crossing her arms and
standing with her feet splayed apart. Her toes almost point in opposite
directions.

"That would be nice," the grandmother slurs. She wobbles a little, the
curls in her red hairdo making slow circles.

"I don't know," my mother says, "They could be a lot of
trouble."

"Oh, they're no trouble at all," the grandmother says, "You just put
out a bowl of food and some water and let them go about their
business." She says "business" slowly, as if the word is difficult to
get out.

"I don't know," my mother repeats. My father pushes past her and joins
us on the small patch of grass. He takes the kitten from Pam's hand. It
goes silent.

"Why not?" my father says, staring into the kitten's face. "It'll be
good for them. Better than a dog, anyway."

"See," the grandmother says, "It's all decided."

"Are they even old enough?" my mother asks. Her voice is even. She
knows she's been outvoted. No one answers her question, least of all
Pam and me. We know to keep quiet lest we ruin a good thing.

My father hands the kitten back to Pam. I continue playing with the
one still on the lawn, thinking up names in my head. Nothing comes to
mind. My stomach growls and I wonder if the kitten is hungry, too.
Before I can talk it over with Pam, my father announces we are going
home.

"Should we let them say good-bye to the mama cat?" I whisper to Pam.
She shakes her head no. I ask, "Where are we going to put them?" I mean
where they will go in the car as we drive back to Houston, but my
question attracts the grandmother's attention.

"Oh, they can stay outside, if you want. But sometimes they'll curl
right up next to you to go to sleep." She says this last part sadly,
her drifting over the top of my head. I feel sorry for her. In the
afternoon light she looks really old. Her eyes are still puffy but I
can see the creases on the side of her fade and along her mouth. Her
lipstick has worn off.

The grandmother cries as we load into the car. Pam and I each carry a
kitten on our lap. My kitten digs its claws into my pant leg when the
car starts moving, but eventually it relaxes and finds its ways into
the space between Pam and me. It curls up into a tight ball with its
face hidden by one of its hind legs. Pam's kitten does the same.

I wake with a start just as we pull into our driveway. I had fallen
asleep quickly on the drive back home, sweating in the heat while the
wind and music on the radio filled my head with dreams I can't
remember. I have to pee so badly that I worry I won't make it to the
bathroom. My father tells us to roll up our windows, and then I throw
open the door and get ready to run into the house.

"Don't forget the kitten!" Pam yells, but it is too late. I had
forgotten it was lying next to me, and I see it jump out of the car and
run behind the rear tire. Pam holds her kitten in one hand and rolls
her eyes at me. I forget that I have to pee. I'm afraid the kitten will
run away.

"You better get it," Pam tells me, and then follows my mother into the
house. I get down on all fours and try to look behind the tire. I see
my father's shoes coming around to the back of the car.

"Where the hell is it?" he asks. He face appears below the car, on
level with mine. I can tell by the way his eyes move around that he
can't see the kitten, either. I make myself not to cry; instead, I get
to my feet and scan the yard. The kitten is nowhere in sight.

My father lies on his back and with one arm reaches around under the
car. I walk over and stand next to him, bending at the waist and
waiting for him to tell me to do something. Finally, his arm stops
moving around and he gets a look of concentration on his face.

"Did you find it?" I ask.

"It's on the goddamn tire," he says. "It's got its claws dug in." He
lays there for a moment, and I can tell he's trying to get a grip on
the kitten. I picture its tiny claws sunk into the tire rubber. I can
hear the kitten crying from under the car.

"Goddamn it," my father says. He gets up, takes a pack of cigarettes
out of his packet, and lights one. I step back. He doesn't look angry,
but the way he's standing could mean anything. "We'll have to roll the
car back," he says finally, "You stand here and when the tire is back
enough so that you can see the little sonofabitch, tell me."

I nod my head and position myself to the side of the car and just
behind the rear tire where the kitten is. I crouch down to get a better
view. My father gets back in the car and starts it. The noise of the
car starting is loud, but soon the engine quiets don. I'm surprised
that I can hear the radio coming out of the car. "King of the Road" is
playing, my father's favorite song. He has it on eight-track tape, and
plays it so often that I know the words by heart. The car begins to
roll back.

The man on the radio sings "I ain't go no cigarettes" just as the
kitten comes into view. I see the tip of its nose first, and then its
head and its front legs splayed across the tire.

"Stop!" I yell, but car keeps rolling back. I yell again, slapping my
palm against the car. I can see my father. He's looking straight ahead,
towards the house. "Stop!"

I can hear the music in the car. It's growing louder. Or maybe not. I
watch as the kitten disappears under the tire, and then I hear a sound
like a balloon popping. Something red squeezes out from under the tire.
The kitten's legs skip sideways, then lay still. The car stops.