by Shaun Lawton
Dallas returned home from work at his usual mid-afternoon time. He hung his Panama hat on one of the upper hooks of the coat rack and adjusted it just so, ensuring the brim’s tilt matched evenly with the curtain hanging alongside the windowsill. Then he set upon the next task of his early evening ritual.
He dusted everything—beginning with the picture frames, with their black and white photographs of the neighborhood he had developed himself—and then the wainscoting behind the settee, the bookshelves, and even the narrow blades of the ceiling fan above the couch. Each motion was deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. When he was finished, the last vestiges of daylight had begun to drain away, and the room's interior glowed from two old lamps placed on either end of the black leather couch.
His supper was spare, a few slices of bread, a piece of fruit, and some leftover fried chicken, eaten cold out of the fridge. Chicken was the one meal he didn't mind eating cold, there was something satisfying about it, the way the breaded skin crusted over, it always tasted great. He was not the best cook, and typically only prepared a few entrees for himself a week. He enjoyed being lazy about it, preferring to eat his meals curled up on the couch, settling himself before the perpetual shifting glow of the television set, where he liked to binge watch the latest streaming shows while he ate.
At home, it was usually only his pet cat which offered any further movement throughout the house. He was an orange tabby (named Goose by his former owners) who Dallas had paid twenty dollars for when he was just a five week old kitten, in response to an ad placed on Craigslist. Goose would often dart from shadow to shadow, startled by the smallest things—the creak of a stair, the faintest tick from within the home's heating system, or for example, the chatter of starlings that nested in the Mulberry tree outside the front window. When their wings fluttered out there among the leaves, Goose would sometimes freeze in his tracks while staring out the window at the moving shadows playing upon it, as if contemplating an old memory that wouldn't quite resolve itself. Then, at the slightest further provocation, he'd scurry off rapidly to hide underneath the bed or a couch.
Even Dallas found the faint ruckus of the birds to be somewhat bothersome at first, but he eventually grew used to it, and now found himself to be more comforted by their sound. Let's just say that it helped fill those silences he would prefer not to have to confront. The Mulberry tree itself most often seemed like a companion of sorts—ancient, gnarled, its roots pushing against the foundations of his property, as if seeking entry or just guarding the house, he couldn't be sure. In the late summer it dropped its fruit in dark clusters, staining the pavement of the cracked sidewalk, in preparation for what the fall harvest might bring.
Today just so happened to be Goose's fourth birthday. Dallas, not given much to sentiment, decided he would mark the occasion, nevertheless. The cat had grown fussy as of late, turning his nose from every brand of canned wet food and treat. Dallas had noticed the way Goose’s slit pupils narrowed at the sight of certain things, how his breath quickened before looking away or diving for cover. That he happened to be just a little scaredy cat amused Dallas to no end. It should be right around this age that the cat's mousing instincts kick in, but knowing him, he'd probably run scared just from the sight of a mouse.
That afternoon, late in the day when twilight began to merge with the blue window glass, Dallas retrieved an old butterfly net from the hall closet. Its handle was worn smooth, its mesh faintly scented with mildew. He stepped out the front door and into the yard beneath the Mulberry tree. The branches shifted overhead, whispering and rustling in the wind. There must've been a couple dozen starlings perched among its branches, mostly hidden behind its leaves. He advanced cautiously, there came a swift movement and fluttering sound, which then abruptly ended. The starlings fell silent.
When Dallas returned to the house, he paused in the doorway to wipe his hands on a cloth which hung from a hook on the door. Once inside the kitchen, he laid a small porcelain dish beside Goose’s empty metal bowl. From the butterfly net, he retrieved a small soft shape, and applied a delicate squeeze, eliciting a muffled crunch—then gently proffered it onto the dish.
“There now,” he murmured. “Happy birthday, sweet scaredy cat.”
Goose padded over, nose lowered as he sniffed the darkened shape on the China plate, hesitated for the briefest moment, then began helping himself to this new feast, the tremor from his hesitation softening into satisfied purrs. Dallas stood tall alongside, watching down upon his feline companion, with a smile widening across his face, revealing his yellowed and uneven teeth in the dim kitchen light. "Now, there's a good kitty cat."
Outside, the Mulberry tree shivered in the breeze that rushed in through the darkening dusk, while the sound of the starlings had quieted down to a complete and withdrawn stillness. After Goose had stripped all the feathers and flesh off the starling's small skeletal carcass, it became so quiet in the house that Dallas imagined for a moment that even the mice hidden in their most remote corners must have been holding their breath.
No comments:
Post a Comment