Tabby (1980)

In the giant picture windowsill in our living room, I pet my imaginary dog, a fuschia Yorkshire terrier named Raspberry. She licks my face, tickling me, and I smile. But it isn't enough. I'm too old to have imaginary pets, in sixth grade almost. I want a real pet, a light gray long-haired kitten with blue eyes and a pink nose. I will name her Sparkle and she will make me the happiest girl in the world.

I tell Raspberry to stay, and walk into the kitchen.

My mom's sitting on a wicker stool, elbows on the counter, reading Salem's Lot and drinking a cup of black coffee.

"Mother, may I please have a kitten?" I ask in my most polite voice, hands clasped behind my back, fingers crossed. I can practically hear Sparkle purr.

"Hmm. I don't think so, honey," she says, flipping the page.

I thought she might say something like this, but I am prepared. I start counting on my fingers. "But I'll never ask for anything again! I'll feed it and change its litter! I'll keep it in my room! You'll never even know it's there! I'll keep my room clean all the time! I won't even sleep under the covers! That way my bed will always be made! I'll cook you dinner once a week!"

Some of the things I've begged for are hot-pink wheels for my roller skates, a push-button phone for my room, a pair of real cowboy boots, clear plastic raincoat, and a ten-speed bike. I got the wheels, the boots and the raincoat. I'm still waiting for the bike, but my average is pretty good, so I'm confident.

She smiles, shakes her head and says, "You are so cute! Where did I get you?" I roll my eyes. "Well?" I say.
She sighs, shakes her head. "That's sweet dear, but the answer is still no."
"Why can't I Mom? Why? It's not fair! Please!"
She flips her book over on the counter and pulls a Tareyton cigarette from her pack.
I stamp my feet. "Christine has one! Her parents are nice!" Christine is my best friend. She has a black kitten with white feet and green eyes, named Whiskers. I go to her house whenever I can.
"Yes dear, your mother is an evil monster," she says. That's when I get on my knees and sob. "I'll die if I don't get a kitten!"
And then, on her way to the stove burner to light her cigarette, she drags me across the linoleum floor while I cling to her ankles.

*

My sisters and brother, all around ten years older than me, have moved out. Nobody around here liked my dad, not even my mom, and now that they're finally divorced, even he's gone. Judy and Nancy live together in West Philly and Jonny lives with his red-haired girlfriend who screamed out loud when they saw Looking for Mr. Goodbar. My dad's been living in the rowhouse where his doctor's office is, downtown.

Our house in Wynnewood has three floors, five bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, huge living and dining rooms, and a screened in porch. It's just me and my mom, and it's like the house is expanding. I don't see why I shouldn't have a litter of kittens. A dog, even.

A few days later I beg again and my mom says, "Oh Elise, we'll see," which means yes, pretty much. I do a little dance down the hall. The next day I ask again and she says, "Oh alright. But you have to feed it and change its litter. It is your responsibility."
"I will! I will!" I say, jumping up and down.
"Because I was the one who wound up feeding the fish."

When my dad was around I was only allowed to have a goldfish. It took me two days to name him. I finally settled on Abraham, after Arnold Jackson's goldfish on Diff'rent Strokes. On the third day he died and we flushed him down the toilet.

"And the hamster," she says, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Once my dad moved out, my mom let me get a hamster, who I named Goldilocks right away. She got crushed in the crack of my sister's bedroom door after a couple weeks. I put her in a shoebox and gave her funeral in the yard.

"Oh Mom! Thank you!" I think I might kiss her feet, but instead I race down the hallway to call Christine.

We drive to the S.P.C.A., almost an hour away. I stare out the window at blurry highway scrub, imagining my new life unfolding with Sparkle.

None of the cats at the S.P.C.A. have long hair or blue eyes. But I get over the disappointment pretty fast, because they're real. I gaze into their eyes. I cuddle. I listen for purring, inspect for special markings.

In the only cage with kittens, I pick the one asleep in the back, the one that all the others step on as they make their way to the food bowl. She is a tabby cat. They all are. But she purrs loudest, clings to me, and nudges her way up my chest as if she wants to crawl inside me. Nobody's ever done that before.

"I think she loves you," says my mom, and it's true. Tabby and I are meant for each other.

At the counter of the S.P.C.A. my mom fills out forms, and the lady says we'll have to get her fixed.

"You mean she's going to be a virgin her whole life?" I ask. I know what a virgin is now. I'm a virgin, and my mom is, but I don't know about the S.P.C.A. lady. Before I get a chance to ask, my mom goes, "Elise!" real loud, her whole face widening at me. She looks at the S.P.C.A. lady and says, "I don't know where she gets these things." Then she adds, "Oy, sa kvetch minehus bata peutis," which means something like, 'Oh God, here we go,' in Yiddish.

The S.P.C.A. lady stays bent over her clipboard. I guess I'll never know the answer, but it doesn't matter. I'm getting a real kitten!

In the space on the form where it says "Pet's name:" I tell my mom to write 'Tabitha.' "Because she's a tabby," I say. "That's what we'll call her for short. Tabby." Sparkle will have to wait.

In the car, my mom touches my head and shows her big yellow teeth. "Well, are you happy now?"
"Yeah!" I shout, big-eyed.
She lights a cigarette.
"Mom!" I point at the carrying case on my lap. "Do you have to smoke now?" A pale pink nose pokes through one of the breathing holes in the cardboard box. I rub it with my finger.

Watching Tabby sniff around the house is so neat. I still can't believe she's real. I show her all the rooms on the first and second floor, but not the basement since she'd get lost down there in the vastness. I read that it's a myth that kittens drink milk, so we give her water and watch as it ripples under her tiny tongue.

When I go to sleep that night my mom makes me keep her out of my bedroom but Tabby meows at my door in this high pitched wail. No one's ever wanted to be with me so much. I crack the door and she slithers in lickety split and claws her way up the side of of my pink and white gingham comforter. Then, she's purring and rubbing all over the place, back and forth across my pillow like a mini train, with fur and whiskers. I am so lucky.

When Christine comes over to meet Tabby, she isn't anywhere. We make our way through all the rooms on the first floor, upstairs through Jonny's, Nancy's and my bedroom, and finally back downstairs to my mom's bedroom. I find her hiding under the bed. The white woolly shag carpet scratches my cheek as I reach for her.

"Psst, psst, psst! C'mere Tabby, c'mon," I say.
Christine folds her arms and says, "I'll bet you didn't even get a cat."
I grab Tabby around her middle and practically tear her claws from the long strands of white shag.
"See?" I say, holding her up, "I told you I got a kitten." And Christine melts.
"Give her here," she says and I hand Tabby over. Even though she starts to purr I can tell I'm still her favorite. It's all in the eyes.

We spend the next hour dangling ribbon in front of Tabby and watching her pounce. We put her in Snoopy's surgeon outfit, but Tabby doesn't like it as much as I thought she would. Before I get a chance to put her in the green and brown Tyrolean suit, she bolts out of the room.

*

One night in January, when I'm a full-fledged sixth grader, my mom comes home swooning. She's met this guy at a bar on City Line Avenue, and swears she never felt this way about anyone before. I figure anyone's better than my dad, so I'm happy for her.

"Bob is from Chicago," she tells me, yanking at her L'eggs control-top pantyhose. "Okay," I shrug, stroking Tabby. I don't really have time to think about my mother's love life. I'm too busy thinking about mine. For instance, will Jeff Wellington be at Radnor Rolls on Saturday? Will he like me in my new red satin jacket? Will he be impressed with my backward skating?

In February, my mom calls me into her bedroom and this brown haired man, much younger than my dad or my mom, is standing there with his fists on his hips in a light green polyester suit, giant feet pointing out like a circus clown. He puts on this smile, rubs his hands together and then holds one out to shake. It looks clammy, all white and veiny, but I have to be polite. While I'm wiping my hand on my jeans I notice this pink spongy mole-thing, like a pencil eraser, tucked in the crack between his cheek and nostril. His big bushy mustache does nothing to hide it, if that's what he's thinking. I want to say, "Hey buddy, your mole is showing," but instead I get out of there, and look for Tabby.

"Mom, this isn't the guy for you," I tell her, practically every day, especially after he rolls up his sleeves and pounds on our baby grand piano, belting out "Love Potion Number Nine" like he's the fifth Beatle. Even Tabby doesn't like him. Every time Bob tries to hold her she squirms out of his arms and skitters away.

"That's my cat," I tell him, and he holds his palms up like I've got a gun, shakes his head and says, "Sorry ma'am, I didn't know," like I'm the sherriff or something. After that he smiles really big and the mole stretches sideways.

By March, the house is on the market. We never take Tabby to get fixed like the S.P.C.A. lady told us to. She gets out of the house a few times and pretty soon there's a big yellow tom cat prowling around the lawn. I don't think I'll have to worry about her dying a virgin.

In April, we fly to Chicago to stay with Bob in his apartment and meet his two kids from his first marriage, Chris and Tanya, who are six and eight. If all goes according to my mom's plan, I won't be the youngest anymore. Christine lends me this book to read on the plane. "It has sex and drugs in it," she says, poking me in the ribs. It's called Go Ask Alice, and is by Anonymous. It's the real-life diary of a nice girl who moves, gets in with the wrong crowd, starts doing drugs, and having sex, and winds up dead. I finish it before we land.

* * *

Nobody comes anymore to mow our lawn so it starts looking like a wheat field, the longest grass on the block, perfect for Tabby to get lost in for hours doing God knows what. Whenever my mom pulls her Nova into the driveway, she says, "How do you like the jungle?" and cracks up.

In May my class rehearses for graduation. We sing "The Rainbow Connection" over and over, until I feel at one with Kermit the Frog's soul. Jeff Wellington smiles at me one Saturday afternoon while I'm skating the advanced reverse direction backwards skate, but when I come home that evening, my mom hasn't changed her mind about moving, like I pray for every day.

"But it's our house!" I shout. My mom just sucks on her cigarette, looks at the coffee pot.
"Please!"
"Oh Elise! It's not that bad." She flips open a cabinet door. I grab the edge of the counter for momentum and push off, swiveling all the way around on the wicker stool.
"Why can't Bob move here?"
"Bob's work is in Chicago, Elise. I've told you that before." She shakes her mug over the sink and drops of water fly off.
"What about your job?"
"I can get teaching jobs anywhere, Elise."
"Fine! You go. I'm staying here," I say, folding my arms across my chest, still swinging my legs.
"Okay, Elise. Call your father. Maybe he'll let you move in with him."
I fling my head down on the counter and sob. My dad goes berserk if I breathe wrong. She knows there's no way I'd live with him, not in a million years.
"None of my friends are moving," I choke. "Cheerleading starts in seventh grade...parties..." French-kissing, I think, maybe even with Jeff Wellington.
"Oh, Elise," she says again, pouring herself a cup of fresh coffee. "There's nothing left to talk about. The house is already sold."

One night in June, I have dinner in front of the TV. After The Incredible Hulk, nothing good is on, just Dukes of Hazard. I pick stray corn kernels out of the chocolate cake in my Swanson's salisbury steak dinner while my mom naps in her bedroom. David Banner walks down a dusty road, lonelier than ever, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. It gives me the chills every single week. While the credits roll, I put my fork and glass in the sink, and throw the foil tray in the trash. When I turn off the TV the whole house goes quiet.

In the kitchen I open my junk drawer, looking for something to play with. I pull out a spool of black thread, sit on the floor and wind a long strand around the tip of my pointer finger. When it turns white I press it to my lips. It's cold and numb, like it's someone else's, or dead. Tabby walks up to me, to see what's going on.

"Wanna play?" I ask. And she says yes.

I just do her front feet at first, winding the thread around her like I'm the vet, caring for a broken paw. But then it's a game, and the only way to win is to use up all the thread. I'll unwrap her as soon as I'm done.

The bare spool looks like it's naked. Tabby looks strange too, like a mummy, or a damsel in distress. I picture her laying across cartoon train tracks while a giant locomotive chugs towards her.

The end of the thread is somewhere around her hind legs, but Tabby's squirming around too much to find it. She tries to stand up, as if she's in a tunnel, and she can back out of the thread, but she keeps tipping over. Each deep breath she takes makes the wrapping tighten, quilting her fur. This noise comes out of her that I've never heard before. It's low and grumbly and sounds like it lives in the basement of her stomach. I sit there on the hallway floor watching as she arches her back and shakes her head from side to side. She reminds me of a mealy worm. When she foams at the mouth I wonder if I've somehow given her rabies. Her ears flatten. Her coat dulls. I wish I never found that spool of thread.

I keep telling her to stop moving so i can help, but she won't stop. Finally I grab her around her middle, hold her away from my body and run into the kitchen. She digs a claw into my hand and I drop her onto the counter, but instead of staying put, she teeters over the edge. I reach out to catch her but pull my arms back like the air around her is boiling. I don't want to get scratched again.

Tabby rolls into the open dishwasher, full of sticking up spoons, forks and knives, and then slaps onto the floor, probably the only cat in the world who ever landed on her back instead of her feet. My mom comes in, one eye closed, half-asleep and then she's on the floor, tearing at the thread while the cat foams and growls. I stand there, my body kind of useless and paralyzed. My mom's hands are ropy with veins and dripping with blood. Her face is red and crying.

"How could you DO this Elise? How could you be so stupid?!"
"I don't know!" I scream. And then: "I didn't know!"
"I can't believe you!" She says.
I watch them struggle and bleed. I just stand there, watching.
When she's finally free, my mom leans over the sink, running her hands under the water, but the blood keeps coming. She says over and over, "What were you thinking?"

Tabby runs off, her body low to the floor, like a soldier dodging bullets. A tangle of bloody black thread lays on top of my TV tray in the garbage can. For weeks, Tabby hides under my mom's bed. We put her food bowl there.

*

If anyone tells you that cats forgive and forget, don't believe them. Every time I try to pick Tabby up she growls from some deep place inside her, even months later. I can't hug her the way I used to, her belly pressed against mine, her arms around my neck, her purring breath tickling my ear.

In Chicago, she gets fat. We line a cardboard box with an old towel and she gives birth to four slimy kittens. We keep one, a girl who looks just like her. She purrs and lets me hold her close, but it isn't the same.

Contributor: Elise Miller