Page 8

The Cats in the Cradle

M elba was afraid of cats. When she showed up at Poet’s door for the third time that week with some sort of handwritten citation, a black and white furry critter with a silver bell around its red-satin-collared neck, skipped and jumped around the old woman’s slouchy, socked ankles, sniffing and inspecting the scene.

Melba had inadvertently tripped a bell, which was the sound Poet used to let the strays that stayed on her land know there were treats available.

This particular one had gotten so used to Poet, that it sometimes came into the house, and eventually accepted a collar around its neck.

When that bell was tripped, they’d come uh runnin’!

In addition, to add insult to injury, a little dispenser fell down, dumping a divine catnip and silvervine mixture onto Melba’s beat up sneakers—a booby-trap of sorts, all orchestrated by Poet herself.

“Oh! OHHH! HELP ME, GOD!” Melba howled, the little piece of paper flying in the wind as she screamed and turned about like a tornado.

Poet had suspected this day would arrive, and based on Melba’s two other visits earlier in the week, the odds were high that she’d be returning with more of her nonsense.

She stood there, slowly eating her sweet red apple, her gaze fixed on the choppy, violent dance of sheer terror that played out before her.

“Get them offa me! GET THEM OFFA ME! I hate ’em! I hate these fuckers!” the lady screeched as she darted off, the cats still hot on her tail.

“Melba, what were you sayin’, honey? I can’t understand you!” Poet called out between slow bites of the delicious fruit, her smile so big her face hurt.

But Melba couldn’t answer. The woman was at least fifty feet away, zigzagging through the open front field, wailing and struggling with her lungs, now hoarse as two other cats joined in on the fun.

They lapped and jumped up her legs that were now baptized in catnip, too.

Poet closed the front door and returned to the kitchen, where she was preparing a grilled cheese and onion sandwich for her Aunt Huni.

“Huuuuni!” Poet called. “Do you want water or tea?”

“SP’ITE!” Huni said in her silly sing-song voice when she was trying to get her way.

“No Sprite, Huni. You know what the doctor said. You have to watch your sugar intake and you don’t like diet pop, so I didn’t buy any.”

“COLA!”

“…Huni, come on now.” Poet chortled as she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher of unsweetened tea. “No ma’am. You know better. I have some blackberry tea though.”

“LEMUH-ADE!”

“I don’t have that, and you like yours too sweet anyway. This tea has fresh lemon juice and a little bit of honey. I even put a mint leaf in it. The honey is raw, and the amount is so miniscule that it shouldn’t spike your insulin levels too bad.”

“BEER!”

“Now I know you’ve lost your complete mind!” Poet giggled. “You’re like a Gizmo. You turn into a monster, a straight up gremlin if you get wet—with alcohol, that is.”

She heard her aunt grumbling in the living room.

Poet finished setting up Aunt Huni’s lunch tray, all arranged and finished with a tiny dark pink flower from the garden, set in a small white vase she’d picked up from a yard sale five years ago.

Aunt Huni sat on the large beige couch, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and her feet, clad in brown slip on sneakers she’d worn down to the ground, resting on the coffee table.

Her aunt smiled down at the food, showing her appreciation with a bright grin.

She was always so grateful, even when she was in a bad mood.

Aunt Huni’s straight silver hair was threaded with strands of jet black, matching the thin arch of her brows.

Her sand-colored skin had a pinkish hue along the brow, cheeks and chin.

Her hooded dark brown eyes focused on the barbecue chips and pickle spear on the plate.

All arranged perfectly next to her favorite onion and cheese sandwich.

“T’ank you, bae-bee.” Aunt Huni smacked her gums after tasting. “It’s good.”

“I know you were hungry, and you’re welcome, as always.

” Oftentimes Huni would make her own lunch, but Poet was a bit worried when the old woman messed around with the oven while alone.

One time, she’d forgotten she was frying a pork chop, walked off, and about burned the kitchen down.

Thankfully, she remembered where the fire extinguisher was and put it out, but the smoke alarms had already been tripped, and the police and fire department showed up, too.

“You need anything else?”

Aunt Huni nodded, pointing to the remote.

Poet grabbed it and turned the channel. She’d gotten a new television, and her aunt wasn’t quite certain how to use it just yet, especially not the DVR where Huni taped all of her favorite Filipino soap operas and cooking shows.

A bit of a learning curve. Huni picked up her sandwich and began devouring it with both of her tiny hands while watching some show called ‘Paradise,’ on Hulu.

“You should watch this!” Huni exclaimed around a mouthful of food.

“You know if I get sucked in, I won’t get any work done. I have a lot on my plate right now with the museum. They are creating a new display. North American beaver, scientific name, Castor canadensis. Did you know some people hunt beavers for food?”

“Mmm hmm. My friend Kathy from Alaska says she eats beaver. So did my husband.”

“Huni!”

Huni burst out laughing and slapped her knee, turning red in the face. Poet choked down a laugh. She didn’t want to encourage the woman.

Aunt Huni became laser focused on her show, and Poet found herself drifting away.

Sailing on a daydream. She’d worked half a day, as expected, and came home at lunchtime to find Huni all washed up, and her hair combed.

The woman had even cleaned the dishes in the sink, swept and mopped the floor, and folded up some bathroom towels.

Every couple of weeks she’d have a maid service come in and help out since her work schedule had become damn near impossible.

Huni seemed to take exception to that, demanding that she could take care of it herself.

She also insisted that Poet not hire a babysitter for her—stressing that anyone could have forgotten their food on the stove.

She was right. Anyone could have, but she also let Huni know that if anything like that happened again, she’d be hiring a full-time nurse. The woman didn’t like that too much, but there was no need to beat around the bush. Despite all that, today had been a good day, indeed.

“Huni, did you take your pills this mornin’?”

“Yes, Mama,” Huni teased while rolling her eyes. Poet knew it was hard for her—she’d been so independent, outgoing and feisty. But things happened… people changed…

Sometimes Huni had sporadic bouts of misperception, and depression.

Those were always the most challenging moments, but Poet refused to allow her to be placed in some hospital or home just yet.

The woman was still in her right mind for the most part, could walk straight, speak her mind, and do many of the things she loved.

Besides, she was family. The only family Poet had truly known.

“Did you give Helen her bunny?” Huni blurted when a commercial came on.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to update you on that. She cried tears of joy. He looked just perfect.”

“That’s nice,” the woman said cheerfully before taking a taste of her tea. “Needs more sugar.”

“And you’ll need more emergency room visits, apparently, because that’s where you’ll end up if I add any more sugar!”

Huni burst out laughing and shook her head, then focused on the television again.

The bunny… Lord, that man… Mr. Kage Wilde… So damn sexy… I can’t call him though. At least not right now. I’ll call him next week when I have a little more time.

She inhaled the air, and slowly closed her eyes.

Her living room smelled so fresh and clean.

The windows, wide open, allowed a sweet breeze inside the space.

She ran her hand along her breast as she thought of Kage…

the way his long legs splayed open on that couch as he spoke to her in that deep, rusty, gravelly voice of his.

The big bulge between his thighs told her everything she needed to know: looked like a damn baseball with a fat, long sausage draped across it…

Mmmm… those jeans of his outlined that dick and balls alright…

I know that man is packin’! Then those black tattoos all over his body…

That blond and silver hair that sometimes fell over his right eye…

Yes, the eyes… Those damn piercing blue eyes…

She secretly loved his dark sense of humor, too.

He was handy. A businessman. A brute. The whole rude, bad boy package.

What a man, what a man! I would like to date again, but I’d never get involved with someone like him seriously, though.

He has more issues than a magazine subscription.

She silently chuckled as she observed the pale yellow curtains blowing, reminding her of some fabric softener commercial.

What if he bent me over that windowsill and fucked me real good from behind?

Oh my God… I have got to stop this. Enough of those seedy, lust-fueled thoughts .

I have work to do. I’ll write it down to remember to call him later about the greenhouse, though.

Just business. I don’t care how attracted I am to him.

Her breast was warm from her touch as she let her hand fall to her side.

There’s work to do around here. I don’t have the time or emotional bandwidth to be foolin’ with some crazy ogre that lives in the middle of the woods like some Bigfoot.

I need me just a regular, boring dude. Focus.

Landscaping. Home improvements. She looked around her, admiring her digs. Feeling blessed and proud.

The house was ancient, but in the middle of repairs and remodeling.

Some of which she was doing herself. She loved this old place.

The character. The bones were strong. It had personality, and the rooms were huge, the architecture interesting and the house full of promise.

It was in the middle of nowhere, and her closest neighbor was Melba, the bird-obsessed cat lover, about a quarter of a mile away, who lived with her bedridden husband.

“Poet?”

“Yes, Huni?”

“You look like your mama today…” Huni’s eyes smiled before her plump pink lips did.

The crow’s feet bunched, and her spirit seemed to be leaping inside of her, rejoicing when the words poured out.

Poet felt warm all over as she reached for her black leather corded necklace.

A single pearl pendant on it. She sat down beside Huni and ran her hand along the older woman’s thigh.

Huni had on some hip-hugging bell bottom khakis.

She was short and thin, with oddly long legs for her small frame.

“I wish I remembered her more.” She looked off into the yard, seeing a portion of her field full of eggplants and melons. They were quiet for a spell, and then a dish detergent commercial came on in the middle of Huni’s show.

“She was a beautiful person. I miss her so much… so much.” She reached for her drink, her hand trembling.

Bringing the glass to her mouth, she took a taste.

Aunt Huni had Type 1 diabetes and a weak heart.

She also had become forgetful, and had a touch of early onset dementia.

She and her mother had been best friends, and had attended high school and nursing college in Dallas together.

Huni, being Filipino, used to be teased for saying that Dominque, Poet’s mother, was her sister, but she meant that.

Huni always said that Dominique had saved her life, but never explained how.

Just said it was personal, but one day she may tell her.

Both her mother and Huni had been married twice, though neither of Mama’s prior husbands were Poet’s father.

Huni’s first marriage ended because she said she was just too young, and she didn’t love him the way she should.

Her second marriage ended after her husband, who Poet used to call Uncle Joe-Joe—his real name Joselito—had passed away in an accident sixteen years prior.

A truck driver, he’d had fallen asleep behind the wheel.

He had been a good person, too. Huni had no children.

Her doctor had strongly suggested she not get pregnant due to her illnesses, so when Mama got sick and asked Huni to raise Poet, she agreed to it without hesitation.

“Huni, tell me the story about when I was born again.”

Huni grinned, then laughed.

“It was a bright, sunny morning, and Dominique was sure she had at least a couple more weeks to go. Then, her water broke as she was making fried eggs. She had a piece of fruit, too. Pink—”

“Grapefruit,” they said in unison, then laughed. Poet had heard this story a zillion times, but sometimes, in order to feel closer to a woman she barely recalled, she’d ask to hear it again.

“She called me right ’way, and I—”

Suddenly there was a loud, roaring noise outside, interrupting the sweet story, tearing it down the middle and ripping it in two.

It sounded much like huge tires barreling towards the house at high speed, like some monster truck about to bulldoze her house.

The Dead South’s, ‘Gunslinger’s Glory’ blared from the vehicle’s speakers, making her windows rock and roll.

“What in the hell? This better not be Melba again!”

“Throw a cat on her!”

Poet got up and raced towards the front door.

When she opened it, the music stopped abruptly.

A large, shiny, big black truck with a silver lattice, and big white skull with glowing red eyes on the grill sat parked in front of her house.

The ominous truck door opened, and thick curls of white smoke ebbed from the gateway of vehicular hell.

One black cowboy boot, followed by another, stepped onto the dirt ground.

THUD. THUD.

Whoever it was, it had to be a big guy. Heavy in weight, and in presence.

A black cowboy hat sailed high in the air, but the face and body of the person was blocked by the large truck door that was swung wide open.

When the person slammed it shut, her body turned hot as a freshly lit flame doused in gasoline.

Her breasts ached, and she fought a shiver of excitement.

There, with a toolbox in one hand, and in her wildest dreams, her pussy in the other, stood a soaring man—tall and willowy like some grim reaper, with a black smile and blue ice for eyes…

“Howdy, ma’am.” He removed his hat, and his hair fell forward. “Somebody ’bout your description, told me they wanted a brand-new greenhouse. Kage motherfuckin’ Wilde at your service…”