Short Story: The Cat Lady

DISCLAIMER TO READER: To keep my mind sharp, my imagination fueled,  and my sanity in tact I sometimes write a bit of purposeless fiction. The following story is in few words, stupid, incomplete, and unedited. Do not expect anything profound, meaningful, or even particularly interesting. It has nothing to do with sport, except perhaps for the fact that I wrote it  in my idle time between Hockey trainings. Read only if you are severely bored. Otherwise, I caution you this is a waste of time.

  My name is Rodger George Renner. Since the day I was born, people been calling me a dreamer. Supposedly, I came out of the womb a unique fella, with long eyelashes, poutty lips, and deep ocean eyes that looked straight up toward the sky like I was searching for something that had been lost on my drop down to earth. Mama says I didn’t cry a peep, no boy, just looked around, and stared for a while. Finally, I looked back at her, accepted my lot in life, and decided, I presume, that this here world was worth exploring.

So that is exactly what I have been doing these past sixteen years, exploring, observing, and experiencing. Funny, because everything I ever found worth knowing and remembering I learned while adventuring. Never did learn much in school - it seems I don’t take much to that sort of learning because my marks ain’t so hot on those super important standardized tests people are always talking about.

Mama’s always scared I won’t go to college. I try to reassure her; I tell her I got the best education around, the type of education that most kids ain’t taught, because it can’t be taught. It’s the one that has to be learned for the self through exploration, observation, and adventuring. 

I remember the first time I told Mama about one of my adventures. She got this worried, scared look in her eyes. It made me real sad because I wish it was easier for me be a good son. It just don’t come natural, seems I am always causing her worry.  So instead of worrying her more with my adventures, I just shook my head, smiled, and I told her I’d be alright because I’ve learned things that’ll get me much further than the things they teach you in school.

She just sighed in defeat.

Deep down I know she loves me. She would trust me if she could, but it is real hard to trust a thing you don’t understand. And my mama never has understood me, and probably never will. I learned to accept my Mama for who she is and she just ain’t the understanding type. You just have to let a thing be what a thing is, or you will waste a lot of your soul on matters you can’t control.

The proudest moment of my life was learning that little piece of wisdom. I was seven – a scrawny, tall, and shy yet terribly curious boy. That summer I saw a butterfly emerge from a cocoon.  It made me realize that things ain’t always what they seem. Sometimes, what a thing is, isn’t what it looks like it is. And sometimes what it is, changes, and it becomes a new type of “is.”

It was a confusing lesson for a seven year old. You see, that summer I had made a new friend. His name was Pete and he was a caterpillar. I had been spending a lot of time with Pete chomping on leaves, climbing trees, and taking naps under the hot Virginia sun.  But one day, Pete went to rest inside a little white nest.

My first instinct, naturally, was to make a nest for myself. So I took all the toilet paper in the house, and wrapped a little nest for myself beside the Oak tree where Pete’s cocoon was.

It sure did cause some hysterics. All the neighbors got to thinking that we had a Mummy living in our backyard. Mama didn’t mind until one day when she went to the bathroom and realized there was no more toilet paper. She got mighty angry, and I felt bad, thinking about her sitting there dripping dry. But I would be lying if I told you I didn’t laugh a nasty long chuckle over it.  

So everyday despite my parents ire over the wasted resource, I made a toilet paper nest and waited for Pete to wake up. Eventually, I got to thinking that maybe Pete had become permanently at rest. Like dead, I mean. I was real sad, knowing how much I would miss Pete, and I decided I ought to have a funeral for him. So I made the preparations, and was in the middle of giving him a proper goodbye, singing the Amazing Grace, when a spotted bug with wings emerged out of Pete’s death nest. Hallelujah, how sweet the sound, what the hell is happening, I thought.

Was Pete Jesus Christ rising himself from the dead. I did not know. And when I don’t know a thing, I go on thinking about it until I do. So I sat there, watching this little critter fly about, thinking about Peter Christ rising from the white nest.

As I was thinking, the little flying critter kept fussing about and refusing to leave my side. It got me wondering if maybe Pete was inside the flying critter, just changed a bit on the outside. It wasn’t too far a stretch. I mean we all change, myself included. I had grown real tall that summer. Maybe Pete had changed too.

As I was thinking over it all, the critter landed on my nose.  I had to look cross-eye to see him, which made my brain hurt real bad and that made me chuckle, because only Pete would have known that I couldn’t think if my brain was hurting. So he sat on my nose making me look cross-eyed. Smart little fellow he surely was.

I was so happy that day. Having explored, and really discovered life. I think that’s the day I stopped believing what the people said about me being a dreamer. I realized I was more than that, I was an explorer.

I never blame people for thinking that way of me -  they are just trying to be nice about something they don’t quite understand.  They say, “oh, that Rodgie Renner, he sure is a dreamer.” What they really want to say though is that I am a bit peculiar.

It doesn’t bother me much, I think peculiar is good.  If no one were peculiar the world wouldn’t be very interesting. It would just be more of the same black and white, no color. But not all people see it that way. I am just a little more open-minded than the folk around here. My motto is, don’t rule a thing out until. . . well, never rule a thing out.           

That is why I never ruled out the peculiar lady that lives on Wilson Avenue.  I gave her as fair a shot as any. Never judged her odd ways. I simply observed her, almost everyday, from respectable distance.

She intrigued me, and I pursued her like some kind of quest because I believed her peculiar mind possessed undiscovered treasures, those of a true explorer. My dream was to reveal them. But I guess dreams don’t always unfold the way you plan. Sometimes, they turn unexpectedly into discouraging affairs. 

I call her the cat lady. It’s an odd name though considering she doesn’t have any cats. But sure enough, I’ve been calling her the cat lady as long as I can remember. It is because she acts like she has a whole damn litter of make believe animals with human-like powers. No lie, she really believes herself, or so it seems with the way she goes about ranting, raving, and communicating with things that aren’t there.

The cat lady has a Saturday morning routine unlike anything I have ever known. I used to watch her every Saturday like most kids watch morning cartoons. She set tea for herself and her imaginary companions at 8am sharp every Saturday right smack dab on the front lawn, a nice little table and tea set with seven chairs, and eight places. The table donned the greatest assortment of tea fineries, I had ever seen. The queen of England would have been jealous.

But that table always lacked something, and that something was real people, because she never did ever invite any. At least none that ever showed up. I don’t exactly blame her for not inviting the adults, they have trouble understanding matters of the imagination; they would probably ask those condescending sort of questions with raised eyebrows and uninterested, vacant stares. But the youngins, like me, we could of played along well and dandy with her back in the day.  I always hoped my special invitation would come by post. But one never did arrive.

I know that part of you right about now must be wondering where this story is going or  whether this here kid, yup me Rodge Renner, is off his rocker like the crazy cat lady. But no sir no, I swear I ain’t , and I swear I ain’t telling no fib. I may be a bit of an exaggerator, but I don’t got a lying bone in my body.

The cat lady lives two houses down from my house on Wilson Avenue, which some people, specifically the ones that live in the new developments off Route 212, call the old part of town. She has been living on Wilson for as long as I can remember; definitely my entire life, a whopping 16 years, and I assume many years more than that.

Sad thing is, the cat lady wasn’t always crazy. At least I imagine she wasn’t because even now, though she is very peculiar, and no one really seems to get on with her, I still get the sense that the town folk regard with a very particular sense of awe. I myself respect her, in an odd and curious sort of way.

I guess most people wish she wasn’t so openly crazy. You see, it is a little embarrassing with our town being one of those social ladder climbing blue-collar types. You know the type I am talking about – the ones founded and living amicably on the hardworking way until the rich man from the next town over moves in because he can pay lesser taxes on his bigger house in this bluer town. That sets the train in motion because more of the rich man’s friends move in and before you know it, the composition of the town people is a-changing.

And change, of course, makes people especially the blue-collar town folk, conflicted. Because the town’s identity ain’t strictly what it used to be. The people start to lose them sense of self, because those big beautiful homes with manicured lawns and fake ponds in real nice developments set a new standard of what life is supposed to be like, what type of work they are supposed to do, and what type of house they are suppose to keep. So before you know it all that is left of the blue collar town is a small enclave of real old streets that become known as old town because they are just too damn old to change their sense of self.

Ironically, the real old homes in that part of town get these little plaques on them reminding the social climbers not to  buy ‘em , destroy ‘em and build new because that would destroy the only remnant of true history left in the blue collar town.

The cat lady lives in a home with a plaque on it. Yet for the sake of the town’s budding reputation, and all its well to do citizens, it would be a lot better if the cat lady’s house was on a winding corner, or hidden behind trees in some shadowy, covert nook of the nearby woods. But she don’t live on the corner or behind trees, she lives smack dab in the middle of Wilson Ave, in a house with a bronze plaque on it.

 The cat lady’s house, a box-framed, simple farm-like sort of home, sits very far away from Wilson Avenue, roughly a quarter of a football field or so.  It has a very big front yard which is a bit of an anomaly in this neighborhood. Most of the time, her yard is bare like the a baby’s bottom, except of course on Saturday mornings when she sets her tea, and on the odd occasion when she brings all her inside furniture outside.

Yup, you heard me right – she brings all her inside furniture outside.

She’s got a ton of this nice wood stuff that looks like it came straight from the trees; desks, bureaus, shelves, tables and chairs. She brings it all outside early in the morning, every few months. I suppose she wants the wood to reunite with its tree kin. She sits all day at this very unique, tiny, wooden desk with what looks to be the remnants of nail-polish scroll all over it. She sits there toiling around writing something or another. From the street you can hear her singing and chatting away with those imaginary animals she got. Then, at about dusk, she packs up all her belongings, and brings them back inside.

Funny thing though, she usually repeats this furniture moving business for an entire week. It makes me tired watching her carry all that heavy wood. I offered my help a few times, but she never acknowledged my offer.

The older town people, like my Grandmama who’ve lived here their entire lives, refer to the cat lady’s place as the Kieffer manner.  Grandmama said the Kieffer home was not always like it is now, so quiet, lonely and such. Old Mr. and Mrs. Kieffer had a ton of kids, like eight or so, so their house and front yard used to always be bustling and swarming with kids, doing crazy kid-like things.

Grandmama said their home had a revolving door for the neighborhood children. Mrs. Kieffer took care of them all, black and white, like they were her own; feeding them, carting them, and showering them with simple love. 

The only time the Kieffer house was off limits was when Mr. Kieffer found himself with the nasty hangover which supposedly made him very susceptible to the meanness of man. If it was not one of those rare occasions, the children were otherwise given free reign over the house. Grandmama said she spent most of her youth over there playing with Natalie Kieffer, the second eldest daughter.

I try to imagine what that must have been like with a neighborhood house having a revolving door for all the town kids. Sounds like a delightful childhood with all those kids playing, exploring and learning together. Must have been amazing getting grown up together.

Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to walk up that long gravelly sidewalk straight up those crumbling cement front steps onto that lopsided front porch to the front door. I imagine myself knocking, loud and hard, and the cat lady answering. I’d be standing there nice and tall, unafraid, yet not too rigid and demeaning, looking her straight in the eyes. I would ask her politely yet quite plainly for her story. I’d say, Ms. Cat Lady, what it was it like to grow up in that home, a Kieffer child with a revolving door and lots of kids?

She’d surely answer because she would see in my eyes that I was an explorer and I simply wanted to understand her and the past. The two of us, young and old, boy and woman, would sit on those old red painted wooden rockers on the front porch and shoot the breeze over a bit of southern herb tea.

We would get on so well that soon enough she would invite me for Saturday tea. And afterwards she’d even invite me inside her home to show me old family photographs and to have a chat at her big beautiful dining room table.

I really admire the beauty of her table. It must be a family heirloom because it sure is a showpiece. I loved it the first time I saw it from the inside of Elisa Young’s grandparents home. Elisa was the only friend I ever had in the neighborhood on account of her grandparent’s living next door to my house.

One day we was playing in her den when I saw that table sitting through the window in the house next door. The lonely, beautiful, long oak plank sat there calling my name, like the round table called King Arthur and his Knights. Its long sturdy benches just begged for the warmth of my bum.

Very strangely, I have never seen anyone ever, besides in my imagination of course, eating at that dining room table. Makes me kind of sad knowing that the lonely crazy cat lady has a big ole table with no mouths to feed.

I’d bet my very life’s living that it wasn’t always that way. I am sure that dining room table was the hub of activity in the Kieffer home. Eating, drinking, card playing, home working, singing, dancing, meeting and greeting. Everything had to have happened at that big, beautiful table.

It really depresses me. Because although I suppose the cat lady is very old with her hair being as long, gray, and unruly as it is, part of me believes, in some strange way, that she is still young.  I mean her body seems very strong for an old lady. Just watching her move all that wooden furniture amazes me.  And I know she is undoubtedly crazy and all, but her mind, still seems very sharp. She sometimes gets this glow in her eyes, a real perceptive one. And I don’t mean to be any type of perverted, but when she catches your glance, and stares right back into your pupil, that glow strips your soul naked, and communicates with you on a level much deeper than words. It is a bit irksome really and she must know it, because most of the time, she just avoids eye contact.

But that glow, that is what makes me so intrigued. It seems like she knows something the rest of us don’t. Maybe it is what she knows that makes her the way she is.

Although I don’t like to judge, it sometimes causes me the sadness. I mean with the gift of that glow, she could do a lot of good for others. I wish I understood her more. Like why does she live all holed up in that house being friends with things that ain’t real? And why does she let that big old beautiful table go to waste.

Something dark must’ve happened to her to make her the way she is. Seems like it is always something, a white cocoon or other, making us change our ways. Not always for the good either. I suspect it is something very grave that happened to that lady. 

I tried to do a bit of investigating. I asked my Grandmama about the cat lady, and the town’s past.

She told me some really great stories about all the kids wandering daily up and down Wilson street after school. I really took to the ones about the her crazy escapades with her best friend Natalie Kieffer.

One time they went sledding on the hills below the old Route 212 bridge and found an old bum of a man in a little igloo sort of a home lying there like he was dead. Grandma and Nat took it upon themselves to bring him back to life. Till spring came, they fed him, clothed him, and spent all their free time coddling the poor old bastard.  Sure enough, he found his strength and went peacefully on his way.

Grandmama reveled in telling me about the past. But one time, when I asked specifically about the cat lady, her look turned grim as though something unpleasant had crept in her memory. She stopped talking, as she seemed to reflect on disappointing times.

Then she said: “You just never know how life’ll turn out. You got to be willing, just got to be willing, to go with the changes of life. To ride out its ebbs and flows.”

 It was an evasive statement in a very tragic way because it just seemed to sit on the surface of a very deep yet beautifully depressing history.  Grandmama passed a few days later.

 On the day of her funeral, a peculiar thing happened. A ton of mourners had gathered to say farewell to my Grandma. As I recited the Our Father, I felt a piercing burn on my forehead. I raised my eyes from my Grandma’s grave, and far back in the distant corner of the graveyard, I saw the cat lady.

Her vexed eyes drew me in. My heart went rapid with anticipation. My breath shortened. I could not look away. So I stared straight into her eyes as they buried me inside a deeply complex misery. The misery of promise turned cowardly. Her sadness was too heavy for my heart to handle. I yearned to look away, but I could not. Her eyes spoke of lost days trifled away in desolation, because she was too scared to cope with change.

Self-destruction seemed more bearable than change. She created a lonely fantasy of an unchanging world.  And that fantasy made her no more alive than my Grandma.

In my days of exploration, I had dreamed much of the cat lady, of the wondrous treasures, she would reveal; yet what I discovered is a very deep yet beautifully depressing truth. 

We mustn’t squander the beauty of an uncertain world away for the comfort of a steadfast fantasy.

We mustn’t let a beautiful table go to waste just because the people who once sat with us are no longer there. We must sit and feast at the table, and warm the oak with our bums.