RodMer Short Story Package HH And Furthermore
by Merike Lugus	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Here is Short Story Package HH -- a short story by Merike Lugus.

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All material is copyright. Some of the stories in these packages have appeared in literary journals. Where the rights involved were other than first serial rights, we are grateful to the respective publishers for permission to offer this material on the Web

Approximately 3,500 words

I put the kettle on. Black tea in the pot. Where was Jay? Probably in his study talking to some farmer. There's never a night without an emergency. And Jay is so reliable. Everyone knows that.

The cat glared at me from its basket. It made me sick at heart just to look at it.

Jay came in just as the kettle whistled. No time to sit with me, he explained. He had to go out and see about someone's cow. He looked over at the cat and then at me.

"Why don't you call up Miriam?" he said. "Maybe she can come over . . . keep you company."

"I'm not an invalid," I said. Not yet, I thought to myself. Jay hates to hear me say things like that. At least he was discreet enough not to mention the cat. We'd been married long enough for him to see that one mangy cat was going to leave the house first thing in the morning.

"Good-bye, dear," he said and kissed me on the cheek,

I listened for the engine to start up and I thought, I WOULD DO IT. It had crossed my mind many times to do it, but I've always known I'm not very brave no matter how much I wanted to be. So I was surprised to feel so decided.

Before I explain about the cat, I have to tell you about the dog. I really loved Becky but Jay said I wasn't taking care of her properly. Jay said dogs like Becky needed a lot of walks and I couldn't do it any more.

It's true, I've slowed down a lot over the past few years. I try not to complain because then Jay gets all upset, and I know I should enjoy my feet while I still have them. A couple of months ago we went for a walk on the golf course with Becky. I was getting tired so we found this spot near an apple tree that looked over the valley with all the ponds and willows.

"Here's our favourite spot," said Jay. And I thought to myself, who says so? And then I told myself not to be so niggardly. Isn't that an odd word? Well if I was niggardly and I never said a word, Jay would never know, would he? So I said nothing. But inside I was screaming: who SAYS this is our favourite spot!

He was pulling the dog's ears. Becky was a cockapoo, as sweet as caramel pudding. I always told Jay, this dog isn't very smart. But I loved her anyway. She was my friend.

Jay had Becky on her back and held her long ears up over her head and he said, "Look at this trick! She's playing rabbit!"

I looked over at Becky. "That's not a trick," I said.

"Sure it is," he said. I said his saying so didn't make it so. He's always telling me to think positive, but sometimes you have to draw a line. Becky was a dog and that was that.

I looked out at the ponds. One morning there'd been an old man wading out there in hip boots scooping out golf balls with a fish net. Sure we said hello to him but I couldn't help wondering if he didn't know he was trespassing. But if you're going to mention that sort of thing, you should be prepared to do something about it. So I didn't mention it.

Jay grabbed Becky again and put her on her back and started to stroke her from the chest, down her belly, then down the thigh.

"Look, Barbie!" he said. "Here's another trick." He stroked the length of her leg with his finger.

"I'm looking."

"Show us a leg, Becky . . . look at that beautiful stretch!"

"That's not a trick either," I said. "You're pushing it."

"Pushing what? Look, look! what a beauty!"

I remembered a dream from the night before. I was a dog inside a pit. My eyes just reached the top. Jay came by and patted me on the head and then he went off to work.

"I had a dream last night," I said.

"Yeah? Will you look at this! Both legs!"

"You were in it."

"That's nice."

"I was a dog."

"Makes sense," he said, scratching Becky's belly. "You're not going into all that deep stuff. . . .?

"It was just a dream."

Becky scrambled to her feet, stood wagging her tail at me.

"She wants you to pat her," said Jay.

I ran my fingers through her lovely fur. she stiffened and began to growl, then took off down the hill towards one of the willows. A squirrel stood on its hind legs looking at her. Becky was almost on top of it before it leapt up the trunk. Becky circled around the tree, nose to the ground.

Jay laughed. "She never looks up!"

"She's a stupid dog," I said.

"Don't ever say that. She's a beauty."

"Jay, I was wondering . . ."

"You mean about my decision?"

"Yes." I looked at my hand, how limply it hung over the wrist of the other hand. I leaned back on my elbows, tucking my hands under me.

"There's not more to be said, is there?"

"It's final, then?"

"Yes."

"But if I . . . "

"Don't tell me you've lost your nerve!"

"I can't lose it if I never had it," I said. "It's always what YOU say that counts."

"Well, say something, then. Here's your chance. Why don't YOU say something for a change!"

"There's no need to get angry. I only meant . . ."

"YOU meant! YOU meant! Besides, I'm not angry." Becky had come back and stood panting in front of us. Jay held out his hand for her to lick.

"I'm glad you're not angry," I said.

So that was the end of Becky. It broke my heart. I cried for weeks after and went around the house saying "life is a bitch". It gave me a lot of satisfaction saying that. It was the sort of thing adults used to say when they were hit by tragedies. Like when father came home from the war. Actually he said life is shit. But I didn't feel I was entitled to say something like THAT.

Now back to the cat. In the town where I do my shopping, squeezed in between the wool store and Bill's Groceries, there's this tiny house where a woman lives with her six kids. She'd never spoken a word to me before and I always figured she had too much on her hands considering that her kids roamed around town like so many strays. At least, that's what Bill's wife told everybody.

So I was taken by surprise when she stopped me on the street one day and said she had found a cat and that she had reasons to believe I might be interested. Of course I wasn't. There were plenty of strays around where I lived and I had trouble enough getting rid of them. Becky used to love them. I swear, she used to herd them home. But things were changing. Jay said I had to simplify my life.

The woman managed to get me into her tiny vestibule to have a look. It was a horrible cat. Its fur was matted and it had bald spots where it had been pulled out be the handfuls. As soon as it saw me it arched its back and pulled away. It was suspicious and wild.

"It's been ill-treated," said the woman. She tried to convince me that once I got home it would change personality.

She could see I was having trouble deciding so she made me some tea and watched me drink it while her children peered in at me from every doorway.

She was quite disgusted with me. "Why are you crying over a thing like that?" she wanted to know. "Either you'll take it or you won't"

Finally I said I'd take it but only on a trial basis. "If it doesn't work out, I'm bringing it right back," I said. I guess it didn't sound much like a threat because she turned her back and shouted at her children.

I took the cat home in its basket and put the basket next to the woodpile in the kitchen. I couldn't bring myself to touch it. It lay under the blanket very still, its chin on its paws, its eyes glued on me.

It hated me. In my mind it was already decided. I would keep it in the basket for the night, and in the morning, first thing, I would take it back. I wouldn't even give it milk.

So that was when I started to make myself a pot of tea. That was the low point.

I waited for Jay's car to pull out of the drive-way. Then I took a syringe from the drawer and the bottle of clear insulin from the refrigerator. I don't care what anybody says, that's the stuff that makes your life miserable. Makes your sugar go up and down. It's what ruins the figure. I pulled out eighty units into the syringe. I only needed twenty mixed with the cloudy stuff to keep me alive. I lifted up my sweater, pulled out the roll of skin on my stomach, stuck in the syringe and held it there. Now I was ready. Any time I felt like it, I would push in the plunger and it would all be over.

But I couldn't do it right then. I would have the tea first and think about what my last thoughts should be. While I sipped the tea, it occurred to me that instead of a coma, the insulin could send me into convulsions. And then suppose Miriam walked in. Next thing I'd know I'd be waking up with brain damage. Maybe I should have consulted someone. Wouldn't gas be more reliable? I stared at the blue pilot light of the stove.

Then I remembered the cat and glanced over at its basket. It was still watching me. It seemed to me it was trying hard to look tragically orphaned. So we did have something in common after all.

Some people say that diabetes can be brought on by a great shock. That's how mine came about. I was eighteen at the time. It was spring time and I was happier than I've ever been since. Jay was about to ask father for my hand in marriage. We went arm in arm to the living room where father sat smoking his pipe. After Jay told him what he'd come for, father said he was very happy for us. But I could see that something was troubling him. He kept stroking his pipe and couldn't look me in the eye.

He asked me to sit down with him while Jay went upstairs to have a chat with mother. I heard Jay on the stairs, happily shouting to mother that he had come to ask to marry me. Father got something in his eye and had to go look for a handkerchief, so I saw no reason to stay put. I ran after Jay, and I reached the door just as I heard mother's voice.

"Jay, would it surprise you if I told you that Barbara is not our real daughter? she said. "Close the door."

The door closed and I stood outside it. Something in my mind went click and all the pieces fell into place. Mother had called me too sensitive, always imagining slights and favouritism to my brother and sister. I was never invited in to take part in family discussions. Mother said it was because I was never around or that they weren't important anyway. But now I saw the true reason: I was not a real daughter, like Sarah. Not a real son, like Mark. I stood outside the door, scarcely believing that I was being discussed like something that was not a genuine thing. The ground was swept from under me.

I was eighteen and beautiful and in love, and from that moment on I became sick. I lost weight. My bracelets slid above my elbow. My gums were diseased. I was thirsty all the time. I went to hospital.

I fingered the plunger again.

The phone rang.

"Hello Barb," she said.

"Hello Miriam," I said.

"Watcha doin'?"

"Having tea."

"Having black thoughts?"

"Why?"

"Jay called."

"You mean about the cat?"

"Cat? No. He said you'd been acting strange. He worries about you, Barb."

"He never should have married me," I said.

"Well aren't we tender tonight! Hold everything, Barb, I'm coming right over!"

"No, you can't. Really, Miriam, I've got this cat here and it . . . it hates people. It's quite savage. Never been loved by the look of it."

"Poor thing! Maybe that's just what you need, Barb. I mean, ever since -"

"Well, not THIS one. It hates me and I don't like it either. It's got monstrous eyes and fangs like you've never seen on a cat and what I need is affection. Honestly, Miriam, it acts more like a weasel. Like it's been cornered, ready to squeeze itself backwards through a hole . . ."

"You're sounding weird, Barb. You sure you don't - Oh my god! Guess who just walked through the door! He said he wasn't coming home till midnight!"

"Well, wonder of wonders. Guess you better go."

"Look, if you get lonely . . ."

"Yes. I know where you are. Don't worry about me."

Miriam is such a dear. Half my size and twice my energy. Near fifty, like me. She sunbathes in the nude in her backyard. Not that that's very daring . . . there's never a soul around . . . but imagine wanting to do it! Imagine caring whether some white spots will show up in a low-cut evening gown. Which she will probably never get to wear, not if she's waiting for Harry to take her. Wonderful girl, Miriam. So brave. And all the clothes she has!

But Miriam's voice didn't make me change my mind. That was a good sign. You should never do it out of spite. I thought of all the people who would hear about it. No, there was no one I wanted to make feel sorry. That was a good sign too. Jay would feel sorry, of course, but that couldn't be helped. And Miriam too. Jonathan is all grown up and working in Vancouver. He'd fly home for the funeral to comfort his father. He's a fine boy. I'm proud of him.

There wasn't a twinge of self-pity in me. No vanity. It meant all the fight was gone. All that was left was gratitude to everyone who had cared for me. Then why was it not easy?

I bit into a digestive biscuit, got up, holding on to the syringe, went to the living room and stood in front of the stereo. Maybe music would make me brave. I pulled out a Tom Jones album. Some years ago Miriam had taken me all the way to Toronto, insisting I had to see him IN THE FLESH. She came near fainting when once he smiled, she said, straight at her and me. I missed it because someone had just fallen over me from behind, and next I had to watch that Miriam didn't sink to the floor.

I put back the album. Tom Jones was O.K. but he would have spoiled the mood. What mood? Were there rules in this business? Then I remembered the Bolero. That might build up the right momentum. I looked for the record but couldn't find it. I ran across one of Jonathan's weird records of dolphins' songs, another of synthetic voices. No, it had to be at least human or nothing at all.

I plopped into the easy chair and toyed with the plunger. Once the needle had snapped off and I had to go to hospital to have it surgically removed. I wondered if the cat had suffocated.

The first time I had ever thought of DOING IT was two years ago in Portugal where we were on a sort of holiday, though Jay was able to write it off as a business expense because of the convention. It was a lovely village with fishing boats and young kids on the beach, but at sunset the place was taken over by a pack of dogs that didn't belong to anyone as far as I could see. There were fourteen of them led by a vicious looking Alsatian that looked very hungry. No walks on the beach in the moonlight. You could see the string of dogs in silhouette against the sand, scavenging, cleaning up what the fishermen had left behind. I watched them from the window of my room as I waited for Jay to come back from some conference, and I felt that the dogs had always been a part of my life, that I would never be free of the terror in me.

My eyes aren't very good any more. The laser treatment is supposed to help, but when it doesn't, it doesn't. Some days what I see is a white fog and ghosts moving through it. But that day I could see something dash past the doorway towards the front hall. Living in the country we often get mice.

That made me think that maybe Jay should keep the cat after all. I went to the kitchen to get a pen and note pad. I would suggest that to him. Unless, of course, he decided to sell the place. In which case Miriam would get a new neighbour.

Or maybe I shouldn't mention the cat lest Jay read it as my last wish. I wouldn't want to be the one to decide . . .

Why not? Why not? the question boomed out at me.

This was by far the most interesting thing I was about to do. The only thing of consequence other than bringing up Jonathan. I did a fine job with him. Jonathan is a fine boy.

Suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to be of consequence.

I took the pen and pad and sat down at the table. To my surprise, my hand wrote almost of its own accord:

MESSAGE TO THE WORLD AND ALL THE PEOPLE IN IT:

Whereas it's commonly understood that my husband Jay is a great and useful man who has saved hundreds of animals from sickness and death, and that some people feel his services are hampered by his weak and feeble and selfish wife, which is me, I wish to say the following: I am sick and tired of what other people think. And furthermore, before I leave this world, I wish to ask the question, does usefulness come down to numbers? And do birds count? I want it to be known here that I, Barbara, have saved near a dozen wild foxes from starvation, and in the past thirty years, maybe a hundred stray cats who have wandered here. But if it's only numbers that count, then what about the hundreds of birds that have come to my feeders? What I want to know is, have I been of any use? More than that, I wonder if something isn't terribly wrong that I should have to ask this question. I know I am not wonderfully clever, and the worst thing about me is that I have been so afraid. Fear has made me weak. But I do feel that something has been terribly wrong.

And now I want to make my last wishes known:

Jay should never again pat me on the head.

Jay should write me an apology for what happened to Becky.

Miriam should place an ad in the paper in the personals for a beau to take her out dancing. Her good-for-nothing husband should write it for her.

I had been writing furiously and when at last I stopped and read over what was on the page, I started to laugh. I laughed so hard I could feel the syringe dislodge itself slightly. I had to make sure it was still in there tight. Something soft rubbed against my legs. I looked down and saw the poor cat. Still laughing, I went to the fridge and got it some milk.

I returned to the writing and added to the list:

And I want Jay to keep the cat and the house to keep it in. And I want him to name it Mister Higgins. For no reason at all.

I watched the cat lapping up the milk, then took the pen again:

And furthermore . . .

Unpublished

Merike Lugus
'SwallowHill', 1940 Hill 60 Rd., R.R.5
Cobourg, ON, K9A 4J8
Canada
merike@rodmer.com