THEN

“It’ll be on us ‘fore we have time to pray and pass water!” yelled a voice from high in the rigging.

Lightning crashed in the distance, and a tide of black clouds swallowed the stars behind the ship. The Captain paced the deck. Half his men were starving and threatening mutiny. The other half were spilling their guts over the side, or fouling up the hold below.

The sickness was spreading. The storm was closing in. And Death waited on all sides, laughing in the shadows.

“Then skip the prayer, hold your piss, and dump everything,” he yelled back, gripping the hilt of his dagger.

“Sir,” the Steward said, holding his swollen stomach, and doing his best to stay standing as the boat lurched. “Are you sure you want to–?”

“Dump it all,” said the Captain, inching the blade from its silver scabbard. “The cannons. The bags. The liquor. The food that’s turned. Even the rats, if you can catch ‘em. Anything that could slow us down.”

The Steward winced and gagged as the deck dipped, and clutched at the arm of the Captain’s salt-stained coat. “But the haul, sir? What we almost died for? What of the thing that’s cursed us since we left?”

The Captain looked to the cabin door. A bearded priest stood in the shadows, shivering in his ashen robes. The holy man moved to block the door with darting eyes and a considerable girth.

“There’s more to fear than curses, boy,” the Captain hissed, slapping the young man’s hand away. “Touch that box, and you’ll know. All of you. Go!”

“Yes, sir,” the Steward said, stumbling off towards the bow. “You heard the Captain – dump it all!”

The Captain turned and gripped the back rail. He watched the lightning dance and slice through the heavens. He saw the darkness creep towards him, like oil spilled across the sky.

I’m in a race with the Devil, he thought. But when we’re light as the whiskers on His face, we’ll see who gets there first.

With fingers full of splinters, he twisted the ring of gold on his left hand. It slid easily across his taut, pale skin, leaving smears of brown and red. Dirt and blood.

It won’t be for nothing, I swear. To the edge of the Earth, the end of Time, and whatever stands between. We will raise a glass again in the New World, and laugh in its face. Together.

He looked up at the stars as the storm closed in and saw them extinguished, one-by-one, until just two remained. They glimmered and shone through gaps in the clouds like two great eyes in the darkness, burning on a demon’s face that chased him across the sea.

Rest now, my love. For soon, you shall sleep no more.

With a gust of wind the eyes blinked out, shut tight in the storm. Far below, a lone man tilted back his head, and howled at the darkness.

I

Of Boys and Bones

Billy Brahm was having a nightmare.

Now, there’s nothing the least bit peculiar about a ten-year-old boy having a bad dream. Be it fanged beasts, or exploding volcanoes, or having to go up in front of the entire school to give a speech in your underwear, there isn’t much call for alarm.

Just remember that you’re dreaming. Run away as fast and as far as you can. And then wake yourself up.

But this boy’s dream was different. It was different because there was no way to escape from it. It was different because he was already wide-awake.

Elizabeth and Stanley Brahm stood over their adopted son with masks of concern and frustration on their weary faces. For years, Billy’s mother had scolded him for being accident-prone, causing them so much unnecessary worry (not to mention the implied expense).

“You could trip on a whisker, or cut yourself in a rubber room,” his mother would say, removing her glasses with a heavy sigh and furrowed brow.

Stanley Brahm would nod in agreement, keeping the fragile peace. As his mother continued to scold, Billy would watch his father turn and inch quietly from the room. The bald patch on top of his head would bob out the back door and gleam its way across the lawn, disappearing behind the doors of his workshop.

Billy couldn’t argue with his mother. He may have been a smart boy — frighteningly smart, according to the standardized tests they gave at his school each year — but no amount of brain could dispute the boy’s storied history of profound clumsiness.

When Billy was three he fell down the stairs with a double-scoop strawberry cone. Shag carpet softened the blows and absorbed the ice cream and blood, limiting the boy’s suffering to two chipped teeth, a fat lip, and the ridicule of his three foster siblings.

When Billy was four he ran out of daycare, tripped on his untied shoes, and met the shale-and-gravel driveway face-first. At the doctor’s, he shrieked as the little man with the lazy eye slid a needle and thread four times through his upper lip. The boy’s siblings (down to two now) were no less cruel with their laughter.

When Billy was five, a hulking sixth grader — lunging to avoid a dodgeball throw of vicious intent — slammed him into a tetherball pole. Six weeks in a sling, and a broken collarbone to add to his ‘scorecard’.

Billy’s sole sibling at the time — a shy blonde girl with a love for stuffed bears and a tendency to cry — asked him in all seriousness if he was cursed, or just had really bad luck. Three weeks later, Billy watched from the kitchen window as the girl was packed neatly with her bear into a long grey car that would whisk her away to another home.

As he waved goodbye to her and remembered her words, he began to wonder the same thing.

A jolt of pain brought him back to the present. Back to the living room and the squeaky, lump-infested cot. Back to the plaster cast on his leg, and the reason he was trapped.

His mother unfolded a newspaper, sat down beside the bed, and began clipping a piece from a page near the front. For a minute Billy forgot his pain, hoping she had found a coupon for ice cream, or for the movies. His mother loved coupons as much as Billy loved ice cream, and movies, and dreams. Probably more.

“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” his mother asked, though she wasn’t really asking. She waved the strip of paper in front of his face. “You could’ve been killed! People must think we’re awful parents.”

The news story was titled: ‘SUMMER RUINED FOR LOCAL BOY’. That’s all he could make out, aside from his school photo. The unflattering picture showcased his prominent overbite, bulging brown eyes, and a lopsided mop of chestnut hair. Billy never saw himself as a handsome boy before and now, after the accident, even less so.

The throbbing in his leg made it hard to focus and reading only made him dizzy. But the memories were slowly returning. They came to him in flickers of blood, and flashes of screeching metal.

Three weeks earlier, the boy had turned ten.

Two weeks ago, he got a perfect report card.

And last week?

Last week, Billy Brahm was hit by a car.

Billy’s mother had had enough.

She was tired of the lounging in front of the TV, of the comic books strewn around the living room, and of the toy-soldier wars that threatened to engulf the entire house.

In short, her son’s tendency to dream was fraying the tip of her last working nerve.

“Silly Billy,” she said, “I’d really like it if you found something to do outside. Something productive. Ask your father for a chore. Or build something. Or, maybe you could find a friend…”

She unscrewed the cap from a fat green bottle, and poured red wine up to the rim of a juice glass on the counter. After a long sip, Billy watched her putting extra muscle into kneading the pizza dough. Her face reddened, and began to resemble an heirloom tomato from their garden.

That’s when the boy decided it was unwise to stay and risk losing his special ‘perfect report card’ dinner.

Billy shuffled to the front hall. Arranged for him on the low hall table were the blue wristwatch and matching running shoes that he got for his birthday. He put them on, opened the door, and stepped out into the heat of the first Sunday of summer.

Find a friend.

It’s something she had said many times before. This only convinced the boy that his mother didn’t have the best grasp on their geographical reality.

The Brahms lived in Appleton, a tiny rural town in the heart of the eastern valley. It had a year-round population that hovered just shy of 800.

The kids anywhere close to his age lived far away – past the sprawling orchards and sweet-corn fields and dairy farms – on the other side of the hills. A trek like that was a daunting prospect in the heat of late June with only a slim chance of success. Besides, after the year he’d had, Billy wasn’t exactly keen to see anyone from his school anytime soon.

He circled the house and wandered back to his father’s workshop. It was a small grey shack with white trim and topped with tarry black shingles.

The square door yawned open and Billy peered inside. Paint-flecked ply-board walls were lined with hanging tools, and a set of old golf clubs was hoisted high in a shiny black bag near the door.

Billy liked to watch his father work. Sometimes the man would spend all weekend in the shop cutting and sanding pieces of sweet-smelling wood. The shop was filled with projects in various stages of build and design – unfinished masterpieces, as his mother called them.

But that didn’t seem to bother Stanley Brahm. He looked happy just pushing the circular saw through a fresh plank of cedar, as he was doing at that moment.

“Can I help?” Billy said.

The boy wasn’t eager to follow through on the offer, but it was cooler there in the shade of the shop. He waited for an answer, but the man kept on cutting. Billy knew his father was focused because his tongue was still sticking out the side of his mouth.

“Dad! CAN I HELP?” Billy shouted.

Stanley jerked his hands at the sound, shearing the wood at an ugly angle. Unlike his mother, Billy’s father wasn’t one to show big emotions. This made the boy nervous, because the man’s moods were harder to read. But it didn’t take a psychic to see the annoyance hanging in the air just then with all that wood dust.

“Busy right now, son,” his father said. He clicked off the saw and it whirred slow, stopping with a sudden CHUK. “How about you help your mom with the pizza? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

“She sent me outside,” Billy said.

“Of course she did,” Stanley said, sliding off his safety goggles and wiping the sweat from his brow.

As his son stood in the doorway, still and unblinking, Stanley fought the urge to turn away. There had always been something he just couldn’t place with the boy. Something unsettling. Something in his eyes that seemed to look right through people and take them apart.

“It’s a gorgeous day,” his father said. “Summer vacation, right? Go find a friend and kick the ball around. Just don’t get those new shoes too dirty. You know how your mother is.” Stanley winked, put his goggles on, and set the saw in motion. His tongue slid back into its sideways work groove. The conversation was over.

Find a friend.

Billy was starting to get the hint. His parents weren’t keen on tripping over him constantly for the next two months. But they were also drawing the line on their son becoming what the parenting books had described as ‘borderline antisocial’.

Pickings were slim in the valley if you weren’t after apples. Plundering anthills in the sandpit with toy trucks and a magnifying glass wasn’t going to cut it. Neither would a summer spent daydreaming in his favourite place – Billy saw the looks his folks shared when he spent too much time there.

That left only one option. Thankfully, it was a good one.

Billy would make a point of crossing the road to visit the old Thomas place as often as he could. It was a big two-storey house with a stone foundation, chipped white siding and dark, dusty windows. It seemed to sag in the middle, as if the weight of its age had made it exhale and refuse to stand tall again. Yet it looked perfectly comfortable with its bad posture, peeling trim, and balding roof. The plants around the yard had grown tall and wild, defying the trimmed bushes and tidy squares of manicured lawn across the road.

It was old, to be sure. Billy had read in the paper that it was probably built in the early 1800’s, but his father – whose job it was to inspect buildings and assure the township that they measured up to municipal codes – had been in the basement to help with a plumbing mishap. He placed the stonework in the foundation at fifty years older than the paper’s estimate, maybe more.

The 1700’s. Back to the days of the first settlers. The beginning of Appleton. It was part of the reason the boy loved it so much. But only part.

Billy had a ritual. First, he’d hop the ditch instead of using the driveway. Then he’d sit on the plank swing hanging from the huge elm out front. After a few swings he’d leap into the grass, hunt for four-leaf clovers, and then make his way around the side of the house.

He’d move through the garden then, and approach the old stone arch. Its curious shape was cracked and sun-bleached, and covered in snaking vines and wildflowers. It had grooves and markings on its smooth surface, but they were too shallow to share any secrets.

It was there beneath the stones – near the rose trellises and swaying sunflowers, with the sound of seashell wind chimes clattering in the breeze – that he would stop. And it was there that he would kneel in the grass, take a deep breath, and then call to them.

Billy was there to see Mrs. Thomas’ cats. Which was all fine and good, because the old lady’s attention was divided in countless furry directions.

There were fat cats and skinny cats. The long-tailed and the bobbed. The daring young leapers, and the old windowsill sleepers. Balls of waddling fluff, smooth-coated prowlers, and hairless ones that looked fragile and wise. The tiger-striped, the ring-tailed, and the ones with matching coloured socks and mittens. There were tabbies and calicos. Manx and Persians. Siamese and Bombay. Ragdolls and Birmans. Maine Coons and Russian Blues. There were Snowshoes and Somalis, Tonkinese and Turkish, and many, many more. Brown and beige and orange and grey and black and white and silver cats, each with gleaming eyes of emerald, or sapphire, or amber. A rainbow of precious stones.

On that fateful afternoon, a white tabby with black spots (or was it black with white ones?) had caught the boy’s eye. It had just slipped out from one of the basement windows and was wiping its paws on the foundation.

Billy crouched low, as he had learned to do, and called to it. Wsss, wsss, WSSS. He forced the air gently between his teeth and tongue, extended his hand along the ground, and rubbed his thumb in circles against the index and middle fingers.

The cat stopped what it was doing, dropped to all fours, and turned to face him.

Billy was struck by its golden gaze, the blacks of its eyes narrowing in the sunlight. The cat looked as if ink had been spilled upon its head, painting a black helm that dribbled a dark spear down the bridge of its nose. This made its gleaming eyes and pink nostrils stand out all the more on its narrow face. The cat’s ears, jet-tipped and pointy, stiffened and curled towards the sound. It crouched as it stared with its black tail flattened, swaying across the loose dirt.

This is not for you, child.

Billy thought that if the creature could speak, that’s what it would say. This was clearly a foolish thought. As anyone with sense will tell you, cats can’t talk.

Yet Mrs. Thomas had claimed many times (over homemade apple pie with chunks of cheddar that she shared with her furry beggars) that cats could talk perfectly well, thank you very much. The problem was that most of us had forgotten how to listen.

The cat blinked and scampered off. Billy gave chase, following it through the long grass. He ran past the crumbling gazebo and the stone well and around the giant elm, whose lowest branch still held the swing in a lazy embrace.

He followed the cat all the way to the property’s edge, watching it weave through the ditch and onto the road. He kept on following until it stopped in the middle of the far lane. The cat sat down on the pavement with half-opened eyes and measured breaths, and turned its head down the road to the north.

There was a growing shape in the dusk, faint and grey like a shadow. It was moving fast, and coming straight towards them.

Billy heard a voice.

‘No more…’

The moments that followed were an insane blur. Shock and agony. Blood and breathlessness. Waves of sheer terror, not all of them Billy’s.

His mind flashed, and his parents stood over him. They were shaking and crying, and waving traffic through as they called for help.

As he lay there, crumpled and bloody on the ribbon of asphalt, the boy remembered running out to help a cat for some reason. And when he heard his mother’s wail over the hushed chatter of those who stopped to gawk, Billy tried very hard to convince himself that it was all just a terrible dream.

When the ambulance arrived, he was loaded onto a stretcher with a sickening jolt. He thought he heard someone say that he had slid across the road so fast that the soles of his new shoes had melted. His wristwatch was smashed, and his best jeans were beyond the help of any seamstress or commercial cleanser.

But those were just things. Far worse were the shattered bones and dangling tendons poking through the side of his shin, the flesh failing at its job of keeping them all in place.

Siren blaring, the ambulance sped north. Darkness was quick to descend, transforming the vehicle into a wheeled firefly that darted and flashed as it steered through the night.

Inside, the red lights set an eerie scene. The attendant’s face was shadowed and grim as he steadied the boy’s stretcher. Stanley Brahm crouched in silence beside him. Through a pained haze, the boy thought he saw tears running down the man’s cheeks.

It must’ve been a dream, for Billy had never seen his father cry.

It took 45 minutes to reach the Middleton emergency room. The driver had radioed ahead and the on-call doctor met them at the door – a pasty man with thinning hair, a wide jaw, and small, precise eyes. His voice was steady as he directed everyone inside, and remained calm when he saw the extent of Billy’s injuries.

As a nurse dabbed stinging liquid at the wounds on Billy’s face, the doctor removed the boy’s melted shoe and cut through the blood-soaked denim on his leg. Billy screamed as the jeans peeled away from his shin, and the pale man whitened another shade.

He shouted something at the nurse, and Billy moaned as a large needle jabbed into his hip. There was a muddle of voices as a numbing relief swept through his body. The boy tried to thank them, but the words wouldn’t come and the room went black.

Another burst of pain, and Billy slid from the wooden carry-board and onto a cold, stiff bed. Two hours had passed, and he had been taken to the children’s hospital all the way up in Bridgeton.

The attending physician had an angled face and shaggy hair, and seemed flustered by all the screaming. He asked the boy’s father for some details, shook his hand, and had him sent from the room.

Thus began Billy’s week in the hospital – a fuzzy, melted jumble of memories. There was the initial operation to set his leg. Painkiller drips and soiled bed-sheets. Dry meat and warm Jell-O. Bedside rounds of cribbage, where the boy would skunk his mother twice with a miraculous 29-point hand.

Then came physio.

The nurses wrapped his cast in plastic, and had Billy swim in a too-blue pool that stung his eyes. They gave him a pair of creaky wooden crutches, and had him practice moving in the halls between meals. They massaged his face with sticky liquids, and used tweezers to pull off the crusty scabs from his cheeks, chin, and forehead.

The hospital staff all gave the kindest smiles, used the gentlest touches, and spoke in the friendliest voices. They were nice when Billy cried, or when he was lazy, or even when he had a tantrum.

This confused the boy, even more than the painkillers did. Each day, his black-brown stare searched their faces for clues. Probed for secrets. Scanned for lies.

Something’s wrong, he thought.

It was a long drive south on that rainy morning in early July. Little was said, as Billy had been given a sedative before they departed. When the Brahms finally arrived home, Stanley carried his son inside. Elizabeth went straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, and filled a plate with chocolate chip cookies.

Billy’s heart sunk when he awoke, finding himself on the musty cot downstairs. It was too far away from his comics, and his toys, and his wallpaper adorned with pirate ships and treasure maps. It was too far from his bedroom window, which looked out upon the rolling fields and weeping willow trees. It was too far from the view of his favourite place in the world.

Another jolt brought Billy back to the present.

He had been home for several days now, and things didn’t feel much better. He was still downstairs. The cot was still lumpy. The cast was still heavy, and scratched his thighs raw.

Then there was the horrible tingling — the maddening itch where the bones had pushed through the flesh — that he was unable to scratch. The more he thought about it, the more upset he became, and the more the itch spread.

It was creeping up his leg, moving higher every second. It finally made camp in his ears, and went to work in his brain. Billy’s eyes welled with tears, and the low groan that was born in his belly grew to a howl in his lungs.

“It’s okay, Billy, I’ll be there in a second. I’ve got your favourite!” his mother shouted from the kitchen.

She shuffled across the linoleum and onto the living room carpet, carrying a tray of food that was piping hot. He was soothed a little as the smells worked their magic — tomato soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a glass of chocolate milk.

She propped up the cot and tilted the glass of milk into her son’s mouth. She couldn’t help but sigh as much of it ran down his chin, splashed on his chest, and soaked into the sheets.

“Drink it down,” his mother said. “It will all be better soon.”

“No, it won’t,” the boy said.

Billy met his mother’s gaze as he drank. He watched her pupils dilate and contract. He drank more and saw her nostrils flare, and tiny beads of sweat glisten on her upper lip. He swallowed the rest, and was suddenly aware of a bitter, metallic taste that lingered on the back of his tongue.

A sound grew in Billy’s head then, distant at first, yet strangely familiar. It was something he hadn’t heard since that terrible day, just before the accident.

A voice.

As the milk swam through his belly and into his veins, it grew louder. Billy’s vision blurred. The sights and smells and pains of the waking world drifted away in the drugged ether, until only the voice remained.

‘No…’ it hissed.

‘No more…’ it cried in the darkness.

‘WE SLEEP NO MORE!’

And that’s when the real nightmare began.

II

Of Cats and Catastrophe

His feet arced up INTO THE SKY.

They looked as if they could scrape the clouds. He felt weightless. Light and fast and free. The cool breeze of each swing whipped through his hair and against his face, and when he fell backward he would look up at the tree, transfixed by the tangled canopy rushing overhead.

There was something else in the branches, looming a little closer with each downward swing. Through the dark of the leaves he could see its eyes shine like tiny suns, and its lithe body weave in and out of the tree’s limbs.

Billy closed his eyes as he swung upward. A sound struck his chest like a thunderclap, or the roar of a mythical beast. He opened them. The swinging continued, the sky tilting and spinning as it does in a dream, but his vision stayed fixed. It was drawn to one thing.

The cat.

It was perched on the lowest branch, snaring the boy in its golden gaze. It twitched its whiskers and swished its tail.

And then the cat spoke.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” it said.

The words didn’t come from its mouth. They didn’t make sound in the air, as words do. Instead, they seemed to rise in Billy’s mind like ghostly balloons, popping gently to reveal themselves.

“It’s my dream,” Billy said, reaching out to pet it. As his hand moved closer, the cat blinked. Its pupils swelled, engulfing the gold in blackness.

“Are you sure, child?”

The cat dissolved into smoke. Wisps of black and white swept through Billy’s fingers and down the trunk of the great elm.

“That’s not fair,” said Billy, stopping the swing. “It’s not fair that you can do that, and I can’t.”

He spun around looking for some trace of it, and saw smoke coming from the old Thomas house. From the windows. And there, on the sill of one, was the cat.

“Is that what you want?” it said, eyes aglow in the haze. “To do what I do, and know what I know?”

Billy stumbled towards the house. His legs felt heavy and weak, especially his right one. The wet ground seemed to be sucking at his feet, and he stiffened as he reached the window and met the cat’s gaze.

“That’s why I followed you,” the boy said.

Suddenly, he was no longer standing by the house. He was on the road now, one foot on either side of the faded yellow line that cut down the middle of it.

“We’re so sorry.” An elderly voice came from somewhere behind him.

Billy turned to meet it. He saw a silver-haired couple, finely dressed. Their heads were bowed, faces creased with age and regret. Behind them sat a vintage chrome and powder-blue sedan.

Blood dripped from the front fender.

“It happened so fast,” said the old man. “You were looking the wrong way.”

“Yes,” said the old woman, “you were looking down there.” She lifted her hand. It was clad in a crisp white glove, and pointed north.

Billy turned again.

The whole world opened up, like he was seeing in all directions at once. There was a large bonfire in the front yard of the Thomas house. It crackled and popped, and a column of dark smoke rose into the sky. The smoke drifted and formed black clouds over the far mountain range. The clouds flashed, and jagged bolts of lightning crashed into the highest peak.

He heard a howl then, like the baying of a wolf. The mountaintop exploded, sending plumes of stone and fire hurtling into the air. The clouds themselves fell, as if wounded by the burst, striking the horizon. They splashed and rolled and swept down the highway in a black, colossal wave.

Billy spun back around. The old couple were gone.

The wave swept forward, tearing the trees and farms and houses from the earth in its wake. It began to crest and the vast blackness of it unfolded, spreading in the sky like the wings of a giant bat.

The wind howled and the sky went dark. Lightning crashed and the wave stretched higher, billowing like the sails of a great black ship.

‘NO MORE!’

The boy heard the voice and tried to run, but the water held him fast. He cried out, which did nothing to slow the rising tide or the mammoth shape upon it. He stood helpless as the sky burned, and the earth shook, and the black wave swept over him.

A pain shot through Billy’s leg then, and he remembered. He took a deep breath, covered his ears, and clamped his eyes shut.

This is only a dream.

III: 'OF PIE AND PLEASANTRIES'

The doorbell rang, its cheery bing-bong echoing through the house and drifting out the windows.

Billy was on the patio, propped up on a padded chaise lounge beneath a cloth umbrella in the shade. It tilted just enough to keep the sun off his upper half, leaving his bare leg free to tan or burn as he saw fit. The boy wasn’t too concerned either way – a lump of fur stretched out between his knees commanded his undivided attention.

“Enid, thank you for coming over,” his mother’s voice carried from the front door and through the kitchen. “Oh, isn’t that lovely! You didn’t have to go to the trouble of bringing anything. Let me help you with that.” Billy could hear the muscles in her face straining with the weight of such politeness.

The cat cocked an ear, tilting it towards the kitchen sounds like a fuzzy sonar dish. Its eyes were half-open, pupils thin as pins in the sunlight, with the second fleshy lids retracting slowly to the corners of its eyes. 

“No trouble at all,” Mrs. Thomas said. A musical humming accompanied her laboured shuffle into the kitchen.

Billy perked up. Enid Thomas — still spry and sharp, and the fastest apple-corer around at 88 years young — was known as ‘the Cat Lady of Appleton’. In a town as small as theirs it wasn’t that hard to stand out and Enid, with her feline brood, certainly did that.

People came from all over to see the cats, but mostly to bring them. Locals would drop off litters of kittens they couldn’t find homes for. Some folks brought in strays. Others abandoned the injured or ‘temperamental’. These were all kinder fates than the pound in Middleton, where their days would surely be numbered.

Whatever the case, Mrs. Thomas loved them all, and all were welcomed in her home. And, every so often, that love rubbed off on visitors – on quiet children, or lonely souls seeking a special bond – and someone would make an adoption. Billy understood them the best.

There was a clinking of china and glassware in the kitchen, and the sound of ice cubes cracking and tumbling into a glass pitcher. Painkillers and hospital food had played havoc with the boy’s appetite, but Billy sensed that was about to change.

The cat stirred and stretched its limbs, hind paws jutting straight back and front ones lunging ahead, with toes spread and claws out. Its eyes clamped shut as it yawned, a curled pink tongue unrolling between rows of sharp, pearly teeth. As it lay prone on the soft blue cushion, it looked less like the descendant of a dangerous beast and more a like an overgrown kitten that was trying its best to fly.

“Look who’s come for a visit,” said his mother, carrying a crowded tray out to the patio table. She placed it down and Billy drooled at the sight – fresh lemonade, scoops of vanilla ice cream, wedges of cheddar cheese, and three huge slices of Enid Thomas’ brown-sugar-and-cinnamon-crusted tart apple pie.

“Oh goodness, will you look at that,” Enid said, stepping gingerly onto the deck. “Lounging in the sun like a movie star. The way you spoke, Elizabeth, I was prepared for much worse!”   

“It’s been up and down,” his mother said, arranging the plates and glasses and utensils in the most orderly fashion. “But he’s been good today. Since he woke up.”

Mrs. Thomas spread out her arms and slowly shuffled towards the boy, soft green eyes twinkling behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Billy did his best to be patient. He adored the old lady, but, like the cat sniffing at the table’s edge, he had other things on his mind. Edible things.

“There we are,” Enid said, finally within range to bend down and give the boy a long, loving embrace. “I’m overjoyed that you’re alright, young man. I was so worried when that ambulance took you away. Let me pinch you and make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Billy said, as he hugged her and breathed in her sweet, flowery perfume. “If you were dreaming, would you put this stupid thing on my leg?” 

“Manners,” his mother looked up from the table, pausing the folding of napkins and straightening of forks. Billy hadn’t said anything particularly rude, but he heard the warning in her tone – a firm reminder of how he was expected to speak with adults.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thomas. I didn’t mean it like it was your fault or anything,” Billy sighed. “I’m the stupid one. I ran into road without looking.”

“You’re not stupid, dear boy. The furthest thing from it.” Enid leaned back, and held his face in her wrinkled hands. She smoothed his hair to the side, and skimmed her fingers across the scabs and faded skin on his face. “These things happen.”

“It didn’t have to happen,” his mother said, pouring the lemonade. “You’re smarter than that. We taught you to look both ways, remember? But you’ve never been the best at paying attention. You’re so easily distracted…”

“Perhaps,” Enid said, seeing the shame flicker in Billy’s moist brown eyes, “but I think it’s harder to keep the attention of the brightest ones. They’re curious by nature.”

The old woman reached down and dragged a finger across the cushion by Billy’s knee. The cat spun its head from the table to the shiny pink fingernail tapping on the fabric. It flattened its body and tail as it took a step, haunches flexing, pupils widening in a swath of shade. Enid wiggled her finger, making a vit-vit-vit sound on the cushion.

The cat pounced. It clutched her wrist in its paws, and looked every part the ferocious beast as it gnawed on her finger without breaking the skin. She scratched under its chin and massaged its cheeks, signaling her unconditional surrender.

“You’re not so different,” Mrs Thomas said, winking at the boy.  

“Well, you know what they say about cats and curiosity,” his mother said, plating the last slice of pie, cheddar, and ice cream. “And speaking of…will our little friend be going back home with you today?”

Billy knew that tone, too. It wasn’t a question. It was a request.

Mrs. Thomas shifted the chair to face the table. She made no move towards it, instead remaining by Billy’s side. “No pie for me dear,” she said. “At my age, the joy is in the making, not so much in the eating. But I’ll have some lemonade.”

She reached for a glass, but Billy’s mother was quick to hand her one of her own choosing. The old woman took a sip, and gave Billy’s hand a soft squeeze.

“I ask,” his mother continued, “because we aren’t really in the market for a pet right now.”

The cat’s ears twitched and it rolled on its back. Billy gently rubbed its warm, white belly. It yawned again, peered up him with a satisfied look on its spotted face, and blinked.

“You see that, Mom,” Billy said, “It trusts me. A cat doesn’t show its tummy like that unless it feels safe.”

“Quite right,” Enid smiled, “and when it blinks like that, it’s saying ‘yes’. It looks like you’ve been paying attention during our visits at least.” Mrs. Thomas took another sip of lemonade, watching the boy’s mother search for the most polite way to disagree.

“That’s an interesting theory,” Elizabeth said, “but after all the time Billy’s spent across the road, I’m sure they’re all comfortable with him. Across the road. The cats, I mean.”

The cat wrapped its paws around Billy’s hand and began to lick his fingers. Its tongue was sandy and rough, but in a way that tickled.

“Come on, Mom,” Billy said. “Can’t we keep it?”

“I’m sorry,” his mother took a long drink of her lemonade. “It’s an extra expense, and you’re in no condition to care for a pet. Besides, you know how sensitive you are. What if you develop an allergy? Or what if it makes your skin even worse?”

Billy blushed. She was right on all counts.

It was obvious that the cast made him anything but a good playmate, for felines or otherwise. As for money, his parents were always arguing about it. He didn’t realize how bad things were until his mother started separating the two-ply toilet paper, and then re-rolling the sheets into separate rolls. He also knew that the loss of his birthday presents in the accident drastically reduced his bargaining power.

His skin problems were another matter entirely. When the Brahms adopted him as an infant, Billy had an ugly rash on his torso – itchy, scaly spots that peeled every few weeks, leaving raw red skin underneath. Sometimes they bled on his clothes, or on his sheets as he slept.

The doctor called it psoriasis, and something the boy would have for life. He prescribed a smelly ointment, and advised against using cheap cleansers that could make it worse. So, the Brahms had to buy better soaps and shampoos and detergents because their son was so sensitive.

Mrs. Thomas put her lemonade down, cleared her throat, and used a napkin to wipe her glasses. When she put them on again, she straightened her back and sat up to her full height. 

“Elizabeth, if I may,” she locked eyes with the Billy’s mother. “Your son has just been through a terrible trauma. Who knows how this will affect him, or what scars it will leave beyond the ones we can see…?”

“Well, yes, but what does that have to–?” his mother tried to interject, but Mrs. Thomas spoke over her.

“You said he was sick, Elizabeth.” Enid continued, “That he was sad and weak. I heard the concern in your voice. But seeing him now, with that wee creature?  I see happiness. In the end, isn’t that what we all want?”

Billy had not seen Mrs. Thomas like this in all the times he had visited her – not when he was playing ‘time bomb’ and broke her antique egg timer, or even when he spilled a whole bag of flour on her kitchen floor (she was still finding powdery paw-prints to this very day).

This wasn’t the charming old woman who spent her days clipping roses, and baking pies, and whistling forgotten tunes from another century. This was a woman ready to fight for something.

“Of course,” his mother stammered, draining her glass down to the ice cubes. “What parent wouldn’t want that? I’m just saying that the practicalities of having a cat right now, the commitment–”

“Nonsense,” Enid said. “First, if the boy were allergic, we’d know it by now. He’d be wheezing, puffy-eyed, and there wouldn’t be enough tissue on earth to plug his precious nose. And second, do you really think, at my age, that I could care for all those furry dears if they weren’t so darned independent? A little food, freedom, and affection. That’s all they need.” 

Billy leaned forward, picked up the cat, and held it as she had taught him years before. It lay there in his arms, back and neck supported, with its tail hanging over his elbow. The cat looked up at him, eyes narrowing in the sunlight, and blinked.

“Please, Mom,” Billy said. “You can keep my allowance.” It wasn’t much at five dollars a week, but he knew that she had to be sold on the idea. “Oh! And I bet it would keep the rabbits and squirrels away from the garden!”

“That’s…interesting,” she said, and Billy saw the wheels turning behind her eyes. “Still, I’d have to speak with your father about it first.”

“Awww c’mon, Mom,” Billy sensed that this was his chance. “You’re the boss. He’ll do whatever you say.”

“That’s not true, young man,” she said, half-bristling and half-proud at the truth of it. “He’ll be home soon and we’ll talk about it then. After dinner.”

“Where is Stanley? Such a lovely day for a family to be together,” Enid said, rubbing the cat's chin and throat. It began to purr with a strong, deep thrum that seemed to make the whole chair vibrate.

“Golfing,” Billy sighed. 

“That’s not true,” his mother said, her sharpness returned. “You know how we feel about that. It is the absolute worst thing you can be — a liar.” She collected the plates and glasses, and began stacking the tray. “We decided it was best for the budget if he didn’t golf today. Besides, he’s working on a surprise.”

“Another ‘masterpiece’?” Billy said.

“Don’t be smart,” she mouthed through a sheen of sweat. “It’ll be finished by next weekend. I hope you appreciate it.”

Elizabeth picked up the tray and waddled to the kitchen. Billy heard the water turn on and the dishes clanking in the sink. The clamour made the cat squirm in his arms, so he set it down on the deck before it got the notion to claw its way free.

“Do you think they’ll let me keep it?” he asked, brushing the strands of white and black fur from his sleeves. The cat twisted its head and hunched to the side, licking and gnawing at the dark spot on its flank. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mrs. Thomas shimmied her chair closer to him. “They haven’t been shy to adopt before, and look how well that turned out.” Enid tried to pinch Billy’s cheek but he lowered his head and leaned away, curly bangs obscuring his eyes.

She reached for her purse on the table. For as long as the boy had known her she had the same purse. It was shiny and black, and had a white cat embroidered on the side. The cat stood on its hind legs, swatting at a white butterfly that was just out of reach. They looked like pale shadows, frolicking in the dark.

Mrs. Thomas flicked the clasp, dug through the tattered folds of the purse, and pulled out a black marker.

“I’m so lucky,” she said, twisting the cap off and releasing its sharp licorice scent. “I get to be the first to sign your cast.” She adjusted her glasses and bent down, hovering close to the plaster before marking it with lines of black ink. 

Billy’s mother emerged from the kitchen with a damp cloth in hand. She had every intention of cleaning the patio table, but paused to watch the old woman draw.

“She’s signing my cast,” Billy said, smiling as he put on his sunglasses.

“Like an autograph, but in reverse,” Enid smiled.

His mother watched her scrawl and squiggle on the boy’s leg. As Billy basked in the sun and sipped the last of his lemonade, she couldn’t help but think that crazy old lady was right — he did look a bit like a movie star. 

“Finished,” Mrs. Thomas sat up and capped the marker. “Keep it in the sun and it’ll be dry in no time.”

Billy tilted his head to make sense of the drawing and the words surrounding it. The curves and angled lines made a familiar shape on his leg, like a symbol you might find in an ancient history book.

It was the face of a cat.

ONE TO WATCH OVER YOU.

AND THIS ONE TO HEAL YOU.

LOVE ALWAYS, ENID

“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas. Thank you very much,” Billy said, reaching out and wrapping his arms around her. 

“My pleasure, Billy,” Enid rubbed his back and kissed his forehead. “My pleasure.”

“That’s very sweet,” his mother said as she spritzed and wiped the tabletop. “But remember…we haven’t said you can keep it yet. There’s still a lot to talk about.”

“I understand completely, Elizabeth,” Enid said, shifting back to her delicate, honeyed tone. “So, let’s give it a week, shall we? I’ll supply the food and the litter. If it doesn’t work out, then he’ll probably come back on his own. But if he likes you? You couldn’t keep him away if you tried.”

“It’s a he?” Billy said, spying the cat hop into an empty flowerpot. It disappeared, save for the tip of its tail.

“Yes dear, he’s been fixed,” Enid said. “No bad behaviours to worry about, even though he’s still a boy.” She went to pinch Billy’s cheek again and this time he didn’t resist.

“Fine. We’ll talk about ‘him’ tonight,” Elizabeth said, wiping the table to a shine. “But he won’t have much say in the matter.”

“You might be surprised, dear. Cats are special,” Enid gave Billy another covert wink. “More often than not, they adopt us.”

Mrs. Thomas was slow to stand, and they could all hear the clicks and pops of her joints. Billy’s mother led the old woman to the kitchen door, saying kind words about her hair and her sundress, and thanking her for the pie.

“Thank you for the hospitality,” Enid said, pausing in the doorway to look over her shoulder. “And you, take care of yourself, young man. I expect to see you dashing through my sunflowers in no time. In fact, how long is it until the cast comes off?”

Billy’s mother smiled weakly, and took a measured breath before she spoke. “Well, a watched pot never boils, and all that. There’ll be a follow-up in Middleton in a month or so, and we don’t want to rush things. I’m sure the doctors know best.”

She patted the old woman on the back, urging her back into the kitchen. Billy watched through the windows as his mother escorted Mrs. Thomas all the way to the front door.

The cat peered over the rim of the flowerpot, spying the shadows that moved behind the glass. Its whiskers quivered, and the dark flesh of its lips pulled back from its teeth. Its eyes narrowed, its ears stiffened, and its mouth drooped open.

There was an unexpected thought that whispered in the boy’s head then. He didn’t know where it came from but it was there nonetheless, itchy and unavoidable, as the ladies bid their fond farewells.

My mother is hiding something. 

Billy heard the door shut. The cat turned its golden gaze upon him, and slowly blinked once.