What the Cat Brought Back Read online

  “Magnum dropped something else off. Feels bad in your hands.”

  Leaves. Dish sponges. Shoelaces.

  Katheryn Crenshaw is used to her cat bringing her odd gifts.

  Then he brings home an object that terrifies her.

  It won’t be the last.

  What the Cat Brought Back

  by Danielle Williams

  Published 2017

  © Copyright 2017 Danielle Williams

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Pixelvania Publishing.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to convey a sense of realism. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Erin Murphy, my Roomie.

  The bell rang.

  “Coming!”

  Through the peephole I saw Sabrina Bichetto, the oldest of the three Bichetto sisters who lived in the house across from me, the teenaged one.

  I opened the door and she startled, her fingers‌—‌in hands clasped across the front of her skirt‌—‌beginning to worm over one another.

  “Um, hi,” she said. “Uh, sorry to bother you, but‌…‌I think Thomas Magnum took something of mine.”

  This was not an unusual sentence to me. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  I laughed. “Oh, Magpie!”

  Thomas Magnum had been my cat’s name when he belonged to my old roommate. But after she got married, she discovered her husband suffered from some truly heinous cat allergies. She couldn’t let him suffer, of course, so she asked me if I’d take Thomas. I’d always found his kitty-klepto ways charming, so I said yes.

  Since then, me and the cat had moved out of the see-your-neighbors-once-a-week-if-you’re-lucky apartment complex and into a welcoming cul‌-‌de‌-‌sac, and his hoarding habit had gotten out of control. That’s when I started calling him Thomas Magpie instead.

  But his older, catchier name still persisted.

  “I’ll get the box,” I said.

  I went to the laundry room and hefted the cardboard box into my arms. This week’s collection wasn’t too heavy. It included two Christmas neckties, an adorable stuffed fox the size of my fist with only two legs (the label said it was a “Puffkin”), a toy car, a water bottle lid, four pairs of women’s panties (I tried not to think about it), and a sky blue bra.

  Oh no, I’d thought, when Magpie proudly presented it to me at the foot of my bed. How in the world did you get this, kitty?

  Once I’d put the garment in the box, I’d forgotten all about it. But now, walking towards Sabrina on my front porch with one of the straps dangling from the side of the box, the embarrassment returned. Should’ve tucked it back in, I thought.

  Then Sabrina saw it and turned red, her hand flying over her mouth as she burst into a gulp of embarrassed laughter. My proxy embarrassment for her tripled.

  Keeping as straight a face as I could, I held up the box for her to pick through. Only there was no need for that. She reached for the blue strap and slowly drew it out, like lifting a strand of spaghetti from the pot. The sequined cups followed.

  Glad I didn’t look at the size on the tag!

  She held it up. It dangled in the air between us.

  She grinned, pained but still pleasant.

  “Well, at least I know it’s nothing you haven’t seen before!” she said.

  Now it felt OK for me to laugh.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said between chortles. “If it makes you feel any better, Magpie probably only liked it for the sequins! You want a bag to take it home in?”

  She had folded the straps into the cups and closed the cups together, crumpling the whole thing small, but the vibrant sky blue that her hands couldn’t hide stuck out like a yellow umbrella in a storm.

  Her eyes creased, turning her smile pleading. “Yes, please.”

  I went into the kitchen and dug out a Trader Joe’s paper bag. Then, for her trouble, I dropped in a plastic-wrapped loaf of cranberry-orange nut bread and grabbed a dish towel.

  I brought the whole shebang back out to her.

  “Here, put it in the bottom, and‌…‌voilà!“ I laid the towel over the loaf and bra. “No one will ever be the wiser!”

  “Thanks, Katheryn. I, um‌…‌I mean‌…‌he just got it off the laund‌—‌”

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head and waggled my palm at her at the same time. “Not my circus, not my monkeys. This isn’t the first time Magpie’s brought home someone’s unmentionables. You should’ve seen the GUY who asked for a bra back,” I said.

  “WHAT?! No way!”

  “Yes, way. And I still didn’t ask.

  “Magpie never tells me where he got ’em, and I don’t wanna know! Mom and Dad won’t ever hear it from me, I promise!”

  At last, the tension went out of her smile. “It’s‌…‌so good to know that.”

  “For future reference.”

  “Yeah. Haha. Right. See you Saturday?”

  “Absolutely!” Our time had come around to host the cul-de-sac’s monthly party; since it was summer, we’d decided on an after-dark barbeque to beat the heat.

  Sabrina leaned forward a minute, like she wanted to hug me. I opened my arms.

  “Don’t squash the bread,” I said as she leaned in. The bag was quickly moved out of harm’s way. I gave her a quick pat on the back and she left, just as Roomie‌—‌well, her real name was Mal, Mallory Durant, but we both got along so well we just called each other Roomie‌—‌was coming back in from the craft store.

  She looked over her shoulder as Sabrina left. “What’s she here for?”

  “Magpie pickup.”

  “Ah! Speaking of His Majesty, where is the little furball?”

  “Napping in the penthouse, last I saw him.” The penthouse being, of course, the top level of his kitty condo, just outside the kitchen where he could supervise. The perfect place for a Beta cat, according Pammy at the Way of Cats blog. That lady sure knew her felines‌—‌once I’d moved the tree there, he’d stopped walking on the kitchen counters all the time, which was nice.

  I locked up, then put away the box of Maggie’s finds.

  When I came back out, Roomie was at the living room’s sliding glass door with Magpie.

  Besides his treasure hunts, Magpie’s next biggest passion in life was window-watching, so once I moved his tree out into the kitchen, I bought him a quasi-hammock that suction-cupped right onto the slider. The shelf was built strong enough that even our strapping tom could jump into it without dislodging it.

  Roomie was bent over the suction-cup perch. “Hey, buddy! How ya doin’?” she said, rubbing the cat’s cheeks. Magpie closed his eyes and gave a happy rumble.

  “He’s stealing the neighbors’ unmentionables now.” It was safe to tell her: I’d made her swear to secrecy.

  She chucked the cat under the chin. “You little weirdo! You little panty-raiding weirdo!” she said in her baby voice. “When you gonna find me a big chunk of gold, huh?” she asked. “When you gonna find my big chunk of gold?”

  In reply, he presented his butt to her. She obligingly scratched his back at the base of his tail.

  “He did find you those stars and stripes shoelaces,” I said.

  “SO lucky nobody claimed ’em!” she said in her normal voice.

  I kept a log‌—‌more or less‌—‌of the knickknacks Magpie brought in. Excel turned the item’s ce
ll green one month and one week after the find date. (Just another service I provide as an Microsoft Office wizard‌—‌not that it’s a big a deal in this job market.) I figured if someone hadn’t come for it by then, they never would. Made for some financially helpful yard sales‌—‌when he brought back things that were in good condition. And not (yuck) used underwear.

  Magpie hopped off his window perch onto the sofa arm. His back trembled as he arched it like a Halloween cat decoration. Then he leapt to the floor next to the slider and turned in a circle.

  “Meea!” he said, looking into my eyes.

  I sighed.

  “All right, all right,” I said. I opened the sliding glass door and he trotted into the backyard.

  “But leave Sabrina Bichetto’s unmentionables alone, do you hear?”

  His tail disappeared into the juniper bushes.

  “Threenagers,” said Roomie.

  * * *

  Before you go getting the wrong idea about me, I’d like to have it down for the record that when I moved into this house, I tried making Magpie an indoor cat. I really did.

  Being an inexperienced cat owner, the first thing I tried was ignoring him when he asked to go out. But if you’ve ever lived with a cat, you know the heights of their feline persistence. And how quickly that persistence turns into annoyance. When pawing the sliding glass door didn’t get him anywhere, he’d bang and break our cheap blinds while we were watching TV, no matter what the time of day.

  Anytime we were in a room with an exit to the outdoors, he was underfoot and making his desires loudly known. Worse, he’d bolt every time one of us left the house, sometimes getting his poor tail shut in the door.

  One time when he bolted, I was over an hour late to my job trying to find him and get him back inside. I almost got fired over it, but luckily the manager was an animal lover. That’s when I decided that I’d had enough.

  I turned again to my trusty Way of Cats blog. Pammy’s solution to convincing the cat that the outdoors was no bueno for kitties was to introduce them to the Water Monster.

  So I got Roomie dolled up in an umbrella hat, vampire cape, and swim goggles, handed her the garden hose, then had her hide on the other side of the sliding glass door a few minutes before I “accidentally” forgot to close the door.

  The cat took the bait.

  When Magpie slipped out, he got the hose, a full-force spray in the side plus the cacophony of the empty two-liter soda pop bottle drummed against the side of the house. For good measure, Roomie added in her best Xena, Warrior Princess battle cry.

  Any other cat would have hightailed it back inside and never gone back out.

  Thomas Magnum, international cat of mystery, simply ran past, soaking wet, to the edge of the yard. He hopped up on the wall.

  “THOMAS MAGNUM, YOU GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!”

  He glanced back at us, shook the water off his back feet‌—‌AT us, I would still say‌—‌ then hopped into the neighbor’s yard, dripping wet, but otherwise nonchalant.

  I looked at Roomie in her crazy sunglasses, pop bottle in one hand, hose dripping in the other, then said, “If that cat gets run over, it’s his own fault.”

  Then I went back inside.

  Since then, Magpie had been allowed‌—‌and I again want to make sure you know: reluctantly allowed‌—‌to go outdoors.

  * * *

  Having an outdoor cat like Magpie is all fun and games until it’s ten o’clock at night and he hasn’t returned.

  Roomie knitted armadillos for her Etsy store while I paused Highway to Heaven, thinking I heard him scratching at the front door.

  Roomie looked up, but only to turn her armadillo around in her hand.

  “He won’t come to the front,” she said. “He never comes to the front door.”

  “I know, I know‌…‌” If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be fussing over a cat like it was my own kid, I would have shook my head at your stupidity. Animals are animals, kids are kids, and we mix the two up at our peril. But after you’ve fed an animal and learned‌—‌albeit imperfectly‌—‌to communicate with him, and had him sit and purr with you after a bad day, you can’t help but acknowledge that he’s a fixture in your life‌—‌and even if not a needed one, definitely a wanted one, one that contributes and would be sorely missed if, say, some careless Neanderthal ran over him with a car.

  I got up and tore open the slider.

  “MAG-PIIIIIE!” I called out into the dark.

  It had never worked‌—‌he only came for a shaken treat bag. I knew this, just like I knew that he’d never, ever, to my knowledge, gotten lost, but‌…‌what if he was hurt, confused, and my voice was the only beacon for him to follow?

  I called again. The beat-up rocking chair behind me squeaked as Roomie stood up and came to the window. Her green-haired reflection squinted out into the dark.

  “Is that him?” She pointed to the dark jagged shapes formed by the juniper bushes against the back of our wall.

  “They’re wobbling‌…‌did he jump down?‌—‌Oh!”

  As I said those words, a feline shape began serpentining over the concrete paths between our xeriscaping. I flipped on the patio light in time for it to glint off the something he was carrying in his mouth. Something golden.

  “Hey! Whatcha got, there, buddy?” asked Roomie.

  He’d just crossed the threshold into the house‌—‌his grey tabby body was scooching between my leg and the door. Normally he’d give over any prize, purring triumphantly, but this time he looked like he was trying to hide what he’d found. But whatever he had in his mouth looked small enough to swallow‌—‌and maybe choke on.

  “Grab him!” I said.

  Roomie lunged, caught him en route to the kitchen.

  “Kay, gonna fish it out‌…‌Easy, Maggie,” I clucked. He squirmed, and even pushed against my hand with a paw, but didn’t bite or scratch when I pried the object out of his mouth. This cat didn’t have a mean bone in his body, which was another reason to worry when he didn’t show up after dark. I didn’t need my favorite feline cuddle bunny getting catnapped, even if it was by a well-meaning family.

  I squinted down at Magpie’s latest treasure.

  “What is it?” said Roomie.

  Magpie wiggled. She set him down and he streaked for his food bowl in the kitchen. “fourthmeal” had been set out for him a half-hour ago.

  I turned the object over in my hand. “Not sure,” I said. It was about two-and-a-half inches long, with a metallic gold shell.

  “Not a lipstick case, is it?”

  “Right color, but I’ve never seen a lipstick shaped like this before.”

  Roomie called out to Magpie in her squeaky voice, “Did you finally bring me my gold?”

  In the other room, Magpie continued smacking down his tuna cutlets in gravy.

  I turned it around, pulled the tube from both ends. Then I tried poking the rounded ends, thinking it might be like a clicky pen.

  “It looks like a gel cap,” said Roomie. She held out her hand. When I handed it over, she tapped it with her ring finger.

  “Aw. Was hoping it’d sound like a Hang drum. Like, a teeny one.”

  After giving me a silent look asking for permission, she clenched it in her fist and shook it.

  “Huh!” She looked at it, puzzled.

  “What?”

  She offered it back.

  “Feels like something’s inside. Kinda‌…‌sloshy?”

  I shook it like she had, up and down in my fist, an invisible hammer blow in the air.

  Sure enough, I felt something moving in there, rebounding against the sides of the capsule. It reminded me of clumped ice bumping around inside a full metal water bottle.

  “Weird,” I said.

  “Rraow‌…‌”

  Magpie stood in the hall, just in front of the stairs to bed. His tail tip twitched in the air.

  “Excuse us, Your Majesty, but maybe some people don’t want to go to bed yet
,” said Roomie.

  “MIAU!” replied Magpie.

  “Don’t talk back to me, young tom!”

  I glanced at my wall calendar. That’s right, I had a job interview in the morning before my temp job at the insurance company.

  “No, he’s right, I’d better get going.” I tossed the golden doodad into Roomie’s Tupperware yarn container and dropped the lid on top so Mr. Magpie couldn’t get at it later. “See you in the morning,” I said.

  “Night, Roomie,” she said.

  “Night, Roomie.”

  The cat led me up the stairs.

  * * *

  The next afternoon after work I locked the front door and hung my key on the whale tail-shaped hook next to the door. Magpie bounded to me and began butting his head against me. I creaked down to a kneeling position.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” I scratched the spot on his forehead just between his whiskers, the melody of baby talk spilling out of me naturally. The cat began to purr.

  “I’m ho-ome!” I called.

  “In here,” Roomie replied, quieter than usual. Odd.

  Magpie followed me down the hall to the living room.

  Roomie’s knitting paraphernalia lay scattered across the sofa, seemingly forgotten. Set on the cushion where I usually sat was a murder of tiny ravens and a half-completed Cthulhu body. Or maybe it was going to be a frog‌—‌it really depended on what kind of head she made for it.

  Roomie herself was bent over the coffee table, hands on her knees and chewing on a knitting needle that she’d stuck in one side of her mouth. She was frowning laser-intensity at the golden doodad Magpie had gifted us with yesterday.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, opening the sliding glass door. Magpie scooted out.

  Roomie threw out a hand. “Wait!”

  “Oops. Sorry. Didn’t know you wanted him kept in. He’s long gone now,” I said, watching his furry butt disappear over the cinder block wall.

  She’d half-gotten to her feet to stop him, but sat back down.

  “Idunno,” she said. “It’s this‌…‌thing. You know me. I like the TV on when I’m crafting. And‌…‌well‌…‌while you’re gone I like to watch my stuff. You know‌—‌”

  “Oogey things,” I said.