Fidel

 

The mornings were the hardest. Blinking to life, lost in a tangle of sheets and grogginess as the swell of dawn nudged the window. By the time I rolled over and realized Kylie wasn’t in the kitchen making coffee, or in the bathroom, or on the sofa reading or simply through her phone, it was too late. I was awake.

And she was gone.

In the weeks after my wife’s death, the drinking helped. Until it didn’t. After a few months I tried a weekly night out with friends, but that always ended with me at home, alone, my mind too crowded with echoes of laughter and revelry that no longer seemed appropriate. A few weeks ago, my aunt tried to set me up on a date but I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. It had only been six months. I wasn’t ready.

So how was I doing? Everyone wanted to know. It was the question that followed the initial greeting, once the jackets were peeled off and weather and work had been discussed.

Mostly, I was okay. Sometimes, I was better than okay. I laughed at sitcoms. I went to work, to the gym. I came home and tried new recipes. I avoided social media. I did some charity work. I visited family. I kept busy.

I was okay.

I knew I was making progress because I was finally ready to sell Kylie’s car. I just didn’t know what to do with Fidel.

At least once a week I wrangled the devil cat into the carrier and got it into my truck, where I’d rub the claw marks on my hand and ignore whatever curse it was mewling on me. I put the truck in reverse. Then I stopped. I put the car in park and carried the cat back into the house.

God, she loved that cat. Fidel spent hours on her chest, kneading her stomach, its constant purring as common as the whir of the refrigerator. It would stretch its neck, arch its back, while Kylie’s hands scratched behind its ears, working the cat’s body like a puppet.

If I happened to sit near Kylie, Fidel would stop and rear back, ears pinned, its tail swishing like a live wire. With its pea green eyes on me, Fidel would conjure up a deep, rolling growl. Kylie would raise her brow, purse her lips and say something like, “Fidel Catstro. What has gotten into you?” Her tone suggesting surprise. As though it didn’t happen every time. As though the cat didn’t didn’t wish death upon me.

Instead, death came for Kylie. And that sucked for both of us.

Fidel was never thankful for my weekly pardons, never appreciative that I filled its bowl or cleaned the litter box. In fact, sometimes I suspected he blamed me for Kylie's absence.

A busy week and I never got around to stuffing him in the cat carrier. Doing laundry that weekend, I found Fidel watching me from the corner of the room, on Kylie’s side of the bed, its tail swishing. I started to tell the cat to beat it when Fidel cried out “meow” in a way I hadn't heard it meow in a long time. I stopped, suddenly caught by his tone. Fidel tilted his head and meowed again. I dropped the shirt I was folding.

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

And then it hit me. I was being selfish. Fidel too was grieving. I bent down and scratched its head without bloodshed. As a reward, the next day I came home with tuna fish. I put some in Fidel’s bowl.

Meow.

Fidel ate the tuna, then looked to me. I shrugged my shoulders. Something happened. I can’t say what, but it was a start. I gave him another scoop of tuna fish, then went to put the cat carrier away.