“I don’t know what to say. Do you want to hear a bit about my life, about the kids, Tessie, and the kittens?”
“Who the fuck is Tessie?”
“Your dog.”
“Oh,” he says — like now it makes sense.
“She’s doing well.”
George nods.
“And the children seem to be finding their way.” Again he nods. “Look, George, I know this isn’t easy. It’s an odd situation, with this place closing and the idea of this nontraditional program, but, seriously, maybe you can make something of it. You have done things that none of these guys have ever done. Okay, so maybe they stole stuff, you’ve certainly done that; they’ve murdered, so have you. But how many of them held a job for years, how many of them ever ran a television network?”
It’s like I’m giving him a pep talk, convincing him that he can get back in the ring, he can go another round — it’s not all over yet. “You’re as big and bad as any of the men out there — remember when you bit me?”
“By accident,” he says.
“It wasn’t an accident, you tore off flesh.”
George shrugs.
“My point is, you can do this. Remember when we used to wear Dad’s old army uniforms and play in the basement? You are Colonel Robert E. Hogan.”
George quotes a line from Hogan’s Heroes.
“That’s it.”
George quotes another line.
“That’s the spirit. You can do this. Don’t think long-term — think about it like an Outward Bound summer camp. And we’ll take it from there. Okay?”
He nods and speaks in German.
As I’m getting ready to go, I stand, and George hugs me hard — almost too hard. I reach into my pocket.
“I brought you something,” I say, handing him a Hershey bar with almonds.
Tears well up in his eyes. Our grandmother always used to give us each a Hershey bar with almonds — she’d open her enormous purse, reach in, and extract one for each.
“Thank you,” he says. And then hugs me again.
“We can write to each other, and I’ll come visit you in a couple of months — you’ll be okay.”
He sniffles and pushes me away. “You are such a fucking asshole,” he says.
I nod. “Okay, then, George, we’ll be in touch.” And I am gone. “Such a fucking asshole”—what did he mean by that, and do I even want to know? I am such a fucking asshole that I come when called, I mop up after him, I take care of his wife — a bit too well — I water his flowers, feed his dog, care for his children — I am such a fucking asshole.
The kittens are ready. Ashley and I have agreed that we’ll keep one for ourselves. I e-mail photos of the kittens to her, but the school computer system doesn’t allow her to open them, and so I print them out and FedEx the pictures before we confer — deciding on “Romeo,” small; black, white, and gray; deeply mischievous; and clearly one the mama thinks she needs to keep an eye on.
“How are you going to find homes for the others?” Ashley wants to know.
“The good old-fashioned way,” I say. “I’m going to set myself up somewhere with a big box marked ‘Free Kittens.’”
The truth is, I feel like a giant bully taking the kittens from the mother cat. For a couple days, I practice separating the mother and her kittens by taking the kittens away and then bringing them back a few hours later — thinking it’s somehow less stressful than a sudden and permanent absence.
When the day comes, I bring the plastic cat-crate up from the basement and line it with old towels. I find an old card table in the basement, which still has a sign on it from a lemonade stand Ashley must have had. I flip the poster board over and write “Free Kittenz” in large artful letters. I’ve prepared paperwork — eight-by-ten photos of each kitten, information on the mother, the date of birth, and what vaccinations they’ve had so far. I also prepare starter kits for each cat, with samples of their current food and litter.
If you’re wondering what this newfound energy is all about, all I can say is that I’ve gotten particularly attached to a bottle of small round blue pills I found in George’s bathroom, the bottle marked “1–2 daily upon awakening.” I take a couple, and for about five hours I’m amazingly organized. In an effort to identify what it is I’m taking, I repeatedly Google “little blue pill,” but all I get is ads for Viagra, which is not round but diamond-shaped.
As I put the kittens in the carrier, they start making noise, the mama cat is pacing, and Tessie looks up at me from the floor as if to say, God help you now.
I head for the A& P where I met the woman, both on the off chance she might show up again and because I feel self-conscious setting up outside my regular grocery, the one that was Jane and George’s. More than once people have given me strange looks; I’m never sure if they know it’s me or think I’m him, but either way I’m a sitting duck.
I set up just outside the pet store. I have brought the carrier, my pictures, some tape, the samples, and a large cardboard box where someone can put a kitten to play with it — that way, there’s no danger of its scampering off into the street. Open for business. My first customer comes out of the pet store, wearing a tag that reads “Brad — Assistant Manager.”
“What are you doing?” Brad asks.
“Giving away kittens,” I say, even though it’s obvious.
“We sell kittens,” he says.
I say nothing.
“You’re going to have to move your pop-up shop,” Brad says.
“Sorry.”
“You’re competing with our interests.”
“But the ASPCA has a pet adoption stand right here every weekend.”
“Are you a nonprofit?” Brad wants to know.
“I’m giving them away.”
“You’re small potatoes,” Brad says.
“I beg to differ,” I say. “Whoever takes these kittens is going to need supplies. How about just thinking of these five as a loss leader?”
“Loss leader?”
“The things a store is willing to lose money on in order to get people who will buy other things in the store. Milk, for example, is a common loss leader,” I say.
“Move,” Brad says. “Take your act over to the A& P. I’ll help you. …” He picks up the edge of the table, and the carrier starts to slide.
I grab the carrier. “Take your hands off my table or I will call the police, and then corporate pet whatever, and have your dumb ass fired.”
“I’m a witness,” an old woman says. “I will testify.”
“It was an accident,” Brad says, and I sort of believe him.
“Tell it to the judge,” the old woman says as she helps me carry the table closer to the A& P.
“Do you want a kitten?” I ask her.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I dislike pets almost as much as I dislike people. My husband says I should only shop online — that the world is a better place with me safe at home. He thinks I’m bad.” She shrugs. “I think he’s worse.”
“How long have you been married?” I ask, laying out my flyers and supplies.
“Since the beginning of time,” she says, and heads off.
An unseasonably overdressed young woman in a heavy coat and scarf, with multiple bags of groceries hanging from both arms, approaches and puts her bags down.
“Can I hold one?” she asks.
I reach into the carrier and take out the closest kitten and hand it to her. The woman puts the kitten up to her face — rubbing its body over her cheeks, her nose, her mouth. “Yum-yum-yum,” she says, making lip-smacking sounds. The kitten looks stressed. “So fragile,” she says, “like a baby bird.”
I reach for the kitten. “Let’s keep it in the box; you can pet it there.”
She dutifully follows directions and puts the kitten in the box, then asks if she can try another one. I put the first one away and take another out.