“Do you have any pets?” I ask the woman.
“No,” she says. “No pets. Pets are against the rules.”
“Aggie,” a woman calls, spotting her from a distance. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Remember we said we’d meet in the produce section? And whose groceries have you got?”
“Mine,” Agatha says, putting the second kitten down.
“Where did you get the money to buy all that?”
“My parents sent it to me.”
“I think they meant for you to use a little bit each week, not spend it all at once.”
Agatha shrugs. She doesn’t seem to mind. “The man has kitties,” Agatha says. “They taste good.”
“That’s nice,” the woman, who is clearly younger than Agatha, says. “Now, come along, and let’s catch up with the others.” I track Agatha with my eye, watching as she joins the others and, hand in hand, they walk across the parking lot like a twisted rope of Arbus imagery.
“Are the kittens returnable?”
“Pardon?” Someone is standing in front of me. Her enormous purse, the size of a lawn-and-leaf bag, is blocking my view.
“If I take one and am not happy, can I bring it back?” she asks.
“Not happy in what way?”
“Like, if our dog, or cat, or my husband, or the kids don’t like it — can I bring it back?”
“Sounds like you’ve got a full house,” I say.
She nods. “I love a new baby.”
I don’t like her; I don’t like how she’s just planted herself in front of me; I am anxious for her to leave. “Why don’t you think on it while you do your shopping, and then you can come back and see me? I’ll be here for a while.”
The A& P and surrounding shopping mall is a whole other world. Conspicuously absent are men between twenty-five and sixty, and there is an abundance of older couples, women with babies and toddlers, and the straggling unemployed shopping the sale flyer. A woman with twins approaches.
“Can we get a kitty?” the little girl asks.
“Can we?” the boy seconds.
The children are fascinated and stare into the cat carrier.
“How many are in there?” the boy asks.
“Five,” I say.
“They have enough,” the girl tells her mother.
“What will your father say?”
“He’s never home anyway,” the boy says.
“Maybe we don’t have to tell him,” the girl says. “We can just keep them in our room.”
I put two kittens in the box, so they can each play with one.
“Let me check with Daddy,” the mother says as she uses her long nails to peck out a text. Seconds later she gets a reply — which she holds up for me to read. It says, “Use your best judgment.” “I think it’s an automated response,” the mother says. “He’s got a smartphone — you can program auto-responses to anything. Watch,” she says, texting back. “Do you want chicken or steak for dinner?” And again, “Use your best judgment” comes back. “See what I mean?” she says. “He’s probably having an affair.”
“Why do you always say that?” the daughter asks.
“I’m no dummy,” she says. “I went to Yale.” She turns to me. “We’ll take two. There’s no point in having one of anything anymore.”
“Can we go into the pet store and buy them a carrier like his?” the girl asks.
“Yes,” the mother says.
“And some food and some toys?” the boy asks.
“And maybe some clothing, so I can dress them up?” the girl asks.
“We’ll be right back,” the mother says. “If you could just put those two on hold for us …”
She is true to her word: about ten minutes later, bearing shopping bags of cat products and fancy carrying cases, they return. I put both kittens in one case.
“Enjoy,” I say.
“We already are,” the boy says.
Something is happening; the mood is shifting, like a sea change, like the quickening of the breeze before a spring storm. I begin to hear snippets, bits and pieces of conversations, as everyone anxiously comes and goes a little faster. “I know the mother. …” “She went to camp with my kids.” “Regular people — just like us.” “You never know what’s on someone’s mind.” Apparently, a girl has gone missing.
An old man and his wife stop at my table; their stooped shoulders and curved spines fit together like a pair of salt and pepper shakers.
“This might be the day,” the man says to his wife.
They smile. Their faces are open and cheerful, good-natured despite the effects of time.
“That would be nice,” she says.
“Ours died,” she tells me. “She was nineteen years old.”
I nod, half thinking we’re talking cat, half thinking about the missing girl.
“Do you have one who is mature for its age?” the man asks.
“Playful, independent, and wise,” the wife adds.
I look into the carrier and take out the one I would describe as thoughtful.
“He’s beautiful,” the wife says, stroking him as I put him into the box.
“I can give you some samples of the food and litter they’ve been getting — they’re very healthy, been to the vet, and have their first shots.”
“We got the last one from a little girl who had a stand like this — she was selling Girl Scout cookies and giving away kittens.”
“An entrepreneur. We gave her twenty bucks,” the husband says.
“I think you’ll like the kitten,” I say.
“I think so,” the husband says, excusing himself to go back into the store to get a cardboard box. “Just something we can put him in for the ride home.”
Across the parking lot, a woman is putting up posters on light posts, on the cement parking stanchions—“MISSING PERSON.”
“It’s worrisome,” I say to the woman.
“Where do you think she’s gone?” the old woman asks.
The husband comes back with an empty banana box, and we slip the kitten in. I give them food, litter samples, and my phone number, and then, remembering my promise to Ashley, I ask, “Could I trouble you for your name, address, and phone, just in case we need to be in touch?”
“What a good idea,” the old woman says, and she writes her name and information in glorious script.
Brad comes out of the pet store and walks towards me. “On my break,” he says, as though that means “truce.”
“How many do you have left?”
“Two.”
“Can I see?”
I take the kittens out.
“I know we had a little altercation,” Brad says. “But if you can get over it — I’d like to adopt these two.”
“But you sell kittens,” I say. “And I’m sure you get a discount.”
“The kittens we sell are from animal mills, but this is a real kitten, raised with love.” He extends his hand as though we’ve not met before. “I’m Brad,” he says. And I’m compelled to shake his hand. “What do you think? Is there room for second chances?”
“I hope so,” I say.
“I’ve always loved animals.”
“Why else would you be working in a pet store?”
“When we lived in Arizona, I worked in my uncle’s pet store — mostly lizard sales. I myself have a bearded dragon,” he says, “but I don’t think it contradicts a cat. The dragon lives in a large heated tank. Very sensitive, dragons.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as a domesticated dragon,” I say.
“Oh, sure there is,” Brad says. “So what do you say?”
“They’re yours,” I say, giving him the kittens, the cardboard box, and what I’ve got left of my samples.
“I’ll spoil them silly,” Brad says.
Doing my due diligence, I collect his full name, address, and phone and tell him that I’ll check in next week and I expect to see a photo.