“Probably not home,” Joshua said. “We should go.”
“I don’t think so,” Stagger said and banged at the door so vehemently Joshua feared the entire neighborhood would be in no time flattening their noses against their windows. It was fortunate that Esko had broken Stagger’s sword; otherwise heads and limbs would be flying.
“He’s not at home,” Joshua said.
“We’ll make him be at home,” Stagger said.
Bega opened the door in his boxer shorts, which were turned to the side at his hips, so it looked like his upper body was twisted at a weird angle. His chest was wispily hairy, cherry-sized nipples looming over his pasty abdominal folds. Joshua hadn’t anticipated a wide-faced white cat in Bega’s arms.
“Josh,” Bega said. “Good morning.”
“Is the girl here?” Stagger demanded.
Bega completely ignored him, asking Joshua: “What’s up?”
“Is the girl here?” Joshua asked. The cat was watching him intently, as if it knew everything that was to be known about Joshua. It looked like Bushy’s sibling: the same fluffy beige fur, the same pink nose, the same gaze, the same self-centeredness.
“Come in,” Bega said. “My home is your home.”
The cat was purring loudly, which bothered Joshua. Bega had never mentioned his cat. Bushy was dead while Bega had a living, purring cat. He was scratching it between the pricked-up ears, as if nothing had ever happened. I am considering slicing your prick off and putting it in your mouth until you choke, Bega had said before Esko wrung Bushy’s neck.
“Pretty cat,” Joshua said.
“Thanks,” Bega said. As if nothing had happened. “Her name is Dolly. She’s sweetheart.”
Dolly decided to wiggle out of Bega’s arms, and, maintaining a deep purr, scratch at the carpet on the floor, on which men in turbans and women in long, ballooning dresses faced each other under intricately woven canopies of leaves, while horses reared and heavenly birds spread their splendorously colorful plumes. The content cat and the carpet stood out in the morning drabness of Bega’s living room: a sofa with a blanket-and-pillow mound and three plastic porch chairs huddled around a plastic table, over which a paper-ball light hung from a prominent hook.
“That carpet is the only thing I have from Bosnia,” Bega said. “And this.” The other thing was a small painting of a closed window on the wall. Joshua studied the painting with exaggerated contempt.
“Where’s the girl?” Stagger demanded again, but Bega ignored him, again.
“We came to get Alma,” Joshua said.
“She’s in the shower,” Bega said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“If you laid your hands on her,” Stagger growled, “I’m gonna cut them off.”
“Who’s this?” Bega asked Joshua.
“That’s Stagger.”
“Yes, okay. But who is he? And what happened to his head?”
Joshua considered Stagger: the demolished ponytail, the bloody nose and tattooed body, the American flag shorts.
“He’s…” It was too difficult to explain. “He’s my buddy.”
“What does he want?”
“Where’s the girl, motherfucker?” Stagger insisted. He moved deeper into the house to look for her. Dolly abandoned the carpet and slithered away somewhere. What kind of person lets another person kill other people’s cats? What kind of person is that kind of person?
“He wants Alma,” Joshua said. “We want to take her back home.”
Bega should’ve offered his cat as a replacement, or at least as retribution. It was only fair. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a cat for a cat.
“Okay, no problem,” Bega said. “But you and your friend knock at my door at six in the morning. Is that how you do it now?”
“At least we don’t kill cats,” Joshua said.
Stagger banged at the bathroom door then tried to get in, but it was locked.
“What cats have to do with anything?”
“Cats have a lot to do with everything. You have your pretty little cat and no worry in the world. But what about other people’s cats? Do you ever think of other people’s cats?”
“You don’t say sorry, you don’t say good morning, you come and talk about cats and you want to push me around. You can’t do that,” Bega said.
“Oh yeah? Fuck you! I’m gonna push you all I want,” Joshua yelled and stepped closer to Bega, who was unmoved. “We can do whatever we want. You came to my house and killed my cat! And where’s the girl?”
“Girl!” Stagger shouted.
“Alma!” Joshua shouted.
“Alma! Come out!” Stagger went on. “You’re safe now! We’re here to take you home!”
She came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head and another one around the chest. She now looked like a blooming version of her mother, a lot more of her yet to come, a lot more damage to be done. Alma Except, a debutant at the hurt ball. Her toes were freshly painted pink, pieces of cotton still between her toes. She looked at Stagger in confusion.
“You okay?” Stagger asked. He was concerned; he was a good guy, a true searcher, if crazy, Stagger was. Caring about people and cats came naturally to him.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”
Bega spoke to her in Bosnian and she looked at Joshua, shook her head, and laughed.
“Speak English!” Stagger demanded. “This is America!”
She went into the bedroom, closing the door behind.
“She’s fifteen, for God’s sake,” Joshua said.
“She is almost sixteen. And she is as old as she wants to be,” Bega said. “It’s not your fucking business anyway. This is not Iraq.”
Whereupon Joshua shoved him right between his cherry nipples and Bega head-butted him in return and Joshua stumbled backward, the spot between his eyes throbbing with blinding pain as Stagger charged from across the room and slammed into Bega like a linebacker and took him down, his howl comprised of injury and fury in equal measures. Joshua hit the floor and stayed down, recuperating enough to witness Bega and Stagger grotesquely wrestling on the carpet, until Stagger, howling still, ended up sitting on Bega’s chest, as Bega fought to wrangle Stagger’s unbroken hand away from his face and throw him off. “Keep his hands down, Jonjo!” Stagger shouted, and Joshua grabbed one of Bega’s wrists and pinned it with his knee; then he grabbed the other one and pulled his hand down, releasing Stagger to hit Bega’s face with the edge of his cast, and it felt good. Alma stepped out of the bedroom to freeze, framed by the door, naked except for the towel turban. Joshua was now holding down both of Bega’s arms, allowing Stagger, groaning with ache and pleasure, to rain mean blows on Bega’s face with care and precision, splitting the lip open first, then the brows, then smashing the nose, until the Bosnian was gurgling blood and Alma was jumping on Stagger’s back for him to throw her off with one twitch of his shoulders. She moved over to Joshua to scratch his face, so he had to let go of Bega’s arms, which were fortunately no longer moving, and sat up to shake her off him, but not before she left a red line across his chin. She flew off and landed hard, her head whiplashing against the floor. Stagger stopped beating Bega and looked in lunatic perplexion toward Alma. She was not moving. They held their breaths. Stagger sat still on top of Bega, his cast completely carmine. Bega looked too peaceful for comfort; his face was pulped, blood running every which way it could, losing itself among his facial hair, treacling toward his ear. When Alma gasped, Stagger punched Bega in the face one more time, presumably to celebrate her return to the world of the living.