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To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 5
Much of the rest of the week Matilda spent with her circular cloth-stretching frame and red and orange thread sewing her latest needlework project while the soap operas and "One Life to Live," played loudly. Each evening–the news was so bloody and contentious these days–she brought out her Holy Bible, highlighting in yellow the key parts about the miracles Jesus did, written into Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
Every once in a while as she read it aloud to Cinnamon, she’d look up and say, “Now, girl, you mustn’t be sleeping through my spiritual reading,” or “What do you think of that, kitten?” and the cat, likely as not, would stretch out, front low, rear high, tail high and loose, a snake waving this way and that, claws piercing the fabric of the cushion, and she would open her mouth wide with a terrifically flexed, pink tongue, yawning. At times, Cinnamon, too, would, like any seven year-old, try to steal away, often ending up sitting at her perch on the window sill, but the old lady would pick her up and bring her right back. “Concentrate, now, honey! It's important. You need to be saved.”
Cinnamon rarely articulated an actual complaint nor did she meow for Matilda to repeat anything. Matilda concluded that the cat had no argument with the logic. Obviously such a loving kitten would want to live eternity wherever Matilda was after both had passed on to The Better World that Pastor Todd, and a slew of other fine men before him, had spent lifetimes preaching about.
"Why can’t Cousin Carolina be as smart as you? She’s pushing, what, 73 now, but still, after all these years, belongs to Atheists of America and has the nerve to admit it out loud. I love her still, silly creature. She says she never saw an angel, whoa, and says a sensible person couldn't possibly base the only life they were going to live on 2000 year old fables from bearded religious fanatics, stories like Jesus doing magic and Moses parting the Red Sea.”
The cat scratched vigorously a spot behind her hear.
“My, some people have peculiar ideas. Isn't that right, Cinn?" The old lady had an itch and scratched a spot in her thinning hair on top. The cat took this as an opportunity to leap off her sofa and run down the hall.
“Now don’t you track that litter all over, Cinn, and for God’s sake, don’t miss the box like you did yesterday.”
While doing the dishes and throwing out the dirty tray that came with TV dinners, Matilda noticed Cinnamon rubbing her warm whiskers against her fallen socks and ghostly white calves, bulging blueish veins crisscrossing where they never used to be. She was getting used to being disappointed at aging.
"Cinn, girl, you learned all about Jesus the last couple months. Now we need to go to church together and hear Mr. Todd speak. He's such a wonderful speaker, better than me. Our congregation sings their hearts out, too. It'll be a lot like listening to Lawrence Welk."
She let the water drain from the sink, stacking the dishes on the thick towel spread out on the immaculate, tiny Formica counter top.
"I'm going to get that man to baptize you come hell or high water,” she said to no one who was visible. The cat trotted over to the sewing basket and hid behind it. “Oh, God help us, I scared you.” She laughed and carefully holding on to the counter, turned for the cat. Cinnamon, seeming disconcerted at what she heard, sprang away from her reach, out of the kitchen and down the hall. She wound up on top of the couch looking out the front window, Matilda assumed, counting the slender, young girls and laboring guys jogging by under threatening gray clouds.
But firm determination made Matilda feel strong enough to pull it off. How very important the whole thing was.
ooOoo
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 4
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 4
After the preacher pushed the intercom button, asking Jennifer to bring in two glasses of water, the preacher had begun to recover his composure.
“What we need is water for my kitten,” Matilda said.
Pastor Todd said, “Oh, should I have Jennifer––"
He was about to punch the intercom button again when she said, “Oh, Lordy, no, Pastor! You know I’m talking about the water that cleanses away our sins, that saves anyone who wants it, you know. I’m talking about our upcoming little baptism ceremony for Cinnamon.”
“Um... yes, that’s where we were. But Mrs. Graham, don't you see how what you're asking me really doesn't work. The cat can’t understand what Baptism is about, can't possibly understand the Bible.”
"Nonsense," Matilda bent down and picked Cinnamon up onto her lap, petting, telling the cat gently it should calm down. “Everything’s all right,” she whispered into her ear. “Please, act like it's Sunday. Your best behavior, now, huh?" She lowered her face in close to the cat’s and whispered something loving.
To the preacher she said, "You know I'm not getting any younger and when I pass on, when I go to heaven, I want Cinnamon to be up there whenever her time comes so we can find each other. Cats can always find home, I’ve heard."
"It doesn't work like that, ma'am," the preacher said. His voice was strident, impatience in his tone. "Even for my family, I could never be certain my wife or my children are going to heaven, even though I would dearly like that. We will be in the company of other believers. We don't know a great deal about heaven. The Bible, to tell the truth, hardly mentions it. Moses tells about Elijah riding his chariot when it was whisked off in a whirlwind up toward heaven.”
“Yes, sir, that’s where I’m going.”
“Some of the Old Testament prophets allude to it. Finally, in Revelations, John, when about 90 year old, writing to Christians from the island of Patmos, describes heaven and earth followed by a new heaven and earth. Unfortunately, if we want a picture of heaven, that book has a lot of apocalyptic symbolism and has many different interpretations.”
“Oh, but my mother and father told me all about heaven.”
“I’m glad of that, Mrs. Graham.” The preacher was now chewing on his pen. Noticing what he was doing, he chuckled wryly, wiped it off with his hands, laying it on his pad of paper. “Heaven is up there somewhere, but our physical and emotional needs will be totally different than they are on earth." The preacher conjoured up a bright smile. "It will be glorious.”
"Freddy, how can it possibly be glorious without Cinnamon?"
“God and his plan ….” He gave a slow shrug of his shoulders, arms extending outward, and sighed. “I’m sorry. We don’t know everything about God’s plan.”
The alert Abysinnian, still in the chair, was turning her head to look at whoever was speaking.
"You'll see,” the preacher said. “It will be a wonderful eternity. I suspect it will be cooler than the fires of that other place where some of our,” and here he hesitated, whispering the rest, “that place where some of our friends who are not saved may wind up." His voice got strong and proud again. "That’s my job: To find them and save them."
“So baptize and save my kitten.”
The preacher tilted his head back, eyes squinting, looking at the animal. “He’s a cat!”
“Oh, Freddy,” she said, picking up the cat and stroking her. Tears welled up in Matilda’s eyes. “You mean you don’t care if Cinnamon burns in hell.”
“No, no. I didn’t say that.”
The old lady lifted her cat up close, high under her sharply jutting jaw, rocking her back and forth like a baby, the fur tickling the lady's chin.
"That's why I need to get Cinnamon baptized."
“But cats don't like water."
“Posh. I can't swim and I did it. You baptized me. Remember?"
The preacher laughed. "I believe you swallowed some water.”
"So, then," she said, "you won't mind if my cat acts just a little put out after you dunk him under the river. I’ll cut back her claws before she comes forward on her big day."
“Oh, for Christ sakes, Mrs. Graham, you can’t. I don't think you have the idea yet. We don’t run a circus here."
"Oh, yes, I do have the goddam idea. It's you, sir, who don't have the idea." She stroked her cat and talked lovingly to her as she rose from the chair, spry like a twenty-year-old and every bit as petulant. "You want to get baptized, don't you, Kitten?"
Pastor Alfred Todd must have counted to ten because there was an ungodly long pause until finally he tapped his finger-tips on the desk, saying, “Like I said, we will carry out God’s plan. We just may not always understand it."
“Land o’ Goshen!” she said. “The God I pray to is a loving god. He understands his people, the people that follow Jesus, and He could only be cruel to them when they turn away from Him and the Savior––oh, dear, the Savior is God, I mean they are the same person, uh … or, god, or something.”
The pastor’s impatience had shifted now to a barely noticeable forrow above his handsome dark brown eyebrows, the mild look of hopeless puzzlement replacing the earlier almost angry looks, a bit of empathy mixed with it. Without a speck of warning, his chair shot back and he stood up with his right arm out to shake her hand and he moved around his desk, gently guiding the slender, elderly woman to the door.
“This has been such a very nice chat, Mrs. Graham. Right now, I really have another appointment I have to prepare for. Maybe we can do this again sometime. I’ll be ready with some relevant passages from Paul’s epistles. You can bet on it”
She exhaled loudly through her nose and held her head up at an angle. “I’m no gambler, Freddy,” she said, geninely offended by the accusation, and she made her way through Jennifer’s office and out the door, the perked-up cat leading the way.
Part 4
After the preacher pushed the intercom button, asking Jennifer to bring in two glasses of water, the preacher had begun to recover his composure.
“What we need is water for my kitten,” Matilda said.
Pastor Todd said, “Oh, should I have Jennifer––"
He was about to punch the intercom button again when she said, “Oh, Lordy, no, Pastor! You know I’m talking about the water that cleanses away our sins, that saves anyone who wants it, you know. I’m talking about our upcoming little baptism ceremony for Cinnamon.”
“Um... yes, that’s where we were. But Mrs. Graham, don't you see how what you're asking me really doesn't work. The cat can’t understand what Baptism is about, can't possibly understand the Bible.”
"Nonsense," Matilda bent down and picked Cinnamon up onto her lap, petting, telling the cat gently it should calm down. “Everything’s all right,” she whispered into her ear. “Please, act like it's Sunday. Your best behavior, now, huh?" She lowered her face in close to the cat’s and whispered something loving.
To the preacher she said, "You know I'm not getting any younger and when I pass on, when I go to heaven, I want Cinnamon to be up there whenever her time comes so we can find each other. Cats can always find home, I’ve heard."
"It doesn't work like that, ma'am," the preacher said. His voice was strident, impatience in his tone. "Even for my family, I could never be certain my wife or my children are going to heaven, even though I would dearly like that. We will be in the company of other believers. We don't know a great deal about heaven. The Bible, to tell the truth, hardly mentions it. Moses tells about Elijah riding his chariot when it was whisked off in a whirlwind up toward heaven.”
“Yes, sir, that’s where I’m going.”
“Some of the Old Testament prophets allude to it. Finally, in Revelations, John, when about 90 year old, writing to Christians from the island of Patmos, describes heaven and earth followed by a new heaven and earth. Unfortunately, if we want a picture of heaven, that book has a lot of apocalyptic symbolism and has many different interpretations.”
“Oh, but my mother and father told me all about heaven.”
“I’m glad of that, Mrs. Graham.” The preacher was now chewing on his pen. Noticing what he was doing, he chuckled wryly, wiped it off with his hands, laying it on his pad of paper. “Heaven is up there somewhere, but our physical and emotional needs will be totally different than they are on earth." The preacher conjoured up a bright smile. "It will be glorious.”
"Freddy, how can it possibly be glorious without Cinnamon?"
“God and his plan ….” He gave a slow shrug of his shoulders, arms extending outward, and sighed. “I’m sorry. We don’t know everything about God’s plan.”
The alert Abysinnian, still in the chair, was turning her head to look at whoever was speaking.
"You'll see,” the preacher said. “It will be a wonderful eternity. I suspect it will be cooler than the fires of that other place where some of our,” and here he hesitated, whispering the rest, “that place where some of our friends who are not saved may wind up." His voice got strong and proud again. "That’s my job: To find them and save them."
“So baptize and save my kitten.”
The preacher tilted his head back, eyes squinting, looking at the animal. “He’s a cat!”
“Oh, Freddy,” she said, picking up the cat and stroking her. Tears welled up in Matilda’s eyes. “You mean you don’t care if Cinnamon burns in hell.”
“No, no. I didn’t say that.”
The old lady lifted her cat up close, high under her sharply jutting jaw, rocking her back and forth like a baby, the fur tickling the lady's chin.
"That's why I need to get Cinnamon baptized."
“But cats don't like water."
“Posh. I can't swim and I did it. You baptized me. Remember?"
The preacher laughed. "I believe you swallowed some water.”
"So, then," she said, "you won't mind if my cat acts just a little put out after you dunk him under the river. I’ll cut back her claws before she comes forward on her big day."
“Oh, for Christ sakes, Mrs. Graham, you can’t. I don't think you have the idea yet. We don’t run a circus here."
"Oh, yes, I do have the goddam idea. It's you, sir, who don't have the idea." She stroked her cat and talked lovingly to her as she rose from the chair, spry like a twenty-year-old and every bit as petulant. "You want to get baptized, don't you, Kitten?"
Pastor Alfred Todd must have counted to ten because there was an ungodly long pause until finally he tapped his finger-tips on the desk, saying, “Like I said, we will carry out God’s plan. We just may not always understand it."
“Land o’ Goshen!” she said. “The God I pray to is a loving god. He understands his people, the people that follow Jesus, and He could only be cruel to them when they turn away from Him and the Savior––oh, dear, the Savior is God, I mean they are the same person, uh … or, god, or something.”
The pastor’s impatience had shifted now to a barely noticeable forrow above his handsome dark brown eyebrows, the mild look of hopeless puzzlement replacing the earlier almost angry looks, a bit of empathy mixed with it. Without a speck of warning, his chair shot back and he stood up with his right arm out to shake her hand and he moved around his desk, gently guiding the slender, elderly woman to the door.
“This has been such a very nice chat, Mrs. Graham. Right now, I really have another appointment I have to prepare for. Maybe we can do this again sometime. I’ll be ready with some relevant passages from Paul’s epistles. You can bet on it”
She exhaled loudly through her nose and held her head up at an angle. “I’m no gambler, Freddy,” she said, geninely offended by the accusation, and she made her way through Jennifer’s office and out the door, the perked-up cat leading the way.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 3
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 3 (Read Parts 1 & 2 first)
Matilda didn't see anything to laugh at. "I'd love for you to baptize my kitten, Cinnamon." Her voice was choked up. She put a tissue to her mouth and cleared her thoat.
At first, Pastor Todd looked surprised. "It's a beautiful animal. What kind?"
She couldn't help laughing at the pastor's ignorance? "She's a cat, Freddy?"
"I mean, what brand of cat, Persian, or what?"
"Oh, Obolesquian or Cynsimian. Something like that."
"I think you mean Abysinnian."
"Yes, dear, that's it.""Very unusual around here. I saw a cat show at The Cow Palace once."
"Not a cow, Freddy, a cat. An abysinnian cat."
The pastor tried to hide a grin. Taking a few seconds to think this novel situation over, the young pastor leaned forward toward the cat, saying, "Little missy, do you know the Bible well enough, and do you understand what you're proclaiming when I lower you beneath the surface of the water in the baptistery? For us, you know, symbolically it's the River Jordan."The cat meowed once loudly and immediately bent down to lick at the base of her tail."See? She knows what she's preparing to do," Matilda said.Lickety-split and ever-so lightly, the animal leaped onto Matilda’s lap, and then sprung up onto the preacher's desk, stepping good-naturedly and unafraid to the preachers closest hand and rubbed herself on the back of his wrist.
But Pastor Todd swiftly put a stop to that. He picked the cat up, cradling it by her ribs, holding it far from his body, hastily setting the thing on the floor. Unfortunately, in the process, the animal's leash got caught on the preacher’s stately-looking pen-and-pencil set attached to a placard with his name on it, and the whole caboodle went crashing to the floor. The cat immediately shot out as far as the leash would let her race.Mathilda, hanging on firmly to the leash, beat the preacher to the fallen plaque and pen-set, all of which was still together there except for the pen that had squirted off toward the book shelf. Pastor Todd picked that up."I usually like to handle Cinnamon myself, Freddy,” Matilda said. Briskly, but with the usual tremor in her hands, she set everything back into place, making certain to square it neatly.
The preacher rubbed his hand across his name plate, giving it some careful scrutiny. "It's all fine. No harm done."
“I didn't mean for you to knock your nice sign off your desk. That might scare the dickens out of a house pet like Cinnamon, you know.”The pastor twirled the pen he’d just picked off the floor, rapidly flicking it forth and back, making it look rather like a model airplane propeller. He chuckled.When she turned to sit down, it suddenly came on again, that dratted ear disease thing, a sudden dizzy feeling, the feeling of being almost thrown to the floor. "Oh, hang on, girl," she said on the way down. There was nothing subtle about it. Fortunately, she had learned in a previous life to roll when one fell, minimizing the chance of breaking bones. Learning that skill took place some forty years ago during her rock-climbing days.Once again the woman sprawled grotequely on the floor, Cinnamon prancing around, dancing lightly onto her hip and back down, bounding up on to her shoulder, then sniffing tentatively at her face.“Oh, hell’s bells, Cinnamon, it happened again,” she cried. “I have to remember to always brace myself when I make a sudden turn. I just have to." She was acutely embarrassed and began scrambling to right herself.Instantly, Pastor Todd crouched at her side, asking her if any bones were broken while he carefully helped her to her feet. “That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Graham.”“Don’t be silly, Freddy. These days, it feel like I’m only doing my exercises.” The old lady was becoming quite used to this affliction. “See, I told you I’m no spring chicken. I got other more troublesome aches and pains, like everyone my age,” she huffed while trying to catch her breath during the exertion of getting to her feet.The pastor helped her over to the chair. “Are you sure you’re alright,” he said, his calming voice with a sympathetic soft rapidity. “It’s no trouble at all to call an ambulance and get the hospital to do some tests on you. Maybe the right medicine ….”“Oh, shphaw. That was nothing compared to the swan dive I took off the porch a couple of weeks ago. Lordy, it was dark but my balance was fine." She bent down and straightened the hem of her dress, followed by a check of her hair with her hands. While doing this, her talking did not cease: “I’m already taking medicine that helps a lot.” It was a little white lie, but she continued. “It’s just that it doesn’t always completely work. I need to remember to brace myself, that’s all.”The preacher chuckled at the woman’s pluck.“Deary me, I must look a fright. What must you think of me?”“Well, frankly, Mrs. Graham, your sudden fall was most definitely a fright for me. But you look fine now; we'll pretend it didn't happen.” He glanced at his watch, then quickly searched the floor of his office for the roaming, leashed cat. “I sure don’t think much of your doctor."
Part 3 (Read Parts 1 & 2 first)
Matilda didn't see anything to laugh at. "I'd love for you to baptize my kitten, Cinnamon." Her voice was choked up. She put a tissue to her mouth and cleared her thoat.
At first, Pastor Todd looked surprised. "It's a beautiful animal. What kind?"
She couldn't help laughing at the pastor's ignorance? "She's a cat, Freddy?"
"I mean, what brand of cat, Persian, or what?"
"Oh, Obolesquian or Cynsimian. Something like that."
"I think you mean Abysinnian."
"Yes, dear, that's it.""Very unusual around here. I saw a cat show at The Cow Palace once."
"Not a cow, Freddy, a cat. An abysinnian cat."
The pastor tried to hide a grin. Taking a few seconds to think this novel situation over, the young pastor leaned forward toward the cat, saying, "Little missy, do you know the Bible well enough, and do you understand what you're proclaiming when I lower you beneath the surface of the water in the baptistery? For us, you know, symbolically it's the River Jordan."The cat meowed once loudly and immediately bent down to lick at the base of her tail."See? She knows what she's preparing to do," Matilda said.Lickety-split and ever-so lightly, the animal leaped onto Matilda’s lap, and then sprung up onto the preacher's desk, stepping good-naturedly and unafraid to the preachers closest hand and rubbed herself on the back of his wrist.
But Pastor Todd swiftly put a stop to that. He picked the cat up, cradling it by her ribs, holding it far from his body, hastily setting the thing on the floor. Unfortunately, in the process, the animal's leash got caught on the preacher’s stately-looking pen-and-pencil set attached to a placard with his name on it, and the whole caboodle went crashing to the floor. The cat immediately shot out as far as the leash would let her race.Mathilda, hanging on firmly to the leash, beat the preacher to the fallen plaque and pen-set, all of which was still together there except for the pen that had squirted off toward the book shelf. Pastor Todd picked that up."I usually like to handle Cinnamon myself, Freddy,” Matilda said. Briskly, but with the usual tremor in her hands, she set everything back into place, making certain to square it neatly.
The preacher rubbed his hand across his name plate, giving it some careful scrutiny. "It's all fine. No harm done."
“I didn't mean for you to knock your nice sign off your desk. That might scare the dickens out of a house pet like Cinnamon, you know.”The pastor twirled the pen he’d just picked off the floor, rapidly flicking it forth and back, making it look rather like a model airplane propeller. He chuckled.When she turned to sit down, it suddenly came on again, that dratted ear disease thing, a sudden dizzy feeling, the feeling of being almost thrown to the floor. "Oh, hang on, girl," she said on the way down. There was nothing subtle about it. Fortunately, she had learned in a previous life to roll when one fell, minimizing the chance of breaking bones. Learning that skill took place some forty years ago during her rock-climbing days.Once again the woman sprawled grotequely on the floor, Cinnamon prancing around, dancing lightly onto her hip and back down, bounding up on to her shoulder, then sniffing tentatively at her face.“Oh, hell’s bells, Cinnamon, it happened again,” she cried. “I have to remember to always brace myself when I make a sudden turn. I just have to." She was acutely embarrassed and began scrambling to right herself.Instantly, Pastor Todd crouched at her side, asking her if any bones were broken while he carefully helped her to her feet. “That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Graham.”“Don’t be silly, Freddy. These days, it feel like I’m only doing my exercises.” The old lady was becoming quite used to this affliction. “See, I told you I’m no spring chicken. I got other more troublesome aches and pains, like everyone my age,” she huffed while trying to catch her breath during the exertion of getting to her feet.The pastor helped her over to the chair. “Are you sure you’re alright,” he said, his calming voice with a sympathetic soft rapidity. “It’s no trouble at all to call an ambulance and get the hospital to do some tests on you. Maybe the right medicine ….”“Oh, shphaw. That was nothing compared to the swan dive I took off the porch a couple of weeks ago. Lordy, it was dark but my balance was fine." She bent down and straightened the hem of her dress, followed by a check of her hair with her hands. While doing this, her talking did not cease: “I’m already taking medicine that helps a lot.” It was a little white lie, but she continued. “It’s just that it doesn’t always completely work. I need to remember to brace myself, that’s all.”The preacher chuckled at the woman’s pluck.“Deary me, I must look a fright. What must you think of me?”“Well, frankly, Mrs. Graham, your sudden fall was most definitely a fright for me. But you look fine now; we'll pretend it didn't happen.” He glanced at his watch, then quickly searched the floor of his office for the roaming, leashed cat. “I sure don’t think much of your doctor."
Friday, February 5, 2010
Preacher and the Cat - Part 2
Part 1 of this short story was posted in post just before this one. Read it first, of course! The "Parts" to the story will continue to turn up in reverse order since this is a blog version. --Rich
"Where are you?" She rubbed the pain beginning to set in on her hip.
The cat meowed again, but softer now, a meow mixed with a whining growl–maybe some sort of post-traumatic purr–but the strange sound of the cat came from a high place behind the bathroom door.
The delicate woman, bracing herself, peered around the door. There she was, the reddish-brown pet shivering, looking afraid, lying low on top of the shower door frame. The old lady hadn’t seen Cinnamon at first because of the positively impossible spot she had jumped to.
"Heavens, girl! How in God's creation did you ever get up there?” For the moment, Matilda forgot all about the pain in her hip. The old lady scooted into the kitchen, only twice grabbing something to hold her steady.
She laughed. "What I cat! The things you do to me." She grabbed the plastic stepstool and rushed back into the bathroom. Weak sighted and a trifle clumsy, she hefted and pulled her cat off the top of the shower-door frame. She stroked it softly as it snuggled into the crook of her elbow, which seemed to be custom made to hold this particular cat. Apparently, brimming with appreciation for having been saved, Cinnamon purred warmly.
“Guess that dizzy spell is all over with,” she told Cinnamon, sitting there on her bed. “I feel fine, now.” The thin-limbed Abyssinian cat purred her answer back, periodically extending its claws through her dress and on through the skin and flesh of the old lady's thighs.
In the back of Matilda’s mind, though, she wondered if she didn't need a walker, after all, this balance thing was getting a bit too common, kind of dangerous, and she was no spring chicken anymore.
When she called Perl, and later on when Trudy phoned her, she talked about her silly cat getting stuck on top of the shower door, but she didn't mention the dratted dizzy spells. Perl always sends cards and stuff like that to friends with little aches and pains. That would never do, she thought. Trudy was more serious minded and much too often a hair on the huffy side, but she would secretly worry about Matilda, too. But heavens, Matilda only lost her balance on turns. The doctor had a name for it, but she forgot it. The doctor only told her after checking deep inside her ears for infections to take it easy around corners and to call her if it gets worse. Okay, he prescribed some antibiotics, but the drugstore wasn't on the way home, and she let it go.
Oh, you do love your cat, Trudy had said. She's such a joy for you, and Matilda's kitten certainly was that to her, a little joy. Cinnamon had trotted in from its window perch and bounded onto the old lady's lap, turned twice, and settled in, purring loudly. Matilda stroked her and scratched her under the chin. "What would I ever do without you?"
While she was watching "The Rickie Lake Show," Matilda had the unsettling thought pass through her head. "What would Cinnamon ever do without me? I'm not going to last forever, well, at least not on earth." She by now had fed the cat, and the darling little thing was curled up on the sofa cushion next to Matilda. The old lady worried. She had imagined her balance problem was getting better until this last incident. And, heavens above, now the loud bang of her falling down is genuinely scaring her pet into jumping up to strange, strange places, places that "kitten" didn't know how to get down from.
On Thursday of that week–thankfully there had been no more dratted spells with bad balance–Matilda put the flashy red harness and leash on her playful Abyssinian, walking the two blocks to her church, up the stairs, the sprightly cat leading the way, silent and stealthy, its eyes and ears like radar sensors, swiveling back and forth, taking in everything that was new to her or moving.
The little lady had always walked most every day–that was healthy she was told–and at 74 years old, she had no problem climbing up the eight steps, as long as she paused halfway to take a breather. It was a sunny spring day, the blue sky so lovely, blue as the eyes Matilda saw in the the mirror each morning. She was happy that her preacher, Pastor Alfred Todd, had an open door policy on Thursday, a promise to his congregation to talk to anyone about anything related to the Bible or family, anything religious.
"Yes, may I help you?" Jennifer said. She was Pastor Todd's rectionist-secretary and she looked up at Matilda entering the office, her voice reflecting poorly hidden irritation, perhaps at the interruption, that didn't quite go with the cheery charade of a smile, a smile that only her lips participated in.
“I forgot your name, Miss?" the voice still distant and unfriendly. The preacher’s secretary got up, managing to disentangle her ample hips from the arms of the undersized chair, and she plodded heavily toward a bunch of folders spread on a worktable.
"Oh, I'm Matilda Graham. Been coming here for 25 years."
Suddenly, Jennifer looked down at the brownish cat, her expression registering a look as if she'd just seen green fuzzy stuff all over her cottage cheese. "You know we don't allow cats in here,” the secretary blurted.
"Cinnamon, here, and I wish to speak to Pastor Todd if you please, honey. It's open-door-policy day, you know."
"Well, kindly pick up that cat and drive it home, first. Then I'm sure pastor Todd would love to speak to you, Mrs. Graham."
“Oh, nonsense, honey. I’m quite certain Cinnamon can handle acting right in church."
Jennifer lowered herself into her chair, miraculously clearing the arms of it without bump or crushing them. She blinked her eyes a couple times at Matilda, shifting her gaze down to the sleek Abyssinian, the active cat now pulling on its thin red leather, diamond-studded leash, sniffing and stabbing its paw at a lone Three Musketeer wrapper under the table.
“Which door is it, honey?”
Finally, Jennifer sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded her head toward the far door. She pushed the button on the intercom.
"Yes, Jennifer." It was the familiar voice of the pastor.
"There’s a Matilda Graham to see––” The double-wide secretary halted talking. The gray-haired lady was already going through the door, giving a light tug on the leash, the cat gliding around her ankles and into the preacher's office.
Pastor Alfred Todd smiled, got up from whatever preachers write about, moved around his desk, cordially holding out his hand, shaking hers warmly, cupping his other hand cozy-like over Matilda’s hand. Then, he notice the cat. Immediately, the pastor whipped his body around, reached over, and jabbed at his intercom.
"Jennifer," he said, his voice laboring to find a note of pastorly kindness, “you need to tell these people that their pets can't be brought in to the church."
"But she did tell me," the thin old lady said, defending the secretary.
Simulateously, over the intercom, the sharp voice of the secretary came: "I did, Mr. Todd!"
At this, Pastor Todd frowned mildly and shook his head, as though what he heard could be erased by shaking it out of his brain. “Oh.... Oh .... There seems to be a slight misunderstanding here.” And the preacher lifted his finger off the button.
The cat by now had stretched the red diamond studded leash to its full length and was sniffing around the base of the trash can. Then she shifted her attention quickly to a nearby vase. Matilda jerked lightly at the leash and pulled her pet away from the vase, a colorfully painted vase full of tall stemmed, beautifully lush Lilies.
"Freddy, I came to talk to you, in fact, about my kitten, here."
Pastor Todd’s eyebrows arched high, his full, youngish lips forming a crooked smile. He sighed and sat back down. This might take a while.
The message he had spoke into the interom sounded to Matilda as if the pastor was trying, perhaps straining to be civil. "Are you allergic to cats?" she said.
He shook his head. His smile got wider, more sincere.
At least they hadn't been kicked out yet. It was hard for Matilda to imagine this was what an open-door policy was like.
Sticking his pen into its slot, Pastor Todd spoke firmly, his Sunday voice. "I see it's your day to give your cat a nice walk. What can I help you with today?” And the man rocked back and forth in his high-backed, comfortable-looking leather chair.
“It's rather simple, Pastor.”
“Oh, do have a seat.” The minister motioned at one of the leather-cushioned visitor chairs.
The lady slid both visitor chairs over in front of the desk, she settling herself in one and the cat hopping up, satting in the other, her tail curled around behind her.
The pastor looked at the cat and laughed, in spite of himself. The lithe, tidy little beast seemed to want to be part of the discussion.
"Where are you?" She rubbed the pain beginning to set in on her hip.
The cat meowed again, but softer now, a meow mixed with a whining growl–maybe some sort of post-traumatic purr–but the strange sound of the cat came from a high place behind the bathroom door.
The delicate woman, bracing herself, peered around the door. There she was, the reddish-brown pet shivering, looking afraid, lying low on top of the shower door frame. The old lady hadn’t seen Cinnamon at first because of the positively impossible spot she had jumped to.
"Heavens, girl! How in God's creation did you ever get up there?” For the moment, Matilda forgot all about the pain in her hip. The old lady scooted into the kitchen, only twice grabbing something to hold her steady.
She laughed. "What I cat! The things you do to me." She grabbed the plastic stepstool and rushed back into the bathroom. Weak sighted and a trifle clumsy, she hefted and pulled her cat off the top of the shower-door frame. She stroked it softly as it snuggled into the crook of her elbow, which seemed to be custom made to hold this particular cat. Apparently, brimming with appreciation for having been saved, Cinnamon purred warmly.
“Guess that dizzy spell is all over with,” she told Cinnamon, sitting there on her bed. “I feel fine, now.” The thin-limbed Abyssinian cat purred her answer back, periodically extending its claws through her dress and on through the skin and flesh of the old lady's thighs.
In the back of Matilda’s mind, though, she wondered if she didn't need a walker, after all, this balance thing was getting a bit too common, kind of dangerous, and she was no spring chicken anymore.
When she called Perl, and later on when Trudy phoned her, she talked about her silly cat getting stuck on top of the shower door, but she didn't mention the dratted dizzy spells. Perl always sends cards and stuff like that to friends with little aches and pains. That would never do, she thought. Trudy was more serious minded and much too often a hair on the huffy side, but she would secretly worry about Matilda, too. But heavens, Matilda only lost her balance on turns. The doctor had a name for it, but she forgot it. The doctor only told her after checking deep inside her ears for infections to take it easy around corners and to call her if it gets worse. Okay, he prescribed some antibiotics, but the drugstore wasn't on the way home, and she let it go.
Oh, you do love your cat, Trudy had said. She's such a joy for you, and Matilda's kitten certainly was that to her, a little joy. Cinnamon had trotted in from its window perch and bounded onto the old lady's lap, turned twice, and settled in, purring loudly. Matilda stroked her and scratched her under the chin. "What would I ever do without you?"
While she was watching "The Rickie Lake Show," Matilda had the unsettling thought pass through her head. "What would Cinnamon ever do without me? I'm not going to last forever, well, at least not on earth." She by now had fed the cat, and the darling little thing was curled up on the sofa cushion next to Matilda. The old lady worried. She had imagined her balance problem was getting better until this last incident. And, heavens above, now the loud bang of her falling down is genuinely scaring her pet into jumping up to strange, strange places, places that "kitten" didn't know how to get down from.
On Thursday of that week–thankfully there had been no more dratted spells with bad balance–Matilda put the flashy red harness and leash on her playful Abyssinian, walking the two blocks to her church, up the stairs, the sprightly cat leading the way, silent and stealthy, its eyes and ears like radar sensors, swiveling back and forth, taking in everything that was new to her or moving.
The little lady had always walked most every day–that was healthy she was told–and at 74 years old, she had no problem climbing up the eight steps, as long as she paused halfway to take a breather. It was a sunny spring day, the blue sky so lovely, blue as the eyes Matilda saw in the the mirror each morning. She was happy that her preacher, Pastor Alfred Todd, had an open door policy on Thursday, a promise to his congregation to talk to anyone about anything related to the Bible or family, anything religious.
"Yes, may I help you?" Jennifer said. She was Pastor Todd's rectionist-secretary and she looked up at Matilda entering the office, her voice reflecting poorly hidden irritation, perhaps at the interruption, that didn't quite go with the cheery charade of a smile, a smile that only her lips participated in.
“I forgot your name, Miss?" the voice still distant and unfriendly. The preacher’s secretary got up, managing to disentangle her ample hips from the arms of the undersized chair, and she plodded heavily toward a bunch of folders spread on a worktable.
"Oh, I'm Matilda Graham. Been coming here for 25 years."
Suddenly, Jennifer looked down at the brownish cat, her expression registering a look as if she'd just seen green fuzzy stuff all over her cottage cheese. "You know we don't allow cats in here,” the secretary blurted.
"Cinnamon, here, and I wish to speak to Pastor Todd if you please, honey. It's open-door-policy day, you know."
"Well, kindly pick up that cat and drive it home, first. Then I'm sure pastor Todd would love to speak to you, Mrs. Graham."
“Oh, nonsense, honey. I’m quite certain Cinnamon can handle acting right in church."
Jennifer lowered herself into her chair, miraculously clearing the arms of it without bump or crushing them. She blinked her eyes a couple times at Matilda, shifting her gaze down to the sleek Abyssinian, the active cat now pulling on its thin red leather, diamond-studded leash, sniffing and stabbing its paw at a lone Three Musketeer wrapper under the table.
“Which door is it, honey?”
Finally, Jennifer sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded her head toward the far door. She pushed the button on the intercom.
"Yes, Jennifer." It was the familiar voice of the pastor.
"There’s a Matilda Graham to see––” The double-wide secretary halted talking. The gray-haired lady was already going through the door, giving a light tug on the leash, the cat gliding around her ankles and into the preacher's office.
Pastor Alfred Todd smiled, got up from whatever preachers write about, moved around his desk, cordially holding out his hand, shaking hers warmly, cupping his other hand cozy-like over Matilda’s hand. Then, he notice the cat. Immediately, the pastor whipped his body around, reached over, and jabbed at his intercom.
"Jennifer," he said, his voice laboring to find a note of pastorly kindness, “you need to tell these people that their pets can't be brought in to the church."
"But she did tell me," the thin old lady said, defending the secretary.
Simulateously, over the intercom, the sharp voice of the secretary came: "I did, Mr. Todd!"
At this, Pastor Todd frowned mildly and shook his head, as though what he heard could be erased by shaking it out of his brain. “Oh.... Oh .... There seems to be a slight misunderstanding here.” And the preacher lifted his finger off the button.
The cat by now had stretched the red diamond studded leash to its full length and was sniffing around the base of the trash can. Then she shifted her attention quickly to a nearby vase. Matilda jerked lightly at the leash and pulled her pet away from the vase, a colorfully painted vase full of tall stemmed, beautifully lush Lilies.
"Freddy, I came to talk to you, in fact, about my kitten, here."
Pastor Todd’s eyebrows arched high, his full, youngish lips forming a crooked smile. He sighed and sat back down. This might take a while.
The message he had spoke into the interom sounded to Matilda as if the pastor was trying, perhaps straining to be civil. "Are you allergic to cats?" she said.
He shook his head. His smile got wider, more sincere.
At least they hadn't been kicked out yet. It was hard for Matilda to imagine this was what an open-door policy was like.
Sticking his pen into its slot, Pastor Todd spoke firmly, his Sunday voice. "I see it's your day to give your cat a nice walk. What can I help you with today?” And the man rocked back and forth in his high-backed, comfortable-looking leather chair.
“It's rather simple, Pastor.”
“Oh, do have a seat.” The minister motioned at one of the leather-cushioned visitor chairs.
The lady slid both visitor chairs over in front of the desk, she settling herself in one and the cat hopping up, satting in the other, her tail curled around behind her.
The pastor looked at the cat and laughed, in spite of himself. The lithe, tidy little beast seemed to want to be part of the discussion.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1
When I was a youngster, every Saturday we couldn't wait for our favorite serial movie, Flash Gordon (Buster Crabb) and his arch villain, Ming the Terrible. After 25 minutes, we'd be left with a cliff-hanger scene, and we'd have to wait for the next week to see how Flash and Dr. Zarkov got out of their impossible problem. Well, here' my current project I plan to show in bits and pieces, so you'll have to see what happens to the hero "next week." Be sure to buy Kellogg's Sugar Corn Pops and get strong 12 ways with every vitamin and mineral known to science. And enjoy the show.
The Cat and the Preacher
Richard A. Burns
After the thud of her sudden fall, uttering an understated, habitual, “Oh, my!” and the interminable struggle back up, her long scrawny fingers of her left hand curving over in a desperate dance, clawing the edge of the bedroom end-table, her right hand gripping the mattress hard through the bed covers because she was afraid the hand-knitted bedspread might give way, she managed to hoist herself up, first on to her bony knees. Pausing there, swaying like she was about to be blown over, white-haired Matilda Graham then pushed, grappled, and strained, surprised to finally be standing, surprised she could stand at all steadily. It was only her second fall that day, and she was glad it was over a thick carpet on a wood floor.
She yelled out to her companion: “Oh, Cinnamon, where are you?” Whenever the cat was with her, it always gave her a sense that everything was okay, as it was meant to be, rather heavenly, in fact. "Come here, kitten!" Her high quavering voice could still carry quite far, but no cat, no kitten, no anything.
Then, the “Yeow!” of her pet, loud as any fire truck siren, emminated from somewhere on the other side of her bed, a modest twin bed that looked out of place in the large expanse of her master bedroom. A louder “Yee-oww!” made Matilda step faster, but gingerly around her bed, feeling for the edge of it to make sure she stayed stable. Around the corner, perhaps from the master bath; that’s where its coming from, she thought.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, girl. Why don't you come to me when I need you?" She let go of her bed and turned the corner into the vanity. The kitten–she called the cat her kitten–sometimes would be curled up there in the sink, rubbing its whiskers on the clean, dry marble sink in a strange, cute, friendly way, but Matilda didn’t see Cinnamon anywhere in the vanity.
The cat squalled, clearly from the shower room now, and that kind of scared the elderly lady. Too unusual.
"Cinnamon, come here, right now, girl.” She tentatively let go of walls and walked with care through the vanity area and on into the shower room. She heard the wail of her Cinnamon another time and Matilda braced herself with the door frame. No cat on the toilet. Not in some corner on the floor of the smallish toilet-and-shower room, either.
(Have your mother buy Bosco chocolate syrup, boys and girls. Stir it into ice cold milk. Tastes great! And it's nutritious, too.)
Click link below to continue reading this furry story.
http://writerichly.blogspot.com/2010/02/preacher-and-cat-part-2.html
The Cat and the Preacher
Richard A. Burns
After the thud of her sudden fall, uttering an understated, habitual, “Oh, my!” and the interminable struggle back up, her long scrawny fingers of her left hand curving over in a desperate dance, clawing the edge of the bedroom end-table, her right hand gripping the mattress hard through the bed covers because she was afraid the hand-knitted bedspread might give way, she managed to hoist herself up, first on to her bony knees. Pausing there, swaying like she was about to be blown over, white-haired Matilda Graham then pushed, grappled, and strained, surprised to finally be standing, surprised she could stand at all steadily. It was only her second fall that day, and she was glad it was over a thick carpet on a wood floor.
She yelled out to her companion: “Oh, Cinnamon, where are you?” Whenever the cat was with her, it always gave her a sense that everything was okay, as it was meant to be, rather heavenly, in fact. "Come here, kitten!" Her high quavering voice could still carry quite far, but no cat, no kitten, no anything.
Then, the “Yeow!” of her pet, loud as any fire truck siren, emminated from somewhere on the other side of her bed, a modest twin bed that looked out of place in the large expanse of her master bedroom. A louder “Yee-oww!” made Matilda step faster, but gingerly around her bed, feeling for the edge of it to make sure she stayed stable. Around the corner, perhaps from the master bath; that’s where its coming from, she thought.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, girl. Why don't you come to me when I need you?" She let go of her bed and turned the corner into the vanity. The kitten–she called the cat her kitten–sometimes would be curled up there in the sink, rubbing its whiskers on the clean, dry marble sink in a strange, cute, friendly way, but Matilda didn’t see Cinnamon anywhere in the vanity.
The cat squalled, clearly from the shower room now, and that kind of scared the elderly lady. Too unusual.
"Cinnamon, come here, right now, girl.” She tentatively let go of walls and walked with care through the vanity area and on into the shower room. She heard the wail of her Cinnamon another time and Matilda braced herself with the door frame. No cat on the toilet. Not in some corner on the floor of the smallish toilet-and-shower room, either.
(Have your mother buy Bosco chocolate syrup, boys and girls. Stir it into ice cold milk. Tastes great! And it's nutritious, too.)
Click link below to continue reading this furry story.
http://writerichly.blogspot.com/2010/02/preacher-and-cat-part-2.html
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