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.