The Cat and the Preacher - Part 6

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Part 6

The purse was big enough, the one she found dusty and forgotten, hanging there, out in the garage, filled with heavy evidence of much of the lady's past in it. She brought it in to the dining room. Tested it out for suitability. Dumping the rattling content of her current purse into the capacious new one, laying a face towel doubled over on the content, she lovingly set her alert-looking cat inside. The poor alarmed cat clawed with both front paws at the long-zippered opening, as Matilda struggled to unhook those claws. Then she proceded to explore the new, dark surroundings.

"Now, Cinnamon, isn't that comfortable.” Matilda stroked her cat, its sleek furry back rising to meet the pressure of her bony hand. "This could be a terrific adventure, you know, kitten."

Matilda sat down on the couch to see if the cat would jump out. But, no; it stayed. “Once we're both inside the chapel, maybe I'll even let you out and sit next to me."

The cat had settled down, lying proudly like some viking ship floating on calm seas.

"You do need to hear and see what’s going on.”

A loud noise from out on the street startled Matilda. A motorcycle sped noisily past the house. The cat must have heard it too and sprang out of the purse. Matilda had a good hold of the leash, though. The cat hung in mid-air for a moment, leash taut, springing high several times in quick succesion, its front paws flailing.

“Goodness me, let’s not be that way, kitten.” She settled her back down on the towel in the dark insides of the purse. “You have to promise to be good. How else will you be allowed into heaven? Saint Peter can be quite a stickler on behavior, you know."

The cat circled twice on the folded towel, at last lowering herself, her legs folded neatly under her.

Matilda stroked Cinammon and felt her purring to beat the band. "That's better."

"Meow," said her cat, laying its furry, thin face forward on the towel and closing its eyes.

Matilda tucked the rest of the leash into the purse and zipped it. She tested it slowly up and down and swung it back and forth gently. She heard not one peep out of the Abyssinian passenger, not a murmur, not any feeling of movement inside.

"Cinn, Cinn, Cinn,” the old lady clucked. “I do want you with me when I hunt for you in heaven. Do you suppose they have a lost and found. I don't think anything like that is mentioned in Revelations."

The cat must have been purring. No sound.

She shook her head and laughed as she recalled things from earlier years. "My four ex-husbands, God knows, would never make it to heaven. Good Lord, what if I'm wrong. Well, Jack would be busy with his mistress, that's sure. Collin, now he was not one of God's better works. He'd be hugging a damn six pack.”

She rose, hanging on to the big purse, going out to the front sidewalk, so careful, watching her balance as she turned at the sidewalk and on to the corner. She returned back toward her house. “Oh, gee, maybe we can pull this off,” she said, her heart almost singing.

"Hello, Mrs. Graham." It was that loud little boy next door. Kind of startled the old woman, and she jerked to a stop.

"Hello, Jimmy, how are you?" That's what she said, but the skinny old lady thought, the little brat almost scared the puddin' out of me. No movement from inside the purse. She thought that was a good sign. Calm kitten, that's what we want.

Once inside, Matilda opened her purse, the brown-red, sleek creature lighting immediately to the ground, tugging impatiently at the leash.

"Hang on, girl." Matilda chased and forgot herself, turning too fast. Suddenly lost her balance. She had learned in a previous life, decades ago, to roll when one fell. It reduced any chance of breaking bones.

Once again there she laid, sprawled, one knee up, the other extended a little to the side. The faux Tiffany floor lamp rocked dangerously back and forth before coming to a standstill. Cinnamon sniffed and pranced around her, and occasionally bouncing lightly on her shoulder, now her knee, now up on her stomach.

"Oh, darn it, Cinnamon. It happened again." Sheay here ad tought a moment, took inventry. Nothing hurt. Nothing broken. But this falling down thing is bad. She thought it was almost as bad as when she had cancer and lost her left breast. No, not that bad. Not yet. "My, I must remember to always brace myself."

With considerable difficulty, she ot up, dusting off the lower part of her dress. She unclasped the leash, releasing Cinnamon from the cat-halter. The cat scampered away with mouse-catching speed, bounded up onto the couch, settling atop the padded back of it, looking out the window.


Sunday morning presented a sky of dark grey, wind that whistled under the eaves. Elsa from two doors down knocked at the door--shave and a hair cut ... two bits--like she always did whenever the weather was bad. Offered Matilda a ride.

"No, honey, I think I'll stay home and straighten out my spice cupboard. The TV says it's clearing up for a sunny afternoon. I'll go to the five o'clock. Tea, dear?"

Elsa stepped into the entry way. "No time. I'm running late. Got to go, really." She looked Matilda up and down. "Plenty of room in the car."

Matilda made a pushing away motion with her hands. "Walking is healthy you know."

"Healthy is staying out of the rain, old lady," Elsa said. "You take care of your tender self, you hear?" She turned about; opened the door.

"Hey, you take care of yourself, Elsa, and you'll have your hands full, I'm sure."

"You been having those dizzy spells?”

“Oh, heavens, no. That was just a one time thing."

"Humph, a one time thing. I'm sure." Elsa looked at her, frowning, a knowing look of doubt lingered on her face. "I know how these things go." She gave her a shake of the head, as she shut the door to leave.

Elsa's no dummy, Matilda thought. "Well, a two time thing, then. If my hair wasn’t all white, I’d feel thirty years old."

ooOoo

Matilda and her cat did walk to the block and a half to church that evening. The last of the clouds had broken up and all but a few cotton-balls of it had moved out of sight over the two story apartments to the south. “Be sure to listen to the preacher when he talks about the Bible. You must be carefully taught.”

The cat looked up then ran forward on the side-walk, make the diamonds on the this red leash dance and sparkle.

Before crossing 4th Street, Matilda crouched down, unzipping her purse, and try to get Cinnamon to leap in. Perhaps the traffic was too loud. Cars were streaming into the parking lot and noisy children across the street were jumping and chasing and shouting.

"No, kitten, don't pull." Matilda was gently coaxing the cat back. "It's a nice purse. Remember? You like it, you like it." She grabbed the cat, stroked a couple times, and it made it down in the purse, stuffing the leash in after it.

Waiting for the signal at 4th Street, Matilda lifted her purse near her face, murmuring, "Now, remember. When we're inside, you sit still and listen.” The light turned green; she started across. “And don't sing when the rest of us sing."

Cinnamon must have been running laps inside the out-sized purse, all bouncing around like two hamsters were fighting in there. "Calm down now or we’re going to have to just turn around and go home."

The cat meowed, but then settled down, much to Matilda's relief.

For the evening service, parked cars letting out passengers lined curb and the parking lot half full, people milling about, various ones heading in. Now Matilda felt just a little bit daunted. Yes, there was the church and there was those cement stairs, seeming this evening like those fronting the Capitol in Washington, D.C.. Luckily, she remembered about her falling incidents so turned very carefully, worked her way up the stairs with her heavy purse, moving around, now, as if by magic, like a Mexican jumping bean.

“Calm down in there,” she warned.

“What?” said Mrs. Crane, just passing her on the right.

“Oh, my. I didn’t say anything.”

Mrs. Crane looked her up and down briefly, a frowned flickered for an instant, replaced quickly by a smile. “Oh, that’s good.”

Matilda thought she detected an it’s-best-to-be-tolerant-of-nutty-people look she and her friends must have used a bit when she was young. She needed her short pause before heading up to the top, and was glad her cat had quit all that movement.

It was after a hymn by the choir, the congregation standing to sing, “What a Friend We have in Jesus,” and the invocation that Matilda decided it was time. One of the church elders was loudly making announcements when she unzipped her purse. She had chosen a seat off to the side in the next-to-last row of pew, and her nearest neighbor was a good six feet away on her right side. Evening service was never as crowded as the two morning services.

Acting calmly, as if nothing unusual was happening, she lifted her out, grasping the loop at the end of the leash securely and set the feline on the pew, a comfortable, well-kept pew with cushions.

The woman to over near the aisle turned her head slowly once and then back quickly and raised her eyebrows. Her lips shaped by her silent chuckle, but commenced to looking forward, ready for the sermon.

Trying to look completely normal and her old studious self, Matilda looked down at her Bible opened to the right page, notepad in her hand. She was ready to jot down any pearls of wisdom coming from Fred's pulpit.

All her life, she had said her nightly prayer with religious regularity, often using the week's notes as a basis. Maybe Cinnamon would join her in prayer, this week, after she was baptized. Nothing wrong with hoping.

The cat's eyes roamed around, first the people near her, then taking in the stained-glass windows and stretching her skinny neck high to see the choir to the left and the preacher, speaking the power of faith, faith that would allow anyone to be more than they would be without it and the resultant help from God.