Chapter One
The Tom Cat’s Advice
Copyright 2018 Cindy Brandner
WHEN A MAN WAS REDUCED to asking advice of a tomcat, it didn’t bode well for the state of his affairs. And yet, here Brian Riordan was doing exactly that.
He always believed that a man offered hospitality to those in his home, or his pocket-sized back yard as it were, and so had brought with him a bowl and a tin of herring for the big grey tom currently contemplating him with its owlish gaze. He’d also brought a small glass of whiskey for himself. He wasn’t one to imbibe often, but it had been a long week and he thought he deserved a libation here at the end of it.
The herring gave off an oily reek as he opened the tin, and the big grey tom perked up, tilting its frowsy head to one side and emitted a raspy miaow. He tipped the herring into the bowl, giving it the once over to be certain there were no stray bones in it and then put the feast down in front of the cat.
The cat gave him a distrustful look, sidling about, eyeing the dish and then returning its big yellow gaze to Brian, as though it expected to be kicked at any moment.
“Ye needn’t worry, I’m not goin’ to hurt ye. The fish is for you, wee thing. Ye’re a bit in the way of bein’ a cat melodeon, aren’t ye? Ye’ve taken the phrase literally, an’ decided to embody it, have ye?”
The cat appeared to arrive at the conclusion that the demands of his stomach overrode those of caution and set to eating.
Brian sat on a garden chair he kept by the back door, and took a sip of his drink, relishing the deep amber taste of it. It was a fine evening, with a narrow line of blue upon the horizon, enscribed there with a nib which had left traceries of vermilion and rose madder in its wake. Around him Belfast sat quiet, the sunset laying a pale pink on the bricks and paving stones, over the little garden gates and the cluster of daisies which grew against the house.
“Have ye a name? It always helps to know a man’s name before ye confide in him.”
The cat looked up from the dish and gave him a look that in a human would have been considered less than complimentary. It then returned, very sensibly, to its meal.
“No? Well, every time I see ye, ye put me in mind of Yeats’ Wanderin’ Aengus—so if ye’ve no objection to that, I’ll call ye Aengus. We’ll only use the Wanderin’ bit for formal occasions.”
Just then, a small ginger cat emerged from behind the dust bin, a tiny female who sashayed more than walked. She went to the bowl and then simply sat, imperious and certain of her power. The big grey moved aside, and Brian could have sworn he almost bowed to the tiny ginger. The ginger set to eating, somehow managing to be dainty and voracious at the same time. The grey laid down, and if a cat could be said to sigh, then the big grey sighed from the very depths of his feline soul.
“Ah, I see what’s ailin’ ye now, man. Women—they’re a problem for the male of every species, no? But a problem we’d rather have than not, I daresay. An’ she’s a wee redhead to boot. I’ve a weakness there myself, so I’ll understand yer situation ”
The cat looked up at him, and it seemed there was a fleeting sympathy within his whiskers.
“Well, like yerself I’ve fallen in love with a wee redhead. It’s what to do about it that has me talkin’ at ye, though. Ye see, a few months back I stopped to help a woman stranded at the roadside with a flat tire. Once I was done, she kindly invited me to her place for tea. Aye, ye can give me that look all ye like, but many grand ventures have begun from such simple things. Well, I had tea, an’ then I went back for dinner a few nights later. Then I took her out dancin’ one night, an’ she invited me to her place again, an’ so forth. Ye needn’t put on a face of moral indignation either, we’re grown people with a regular amount of want an’ need in us.”
Maybe a bit more than a regular amount, he thought, for he felt as addled as a school boy of late, and found it all rather lovely.
“See the thing is that me an’ my boys have been on our own for some time. It’s been just the three of us for years, an’ it was enough for me most days. D’ye have children then?”
The big grey tilted his head, and gave a small miaow. Brian took this for a response in the affirmative.
“Ye’ll know how it is then. They’re good boys, though Casey,” he sighed, “does seem to have more than an average dose of trouble in him.”
Casey was one of the reasons he’d had need of a drink tonight. The lad was possessed of a fierce amount of energy and sheer cussedness this last while. He’d been grounded from seeing his girlfriend for a month, and they were currently in the final week of that time, a span which seemed to have morphed itself into a full year, in terms of a father’s patience. At least, he thought, taking another swallow of the whiskey, he hadn’t worried about the girl getting pregnant for those three weeks. Casey, in a fit of circumspection, which was completely out of character, had neither said nor done anything which led Brian to think he and Teresa were having sex, and yet the suspicion lingered at the back of Brian’s mind, like a pine needle stuck in a shoe—uncomfortable and
worrisome. Still, just at present he was more concerned with his own love life, rather than that of his errant son.
“I’ve been thinkin’ on somethin’ my father used to say to me about life rarely handin’ a man love more than once, an’ how ye’d be a bloody fool not to take it with both hands should it be offered a second time. An’ I think I’m not inclined to be a bloody fool, not this time leastwise.”
It wasn’t just the boys, even if it was easier to believe that was his entire reason. It was also their mother. He had never believed, not even in the dark weeks and months following her leaving, that his wife would one day return, and yet she had kept her residence in his heart all these years, like a hook he couldn’t remove, and he was all too aware that the removal was going to hurt one hell of a lot worse. Scar tissue was like that.
He sighed, and looked at the cats. The tiny ginger sat with her face tip-tilted toward the sky, and the grey was limned in a blaze of gold as a last liquid gleam of sunlight flashed over the yard and the city, just before it sank below the horizon. The grey looked up as if it sensed the light sweeping away from it, taking the day from its travels and ushering in the far more chancy landscape of night.
“Aye, ‘tis gone for another night, only to return tomorrow, or this bein’ Belfast, maybe in a week or two. Still there’s a pang when ye feel it go, no? Even when ye know it will come again. There’s a wee poem about such things—perhaps ye’ll be familiar with it? ‘Tis called Nothing Gold Can Stay, an’ it’s about all the fleeting beauties of this life.”
The cat looked at him as if to say such thinking was a luxury when you were rooting in garbage for your every meal.
“Ah well, I take yer point there too. Ye’re a bit in the way of bein’ a philospher, are ye?”
“Daddy, are ye talkin’ to the cat?” Casey asked, walking up beside him. Normally the boy made his presence known, well before you could see
him, but he also had the ability to move as stealthily as a—well, as a cat, when he so chose.
“Aye,” Brian said, wondering just how much Casey had heard, “I am. He’s a good listener. He likes a bit of poetry with his fish too, which is no bad thing in either man or cat.”
His son came and rested his hand on his shoulder, and Brian put his own hand up to touch the boy. Casey had good hands, already formidable in size and strength. Brian remembered when they’d been so small, that the boy’s entire fist could only encircle one of his own fingers. Even as a baby though, the lad had been strong.
Patrick came out then too, and sat down beside Brian on an upturned crate which Casey used as a potting bench when tending to his seedlings. Neither boy spoke a word and yet he felt they were in communion with himself and the night around them. They watched as the last of the gold turned to lavender, and the narrow line of blue grew to engulf the sky—a soft smoky swathe pricked with trembling stars, as though a celestial chimney sweep had gathered up the gold and lavender into his dust bin, and left a trail of smoke and silver embers in his wake.
He wondered how many more moments like this he’d have, just this comfortable silence with his sons, and the utter peace and assurance that came with them. Not enough, he knew, never enough when children grew so quickly and time was fleet as a summer night.
“I’m for bed, Da,” Casey said, and then leaned down and gave his father a quick kiss on the cheek. Brian gave the boy’s hand a squeeze, grateful that he’d never outgrown his need to both give and receive affection. Casey didn’t move though, and Brian felt the hesitancy in him, as though he had words to speak but wasn’t certain of how they’d be received.
“What is it?”
“Remember what ye said to us about the fact that leavin’ a door open in yer life isn’t enough, ye said sometimes ye’re required to walk through it as well.”
“Aye,” Brian said, “I remember, boyo.” Clearly the boy had overheard most of his conversation with the cat.
“I’m off to bed too, Daddy,” Pat said, and stood, stretching his arms overhead. The boy was so thin, he looked like he was starving and seemed to grow another inch every month, if the constant need for new trousers was anything by which to judge. Casey had been so hard on his clothes that there wasn’t much fit to be handed down to Patrick.
“D’ye have anything ye’d like to add to yer brother’s words of wisdom?” Brian uttered the words lightly, but he wanted to know. If the boys had heard everything he’d said to the cat, then he wanted their response—both of them.
Pat smiled, that lovely smile which lit up his face and reminded Brian sharply of Deirdre. “We just want ye to be happy, Daddy. Will ye be comin’ in soon?”
“Aye, laddie, I’ll be in soon.”
Brian stayed a bit longer, nursing the last few swallows of his whiskey. Around him light bloomed from windows, butter-yellow and warm, and the two cats sat now atop the garden wall, silhouetted against the light and warmth.
His sons were right, it was time to open the door and walk through it. ...
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