A dead cat, Part three... Forgive me

(Editors note: I don't know why I am doing this. I just... can't stop. Perhaps Ruthie was wrong: if the blogging business were all purely performative, surely I would not post stuff that was so obviously uninteresting and long. If anyone is interested (and you aren't, but that is ok) the first two parts of this story are in the archives somewhere.)

I stared at the phone and let my arms dangle limp. I pretended that I physically could not lift them; that my body was battling against my mind; that will alone was insufficient to impel my hands to their duty. I knew that I could reach out at any time, but still there was some doubt. I was stunned at my own immobility. Stubbornness has a certain inertia, and I was powerless to break it. I stared at the phone, and imagined that I had suffered a stroke. I imagined that I could not as much as turn my head; someone would eventually find me, catatonic and helpless, staring at the phone, my mouth open slightly, my eyes frozen open. It was not the first time I had been enfeebled by my own imagination.

When was I young and I loved to read the stories of Drama in Real Life out of Reader’s Digest. I was particularly fond of the story of a mountaineer who had suffered some horrific accident, and crawled, both legs broken, some 19 miles to civilization. I read it again and again, with an innocent and obscene delight. I had no frame of reference with which to make sense of nineteen miles, and even less for the pain of two broken legs, but it did not stop me from putting myself in his shoes. One day, on the way home from school, I pretended that my leg was broken. I dragged it pitifully behind me, wincing, even collapsing when I accidentally put my weight on it. I crawled through a parking lot on my stomach, without shame. I was very young. I staggered, and fell again, and lay on the ground, eyes screwed shut in agony, holding my broken leg, hoping for rescue or death. I must have pretended compellingly: a car stopped, and a man asked if I was ok. I was very embarrassed – it is embarrassing just to remember. I could not admit to the helpful stranger the reality of my situation, but neither could I let him take me to the hospital. I slowly rose, grimacing, then bravely shook my head, refusing his help, and staggered away with what I hope resembled proud courage. When I was out of sight, I abandoned my limp; the attempted rescue had ruined the fantasy. I knew for certain that I was not a wounded alpinist; I was an eight year old with two perfectly good legs and some sort of mental malady.

I could pick up the phone, and I knew I could, but I didn’t want to, so I continued to stare at it. It was sitting inches away from me. I had the phone number in my hand. No further preparations could be made. I reached out and picked up the phone, but pressed my finger over the button so that the phone would not know the difference. Suddenly the phone jangled to life in my hand. I answered it, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Of course it was her, calling to check up on me. I told her that I hadn’t called yet, and reminded her that because the cat was dead, it was not really a time sensitive issue. She sat silent at other end of the line, and I could as much as see her face. I closed my eyes, but it did no good. “I’m going to call,” I promised. “It just hadn’t crossed my mind, that’s all. Look, I’ll call right now, ok?” She nodded gravely. I hung up the phone, exhaled, and dialled quickly, as if any intervening time might break my resolve. The phone rang three times, and I realized that I hadn’t decided what to say if the machine picked up. Answering machines panic me, I think because the permanence of the message. If the answering machine…

“Hello?” Someone had picked up. She sounded like my mother. I wondered if I might know her kids. At least I didn’t have to worry about the answering machine.

“Yes, hello,” I said. “Sorry to bother you, but I saw your sign… about the cat.” I hoped that she would step in, contribute something, at least to let me know that I had called the right number, to let me know that she was listening, but she remained silent. “I think… I found a cat, I guess, and it is… Well, I found a dead cat, in the empty lot. I suppose, I thought that it might be…” This was incredibly difficult. Why wasn’t she saying anything? “I thought you would like to know.”

“Oh,” she said, eventually, but it was not a response to my news. It was as if she just remembered the proper protocol of a phone conversation. “I did… I didn’t think that she was coming back, I suppose, it has been three weeks. Still I do appreciate the call. Thank you.” She paused again. I had nothing left to say. “The poster did promise a reward, didn’t it?” she said.

“I wasn’t going to mention it unless you did,” I said cheerfully, and immediately regretted the words. I wished I could assure her that a reward was the furthest thing from my mind. I had called out of courtesy, and I couldn’t imagine a reward that would make this phone call worthwhile. In order to collect a reward, I would have to meet this woman. Our only commonality was her dead cat.

“Well, ok. My husband owns the Turbo station. Why don’t you drop in tomorrow afternoon? I’d like you to point out the place where you found her, so at least we can give her a Christian burial.” She chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s no problem. I’ll look forward to it.” I’ll look forward to it? What was wrong with me? What was wrong with me? “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right, see you then.” She hung up the phone. I remembered my promise to call back with a recap, but I’d had enough of the phone, and it could wait. I walked out of the room, shaking my head and smiling. “I’ll look forward to it,” I thought angrily. “I’ll look forward to it.”