The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (26 page)

"I'm giving my concubine bonus pay, big bonus
pay!"

"You're too late. I've already decided to be
your full time concubine, and best of all for you, there'll be no
charge."

"Cause our loving only needs a clamp?"

She kissed her mandarin. "With you, the
loving's so good it doesn't even need that. That's why you get your
very own concubine for free."

"I've found another Mother Teresa."

"Even better. Mother Teresa wouldn't do what
I do for you."

"With my savings I'll buy you dinner."

"McDonald's, here we come."

"Not tonight, smart-assed Tawny Cat. Tonight
we're going back to the Lover's Place for our six month
anniversary."

"You remembered!" She was all over her
mandarin. "You're the best mandarin ever," she said, when she had
finished molesting him. "I can't believe how lucky you're going to
get tonight come dessert time.

He grinned at her. "What kind of dessert do
you have in mind?"

"You should be thinking Tawny Cat
surprise."

"PussCat," Brad said, "you've become an
affectionate furball. You've gone from being an independent cuss,
to leaping onto my lap for stroking, whenever I sit down. But I
guess I can understand that, because since Tawny Cat moved in, I've
become hopelessly dependant on her for affection." He was pleased
that PussCat and Tawny Cat had become fast friends, although
perhaps a trace of feline rivalry still remained. Tawny Cat had,
after all, commandeered PussCat's side of the bed.

* * *

Richard Whittle dreamed of putting Betty-Jo
in a cage, and keeping her there until she fell in love with him,
and begged him to forgive her. I came so close to having the Stud
Plaything, he thought for the umpteenth time. If only O'Hara hadn't
interfered, she'd have learned that I'm much more interesting than
gingivitis.

Richard was bitter, because nothing in his
life was working for him. Everyone at Coastal Carolina called him
Dungie, the nickname Betty-Jo had given him. It lingered on like
his acne, which even the wonder cream advertised on late night TV
had been unable to remedy. And then there was the size of his
penis. It was dinky, and he was terrified that it might never get
bigger. But then, in the depths of his despair, a voice came out of
nowhere, and handed him his Stud Plaything on a silver platter.

"What you want most in life is to do the Stud
Plaything, right?" Mercury said. Venus had given him a new
assignment.

"Right," replied an incredulous Richard.

"Not a problem. All you have to do is kiss
her the way I tell you to. Your Stud Plaything is sworn to sleep
with anyone who lays the secret kiss on her. Use it, and before you
can say 'let the good times roll,' they will be."

Hey, if God is talking to me, maybe I'm a
prophet or something. Yeah, that's it, a prophet who gets to screw
the Stud Plaything.

It was mid-April when he followed Betty-Jo
and her boyfriend off campus to their cottage. He was looking for
an opportunity to get her alone, so he could kiss her. He even made
up a little ditty. Richard Whittle, the prophet guru, kissed the
girls and made them screw. I'll be more famous than Georgie Porgie.
All Georgie ever did was 'kiss the girls and [make] them cry'.

He had only been waiting outside the cottage
a short while, when he heard Betty-Jo call her cat, but he didn't
think much about it until the voice gave him an idea.

"Everyone loves her pet," the voice said,
"and that includes your Stud Plaything. Terminating her cat would
pay her back for the way she humiliated you, and you can off the
cat with almost no risk of being caught."

Preparations to do in the cat took less than
an hour. A few catnip coated shrimp, a large gunnysack, a plastic
garbage bag, and a hatchet were all he needed. But Betty-Jo had to
be told who'd done in her animal, or why bother, and she had to be
told in a way that wouldn't allow her to prove he'd done it. He was
pleased when he came up with a plan to accomplish that.

Once the Stud Plaything knows it was me who
killed her cat, Richard thought, she'll wish she'd put out for me
when she had the chance.

Richard staked out the cottage again the next
day—waited for Betty-Jo and her boyfriend to leave—then let himself
into the back yard where PussCat was sunning herself on the deck.
When he tossed her a catnip coated shrimp she stood up, stretched,
and moseyed over to investigate. After she had devoured the first
shrimp, it was easy. He spread out the gunnysack, showed her
another shrimp, and placed it in the middle of the sack.

"Here puss, puss, puss," he said.

The shrimp-loving feline never even paused as
she bounded over. When she licked at the shrimp, he lifted the
sides of the gunny.

Bagging PussCat was easier than anticipated,
but what happened after that was unexpected. The gunny erupted, and
a shrill hissing came from it. He hammered at the sack with his
hatchet, but was unable to land a fatal blow, and the noise from
inside the sack became louder, and more pitiful. In desperation, he
picked up the sack, and slammed it against the brick wall of the
cottage. PussCat hit with a sickening thud, and a heartrending
yowl. He swung the gunny again. There was another sickening
thud—then silence. Quickly, he shoved the gunny into the plastic
garbage bag, and knotted it at the top. If the bloody cat isn't
dead already, he thought, it soon will be. He chucked the bag onto
the sundeck, and got out of there.

Goodbye
PussCat

Betty-Jo discovered the garbage bag when she
went to call PussCat for dinner. She untied the knot at the top of
the bag, but when she saw blood on the gunny, she called Brad.
Horrified, she watched as he opened the sack, and removed PussCat's
broken body. Even before Brad discovered the large, dead black
beetle, at the bottom of the garbage bag, she had guessed the
identity of PussCat's slayer.

Brad looked deathlike, and she felt
violated—her body pained all over, from the inside out. She and
PussCat were long past the animosity of their initial encounters.
They had become more than friends—they were family. I have to be
strong for Brad, she thought, but try as she might, she couldn't
be.

Brad picked up PussCat, cradled her in his
arms, and kissed her. Then he carried her inside to her bed in a
box.

"Goodbye my friend. I'll never forget you.
You were the finest pussycat ever."

PussCat opened her eyes, but only for a
moment.

"Merrow," she said, softly.

Brad rubbed behind her ear. The furball tried
to purr. Then she died.

Betty-Jo watched PussCat die with an empty,
horrid feeling, the likes of which she had never before
experienced, and never wanted to experience again. She went to her
lover, and pulled him tightly against her. He shook in her
arms.

I know his sorrow. I feel his pain. But how
can I help him, when I can't even help myself?

Brad placed PussCat's broken body gently on
the satin sheet, and wrapped it around her. "I told her...I told
her if she expected me to save her again, she had to pick on
someone her own size. What kind of animal would do something like
that to a pussycat?"

She leaned against Brad, and sobbed. She knew
the answer, but couldn't tell him—he'd kill the
son-of-a-bitch....

They buried PussCat the next day. Brad had
purchased the finest casket he could find—it was white pine with a
satin lining. Burned into the casket was the epithet—

* * *

BULL FIGHTING PUSSCAT

—
WITH ALL OUR LOVE—

Brad Tawny Cat

* * *

Betty-Jo didn't know why she signed the
epithet 'Tawny Cat'. It just felt right.

"I don't think PussCat cares what her casket
looks like," Brad said. "The person it matters to is me."

She squeezed his arm. "The persons it matters
to are us."

"I'm sorry Tawny," Brad said. "I'm not
thinking clearly."

They buried PussCat in her favorite corner of
the yard, under a shiny-leafed, lime-green umbrella-tree. That was
where PussCat had practiced her stalking technique on mice, and the
other small beasties who had tugged on her food chain.

Brad looked dejectedly at PussCat's casket.
"I was thinking about our first night together. Remember? You were
seducing me, and PussCat tried to save me."

She smiled a small smile, as the memories
returned. "She almost succeeded. I was furious. I wanted to string
my racquet with her. And she didn't give up. The next morning she
peed on you so you'd be unfit for my consumption."

"I'm sure PussCat would have appreciated your
eulogy. Would you also be willing to sing a hymn? I think Morning
Has Broken would be nice."

"I don't know if I can. I'll try." Her voice
broke frequently, as it rose, golden in the crisp morning air.

After the first verse, Betty-Jo stopped to
pull herself together. Brad wiped away her tears with his
shirtsleeve. Then she continued.

His voice quivering, Brad thanked Betty-Jo
when her song ended. "That was perfect, except, perhaps, for the
part about the blackbird. I suspect PussCat would have tried to
catch him."

She tried to find a smile, but couldn't.

"I can't stop thinking, that somehow, I
should have been there for PussCat when she needed me." Brad threw
a shovel-full of dirt onto the mouser's casket—then another. "Rest
in peace, dear friend," he said.

He doesn't want me to see him cry, she
realized. His eyes are dry but his voice is sobbing. Why do men
feel they have to be so stoical—such tough guys?

She hugged Brad hard, and dug her nails into
his back. "It's not your fault. It's one of those shit happens
things. There was nothing you could have done."

"I loved her," he said. "I loved that
furball."

"I know you did. And that's one more reason
why I love you."

He had worked to keep the tears at bay, but
his sorrow was too great, his loss too deep. His grief overwhelmed
him, and he cried in her arms.

"Thank you, Tawny Cat," he said, as he held
her close. "I couldn't have made it through this without you." He
turned, and head lowered, walked slowly back to the cottage.

With her hands trembling, and her tears
flowing, so she could hardly see, Betty-Jo carried on with
PussCat's burial.

The Dung Beetle scares me. More than anything
it's his God-forsaken, cold, black eyes. But I swear, I'll make
Dungie spend the rest of his life regretting what he did to
PussCat, to Brad and to me. Shit happens all right, but the next
time I see Dungie, the shit will be happening to him.

* * *

"I'm a genius," Venus told Old Hairball, as
she witnessed PussCat's death. "Having that cat terminated was an
inspired touch. It brings some much needed misery into The
Princess's bosomly-challenged life—before I snuff it out."

Tough
Love

Betty-Jo needed Tour experience before the
ITF Grand Slam U.S. Open in August, and Brad had freed up his
summer so he could be with her. Her first professional tournament
was the Liberty Open, and she was thrilled to be there—until she
lost her qualifying match. With that match, her dream crashed and
burned.

Brad held her while she sobbed in his
arms.

"I'll never play tennis again," she said.

He stroked her hair. "You shouldn't," he
agreed. "Let someone else win your majors."

"My majors? Are you totally dense? I can't
even make it through a qualifier!"

"You'll win your next qualifier for
sure."

"How can you say that?"

He grinned at her. "Because, if you don't,
you'll be driven to Mexico, tied naked to a stake, and fed to the
killer bees."

Betty-Jo still wanted to feel sorry for
herself, but how could she when Brad was making her laugh. "Not the
killer bees again?"

"And now we have to celebrate," he said.

"Celebrate! There's nothing to
celebrate!"

He grinned again. "We're celebrating your
first professional match, and many more to follow. Besides, I want
to enjoy the most desirable woman in the universe now—just in
case."

"Just in case what?"

"Just in case you lose again, and those
killer bees decide they love you as much as I do."

Back at Myrtle Beach, Brad suggested a number
of modifications to her game. But his ideas weren't always
appreciated, and one even resulted in her sleeping by herself in
the weight room.

He wanted her to practice with men who could
beat her. "After playing men who can run you ragged, your matches
against women will be a cake walk."

She easily found guys to play against; they
delighted in watching her move around the court. But the five-set
matches were grueling. "I'm sorry," Brad told her, "but long
practice matches will give you the stamina you need to go full out
for three sets in your matches against women."

He wanted her to switch from a mid-sized, to
an over-sized racquet head, but she refused.

"How long have you been playing with a
mid-sized?" he asked.

"For as long as I can remember."

"When metal and composite racquets were first
introduced, most of the stars refused to give up their woodies,
even though the new technology was clearly superior."

"I paid you for a history lesson?"

"Now we have a similar situation with the
over-sized head. When Prince introduced the bigger head, it was
obvious that they had a better mouse trap. The problem for the
other racquet manufacturers, was that Prince had patented the
better mouser."