The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) (44 page)

You reach the mouth of an alleyway close to the corner and a sudden sound cuts the silence, causing you to stop. You pull the furry hood back to listen. Must have been a cat, you think, or it sounded like one. An unhappy cat. Maybe a cat in pain. An image of Ruddie comes to mind and you squeeze closed your eyes for a second and shake your head, not wanting to think about that.

You glance down the alley but the dim lighting reveals nothing. It’s far too cold just to stand here so you hurry along and turn left at the corner, heading towards boulevard St Laurent.

Within a block, activity blossoms amidst the swirling white. It is normal for people here to wander around in storms and you have gotten used to going out to meet the necessities of life in all kinds of weather and finding shops, bars, restaurants, every place packed. This, you know, is
not
like Saskatchewan, where home and family is everything. But when family is gone, strangers remain. Brian used to say that strangers are “just friends waiting to happen”.

Traffic moves at a snail’s pace but the slim Montrealers manage a good clip despite icy sidewalks. You imitate their pace, grateful that you learned to ice skate at the age of five and walking the black-ice streets of Saskatoon felt natural. Montreal is so much further south. When your clients complain about the weather, you often tell them, “This is nothing. You should see life when everything is obliterated!”

The bar you favour is in the Plateau area. It is Saturday night, but early, and you will have enough time to drink yourself comatose before the crowds arrive. Drinking has become your hobby, a comfortable pastime, and Saturday is the only night you can indulge because the office is closed on Sunday. Brian used to say, “Never drink alone, Gena. It can’t lead anywhere good.” And you don’t. You drink with a crowd of strangers who, after all this time, are no closer to being friends.

Anton & James is a large resto-bar, cosy at this hour, and you have come here every weekend without fail for nine months. The bartender places your double Scotch, neat, on the oak bar without your asking, smiles and says, “How it’s going?”

“Fine,” you say, as you do every Saturday night, the ritualistic words exchanged as if they are a talisman that will ward off bad luck.

You know the bartender’s name is Rod – it says so on the pin attached to his shirt. He knows your name is Gena – your credit card gives away this vital statistic. That is enough familiarity, although you sometimes wonder what his life outside this bar is like. Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? Children? Is this his only job? You also wonder if he wonders about you.

The hours pass, the bar begins to fill, the music is cranked for the night, and you have tossed back the remains of your fifth drink. On cue, Rod rings up your tab and discreetly places the bill before you. Your credit card comes out of your coat pocket; within minutes you have punched in your code and left a generous tip on the hand-held credit card machine. You look in your glass but it is empty, stand on rubbery legs, slip into your coat and Rod says, “See you.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

And then you are out the door, trudging back up the street which is now as crowded as midday with laughing, energetic bar and club goers. Briefly you think of stopping for something to eat, but the thought of consuming anything solid evokes a touch of nausea and anyway you have soon turned the corner, shutting out the noise and traffic and clubs and restaurants, and eventually you are on your street.

Even before you reach the mouth of the alley, you hear a single, pitiful yowl. From the corner of your eye a dark form darts across your path. Startled, you jump back, skidding on a patch of ice, arms flailing to regain balance. “OK, OK,” you gasp, “it’s just a cat. Relax.”

You glance up the alley but don’t see the feline kamikaze. The back lanes of this city are full of strays and it breaks your heart that they live outdoors in such frigid weather. It is the one thing about Quebec that you truly detest, how animals are treated. Back home, there are shelters that take in homeless animals for the cold months, neuter them so they won’t procreate and produce more starving strays. Then they try to find homes for the cats and dogs, or at least foster care. Here, there are few shelters and they are all at capacity all the time. This shocking disregard for abandoned pets leaves you horrified. You have always loved animals. You had intended to become a vet, but last year’s events resulted in a change of plan. You cannot bear to think of any creature suffering.

By the time you gingerly climb the iced-up metal staircase that leads to your third-floor apartment, you are relieved to be headed indoors. You have the key in the lock when a ferocious shriek fills the night and causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end. It sounds like a cat being murdered. Maybe it is the cat that just raced across your path.

You cannot stop yourself. You hurry down the slippery spiral steps and return to the laneway, picking your way along it, making kissy sounds, calling, “Here, kitty. It’s OK, I just want to help you,” trying to hunt down the poor creature, hoping it’s not injured. If you can catch him or her, you’ll take the cat in for the night, despite the landlord’s “no pets” rule. In the morning, you can get the animal to the vet clinic in the building next to your office for a proper exam and whatever else is needed, then try to find it a home.

But, after four or five passes up and back along the lane, you discover nothing. Maybe, you think, the cat’s in heat. But it is the wrong time of year for that. And that cry was not a cat fight either. The sound was bone-chilling, worse than anything you’ve heard, even from the terrified feral tom that scratched you last month when you tried to pet him. It sounded like a creature being tortured. The thought of it makes your heart beat wildly and your stomach lurch.

It is only later, when you are snuggled in bed, the book you have been attempting to read in your drunken state lying cover-up on the quilt, the vague thought of turning out the light drifting through your mind as you build energy for this gargantuan task before your eyes close for the night, that you hear that screech again. You jolt upright. The cry is almost human. Is a murder taking place? You race to the window and throw it open. Arctic air blasts in, shocking you to wakefulness. Heart thudding, you listen intently but . . . nothing. The street is silent. About to close the window, you see what appears to be a huge dark shadow at the only part of the laneway visible from this angle. The shadow of a cat moves along the wall, but you cannot see the actual animal.

You debate with yourself about getting dressed and going down to hunt for the cat again, but, even inebriated, that strikes you as insane. It is 4 a.m. Tomorrow is your only day off and you have a million chores to do, errands to run. At least it’s alive, you rationalize. You will search for it tomorrow.

As you contemplate climbing back into bed, you think that it is curious not having actually
seen
the cat, just the shadow, because from here, you
should
have seen the cat making the shadow. A chill runs through you. You close the window too hard, shivering in the warmth of your bedroom, thinking, yes, you definitely should have seen the cat.

Sunday you are in and out of your apartment half a dozen times, and both coming and going you meticulously search the alleyway. There is no sign of a cat, no paw prints in the snow, no urination marks, no blood or tufts of fur from what might have been a battle. Nothing. The evening is quiet outdoors. Inside, you are trapped in a predictable phone conversation with your mother.

“Gena, I’m worried about you.”

“Mom, don’t be. I’m fine.”

“But you’re there all alone. You haven’t even made friends.”

“I’ve gotten to know Glenn, the part-time accountant I hired last month. And Rod.” You are stretching the truth with both of these men, especially the bartender.

“Are you dating Rod?” your mother wants to know, and you repress a sigh.

“Not exactly. I just see him occasionally.”

Your mother knows not to push you and segues to one of her other favourite subjects. “Well, that’s nice. I’m glad you’re making friends. When are you coming home for a visit? It’s been almost a year.”

“Maybe in the summer.”

“That’s a long ways away, Gena. What about Easter?”

“I’m really busy at the office and January to May is tax time, the busiest months. I’ve got to work six days a week to keep the bills paid.”

“Do you need money?”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m doing well, the business is growing, but a year isn’t long in accounting and I’m just getting known. I’m trying to build my clientele, get on solid ground. I need to feel secure.”

The pause at the other end alerts you to the fact that your mother is about to launch into her third favourite topic and you brace yourself for the onslaught.

“Your dad and I visited the grave last week.”

You don’t know what to say. What is there
to
say? But, of course, your mother is waiting for a response. “That was nice of you.”

“We had to re-cover the rose bush – the wind tore the burlap to bits.”

“Thanks.”

“Gena, Brian would want you to have a life.”

“I know, Mom.” You speak too quickly and too sharply and try to think of something to say to ease away from this topic and let you off the phone quickly. You attempt to soften what comes next. “I have a life. I’m doing OK.”

“There’s some sad news. About Ruddie. He died in his sleep last night, on the blanket you bought him. I thought you should know.”

Guilt eats through you like acid. The cat you and Brian loved is dead. You are stunned and something thoughtless erupts from your mouth: “He was an old cat.”

Your mother pauses a second. “Ruddie never stopped missing Brian. Or you.”

The acid guilt you struggle to keep at bay spreads up your chest to your heart. So much guilt! You must get off the phone. Now! “Mom, I’m sorry, I think that’s the doorbell, I have to go. I’ll call soon.”

Before she can respond, you hang up, feeling new guilt pile on top of the old. The moment your caring mother’s voice ceases, unwanted thoughts plague you.

You told yourself that Ruddie would be better off with your parents. He
was
an old cat, and it would have been heartless to put him through the journey across the country and subject him to a new environment. In Montreal, he would not have been able to roam outside the way he could at home. You knew you would be working a lot, building your business; Ruddie would have been alone all the time . . . But no. That is not the whole story . . .

Ruddie appeared the day Brian and I married. As Brian carried me across the threshold of our new house, both of us laughing happily, a sleek, black Hallowe’en cat slipped through the door and wove between Brian’s legs. The cat pranced around as if he lived there, tail straight up in the air, purring loudly; he clearly felt at home. Laughing, both of us bent down to pet him at the same time. It was three-way love at first sight. As I took the satiny-furred cat into my arms, his purring ratcheted up a couple of notches. Brian stood looking at the two of us, grinning, then said of the malnourished creature, “I guess we have a furbaby!”

We checked with the previous owners, and our new neighbours, but the cat’s home couldn’t be traced. It didn’t take long to fatten up the hungry stray. Brian named him Ruddie. “For absolutely no reason, but it feels right,” he said. I always called him Baby.

Once, while Brian was working in the back of the garden out of earshot planting a line of cedars to cut the wind, I took a tumble down the basement steps, strewing laundry everywhere and twisting my ankle badly. Ruddie arrived at my side, meowing in distress at my pain.

“Ruddie,” I groaned, tears leaking from my eyes, “if only you were a dog, I could send you to get Brian.”

As if he understood, Ruddie blinked his amber eyes once, turned and bounded up the cellar steps. I heard the cat flap swinging. Within minutes, Brian came at the back door calling my name.

“Down here!”

He found me at the bottom of the steps and sat hugging me while I sobbed.

“Do you think it’s broken?” he asked, gently probing the already-swollen joint.

“I don’t know if it’s broken or sprained, but it sure hurts. It’s lucky you came in when you did,” I sniffled.

“Ruddie told me something was wrong.”

“What?”

“The way he was acting . . . spinning in a circle, crying, like he was in pain. I thought he was having a seizure or something. I came in to get you to come outside and have a look at him.”

Just then, Ruddie raced down the cellar steps, purring. He pushed his way between us for a group hug, rubbed his head against Brian’s upper arm and then against my face. Brian and I laughed and nuzzled Ruddie back. That’s when Brian started calling him “St Ruddie the Rescue Kitty. Our personal St Bernard”.

With Brian’s death, it was the grief in Ruddie’s eyes that you could not bear and you know this is the biggest reason why you abandoned your beloved cat. And now Ruddie is gone, and you might be responsible. Did he die of grief? The grief of abandonment? You can understand that; you feel like both the abandoned and the abandoner and wonder why you wake every day, why you haven’t just died from a fractured heart.