In Grey Gardens

The overwhelming innocence of children.

          We had three cats. They were known as Steve, collectively. Steve was good for nothing aside from lolling about beneath the white arbor in the side garden, each grey body snugly side-by-side. Shortly after purchasing the property, I had taken a trip to the pet shelter in town in search of a big mouser, and instead was found by these three tabbies. They were each of them afraid of mice.

            Roland, my live-in verbal sparring partner, was allergic to cats. I told him, repeatedly, that if he couldn’t contain his sneezes whenever Steve was near, I would be forced to evict him from my cottage. Even if he was responsible for the porch and three bedrooms I’d acquired since he moved in. I simply would not stand for his constant watery expression.

            Steve, as it happened, was not, collectively, a male. Six months after I brought them home, Steve One and Three gave birth to four and five kittens, respectively. Roland came in from the barn one morning, a kitten in each hand, looking at me with his miserable, red eyes. For three days he muttered under his breath – obscenities he didn’t seem to mind that I heard – though his petulant demeanor was belied by his fondness for the babies Steve.

            Whom we called Roger, collectively.

            Things continued on in this fashion for a month, then two, until mid-August, when the garden was beginning to turn. Roger had grown, and was considerably livelier than Steve. It was a chore to watch over the smaller cats, as their parents had returned to the grass beneath the arbor almost as soon as the kittens could stand without toppling over. It was around this time that Roland and I had taken to spending our evenings on the front porch, facing the unpaved lane beyond the hydrangea bushes. We would sip at our too-tart lemonade and bicker over the layout of our future Eden. These evenings were always refreshing, and I could tell by the content tapping of his fingers that Roland felt the same.

            Dusk was languidly approaching on this particular evening. I sat on the edge of my cedar deckchair, elbows to knees, intently eying my companion. A handful of small tabbies wrestled on the grass before us. Roland’s lips were set in a priggish smirk, an expression which never failed to rile me. I had just opened my mouth to spout some cleverly-shaped retort when I heard it: a high-pitched, girlish squeal of something akin to delight. My eyes narrowed towards the iron gate along the lane. A small child – a girl, if my past experiences were correct – crouched in the dirt, arm stretched through the bars to get at one of the kittens. Roger shamelessly wrapped around her fingers, sleek tail flicking with evident pleasure. Beside me, Roland chuckled; our eyes met, and together we strolled down our path towards the gate, moving carefully so as not to scare off the cat. As if he’d leave when attention was so readily given.

            The girl looked up, blue eyes wide, at our approach. Her hair was the finest cornsilk, pulled back atop her head with a bright green elastic. Her little cheeks were pink. Roland kneeled beside Roger, who had sprawled on his back, presenting his belly; the child’s fingers remained motionless above him. After several seconds, she blinked.

            “What’s his name?” Her fingers scratched the impudent feline’s stomach.

            Roland smiled. “Roger. What’s yours?”

            “Carson.” A frown creased her fair brow. “What’re their names?” She nodded at the other kittens.

            “Roger as well.”

            “They’re all Roger?” she asked, incredulous. At Roland’s nod, the girl smiled. “That’s perfectly silly.”

            Chuckling, Roland shifted to sit on the grass. “How old are you, Carson?”

            “I’m seven years old,” she said proudly. “My birthday was four days ago.”

            “Do your parents know you’re running about the streets alone?” Even from where I still stood, I could see his raised eyebrow, and could not stifle a soft snort; but it was enough to capture the child’s gaze.

            “And who’re you, then?” she demanded. Before I could reprimand her for her insolent tone, Roland leaned closer, whispering, sotto voce:

            “His name is Charlie, and he’s frightfully mean.” An indignant response flew to my lips, but the girl beat me to it.

            “Is he?” She pressed closer to the gate, peering curiously up at me. “I think he looks more sad than mean. Maybe he needs a hug? That always makes me feel better.” My breath caught, and I staved off the threatening flush. Roland craned his neck back, grinning up at me. With extraordinary effort, I resisted the urge to kick his gleaming teeth.

            “It’s getting dark, child,” I said sternly. “Shouldn’t you be going home? Your mother’s probably worried sick.” I winced internally; I sounded just like my own bloody mother.

            “You’re probably right, Charlie.” She pulled her arm free of the gate, leaning back on her haunches to squint down the lane. “I was supposed to stay where I could see my house, but…” I tilted my head reproachfully at her.

            “Perhaps,” Roland said gently, “you could return some other afternoon.” I nudged his back surreptitiously with my foot. “With your mother’s permission.” Carson nodded, jumping to her feet and brushing the dirt from her knobby knees. With an easy wave, she started off down the lane, singing brightly to herself.

            As soon as she was out of sight, Roland eased to his feet, shooting me a predatory smirk.

            “If you so much as think of hugging me, Roland, I’ll fill your pillowcase with Steve’s dander.” Roland laughed out loud.

            “You could use it, Charlie. Even a child could see how sad you are.” Amusement colored his tone.

            “I am not sad,” I told him. At his disbelieving scoff, I added, “I’m bitter.”

 

            The child made her next appearance three days later, in the height of the afternoon. From her hand dangled a threadbare, one-eyed stuffed lamb. Roger sat as one at the gate, tails wagging metronomically. I was kneeling in the front garden, Roland hovering over me as he grumbled about my placement of the bulbs. I was just about to whip around and make some sort of vulgar threat when I heard her voice. Roland was already halfway across the lawn by the time I’d risen. Brushing the dirt from my palms, I joined the party at our front gate.

            Carson leaned over the gate, tickling each kitten’s ears with the tips of her fingers. When I stopped beside Roland, she looked up, grinning.

            “Roger is bigger!” she exclaimed. Indeed, the beasts were growing at an alarming rate, as evidenced by their seemingly bottomless food bowls.

            “Your mother gave you permission to visit?” Roland asked, though I could hear the smile in his voice.

            Nodding, the girl said, “She says I have to be back by five for supper.” Her attention was fixed unerringly on Roger. The cats, in turn, mewled imploringly at her; she giggled, pleased by their fascination with her. “I think Roger really is one cat,” she announced, nodding solemnly. “With nine bodies instead of lives.”

            “And you’ve not even met Steve,” Roland smiled.

            The girl’s eyes glittered. “You mean there’s more?”

            “Of course there’s more, child. But Steve is old and surly, and would most probably not be a friend to you.” Carson’s smile grew at my words, and already I knew what was coming.

            “Like you, is he?” I had to fight to keep myself from becoming incensed – she was a child, a mere babe, and yet so remarkably perceptive.

            Roland’s eyes narrowed mischievously as he knelt down, eye to eye with the girl. “Oh no, dear girl, not at all like Charlie, because I’d say you’ve already made him your friend.” The two glanced at me conspiratorially. I tried my best to sneer, but there was nothing for it – my heart wasn’t in it. “And now, I think you should run on home; I can hear your mother calling.” Carson craned her neck, face falling when she heard it too.

            “I can come back tomorrow?” she asked eagerly. She nervously tugged a lip between her teeth.

            “Of course, but with –“

            “—mother’s permission. Yes of course.” Beaming, she waved, skipping off down the lane. Roland levered himself up, eyes crinkling at me.

            “I’m getting too old for this.” I raised a humorless eyebrow.

 

            There was little warning for it, but when Roland became ill, I hardly left his beside. It began with a heart-wrenching weakness that left him bed-ridden. He would make light jokes, trying anything to get me smile, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If he couldn’t admit – he was dying, that was it. He would leave me behind, devastated, and I did not have time for trivialities, when I was trying to find it in myself to forgive him. When he lost the ability to speak, he also lost the ability to smile – and I my ability to live.            I was unsure whether Carson had made any other appearances. It was cruel – to Roland, to me, to the girl – to confine myself to this stuffy room; Roland said so often enough. As was my custom, I ignored him, and laid a cool cloth across his face.

            It happened on the first sunny day of the spring. Bloody birds were singing as I wept beside his still form. His eyes, glassy and dull, stared out at me , and as I slid a hand out to close them, I heard her: her dainty voice calling up from the front gate. My chest constricted. There was no way I could –

            My feet, as rebellious as ever, had other ideas. They carried me from the bedside of a dead man, and into the gardens. I halted, feet from the gate. Steve and Roger were nowhere to be found. At the sight of me, the child’s face became immediately sedate. I watched helplessly as she reached a scrawny arm over the gate and flicked the catch. It swung open with a mournful howl. She crossed the lawn in sure, deliberate steps, stopping when our toes met. The air around us went still; she blinked up at me and I held my breath. What she did do, then, was the one thing which could have kept me from going to pieces: her serious eyes held with mine, and she took my hand, squeezed. My eyes closed tight, and I pressed back hot tears.

            “He’s like Roger,” she said sternly. I breathed out a harsh breath. “He’s just gone to find his other self, is all.”

            My heart thudded; so perceptive.

 

 

Reviews

[Lynx]

Gawd I really, really liked this story.
Sometimes a child's innocence can be really, really rewarding.
I wonder what happened to the cats though.