The Stray

Her eyes wouldn’t open for another few days. She was still small enough to fit in Mikey’s hand, and though the first three days had been grueling, sleepless nights and bottle feedings had begun to wear him down; he loved the little kitten nonetheless. She was like a spot of light playing peek-a-boo through the Oklahoma clouds, and since the moment he found her, he knew his life had been forever changed. His smiles were a bit wider; his caring, slightly more sincere. She was a desert rose, and it was his privilege just to watch her grow.

But this morning, something had changed.

Mikey eased off the top bunk as always. He tiptoed through the trailer so he wouldn’t wake up his dad or his brother. He’d done that on the first night, and the old man had been furious – it was a mistake he was quick to avoid making again.

As he stooped over the baby, eyes straining to make out the details of her face in the unlit morning, he felt a weight slam into his chest. It was as if his heart, and every emotion it contained, had fallen from its supports and crashed somewhere in his gut. He scooped her from the cardboard box, holding back the lump building in his throat.

The kitten hardly stirred in the boy’s hands. Saliva matted her whiskers, and bubbles formed on her lips with every labored breath. Mikey felt a wave of adrenaline tear through his veins. His heart pounded the inside of his ribcage – thump-thump, thump-thump, it echoed in his ears. Sleep be damned – he would do whatever it took to keep her alive.

He held the baby to his chest, the rhythm of his heart making her head jump slightly.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

She let out a mournful, groaning whine as he prepped the formula.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

His hand was shaking such that twice he had to restart the process. By the time he settled at the table, formula spilled in puddles across the counter, her breathing had started to wane.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

As he pressed the rubber nipple to her lips, he said a silent prayer.

*

“I told you that cat wouldn’t make it without its mother,” Henry said. He was Mikey’s five years older brother, and whether from pride or a result of first-child syndrome, he had taken to saying what needn’t be said.

“Stupid idea anyway,” Henry continued as he absent-mindedly practiced his baseball swing, broom in hand, chaw in mouth. “It probably got left behind ‘cause its mom knew it was defective.”

“She,” Mikey corrected, his voice flat.

Henry’s face twisted. Had it been any other day, Mikey would’ve laughed at the reaction. He would have said some smart remark that made his brother flush, and the two would have rolled through the kitchen, kicking and punching at each other until Dad woke up and swatted them both, then sent them outside to work. But not this time. He was too exhausted to laugh; too hurt to find the humor in his brother’s foolishness. Anger welled in the young boy’s chest, and this time, it was Mikey’s face that flushed.

“She,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes already welling with tears. “Her name was Socks, and she was a girl.”

Before Henry could fire back, a thick hand came to rest on Mikey’s neck. The smell came next – stale beer and cigarette smoke, the faintest touch of some foreign aroma. Skunk spray, maybe. The cologne followed their dad everywhere like an omen. Like a red sunrise.

“Fix your face, boy.” The baritone voice said from behind. It was filled with gravel, still thick with sleep, and the slur in his voice told Mikey his old man could still feel the night before. He shoved back the tears at Henry’s command. It was unspoken, subtle, but earnest in its plea.

“The hell is going on out here?” Dad asked.

Mikey sniffed; the hand tightened. His dad despised weakness, thought it was something reserved for women and babies, but his grip had hit a nerve. Pain ripped through Mikey’s neck and settled in his shoulders. He felt himself shrug away from it. The hand loosened, but only for a moment before it returned to meet the back of his head. The force of it sent Mikey sprawling into the table.

Henry yelled. His Dad growled.

Mikey lay on the floor, half cradling his head and half covering his ears. He didn’t have to look to see that a picture had been shattered, or to know whose nose sprang a leak with enough force to reach their living room carpet. He had seen it plenty of times before. His dad was a big man, and he was tough. Mikey knew his brother would quit eventually. His dad would be tired by then, but not too tired to spare punishment. After all, it was Mikey’s fault for making him angry.

*

Digging holes in the Oklahoma heat was hard; it was harder with a headache and bruised ribs. Henry helped – he left before the funeral, but said, “She’s better off than us” before he limped away, which made Mikey smile. Before he left, Mikey picked a handful of flowers to plant on the grave, nothing more than Indian Paintbrush and Fleabane. He knew they wouldn’t last long in the dry soil, but they would be pretty for the next few days, and that was enough.

He made it back to the trailer shortly after dark. It was empty inside, peaceful, so he helped himself to the leftover soup and packed a change of clothes. He had no idea where he would go – no idea where Henry went. But, he knew North and he knew South, and he remembered his aunt lived in Fort Worth, and she always went to church and wore dresses and smiled. And he figured she wouldn’t mind if he brought home a stray kitten once in a while.