Meow?
She started and turned to the window. A cat was outlined on the sill outside. It called in a tiny questioning voice, as if asking if she was all right.
Should she let it in? She didn’t want to encourage it, but suddenly she felt relieved that some other creature knew she was alive. The window opened reluctantly in jerks and jolts. The screen screeched a protest as she raised it. The cat slipped in without touching her, like a shred of fog detached from the night. With the cat came a faint smell that reminded Zoë of the garage at home—slightly musty with a tang of gasoline. She eyed the cat suspiciously, but it didn’t look dirty.
“Are you hungry?
” she asked as the cat explored the room at its leisure, tail high, eyes bright, intelligent, and inquisitive. She could now see that this was a female cat. What did she have for a cat to eat? Zoë carried the candle to the tiny kitchen, and darkness closed in behind her. She opened a can of tuna and dumped it into a saucer, liquid and all. She returned to the living room, candle in one hand and saucer in the other, like some patron saint of cats.
In the flickering light she saw the cat rub her cheek against the frame of the painting. The tabby strutted in front of the picture and rubbed her jaw on the other side of the frame. Back and forth she wafted, rubbing and purring. “It’s not yours,” said Zoë, knowing a little about how cats marked their territory, “and you might knock it over if you keep that up.”
Zoë put the dish of tuna on the hearth. “Look, I’ve brought you dinner.”
The cat sniffed the tuna, looked up at Zoë as if amused, and turned her back on the saucer.
“I guess you’re not a stray,” said Zoë, feeling somewhat peeved at the rejection.
The cat found one of the cushions on the floor and kneaded it with enthusiasm, treading her pleasure to the rhythm of her purr. She climbed on board, turned three times, and settled down in a stripy ball. She closed her eyes with a trill.
Zoë’s ire melted away. “I guess you’re staying the night,” she said, grateful for the company. “I’m closing the window. It’s cold in here.”
What else did a cat need? She took the lid from a box of books under her desk and tore up a section of yesterday’s newspaper into it. “I hope this works for a litter box, cat,” she said, “else I’m in trouble with the landlady.” She lit her way to the bathroom with the candle and laid the box lid next to the claw-foot tub.
From the bathroom door she saw the tabby on her feet once more, walking toward the painting now hidden in the gloom at the edge of the candle’s reach. Zoë was startled to see the little wisp of gray wander into the canvas and back out again. I must be tired, she thought. I’m seeing things. She decided to go to bed.
† † †
Zoë woke in the night as suddenly as if someone had spoken her name. There was a weight at the foot of the bed. The cat? As she rose on her elbow her quilt slid away and the chilly air stung her neck like a bite. Her breath caught in her throat.
Simon sat on her bed. Not the baby in the painting, but the youth she had known—pale hair, black jeans, leather jacket—beautiful in a light that couldn’t exist. The tabby cat was in his lap, purring. His long white fingers stroked her gently; a smile played about his lips.
She yearned to reach for him but was afraid that he would vanish if she did.
He looked up from the cat. “More than once I was sure that love had abandoned me forever,” he said in a voice she had thought never to hear again. “I was always wrong. A little cat showed me that. You showed me that too.”
The cat stood up and swatted him with a paw to regain his attention. Simon chuckled and tickled the cat behind her ears. An unbearable sweet longing ached in Zoë’s chest.
“And we never truly lose the ones we love,” he said. “We find each other eventually. See? Grimalkin found me. We’ll be together again.” He bent and kissed the cat’s nose. “Don’t fret, Zoë. Don’t let yourself be lonely.” His voice caressed her.
Warmth like a blanket of love wrapped around her, and she laid her head back on her pillow and embraced the dream.
† † †
Zoë woke on Christmas morning to an empty apartment. She couldn’t find the cat anywhere. But the window’s closed, Zoë thought. The cat couldn’t get out. Was there a hole in the wainscoting? Was there a hiding place she didn’t know about? Finally she gave up looking and sat amid the cushions to open her present from her father.
She held up a gray cashmere sweater, as soft as the cat’s fur might have been. (She realized now that she had never touched the little cat.)
Beyond the sweater, something caught her eye. She lowered the garment slowly, her mouth dry.
The painting had changed.
That was impossible.
But there on the table where the vase had been sat a tabby cat where there had been no cat before. The vase lay broken on the floor, and baby Simon reached for the tabby, laughter on his face.
Grimalkin. Simon had called her Grimalkin last night. The warmth of the dream came flooding back.
“I never knew you loved a cat,” she whispered, and tears pricked her eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her hand. “She’s found you now—what a patient little thing.”