George died a horrible death. Cancerous nodules riddled his body. They lodged in his lungs, in his throat, and on his bones. The pain was excruciating. Eloise, unable to bear the weight of his agony, pumped him full of morphine until his breathing slowed and stopped altogether.
Eloise called hospice. The nurse came and confirmed that George was dead. They called the undertaker who came in due course and, finally, it was over. The nurse stayed long enough to offer Eloise the remaining anti-anxiety medications that had once been George’s. He was doped up enough so that the fear of dying became remote, a hazy notion through a drug-induced fog. Eloise thanked the nurse and waved her off.
When the house was once again quiet, Eloise went out into the backyard. There, in the full light of the moon, she smoked a cigarette and wondered what she should do now. For months she had done nothing but take care of George. Now what?
From the bushes at the side of the house came a small squeak. The squeak repeated several times, at length penetrating Eloise’s consciousness enough she recognized the sound as a meow. She went to the bush to investigate. Stooping down, she saw a small kitten hiding among the twigs and leaves. The small creature meowed again and turned its big round eyes up to her.
Eloise snuffed out her cigarette in the dirt and reached into the bushes and picked up the kitten. She held it up to her breast and lowered her face to its head. The kitten purred. Precious little thing, she thought. Then something crawled from the cat to her throat. Fleas! “Hell,” Eloise cursed. She held the cat out away from her body and looked at it. Its hind legs dangled. Its head seemed to wobble. “You have fleas!” she accused.
In the house, she ran warm water in the kitchen sink, added mild dish soap, and then dunked the little creature. The kitten struggled, but Eloise was the larger animal and she prevailed. She thoroughly washed the kitten, dried it, and combed it with a fine-toothed comb that caught all the remaining fleas and eggs in its teeth. The little kitten was flea free at last.
In the days that followed, Eloise planned the funeral, called the relatives, and played host to people who came to visit her. It seemed like everyone wanted to drop by the house to offer their condolences. Where were you, Eloise wondered silently, when I was struggling to care for my dying husband? But she never asked them that. Instead, she smiled and thanked them for coming. Then cursed them as they drove away.
She was angry about everything. Angry that her young husband had died of cancer. Angry that he died before they had children. Angry that it left her with a mountain of medical bills she could never hope to pay off.
The stream of visitors dwindled to no one. For days on end it was only Eloise and the little kitten in the house. Eloise let the television run on the Nickelodeon channel around the clock, the volume turned low so that the television never bothered her. She couldn’t quite make out the dialogue that was being spoken, but the sound of canned laughter always came through, tinny and false. She rarely watched the television. Instead, she puttered around the house, packing this and that. Labeling boxes for storage, give to Goodwill, or take to dump. Canned laughter cutting through the air. Every time she heard it, every time it reached past her wall of grief and caught her heart, she scoffed. Life is so very, very funny.
When she wasn’t packing, she wandered from room to room, touching a table here, opening and closing a cabinet there. Mindless movements inspired by a muddled mind.
Through all the packing and the wandering, the little kitten stayed with her. Most of the time the cat sat on her shoulder, often wrapping itself around her neck. The little creature purred and purred. It slept on her pillow at night. It sat beside her plate when she ate. Eloise hadn’t gone to the store for cat food, so the kitten ate what she ate. Tuna salad for lunch, cheerios with milk for breakfast, and unidentifiable frozen entrees for dinner. Eventually, Eloise knew, she would have to go to the store. Eventually, she would have to rejoin society. Eventually.
When there was nothing left of George’s things to pack, Eloise took to her bed. The little kitten slept with her. They slept for days. Once the kitten left and came back dragging a cellophane of saltine crackers and dropped them by her face. Eloise nibbled on a cracker and rubbed behind the kitten’s ears.
And then one day she got up. She took a shower, washed her hair, and put on jeans and a tee shirt. She had worn nothing but a grimy sweat suit for days on end. It felt good to shower and dress. Outside, the sun was shining. She sat in the Adirondack chair that George had made in his wood shop and raised her face to the sky.
It wasn’t until later that night she realized the little kitten was gone. She searched the house. Then she searched the yard. No little kitten. She tore out the bush where she had found the kitten. No kitten.
In time she got on with her life; without George, without the kitten.