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Display a printable version Cats and Dogs and Maybe a Pig
That night Liz was draped over my couch. She was purring about my movie collection, wiggling just right—cat-stretching in a triangle of sun. She had on a black leather halter, thigh-high striped tights, and the smallest strip of red miniskirt I've ever seen. It was more a sash—something to cover her only when she stood still. She wasn't standing. My father was gone for three days. Liz had been in my room for fifteen minutes. Long enough to shuck her coat and twist my heart. A dark goddess, she was mine for the night. Liz said, with her dripping eyes painted dark, "We need popcorn. Make us some, and I'll pick the movie." I didn't want to go outside. Going downstairs was bad enough. Just leaving the room hurt. I had to go out to the shop. And, of course, it was raining. Through the mudroom, out into the rain, across the driveway to the shop. That was no problem. It was standing in the roof-gathered waterfalls while I tried to open the damned shop door that really did me in. Opening and closing that door is an ordeal. It's the original front door of our hundred-year-old house. There's a big pane of glass that's not set right, and it threatens to rattle itself apart each time you open or close it. I left it open a lot. I left it open not long ago. My dad closed it sometime around midnight, and I heard about it over breakfast. I told him to fix it. He mumbled about character, and respect, and animals pooping on his art supplies, and his coffee being burnt, and went back to reading the paper. When I finally got the door open my shirt was soaked. The top of my pants, too. I flicked on the dim light, and hopped toward the microwave. It was tucked in the back of the long shop, on a shelf near boxes of nuts and nails, assorted wires, and a teetering pile of Styrofoam. Halfway there I smelled cat pee. The shop was filled with the stench. The old purple couch at the back was a wreck. Bits of shop junk from the wall behind it, bottles displayed in the high windowsill, wire bundles, a few rusty old tools, a broken picture frame—were scattered across the couch and floor. I went to the mess, tossing my popcorn toward the microwave. It seemed the couch was the source of the smell. I bent near to be sure, eyeing the broken glass on the cushions. I gagged. A cat had sprayed the couch. Obviously, it had come in when the door was open. But I hadn't been in the shop since before my dad left. Two days before. That meant— Something moved. I snapped my head toward the side room. The cat was there, on the woodworking table. It was a cat I knew. It was a big stray—black and white, with long matted fur, scared mean green eyes, and wild wariness of humans. I'd caught it lurking around in our yard several times. It had always bolted when it saw me. I didn't like it. When I saw it, and it froze, I pointed and yelled, "You!" The cat went insane. It's ears flattened and it started hissing and spitting. It jumped from the table, bounded, and threw itself straight at me. I tossed my hands up, and caught its bite with the web of skin between my thumb and finger. The cat's claws dug into my chest, ripping the wet shirt, sticking in my skin. It was moaning around its teeth in my hand. Its front claws tore at my face. My forehead burned with razor cuts. I staggered into the couch, falling into shards of glass and damp cat pee. My back was cut, my ass, and then my thigh. Part of a bottle stuck in my leg. I cut my hand pulling it out. The cat tore at my face. I flung it into the low coffee table in front of the couch as it hissed and spit and howled. It didn't let go of my hand, but dug its hind claws into the table—flipping itself upright and twisting my arm. It's needle teeth dug at the bones in my hand, scraping and sticking, and exploding pain up through my arm. Up went my hand, and smash! Into the table went the cat. It was hair and claws and a grinding bite. The cat yowled as I drove it into the table again. It tore at my arm, biting even harder. I brought down my fist on its head. The cat let go with a scream, spat at me with wide, mad eyes, and dashed itself into the nearest window. It fell onto the microwave, clattered to the floor and shook its head. "Hey!" I yelled. It looked at me, furious. I pointed toward the open door at the front of the shop. Rain flew in and dampened the mat at the entry. "Use the fucking door!" And it did. With narrowed eyes, it turned and ran out the door. *** I stood in the shop, hating that cat. I couldn't wipe the blood out of my eyes. I had glass and piss, and fur and spit on my hands. My left hand was throbbing, and felt like it was swelling. I was soaked in cat pee. Not just regular pee, either. Wild tomcat spray. My back screamed. My thigh bled. I knew I'd really ache when I went back inside to Liz. When I told her how a cat attacked me, and she saw what it had done to me. And there would be tomorrow, when my wounds would really hurt. And my dad would come home the day after that. I stared at the open door. I hated that cat. I figured that my night was ruined. I'd return to my room smelling like the worst urine, beat up by a cat. Not sexy. Not cool. *** Liz is cool. She's crazy, but cool. Liz was my father's girlfriend. They've been broken up for almost a year. He's still in love with her. I've just always wanted to fuck her. Liz doesn't fuck anyone. She dated my dad for two years, and I don't think they had sex once. I can see how it happens. You should see the guys who throw themselves at her. You should see what she gets, just for being Liz. Men my dad's age—Liz is twenty-four—pay for her meals, her mortgage, her too-hot clothes. They fly her to boutiques, and salons, they hand over catalogues for jewelry, for striped tights, for vacations. And she never does more than be removed. That, and show her body. Like on my couch, waiting for me. The best secret of my life. I'd lusted after Liz long before my dad met her. Every thirteen-year-old boy at my school knew about Liz. A crazy, sexy senior—she sold ecstasy and threw the first raves in town. She danced. Rumors swept junior high like chum-filled waves—she belonged to a satanic sex cult, she seduced teachers, and parents, she sucked blood—you name it. Rumors followed her since. They followed her when she moved into the house behind us. When she started dating my dad. When she disappeared for days on end, or left suddenly for somewhere like Budapest. When packages arrived at night. Rumors. I wanted to cut through them. Unfurl her mystery. I'd been at it for years. *** Liz jumped when she got a good look at me. She'd been lying purposefully on my couch, one leg over the arm, that strip of skirt riding high enough to show me how the night was going to go. The smoky expectance melted from her eyes when she saw me. It was replaced—just for a flash—with bright fire, and then pouting concern. "What happened?" She came to me. I didn't want to say it. I looked down, into her shadow-rose cleavage. "A wildcat was stuck in the shop. It freaked out on me. I fell in cat pee. And broken glass. It scratched my face." I looked to her face. "It sure did." She frowned her puckered lips. "Let's clean you up." She helped me into the bathroom and out of my sopping shirt. She pulled off my pants and spun me around. New pain erupted and I howled. Liz danced around to face me. She held a long sliver of bloody green glass. "Yikes. Get in the shower." She slid out of the room. She came back while hot water turned my bathroom to steam, the smell of cat pee grew faint, and the blood going down the drain became more pink than red. I was aching for her return. She slid open the shower door, and I saw she was naked. "Turn around," she said. "I… You… Oh, Liz… Oh god, you are so fucking—" "Dude, turn around." She stepped into the shower. "What?" She pushed me around. "These wounds on your back and legs are bad. There was cat pee in them. I need to clean them with this disinfectant." She kicked my legs apart. "With what?" "Lysol." Liz pushed me out of the water. She poured it onto my back. She wrestled me against the tile while I tried to tear the bottle from her hands and she dumped it on my ass. I was screaming. So were the cuts on my body. Disinfectant fumes were in our eyes. I wanted back under the water. When she let me go, I pushed her into the door. She crashed to the floor and smacked into the back of my knees. I fell. I woke up in my bed. Liz was beside me, sleeping. She was wearing only her tights. Pain met me one second after that realization, and I soon woke her with a shout. Her breath was in my ear. "Shhh. It's okay. You're alright." I tried to sit up, but Liz pushed me back. "Stay," she said, getting out of bed. I couldn't help but watch her pad across the room and out the door. Pain shook me, and her ass riding above those striped tights shook me more. Her hair, spilled down her back, her perfect saunter. And when she came right back through the door, her ski-slope breasts. I tried to look away. I sat up. She had a cup of coffee, and a tube of medicine. "For waking up, and getting rid of the pain." She handed me the coffee and sat next to me on the bed. She squirted cream onto her fingers, and leaned around my back, spreading the salve on the wound. I felt sharp pricks as her fingers smoothed across the cut, little pokes like stubble. "What's that?" "I stitched you up last night." She sat up and looked at me. "Drink your coffee." I did. She pulled the sheet off of my lap and I saw my thigh. It was purple. The cut was big, and sewn shut with coarse black thread. "It's the real stuff. I got it from a doctor." I didn't ask her why. Her fingers were hot. I noticed her near-nudity again. I saw her nipples were hard, the top of her pubic hair showed above the rumpled sheet. "Up here," she said, and I shot my gaze to her waiting eyes. She smirked a little. "Lay down and roll over, the one on your ass is pretty bad, too." "I must have hit my head pretty hard." I laid down on my stomach. She bent over me. "I thought you might not wake up. 'Specially after you slept through all the sewing. I'd only just gone to sleep when you yelled." "Oh, I'm sorry." I tried to look at her. "You should go back to sleep. I'm okay now. And thank you. I'm so embarrassed." She slapped my good thigh. "I'm taking care of you today. Right now I'll make some breakfast." "Okay. Hey, about that cat last night… The one that attacked me." I sat up. Liz stood. "You met Max." I started. "You know that cat? Black and white, big, shaggy?" "Yeah. It's Max." "I've only seen him around recently. Is he yours? Did you take him in? He looks wild." Liz frowned. "Hmm. Yeah, I guess he does look a little wild. He's had a hard time lately. Poor Max. I'm sorry he attacked you." Her eyes batted at me. She slinked toward the door. "He'd probably been in there for two days." I felt suddenly guilty. "He bashed himself into the window a few times. I hope he's okay." "I'm sure he's okay." Her tights took her down the hall. Max? It was familiar. Maybe she'd talked about him. She did seem to collect animals. *** The cat spoke to me. "Fool." He smashed his head into the window. And again—thud! "Fool!" Max ran at the window, and rammed his head through the glass. But only his head went through. His throat caught, and his body jerked—trying to pull itself back inside. Blood shot across the wall. The cat tugged, and twitched, and finally hung by a spear of window, kicking and clawing with dead-brain muscle. *** Liz was in bed with me. She was hot beside me, thrown across my naked hip—a silken, striped leg slipping me awake with soft promises. The twitching cat dream faded. Liz moved her leg—rubbing me. Years of pent need exploded. The pain in my body was washed away by burning blood. I grabbed her thigh, pulled it around me, and picked Liz up to meet me. She awoke, not completely shocked. She bucked against me—wet, bare, open. I tore at her tights, twisting her to me. "Vance! No!" I held her as she fought. "I have to have you. You know that. You came here for this. You came here for me!" I couldn't stop. Anger and desire were one. Years of planning the sweet screaming moment pressed through me. "I did. I came here for you. But I changed my mind. I want to save you." The cat flashed through my mind. Scratching me. Killing itself. "It's too late for that, Liz." She squirmed under me. "No. Don't do this." "This is what you do to all of those poor old fuckers. You get them all ready to go, and then you call it off when they're over the top. You make them crazy. You make them fuck you. Is that how you get your pretty things?" Spit flew out of my mouth onto her lip. "You're sick, Liz." I pulled her toward me again. "Vance! Don't." She clawed at me. I thought of the cat. I looked into her eyes. "Stupid pussy." She stopped struggling. Her eyes hardened. Liz's tights wrapped themselves around me. She reached down, rolled her hips, and pulled me into her. "Fine, then," she sneered. "Fuck you." *** Liz's latest boyfriend came to pick her up today while I was with her in her backyard. I watched him across the lawn, as she slipped through the grass to meet him. He handed over a clutch of orchids, and wrapped himself around her—crushing the flowers. I didn't like the guy. He was out for her unattainable ass, just like everyone else, and blatant about his ambition. An obvious pig. I figured I'd better go see her off. Maybe give the guy a good stare. I sauntered over as they went through the sliding glass door into the kitchen. Liz shut the door right on my face. I glared at her. She slid open the door, but just a crack. The guy appeared behind her, gawking at me. Liz said, "You stay in the backyard." She patted my head. Her date just stared at me. Liz scratched me all over, even slipping her hand to my belly. The guy said, "What the hell is that thing, anyway?" I growled. Liz snapped her head back to shoot the dude a look. She pet me a little too hard. "Vance is a hairless Chihuahua, you clod." She bent and kissed my nose. "Good boy, Vance. You stay here." As she shut the door, I heard the latest idiot in the Liz Parade say, "Looks like a rat." Oink it up, pig boy. I'll piss in your shoe later.
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| Last updated on 1/14/2008 9:01:58 PM by Jennifer Brozek |
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| Other documents at this level: 22 - The Valley 23 - The Protest of Emmanuel Jenkins 24 - Squirm 25 - Hotter Than Hell 26 - Rug of War 27 - Birth of a Hunter 28 - Lonely Cries the Winter Wind |
My dad hates microwaves. He doesn't like his food exploded from the cellular level, and he's quite fond of asserting that fact. This has always made my life more difficult. Until I was nine, there wasn't even a microwave in the house. Well, there's not really one in the house now. There's one in the workshop. If I wanted something like popcorn, I had to go out to the shop—with its nails and spiders and overpowering wood stain smell—and hop around on the cold concrete while I nuked it. That's what I was doing the night that Liz came over.
Kevin Shamel is in his thirties, married, has two kids, a dog and a cat, and lives in a haunted (but not scary) old house in the Pacific Northwest. He spends his days staring out the window, playing with the aforementioned critters, and writing. Before he settled down, his days were spent gaining every strange experience he could gather. Beside The Edge of Propinquity, you can find his tales in All Possible Worlds and Withersin magazines. You will rarely find him speaking (or writing) about himself in third person because it's a very odd practice, even for him. You can sample more of his oddness at