ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maggie Nerz Iribarne (age 55) lives in Syracuse, NY. She writes about witches, cleaning ladies, struggling teachers, neighborhood ghosts, and whatever else strikes her fancy.

She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.

Not An Animal Person

Garvey, the landlord who opened the door, was no spring chicken himself, shorter than me, hunched and gnarled. A wild puff of white hair emerged from a chasm of baldness. Instead of a hello, he grunted.

“I don’t like this one bit. First I gotta put up with her, a homeless person with a home. Now this,” he said. 

The stairwell was a deep turquoise, dark drips stained its walls. I gripped a rickety wooden railing, passed a series of doorways, guarding what I imagined were uninhabited apartments. Breathless, I followed a thin shaft of light streaming from above.  

Harriet Schultz stood at the top of the stairs beside her open door. 

Her face was a mask of rubbery layers of skin draping from her skull. She wore garish pink lipstick which missed her lips in spots, leaked onto her chin, cheeks. My late mother’s own blurried mouth flashed then retreated. 

“I’m Margaret,” I said. 

“Weird hair,” she said, examining my cropped locks.

I followed her into the sitting area, noting the dirty strands of grey hair colluding at her shoulders.

The afternoon light came through splattered front windows. 

An unpleasant moth bally plus old food smell pervaded. I contained a rising sick panic. 

Her pants were pilly polyester, a white stain on her left thigh.  She wore a tank top. Large moles mushroomed from weathered skin. Her breasts hung low, braless. 

A hot flash overcame me.

I removed my coat. 

“Hot in here, huh?” 

Her laugh was kind of a HA-haaaaaaaaaaaa-guttural, low, rising up at the end. 

I tried to smile, to laugh along, but could only fold inward, press my lips together. 

I took in the whole of the apartment. 

Cats. Pictures of cats lining the walls, shelves, even the ceiling.  Cats cut from magazines, books, labels, obviously wherever Harriet could find them. 

“Do you have a cat?” I asked.

“Can’t take care of myself, why’d I have a cat?” she said.

She plopped on a cluttered couch. Her large age-spotted hands spread on her legs. 

“The social worker said you might like me to read to you,” I said, taking a surreptitious glance at my watch.

Her ice blue eyes narrowed.

“Planning your escape? Can’t blame you,” she said. “Well, go ahead, read this.”

She handed over a book, James Herriot’s cat stories. 

***

Three days after the funeral, once my sister was out of the house and headed back to California, I walked robotically to the kitchen, grabbed several large garbage bags, and began disposing of Sam’s clothing and belongings. It felt right, sensible. With everything gone, then I could move on. Sweating, guilt panged, like Sam’s body was in those bags, I lugged them to the elevator. In the basement I pitched all remnants carrying my husband’s scent and cells into a dumpster. 

Months later gifted zitis lingered in my freezer. Hunched on a bar stool, I faced one, half cooked. The fork felt heavy in my hand as I forced sauced pasta into my mouth. Intermittently, I took small sips of red wine to wash it down. 

I recalled handing Sam his cocktail, a Manhattan, on so many nights of our marriage in this apartment, this room. His easy smile, always directed at me. 

“Thank you, my darling.”

What would Sam think of this empty place he once called home? 

Would he have thrown away all of my things so soon?
I was always the colder one, a known fact. 

He knew my history, loved me all the more. 

***

The next visit at Harriet’s she answered the door buck naked.  Her fleshy stomach’s moles matched those on her shoulders, arms. 

“Oh!” all I could say. 

“Bet ya didn’t expect this,” she said. 

“Shall I get you a robe or something?” I asked. 

She sniffed. “If you’re uncomfortable.”

“It’s just, I worry you might be cold.”

“In here? It’s hotter than hell.”

“Shall I read again?” I asked. 

She dropped onto the sofa, flabby layers descending. 

I looked down at the floor, observing her excessive bunions, steep mountains sprouting from the sides of her big toes. In this setting my fancy running shoes seemed equally bizarre. I didn’t run. I had no idea why I owned such shoes. 

“Next time, I want doughnuts. And a Coke. I’ve got a taste for a Coke,” she said. 

***

When I wasn’t working or forcing myself to visit Harriet, I was sleeping. 

Each evening, my apartment’s stark cleanliness, dim lights, and deep silence lulled me to sleep.

 I told Harriet about this. 

“You’re probably going to die soon,” she said. “You sleep a lot right before you die.”

“My husband had an energy burst before he died,” I said. 

“Hmf, well it probably wasn’t natural, his death. You probably killed him. I could see you, the killing type. I bet you’d step on a mouse if you saw one,” she said. 

She enjoyed needling me, pointing out my weaknesses. 

I found this vaguely diverting.

She’d already witnessed me dash to the door after the sighting of a mouse skittering across her apartment floor. Harriet laughed for ten minutes after that, slapped her hands, drooled a bit. 

 “Now that would be a good reason for you to get a cat,” she said. “Mice.”

My grip tightened on the cat stories book I’d been reading her.

“There are many reasons I will not get a cat,” I said. 

***

I stopped going to Harriet’s because of the diarrhea. 

The last visit I found her out of her usual place, not dead center but to the side, curled in a chair.

“I’m sorry I’m so revolting. Disgusting. I don’t blame you for leaving.”

I stood there like a middle-aged mannequin, unable to speak. 

Aside from her obvious love of cats, she revealed nothing about herself, her life, her background, but had been candid about her stomach issues. Still, this was the first time I’d encountered them. 

The usual bad smells combined with fecal scent overwhelmed my senses.

I didn’t like sickness for the same reason I didn’t like animals. The excrement. The mess. The stench. I was meant for clean paper pages, the smell of fresh ink, the order of a library, a healthy, living husband. I wasn’t cut out for this. I thought I might pass out. 

“It seems like you could use some privacy,” I said.

Dirty rags mounded in a corner. 

“Would you?” she said, glancing at them. 

I took that to mean dispose of them. 

“Could you wash them?” she said.

An exit strategy. I grabbed a grocery bag, dumped out the wads of paper inside, held my breath and swept in the rags. I said goodbye, bolted from the apartment.  

“Thank you,” Harriet muttered behind me. A first. 

Outside I gulped in fresh air.

***

Sam’s memorial bench at our park had a gold plaque displaying his engraved name. I went every afternoon to sit there. 

A better way to remember someone, I thought, something useful like a bench. 

So many people passed walking their dogs. Kids skated by on skateboards or skipped rope or jumped hopscotch squares. Couples held hands, snuggled, quarreled. All these people who seemed to have no idea how life just churns and turns and chews and you end up spat up on the other side, I thought. 

An old woman approached arm in arm with a younger woman. Perhaps it was her daughter. I felt a sadness pulling in my chest, my gut. Of course I missed Sam. I thought of my own mother whom I had not spoken to in decades, whose funeral I did not attend. I wondered about Harriet. 

***

I saw it in the grocery store. A stuffed grey and white cat with a bell on its neck. I did not hesitate to toss  it in my grocery cart beside a bag of four sugared donuts and a liter of Coke. I called Garvey from my cell. 

“Can’t stay away, can you?” he said. “Wish I could!”

“Can you just open up when I get there?” I asked, hanging up before he could reply. 

***

She opened the door slowly, poked her pale head out. 

“Huh,” she said. 

“I know. It’s been a while. I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy at work. I-“

She turned away to sit in her usual sofa spot. I carved out a place from the papers and books in an opposing chair. I handed her the bag of doughnuts and Coke. 

“Huh,” she said again. 

“And this,” I said, offering the stuffed cat. “I know you said you can’t take care of a real cat, but I thought you could take care of this one.”

She half smiled, blue eyes squinting. 

“Huh,” she said, holding it to her chest. 

***

Garvey called to tell me Harriet was dead. 

I’d seen her every week since the day I brought Bell, the stuffed cat. 

“Dead for three days. Stunk to high heaven up there,” he said. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Nonsense. I’ve been waiting for this day for years. Damn rent control,” he said. 

“So? What do you want?” I asked.

“You’ll come for her things? She had no people. No family. Crazy as a loon.”

“When?” I said. 

I set off for Harriet’s apartment disinclined to purge, compelled to salvage.

***

I climbed the familiar stairway. 

Her door was propped open, the furniture inside pushed to the side to form a path to remove her body. Garvey had piled her belongings in the center. I pulled out a flowered cake plate, a matching sugar bowl and creamer, a box of photos, an unused planner. The pile crumbled a little, began its collapse. 

A grey cat shot out of a crevice, encircled. Its ice blue eyes gazed up at me. It yowled, rubbed against my legs. I wobbled, crouched, pushed back a wave of  nausea.  I held out a finger to the cat’s nose, allowed it to push its head into my hands. 

There was no choice. 

I lifted the animal, leaving all Harriet’s things behind. I carried it down the steps, its purr vibrating down my arms.

Garvey stood at the bottom, watching.

“That thing’s probably feral. Probably rabid,” he said. 

I moved onto the street, the trembling cat’s claws pricked my shirt through to my skin. It pushed its face into mine, nuzzled in the crook of my neck. 

Its little sandpapery tongue on my cheek caused an uncomfortable sensation that was almost like pain, but not quite.