Tabby

Growing up on the streets is a sucky way of life. Don’t get me wrong, our mama did the best she could. But once Daddy died, there just wasn’t too much heart left in our mother; Daddy had taken her heart to the grave with him.

Mama didn’t give up. She tried to pull herself together for the sake of us kids but her heart wasn't in it. As I said, it went into the ground with our dad. Still, she started job-hunting and found one cleaning a big office building overnight. When she was hired, she sat me down and told me I was in charge of my brothers and sisters while she worked. A paid babysitter was out of the question, she explained, because they cost too much. I figured she was right since there were five of us. So, I put on my big boy pants and took care of my brothers and sisters. It was a big chore, too. The twins, eight-year-old Joey and Jimmy, never wanted to take showers or go to bed.

“You’re not the boss of us, Will!” I could always count on one of them yelling those words at me as the other threw something in my direction. A pillow, a stinky sock, or whatever else was within reach. It was easier with six-year-old Heather. She’d even help me get four-year-old Annie, the baby of the family, ready for bed. I was nine, by the way, the oldest of the stairsteps. That’s what Daddy always called us: his five little stairsteps.

It was hard on us all. We’d lost our dad and hardly had our mom. When she was there, she was so tired she didn’t feel up to doing much. Then, I came home after the first day of the school year to find Mama with her head on the table crying. She did that sometimes but I could tell that time was different. It felt too much like the day our dad had died.

Worry over what else could’ve gone wrong caused my heart to jump clear up into my throat. Nonetheless, I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Mama?”

She only sobbed harder and held out a piece of paper. As I read it, two words stood out, big and bold across the top. EVICTION NOTICE. I knew what that meant. Despite her sobs, my mother must’ve heard my sharp intake of air. She looked up at me, her eyes red and puffy.

“I don’t know what more I can do, Will.” She must’ve been crying quite a while because her voice hitched between each word. “I’m already working twelve hours a night and I don’t have the education to get a better-paying job.”

I wanted to cry, too. I didn’t know what would become of us. But, I didn’t want to make it worse for my mom, so I swallowed hard and manned up. No way was I gonna start blubbering. Not when she needed a pep talk.

"We still have the station wagon, Mama." It was an old, beat-up heap of junk but it still ran. “There’s room for everyone to sleep in there. We’ll wait in the car while you’re working and you can check on us during breaks. We could get a few coloring books and crayons and stuff like that to keep us busy. And since we won’t have any payments, we can save enough to get another apartment before it gets too cold outside.”

It was only the last of August; we had two or three months before the weather got too bad. And we had plenty of blankets if it dropped down to freezing before we got a new place.

That’s how our life on the street began. If I thought it had been rough at home, I’d been wrong. Staying in the car with four kids younger than myself? That was tough! One or another was always crying, fighting, or needing the bathroom. I thought I’d go crazy.

Fortunately, there was a convenience store across the street from where Mama worked. Between bathroom trips and sink baths, we were there a lot. The night cashier frowned at us at first, but she turned out to be alright once she got to know us and our story. I think she would’ve called Child Protective Services if I hadn’t told her about our dad. After that, she took pity on us, sometimes giving us roasted hotdogs from the store’s deli counter. She’d claim they’d been setting too long to sell.

It was outside the convenience store that I first ran across the little tabby kitten. Half-starved, he looked as sad and in need of love as I was. I pinched off tiny pieces of my hotdog and fed them to him while I held his skinny body. He squirmed to get away once he'd had his fill but he was back the next day. Since I saw him sniffing around the trash dumpster I took him back across the street with us.

Instead of getting in the station wagon, we sat in the parking lot feeding and playing with Tabby. (That seemed like a good and proper name for the baby furball.) We often played outside by the car, careful to make sure it wasn’t time for our mom to check on us. It was forbidden. We weren’t to get out of the car unless it was urgent or we needed the bathroom. Not only did I watch for our mother to come out, but I also kept a lookout for police. Mama had warned us they'd take us away from her if they found out how we were living.

Tabby was in the car with us by the time our mom had a break. She’d taken one look and put her foot down, unmoved by our pleas to keep him. Tired and in a bad mood, she was adamant we didn’t have room for and couldn’t afford to feed a pet. There were already enough stomachs to fill if we were ever going to save what we’d need to get another apartment. That time, the tears had their way as I took Tabby back and left him by the dumpster where I’d found him.

Mrs. Fletcher, that was the cashier’s name, asked why we were bringing him back. I’d told her we were only playing with him for a while. It was Heather who spilled the beans. Almost word for word, she relayed our mother’s reaction. “Hmm” was all the old lady said, but she wore a thoughtful expression when she made the sound.

Later that night, I heard voices outside. I looked up, careful not to disturb the younger kids. Miraculously, they were all asleep. The two women were too far away for me to hear what they were saying, but Mrs. Fletcher was talking with my mother. Their conversation seemed unusually animated.

I couldn’t stand it. I wasn’t sure if it was because of our streak of horrendous luck or my insatiable nine-year-old curiosity. But, I had to know what was going on. I’m not sure how I managed to get out without waking any of my siblings but, somehow, I did. Pushing the rear door down without latching it, I made my way outside. It amused me that her hands seemed to be saying as much as her mouth. I almost chuckled out loud despite my nerves. I'd never seen anyone be quite so flamboyant when they spoke. Mrs. Fletcher chose that moment to look up. She spied me standing off to the side.

“Oh good!” she grinned and held out a package wrapped in brown paper. I hadn't noticed her holding it until then.

“For me?” I looked at her suspiciously. With the way our luck had run…. Mrs. Fletcher cut off my thoughts.

“Yes, for you. That’s why I’m handing it to you. Well, for all five of you youngsters.” Her grin widened.

My mom looked apprehensive and opened her mouth like she wanted to say something. She must’ve changed her mind for her lips snapped back shut after a sharp glance from Mrs. Fletcher.

I took a step closer to the streetlight so I could see better. Not exactly a package wrapped in brown paper. A brown paper bag folded to look like a package. What I found inside had me dangerously close to blubbering again. It was a tiny bit of love. Tabby, wrapped in a ribbon, was purring in his sleep, comfortable atop a small bag of cat food. I’m sure my eyes were shining with unshed tears in the glare of the streetlight.

Mrs. Fletcher’s grin softened to a tender smile. “He’s so little he won’t take up much space and there’s enough food in there to last until you all move in with me.”

My head jerked up. I couldn't believe my ears. Had she said until we moved in? It was my turn to open my mouth and say nothing. Only a half-squeal of disbelief sounded into the night.

“That’s right. I said move in with me. You see, I have a huge old house and I’ve lived there alone since my husband passed. God rest his soul. It’s too big for only one person, but there are too many memories inside its walls to let it go. It’s also too much for one person to keep tidy. So, it’s a perfect solution.” She looked back at my mother, a determined glint in her eyes. “I could use someone to help cook and clean and bring some joy back into my house. You need a home. They need their mother home with them.” She jerked her head back toward me. “And all children need a pet.”

That was our last night sleeping in an old, musty station wagon. It was my mother's last week of working twelve-hour nights. Mrs. Fletcher took us all under her wing and treated us like we were her own family. I grew to love her and her old house with its squeaky floors and endless nooks and crannies. Calling her Grandma Fletcher and later, Grandma, seemed like the most natural thing in the world—and so I did.

My mother remarried when I was seventeen so the old house became a quiet place again. Not as quiet, though, as it had been before we moved in. While my siblings went with my mother and her new husband, I stayed to help Grandma. I’d come up with every excuse in the world not to leave. Her health had gone downhill. I didn’t want to start a new school in my senior year etc. etc. I don’t think I ever voiced the main reasons. I loved her and I didn’t want her to be alone.

Grandma and I had another year with Tabby. We lost our little companion not long after one of his kittens joined our household. I hadn’t cried since the night Grandma handed him to me in that brown paper bag. I cried that night, though, as I held Tabby Too, renamed in honor of his sire.

I had two more years with the woman who’d changed our lives. Whether we played scrabble or chess or watched old movies or simply talked by the fire, we didn’t let silence rule. Little did I know those evenings spent by the fireplace, listening to the stories of her life, were what I would remember most. Her death was a quiet one; she slipped away quietly one night. I knew she had no regrets; she had gone to meet up with her beloved husband at last. Still, I cried again.

Ten years later, Tabby the Third and I still live in the old house. Grandma’s house. She left it to me and there are too many memories inside its walls to let it go.