The cat that stared

He pulled her aside in the half-light, his eyes wide with an urgent fear but his voice nothing more than the barest whisper: “Marie, I do not trust that cat!”

There was little strength left in the hands that clung to her. They were withered and frail, though once they’d seemed so impossibly strong. But here was this sunken man, Jean-Pierre Lucien. Here was her once unshakeable father, now trembling like a hunched gray child.

Once his voice had been strong and deep, now he sounded like a babe looking to her for comfort.

She could not help but remember the shoe being on its proper foot many years ago— her shrieking from her nightmares and him soothing her fears with words of confidence and comfort.

Now she had to play parent to her dad. The very thought overwhelmed her.

“What do you mean papa, why don’t you trust the cat?”

“She stares at me and I see a red glint in her eye. I think she is lougarou.”

Lougarou? Was this another Haitian folktale, popping up in his old age?

She’d only ever known her papa as a man who scoffed at superstition. He had told her once that the all religions— be they European Catholic, or African Vodun or syncretized Voodoo— were nothing more than fairy tales to comfort the weak minded.

But over the past few years, as his physical health receded his scientific mind had seemed to retreat alongside. He’d shocked her when he’d spoken one night of the lwa dous, the sweet spirits, and how they were gentle intermediaries between people and the Creator, Bondye.

He’d mentioned the ancestors. How her granma was with the spirits, watching over them still.

A smile had touched his lips then, and that had been the first time he’d ever seemed childlike to her.

She’d been trimming his gray curls, and watching them fall to the kitchen tile like wisps of falling smoke as he had named off several lwa and the offerings they preferred and the realms of nature where they held influence. And he’d said that her granma, his mama, loved music and every time he sang that was his offering to her.

Then his face had gone grave when he’d gotten to the lwa of the Petwo Fanmi. He’d said they were hot like fire. That they were powerful but dangerous, vengeful, and even cruel— as were the bokor witches who made offerings to them.

It had been absurd and surreal for her to hear these words of fearful belief fly from the mouth of her own father.

Remembering his fear, she now looked at him and asked “What’s a lougarou papa?”

“Tifi mwen…” his eyes seemed to focus on her, in a way that they hadn’t in many months. Like he’d finally remembered who he was to her. He said, “nothing Marie, lougarous are not real. Just a silly story, to scare children.”

“Well if lougarous aren’t real then the cat can’t be one.”

His brow sank at the mention of the cat, and his adult mind made way for the terrified child inside once again: “Marie, I think the cat is a lougarou.”

“Lougarou’s aren’t real daddy. You know that.”

She coaxed him to the dining room table, and brought him his food. Sos pwa— bean soup— with rice and some pwason— fish— with peppers and onions. But none of it tasted right on a low sodium diet.

She turned on the radio, they were playing Coupe Cloue and her papa sang along under his breath.

But his voice was feeble and he could barely tap his toes to the beat.

She dried a tear with the back of her hand and took the spoon from his trembling fingers, then she wiped his mouth and helped him eat.

“Li bon.” He said, as she cradled a spoon full between his smiling lips. “Merci cher.”

But she knew the food was not good.

He was only saying that to comfort her. It was a kind lie, not so different than those religious fairy tales he’d long condemned, but she took it as a comfort. He was still being her papa, even here so near the end.

More tears came. She looked down so he would not see her cry. “Merci papa men.”

“For what cheri?”

“Pou tout bagay.” For everything. That was as close as she could come to real sentiment. Before she could let him change the subject she did it herself, by singing along to Coupe Cloue.

And when the song was over she kissed his cheek and a wet streak in his grey stubble. She helped him bathe and put him to bed.

***

In the night, Jean-Pierre heard a shuffling at his door. He turned his weary head and there was the cat.

“No!” It was less a command and more a pathetic plea.

He was a child again. The strength of his arms and his heart, all were forgotten. He was in Haiti, fearing the wind in the palms, and red eyes in the shadows… fearing a lougarou— a witch in the shape of an animal, come to steal him away as an offering to a Petwo lwa.

He cried out for help.

He did not call his daughter. In that moment he had forgotten her. He called his mother.

“Mama mwen, mama mwen! Vini, ede mwen mama!”

And he heard her voice, soft like butter and sweet like mango: “mwen la. Ti gason mwen, ou pa bezwen pe.” I’m here little one, you need not fear.

The cats eyes twinkled and Jean-Pierre sighed. They spoke through the night.

***

In the morning Marie greeted him with a kiss and said it was time to get up.

He shook his head, “not today, Cheri mwen. I’m tired. Granma rode the cat last night and said you’ll be alright if I finally get some rest.”

She held his hand and they sang and she did not hide her tears.