CATS & DOGS

If you were fire, this is how you'd want to burn, a true democracy of flame, all with an abundance and none with more than the other. They tried to fight it, tried to find an entry point, but all were consumed, as if fire knew they'd be coming and was tormenting them. All they could do was watch. It was marvelously contained. It burned quick and tidy. Just the old house. It would be remembered as one of the most bizarre and terrifying fires in Kalispell's history. Five people dead. A child survived. A child and a half dozen cats that must have jumped from the fire. The child, a burnt-orange haired boy, seven-years old, his name now forgotten unless one cared enough to query the Internet, was found watching from the front walkway when the first neighbors arrived.

"He was quiet and unresponsive," one recalled. "Like in a trance." The interviewer suggested he was in shock, obvious to anyone watching the report back then. When the fire department arrived, they had to work around him. He stood there on the front walk as if waiting to be asked inside. They tried to move him but he kept going back, lifting the cats and carrying them across the street. The chief asked the neighbors to take care of him. No one offered. They didn't know the boy, barely knew the family, even after five years on the block. They kept to themselves. They were rarely out. They never spoke. We didn't even know how many people lived there. School? Guess so. No, don't know where, never even saw them at the bus stop; I suspected their parents drove them. But I don't know, never saw them do that either. "Cats seem to be the only friends the poor kid's got around here," the chief noted to reporters.

An elderly woman took him. She'd lived across the street, same house for fifty-three years. She knew the family, enough about them anyway. Enough to talk to the media but she didn't. The things she saw weren't the type of things she wanted to share. Didn't matter that they were dead. It wasn't how she was raised, wasn't how she lived. She knew lots of things about all the neighbors but she never gossiped and refused to repeat gossip.

Years ago, her kids gone, she and her husband sat at the small kitchen table most of the day. Then, she rarely took note of the outside. She drank tea and he, tomato juice. They small talked while he read the paper, she her romance novels. He carved miniature soldiers; she crocheted. Then he died. Then she had plenty of time to watch the world outside go by. The neighborhood was young, then old, then back to young again. She watched life in the streets, the holidays, the parties, the gatherings. That was a year before the odd family moved in. They did nothing, and that fascinated her.

She didn’t have much luck with him either when she took him by the shoulders to lead him away from the burning house. He came with her dutifully. There was no struggle, no reluctance. But as soon as she released him, he headed back to the fire. Something was drawing him back. “His family,” the chief said. “He’s in shock; something inside is telling him he can’t leave them alone. I’ve seen it before.” She didn’t think so. She had been watching the family long enough. Something else.

She was too old to be chasing him down but somebody had too, and no one else offered. Or dared, was a better word. She could see it on their faces. She watched as neighbors crossed the street to avoid going by the house. They’d grab hold of their child’s hand when there was an absolute need to keep on the sidewalk, and hurry their way past when on their own. And always with an eye on it, as if from a dark corner evil would come. It wasn’t a fear of this peculiar boy. He was, after all, just a child, and all knew of children and childish things. It wasn’t fear of his family, as unsettling as they were. It was the unknown, and this family had become the boogey-men beneath their beds.

At her third attempt she brought him inside her home to the barking of her Yorkie. For the first time he stood his ground upon being released. “You like puppies?” she said, picking up the dog. “Actually, she’s small but not a puppy; she’s almost eight years old. I got her for my birthday.” She brought the Yorkie closer so he could pat him. But he didn’t. He cocked his head, studying the dog. The Yorkie growled as it pulled away. “JoJo stop that,” she said. JoJo’s aggression was not unusual, it being part of the breed, but like the neighbors JoJo had an instant uneasiness around the boy. “Looks like you two need each other,” she said, knowing the boy hadn’t a clue to the reference, even if he was listening.

She tried putting JoJo into his arms; she wouldn’t go. Just as well, the boy didn’t seem interested in holding her. “I’ve got a few things to do,” she said. “So I need you to watch JoJo for me. Can you do that, watch JoJo?”

He responded with the same quizzical look he used to study the dog. But he followed her onto to front porch and stood in place while she fastened JoJo to her leash and the leash to the wrought iron post. She went inside and watched. The boy didn’t leave. He stood gazing lazily at JoJo who sat himself down on the far end of the porch.

She went about her chores in the kitchen. She was pleased to have reached him with JoJo, even as a momentary distraction. A new fascination to take him away from the horrors facing him. Perhaps, she thought, he would never recover. She allowed herself to imagine his future without a family, perhaps without a mind. It would take time. She’d be gone before he either overcame or succumbed. At least in this moment, she had reached out and he had grabbed hold. If he can remember only that, she mused, maybe it will be enough to help him through.

Jojo was yipping madly on the porch. She finished washing her tea cup and dried her hands. Within that time JoJo had stopped. Let it go, she told herself. The boy may be teasing or scaring the dog but the interaction was good for him. Alone and quiet was a bad combination. It wasn’t that long ago her own kids were that age. It’s what dogs did for little boys. She stepped into the front room. Through the window she saw his head. He was sitting contentedly but his stare was again across the street at his house.

He was sitting with a cat nested on his lap, the source of JoJo’s wild yips. “Ah, you have a new friend, I see. Make certain not to let Jojo off her leash again; she likes to wander. So where did she run off to?” She didn’t expect an answer.

She stepped off the porch, calling out as she walked around the house. Her screams drew the attention of all those on the street. Even the boy took the time to divert his gaze to the dog. Of course there was nothing she could do. The dog was consumed in dying flames; her charred carcass beyond help and recognition. She looked up at the boy, her mouth agape, her eyes hiding neither the horror nor the contempt. The boy had seen enough. He sighed and turned his attention back to the raging fire across the street.