Nine Lives

Glynnis stood on the porch and took one final puff of her cigarette as she watched the tabby take yet another shit in her begonias. She had tried everything: fences of varying heights and materials, pepper spray (in the garden bed, not directly at the cat, though she couldn’t say she hadn’t been tempted), throwing rocks and even the ill advised dog piss (the dog piss was definitely worse than the cat shit). But, just like the stupid song, the cat always came back the very next day. She had complained to her yuppie neighbours on a number of occasions. They were always civil and apologetic but she caught their half-hidden eyes rolls and knew they were merely humouring an eccentric. She realized how wild she must look to them in her paint splattered jacket and over sized galoshes, pants too short and frayed, hair a dandelion head gone to seed, but frankly she didn’t care. She had spent a lifetime caring. She was good and ready not to give a shit. Didn’t mean she deserved a load of cat crap in her garden.
“Fuck off cat” she yelled. “Pssss” she hissed. The cat continued to bury its load, shot her look of disgust and sauntered off. Glynnis picked up one of the large shells she used as an ashtray and hurled it towards, not quite at, the tabby. The cat gave a hop, startled but not panicked as the shell whizzed past its head, and scampered under the hole in the fence. Glynnis chuckled. Then, she noticed that the shell had decapitated a daffodil.
Glynnis shuffled back into the house and put on the kettle. The damp was getting into her bones and her hip was aching. She rinsed a china teacup she found in the sink and dried it on a ratty tea towel that read I’d be wise if I could remember anything. She chuckled for the thousandth time and reached for the sugar bowl. An army of ants marched around its base. She crushed a few with her thumb and checked the inside of the bowl. Fortunately none of them seemed to have scaled its walls. She opened the fridge, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Damn, the milk was off. She reached for a shriveled half lemon and cut a dry slice. The kettle whistled an angry mewl. She poured the water into the cup and watched as the water turned an inky red. She wandered into the living room and settled on the ottoman. Both she and it groaned. Slurping her tea, she stared out the window and contemplated the rest of the day.

Glynnis woke before the alarm She always did. She wasn’t really sure why she insisted on setting the alarm any more. She didn’t have deadlines to meet or meetings to attend but she feared sleeping the day away. The light was weak and she shivered under the patchy duvet. It was losing its feathers. She often thought about replacing it but felt that it would probably outlast her. In the meantime, she patched the rips and holes with duct tape, never having mastered needle work and the likes. Sometimes the tape came unstuck in the night and she found herself sticky and uncomfortable, bits of silver clinging to her skin. Fortunately this morning everything seemed to be in place and the only resistance she encountered as she swung her veiny feet onto the brown and orange rug, was her own body. She noticed that her toenails needed clipping. They were yellow and gnarled, curling over at the ends. They looked like someone else’s feet. She worried that soon she would need to visit one of those dingy salons that offered “seniors pedicures”, toenail clipping for those too stooped and arthritic to do it themselves. She pictured her swollen feet soaking in a tub filled with the grime of a thousand other toes. She saw her feet become prune-like and waterlogged as apathetic staff yammered in Vietnamese. She shoved her feet into her slippers, banishing the image.
She straightened the covers, brushing off bits of crumbs and lint. Maybe she’s vacuum later if she could get the cranky thing to work. There was something off with the wiring and she had to hold the cord in the right way to get the thing to hoover. Sometimes it cam naturally but usually it was more of a struggle than she was prepared for. The alarm rang.
Downstairs she put the kettle, reminding herself that she really needed to get milk. Today she would go shopping. While the water boiled, Glynnis headed back upstairs to choose an outfit. She searched for something reasonably clean in her drawers. Nothing with buttons, too much work, but she feared sweatpants and leisure suits. She could hear the kettle whistling and hoped it didn’t boil dry while she wrestled on a turtleneck. The shrill whistling continued while she forced her arms through the sleeves of a cardigan and her feet into wool socks. She is sweating by the time she is fully dressed but knows she will appreciate the layers later. The kettles cry is starting to sound a bit feeble.
Finally ready, she shuffles down the stairs, rescuing the kettle just in time. She puts on a pot for boiled eggs and peers into the fridge. She will have to make do with boiled egg singular. While she waits for the water again, she collects the empty milk bottles from under the sink and places them in her cloth shopping bag. She hopes the store will take them back. There are flecks of rancid cream clinging to their necks, despite her best efforts to wash them.
She eats the runny egg out of a gold, dragon-covered egg cup. The egg cup always makes her think of adventure. She pictures herself traveling the world with all her possessions in a back pack. She smiles. The image is appealing but ludicrous. She sips her tea. It is disappointing without milk. She scoops up the yolk with a dry bit of toast. A drop splatters on her sleeve. She fills the sink with lukewarm soapy water and leaves the remnants of breakfast to soak. She gathers up the green shopping bag and bundles herself up further to face the outdoors. As she steps onto the porch she scans the garden. No sign of the tabby. Good.

On the way back from the store, it begins to drizzle. By the time Glynnis reaches her front gate she is damp and miserable. The rain has seeped through jacket and her boots. As she pushes open the gate her mind is lost in thoughts of a dry sweater, dry socks and a cup of tea with milk. She almost trips over the tabby as it darts across her feet, startled by the yowl of the opening gate. She expects it to immediately scamper to safety through the hole in the fence but instead it freezes in the corner and stares at her, fur on end. She grabs a handful of the hedge and yanks until a twig snaps off. Brandishing the scrawny twig, she swings at the cat. The cat bats the twig, sneezes and finally retreats. Glynnis stands over the hole wondering what she can plug it with. She kicks at the loose soil and accidentally uproots a tulip. Glynnis gathers some loose rocks and shoves them methodically into the hole. When the last stone falls into place a cold, wet, shivering Glynnis trudges up the stairs lugging a bag of sodden groceries.
Glynnis spends the afternoon sneezing and coughing deep, rattling phlegmatic coughs. It’s a cold, not lung cancer she assures herself. She tries to read but her glasses keep flying off her nose and she can’t concentrate. There are very few times when she wishes she owned a T.V. –it’s mostly garbage- but today is one of them. She goes to bed unreasonably early. She hopes it doesn’t rain tomorrow so she can work on the garden. That is if she’s not on death’s door.
Glynnis wakes feeling achy but rested. This morning a warm light filters through the curtains and the chatter of birds fills the air. Glynnis feels hopeful about the day.
Downstairs she steps onto the porch to collect the paper. It too is mostly trash but she needs to keep abreast of world events somehow. Sometimes she imagines that a war could break out and she wouldn’t even know until the whole house collapsed around her. The front door groans as she opens it. Glynnis takes a step forward and walks right into the carcass of a tiny lark. The tabby grins at her from the garden. Glynnis howls and chucks the whole paper at the cat who swishes away pleased. At least the bird is not still flapping or jerking about and she is able to delicately wrap its body in the welcome mat being careful not to touch it. As she crouches over the body she hears the rattle of an approaching stroller and the rumble of mindless chitchat; the neighbours huff into view. Glynnis stands abruptly and her foot catches the sash of her robe, pulling it open. She clutches at its ends with one hand and the bird mat combo in the other as the neighbours stroll past clearly trying not to gawk at her. “Fucking, fucking, fucking cat” Glynnis hisses under her breath. The neighbours try to ignore her, turning their heads awkwardly to feign an interest in the parked cars. “This is your fault you know”, she yells abandoning the robe and holding the carcass aloft. The neighbours fake deafness.
God, she needs a cigarette, but first the body. She thinks about burying it in the garden but fears that will be seen by the cat as a direct invitation. Besides, rotting flesh will do little for the already acidic soil. Still in slippers, Glynnnis flip flops to the garbage can and rolls the body, mat and all, into the bin.. She hopes pick up day is soon. Is it Wednesday or Thursday? She can never keep these details straight. It’s a good thing she gets up so damn early these days. It gives her a chance to dash down the stairs when she hears the crunch and squeal of the dump truck turning up her street.
Glynnis retrieves the newspaper from the garden bed. It is damp and soiled but still mostly legible. Glynnis is feeling quite tired, though she’s been up less than an hour. This is far too much excitement before tea.
The day passes quickly. Two naps will have that effect. It must be the damn cold that’s making her feel so tired. Yes, that must be it. She curses the cat. Despite her weariness, Glynnis does manage to rustle up some stew for dinner. She is somewhat impressed with herself. The stew isn’t particularly good. The meat may even have been on the verge of turning. It had acquired that greenish grey tinge that so much packaged supermarket stuff seems to gain. But, the stew is warm and filling. Glynnis even manages to find the energy to tackle the dishes that have been piling up in the sink. The water refuses to run hot no longer how long she leaves it and everything comes out feeling slick and oily but still Glynnis is satisfied when she sees the pile of dishes neatly stacked in the draining rack. Feeling ambitious, she begins to bundle up some of the recyclables but her aching back soon tells her this is a task better left for a new day. Glynnis always listens to her back. She also listens when a voice says “time for a cigarette”.
Glynnis bundles up all over again, sweater, coat, boots and scarf, and heads out to the porch. The porch swing squeals its protest as she cautiously lowers herself onto it. Glynnis cringes as her pants absorb a puddle of rain water but the damage is done so she simply accepts the wet bottom and lights a smoke. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she spots the tabby brazenly strolling up the walk way and onto the steps. “Shoo” she yells, flicking her ashes. The cat ignores her. “Filthy beast” she yells louder, not caring who might hear her. The cat seems to take it as a challenge and now saunters with even more of a swagger. Glynnis stands up, almost toppling over as she leans on the porch swing for balance. She can’t believe it, the tabby is now on the third step and digging in her potted fern. The fucking cat is actually going to shit in her fern. She bangs loudly on the top step, hoping the noise will scare the cat away but the cat jut stares up at her continuing its squat. Glynnis picks up the deck broom and shakes it menacingly at the cat. Midway through a furious sweep, she loses her grip on the broom and it tumbles down the stairs, clattering on every step. The tabby finally takes heed and scampers off but not before leaving a steaming turd in the plant. This is too much, Glynnis swears. She is exhausted but she can’t let this go. She’s going to visit the neighbours again.
She strides across the wilderness of her own lawn and onto the manicured perfection of next door. At first she tiptoes, not wanting to mar the surface but soon she stomps in the grass. She has earned the right. She wonders why the cat doesn’t shit here. She imagines it would be the softest bathroom but maybe a bit intimidating. She tries to plan what she will say to the cat owners but she is pretty sure they don’t speak the same language. Hopefully they’ll get the gist.
She reaches the door and grabs the heavy knocker, a llion with a ring through its mouth. Timidly at first and then with fervour, she raps the ring against the door. She hears the sounds of running water, the half cry half squawk of a young child and then the sound of socked feet on carpet. The woman neighbour answers the door looking intentionally disheveled with her loose, wispy ponytail and the sweats that cling to every inch of her toned body. Glynnis wonders when the usual twinge of envy at such sights was replaced by vague repulsion.
“Yes?” the woman sighs leaning against the doorframe. Glynnis steps forward hoping to be invited in but the woman doesn’t budge. Her husband’s shape appears behind her. He is clutching the child over his shoulder. “Who is it?’ he asks. Glynnis tries to step into his sight line. “I’m here about the cat,” she says. The neighbours adopt matching expressions of resignation but otherwise don’t acknowledge the statement. “It’s been shitting on my lawn again” Glynnis continues. “It’s a cat,” the woman says. “What do you expect?” Glynnis wishes she wasn’t standing on the stoop in damp pants. “I expect not to have to deal with cat shit,” she answers a bit more loudly and harshly than she had meant. The man moves closer, protectively, as if he expects Glynnis to lash out at his wife at any moment. “What do you propose?” she asks, softening her apathy for just a moment. Glynnis is startled. She hadn’t really thought that far. “Well, uh, I think you should at least remove the offending matter.” The woman sighs again, “Well, yes, we could do that.” “Thanks” Glynnis replies. The woman nods and closes the door. Glynnis stands on the stoop. She can hear the neighbours’ conversation as they retreat. “Can you believe it? Does she seriously have nothing better to do than to complain about a cat? And did you see her? Seriously, did she piss herself?” Glynnis turns and walks away, just in time to see the cat galloping out from under her fence. She scowls. Suddenly the full horrific magnitude of what she has done hits her. Now, every cat turd will be followed by a visit from the neighbours. Glynnis sighs and shuffles up the walk to her house.

Clean up in Aisle Five

In the kitchen that Ikea built, Clara watches Frank chew. She has never noticed how aggressive he looked when he eats. He curls his fist around his fork and guards his plate with the other arm as if he expects her to swoop in and steal a blob of his mashed potatoes at any minute. She tries to catch his eye and turn the moment into an inside joke but his eyes are steadfastly fixed on his plate. She amazed he doesn’t choke. He shovels food into his mouth with the speed and steadiness of an assembly line worker. She can hear his wet chewing which is only interrupted by noisy swallowing and short snorts, like a car engine turning over.
She tries to remember how he ate on their first date. They met at the grocery store, both reaching for the last jar of hot pickled eggplant. She was too busy staring at the crinkly smile lines beside his eyes and the way his curly hair stuck out below his ears and had dropped the jar. She watched mortified as the pool of oil and brine soaked into her boots. He laughed and pulled her to safety, introduced himself and promised to take her to a nearby deli that served eggplant sandwiches that were to die for. She was dazzled by his perfect teeth but managed to joke that she wasn’t sure she was ready to die for eggplant. He laughed again and she started to think that maybe if she got to share the eggplant with him it was worth dying for.
She really can’t remember the way he chewed that sandwich. She doesn’t even remember whether the sandwich was even very good. She only remembers that her own jaw ached from smiling so much. She remembers prematurely wondering what their children would look like and whether he’s want a formal wedding. Any nausea she felt was the result of giddiness, not disgust.
Clara gets up and brings her plate to the sink. She scrapes the rest of the spongy meatloaf, cold peas and lumpy potatoes into the garburator. Disturbed by its mechanical cries, Frank finally looks up.
-Not hungry?
-I guess not.
Frank nods and goes back to his shoveling as Clara rinses the dishes. The clink of glasses and cutlery isn’t enough to mask Frank’s slobbery chewing.

Clara places her book on the floor and clicks off the bedside reading lamp. Frank farts and turns over without a word. Clara slides to the edge to avoid being hit with the smell when she turns on her side later. “Goodnight” she whispers. “Night” Frank grunts. Clara considers sliding in for a peck but she’s nervous about unleashing the stench she is sure is trapped beneath their floral quilt. She tries to remember the last time they were intimate. It’s been a while, probably since the last time she washed the sheets, which was at least three weeks ago. It’s probably time to wash them again. Maybe she should get it out of the way before she washes them again.
She ignores the smell and curls against Frank’s back. He gets the hint and turns around. He kisses her neck and kneads her breasts for the prescribed two minutes and then asks her if she’s ready. She nods so he pulls down both of their bottoms and rolls on top of her as she composes a mental grocery list. A few minutes later he asks if she’s finished. She nods yes because she’s even remembered dental floss.
He tries to curl up to her, wrapping himself around her like an octopus, but she pushes him off and inches to the edge. She is too old to sleep in the wet spot. She remembers when she couldn’t sleep without her head on Frank’s chest. Now the sound of his snoring keeps her awake. She hears him shift and settle. Momentarily she wonders what he’s thinking about but that thought is quickly replaced with a reminder to add baking soda to the list.

In the supermarket Clara stares at a can of tomato soup. She is searching for the sodium content. Frank has to watch his salt intake. Nothing tastes as good anymore. She’s having a hard time reading the ant like letters on the tin. The blinding fluorescent light makes everything dance. She notices that the hand holding the can looks jaundiced. She wonders if it’s the lights or if there’s something wrong with her. She makes a mental note to stock up on vegetables.
Suddenly the PA crackles and a voice leaking adolescence pipes in “Clean up on aisle 5”. She checks the Verdana type sign above her wishing some disembodied voice would order a clean up in her life. She wonders about the person behind the voice. For some reason she imagines he has red hair and ruddy cheeks fighting acne and attempting to grow a beard. He would have the perfectly muscular body that only adolescence can provide so effortlessly. As he scans her items their eyes will meet and he will sweep everything off the counter. They will fuck under the fluorescent lights, their bodies moving to the rythms of the conveyor belt and beeps of the scanner. At the end he would turn to her and whisper “paper or plastic?” She shivers but it is mostly just the icy air conditioning. Clara plunks two cans of tomato soup into the shopping cart, sodium content be damned.
She pushes the recalcitrant shopping cart around the corner into the produce department. The cart squeals its protest the whole way and almost forces Clara into a pyramid of cereal that is stacked at the foot of the aisle but she makes it into the produce selection without destroying any of the attractive displays. The air there is damp with the spray of dozens of miniature sprinklers. Between the scent of Pinesol and the mist from the sprinklers, Clara imagines she is walking through a synthetic rainforest which seems an apt analogy for her life at the moment: a poor imitation of the real thing. She sighs, grabbing a dripping bundle of spinach and some waxy apples and headed to the pharmacy aisle. She needs Ibuprofen.

Clara sits in the old corduroy armchair and folds laundry. It has been sitting in the dryer too long and should probably be ironed but Clara refuses to iron. Frank half watches the hockey game on the TV in between fits of snoring. Every once and a while he startles awake and cheers or curses as he sees fit. As Clara smoothes the laundry, she checks Franks collars for lipsticks marks. She knows that even if he were having an affair –which she’s sure he’s not- the chances that his mistress would leave such an obvious clue are slim to none. Still, she secretly hopes. Oh, to be able to confront him and storm out, safe in the cloak of victimhood. Her friends and family would rally around her, offering sugary treats and consolation. Or maybe she would just confront his lover. There is something appealing about the thought of fighting for her love. She is not particularly competitive but she likes to think that someone else might find Frank worth having.
“Shoot the puck you pussy” Frank yells from the couch. Clara rolls another pair of sweat-stained socks. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want anything?” Clara shakes her head. Franks shrugs and heads to the kitchen. He brings her back a tall glass of milk and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. He balances them on the worn arm of the chair and kisses Clara’s forehead. “You need to eat babe”. Clara smiles thin lipped. She hates that pet name.
Clara turns her attention back to the hamper on her lap, expecting Frank to move back to the couch. Instead, he plucks the hamper off her lap and sits at her feet, forcing himself into her vision. He smiles up at her. She is reminded of a puppy begging for table scraps. “I’ve been thinking”, he says. Clara nods, biting back the urge to make a snide comment. “It’s been three years”. Clara nods again. “Maybe we should get married. What do you think?” He looks down bashfully. Clara can’t see his face any more. She only sees a reduced sodium life. She opens her mouth as he looks up again and she is struck by the full forced brilliance of his perfect teeth. “I think I’d like that.”