Wednesday’s Word/Short Story: Venus is a Planet (Feather on the Stoop), Part 1

Lydia was a homebody; she liked the everydayness of things there. How, when she returned to her small one bedroom apartment after work, everything looked the same. Unremarkable, perhaps, but undisturbed. The tea kettle on the right back burner where it whistled and sighed as it ran out of steam each morning. The bronze, burgundy and green paisley tablecloth, smooth and clean, slipped over a round table by a main window. Her bed refreshingly unmussed, three pillows plumped for bedtime. Her books lining the wall stacked by size. Such simplicity and order gave her a ping of happiness as her eyes swept over all a last time, then closed the front door firmly behind her. And when she opened it later in the day, she released a pleasant sigh before the door even shut.

At least she told herself this was all true. At the Head and Body Salon an older co-worker, Alma (who said they were the same age though Lydia saw the crow’s feet and loose skin about her neck–she didn’t care, anyway) challenged her sharing of such a peaceful tableau.

“But to have it so quiet every single day? I can’t imagine not having my husband griping about something. Or the canaries not singing–they keep me company when he doesn’t.” She smiled; such thoughts gave her a grudging pleasure.

“I have car and foot traffic, don’t forget–or the train lumbering by at night, its whistle almost a comforting shriek. There is a big dog, a Lab, above me–I hear Riley romping, big barking at times. I know my neighbors, sort of, Riley’s owner, his name–” She picked up the phone to answer a customer call. “Hello? Just a refresh? Hmm, yes, maybe next Monday? Let me check and we’ll get you taken care of, not to worry.”

Alma rolled her eyes at Lydia, then waved at a regular who just came in–the gal insisted on a rinse that made her mostly white hair more bluish. Alma longed to just dye it all royal blue and be done with it. But that wasn’t her way. Tony had more fun with clients. He started to chatter at her and the young one in his chair; she could barely follow his staccato speech so often just nodded. She and Tony worked long hours since Ginny, the owner had her baby and took leave. Anyway, Tony got the younger ones, and gloriously experimented. But a job was a job, thank God for it, Alma thought, as she aimed the hair drier onto a champagne blonde’s thick fluffy mop. She worried about Lydia sometimes, though. She had worked there over a year, and never seemed to go out afterwards–she was maybe thirty-five. Still half a kid, really. She harrumphed.

Lydia tapped her teeth with a pencil as she watched the two stylists plying their trade. Alma could do what she did with eyes covered after all her years experience. Tony got excited, took risks–sometimes too great a risk. But the salon made decent money. She should be happier in the mini-beehive of activity so awash in pleasantries. Who came and left a hair and skin treatment salon feeling miserable? No one that she heard about. She worked efficiently and nicely, took satisfaction in her multi-tasking. Yet Lydia’s mother always had said, “You have the mindset of a dizzy moth–you stare at the light, take in little and do even less, get burned. I can’t understand daydreamers–it does nothing for you but slow you down.”

Or a variation on those sentences. Moths were far better than that; she needed to read the facts. But, no. .. she was the space cadet, poor Lydia the laggard, Lydia the forgetful. In fact, she recalled a great deal; she just didn’t pay much attention to her mother. Her mother was so busy, too ambitious in her opinion. She was a hyper overachiever by any stretch and Lydia–she was just herself. So what if she got dreamy-eyed? She still knew how to live fine. Didn’t she?

“How can I have birthed a slacker daughter?” asked the mother who had become VP at a small real estate agency last year. “Have you looked into a civil servant exam yet? Even the legal assistant program? It isn’t too late to forge ahead. I will still pay for a four year degree!”

Lydia no longer quite answered; she mostly slid about those words like a cat slipping between legs, there and not there, not even rude. She found something to do with her hands when confronted– like rearrange the flower bouquet her mother dropped off after work with take-out twice a month. They had dinner, if you could call it that, and in 35 minutes maximum her mother was gone and not a word until the next time.

Like her mother, now Alma seemed to be saying she wasn’t making much of a mark on life. Or life wasn’t leaving any interesting marks upon her days and nights. That’s how it sounded to her, at least.

In bed at night Lydia stared at the ceiling light fixture before drifting off. It was a very old, fake chandelier. She watched various lights bounce from street and windows, then off the teardrop crystals. When the train rumbled by, the crystals shook the smallest bit. She loved that, a little sassiness of light and form. But she’d feel a sadness well up from time to time. Her bed was terrifically big some nights, the room seeming emptier for all the lovely dances of crystal and light and shadow.

It wasn’t easy to meet people that she really wanted to meet, or who cared to understand her. Deep inside, Lydia feared that she’d never really know anyone, and that she would live and die without being truly known. It haunted her when she least wanted to think on it.


That the lady was there at all startled her. Lydia had to step back fast to avoid falling over an outstretched leg. She was slumped onto her side over on the landing above three short steps, not far from a doorway. The watch repair shop had closed month ago when the owner passed away. No one seemed to desire it’s worn homeliness. But random people didn’t just hang out on unused steps. Four blocks down, maybe. Not there.

Lydia checked her grandmother’s delicate watch, then looked closely at the form. She knew it was a woman because of the shoes and hat. The former were brown lace up, calf-high boots with a narrow, worn heel; the hat was purple, crumpled, wide-brimmed and with a kind of dirty feather stuck in the hatband. Her form was large but likely tall, not overweight. Her coat was a stained Mackintosh. It seemed too cold to be wearing such a coat. Was it lined for warmth?

“You alright? Should I call someone for you?” She reached out to touch a shoulder, then drew back. Maybe no one ever had come for her or she didn’t want anyone around. She guessed the person had been living pretty rough for some time. She might be angry that anyone bothered her.

Lydia felt jittery– yet curious. What was wrong, anyway? What could she do? Her watch showed she was running late. The woman stirred, pulled her knees up close to her chest. Her pale face turned enough that it was partly revealed in the weak morning winter light. Her eyelids fluttered, then squeezed tightly against the light. She lifted a gloved hand–finger poking out the ends–and rubbed her lips gently. There was what looked like dried blood on the upper lip. Then she buried her head into folded arms, relaxed again.

Her heart beating fast, Lydia stood there a long moment, then looked up at the sky. It was getting bluer and brighter. Perhaps no rain, then. She glanced at the woman and frowned, then went on her way. She kept turning back, but nothing seemed different there. Just her entire morning.


When work wound down at seven o’clock, she tidied her desk, waved to her co-workers, and left. Alma and Tony exchanged a look–where was she off to so fast?

As she walked down her street, Lydia strained to see the shopfront where the strange woman had been. In her mind, her name was Feather, nothing else had come to her. It appeared dark, empty; the sun had long gone down. But as she slowed and peered into the area, she saw her sitting with back against the doorway, head bowed, arms crossed over her chest. She had on frayed jeans and they now covered her boots.

“Are you okay?” Lyida said softly.

But the woman didn’t speak, only held herself closer in with her arms, lowered her head deeper, and seemed to be asleep shortly after.

After a quick dinner, she paced a bit, thinking of what to do. In her bedroom at the foot of her bed there was a cedar chest with wool blankets and extra throw pillows and some other items she rarely used. She pulled out a wool Pendleton blanket ivory with yellow, red and green stripes at each end, one she’d gotten used. And a crewel floral-covered pillow. She found a large cotton bag she’d well used for market trips, so folded the blanket and pillow and stuffed them into it.

She threw on her jacket and shoes, then ran down one flight of steps and out the door, walked briskly down the street. But when she got to the steps where the feather hat woman had been, the spot was full of nothing. Hesitating a moment, she put down the bag and retreated, standing with hands on hips looking about. A bicyclist wheezed by and glanced over his shoulder at her; two cars passed, one slowing as a passenger eyed the bag. What was the point if someone stole it or tossed it in a dumpster? She ran up the steps and grabbed the bag, turning slowly to check one last time for the now-named Feather. The street got busier as people headed home after a dinner out or a late day at work. A gust of wind lifted her dark hair and strands covered her eyes. Pushing them out of the way, she walked back home, shoulders crunched in the growling wind. Well, it was presumptuous of her, she thought. Her dumb ideas!

Across the street another woman watched as she thought, It’s her, that one who stopped. Why would she stop for her, what did she want? She wasn’t begging. She’d have none of that. This was temporary, a kink in the road, that’s all. But, Lordy, that blanket would feel sweet and toasty against her cool prickled skin. She pulled the thin coat close at her neck and rambled down the street to look for discarded restaurant food. Dumpsters were never an easy thing. But she was strong enough.


In the morning, Lydia saw that just the purple hat lay on the top step of Feather’s spot, so she went back upstairs, got the bag, then carried it back into sprinkling rain. She looked about–no one paying any attention, the homeless woman was not about–so set it by the hat.

She made it to work on time but all morning considered: surely she wouldn’t leave that worn but pretty hat?

“Lydia, calling Lydia, you there?”

Tony called out, waving a brush–other hand deep in red-streaked black hair– at the ringing phone.

“Head and Body Salon, good morning!” she chirped.

“What is that girl about the past couple days?” Alma whispered as she washed her client’s hair in the shampooing sink. “You’d wager she met a man…oh, not that, right?” She smirked as he raised his eyebrows.

“Okay,” Alma said, hunched over the counter clients leaned on above the desk, “give.”

Lydia sometimes didn’t understand Alma or Tony; they too often talked in shorthand. “Huh?”

“Whatdya mean, ‘huh’. You’re more drifty than usual, my dear–and look like you’re planning a secret trip somewhere far away and it’s all you can do to keep it quiet.”

Lydia rearranged her pens and pencils before her, lined each one up. “Well, that’s not true. I have no plans. Just a few things on my mind. You know, the holidays are coming up…”

“Well, that should be easy. Your mom always takes you to Bartles for a swanky dinner and gives you a gift card for thousands. Or is she taking you to Tahiti this year like you said she did three years ago?” Alma laughed; Lydia always worried about what to give her mother in return. She got that but really, it was not such a problem. “Did you make the idea list for her yet? You should come to my house–the hubby wants everything but he’s getting far less than that.”

“Alma, take it easy on our coworker!” Tony called out and smiled sweetly at the receptionist. He’d been pondering his own ideas of what he could swap with her and the other two at their annual holiday potluck. “She’s doing her job, which is more than I can say for you.” He pointed emphatically with his rattail comb at the mess Alma had left at her station. It was a slower day.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alma said. “Chin up, Sweetie, your mom will be fine, she gets nice stuff. Make her a poppy seed cake… I’d like that.”

“I’m not sure what this Christmas has going for it. Mother will be in New York for some conference-slash-social getaway–likely time with Grant, her newest–until the last minute. And it’s not thousands, by the way…only a few hundred!” She snickered and batted at Alma’s arm with a pen topped with plastic daisy, then was answered the phone.

On the way back home, Lydia walked rapidly to try to avoid the sudden downpour which only made her wetter as the wind rushed her faster. It was darker than usual with the curtain of rain, the heavy clouds above. But as she passed the steps where Feather had been before she slowed, anyway, pushing wet bangs off her forehead to get a good look. There she was, crouched under the metal awning of the doorway. Wrapped in the wool blanket, the pillow behind her head while leaned against the long glass pane in the door frame. The cloth bag was stuffed with something Lydia couldn’t discern.

“Hello,” she said, nodding at the blanketed figure. “Glad you found it.”

Feather looked away as the train clackety-clacked on tracks from a block away. Lydia hurried on. It was late. She needed hot soup, a grilled cheese and steaming tea, then a warm bubble bath and a book as she grew dozy on the couch.

It was only when she slipped her tired lean body into the inviting frothy water that she thought: did Feather get to eat tonight? When did she last have a basic hot bath? She sank deeper into the gentle warmth. Such comfort and relief in her ordinary, secure world…and she felt shame, and wondered what else she– a fumbling human who understood so little– might do. Tears sprang up as sandalwood perfume wafted into her nose, clung to her rosy skin. She wept, grew sleepy, then got out.

That night the rain stopped a handful of drops at a time. In bed, looking up at the shimmery chandelier and listening for the ten o’clock train whistle, she thought how things might be different for Feather, if only…. or for herself… who knew? The whistle blew and she closed her eyes, imagined that she who lived on those steps might have blinked hers open wide to check for the blanket and pillow–to make sure the world in all its violence was not coming upon her in the rain skidded dark.


The next morning Lydia found the blanket folded carefully on top the pillow, all pressed against the door. But Feather and the bag were gone. She looked up and down the street, found it as usual, busy but calm, and left a plastic storage container of macaroni and cheese and green beans piled at the side. It had a plastic fork; she added bottled seltzer. She looked about a last time and, satisfied no one saw her at it, she hid all under the blanket.

As she pushed open the salon door, she was surprised so many were waiting. Was she late?

Alma sidled up to her. “You know that holiday special we ran? This is the start of an avalanche, get ready girl.”

The whole day was hectic, full of talk and extra chores that when they were finishing up, Lydia wasn’t prepared to chat. She wanted to get home. The book she had started was excellent and the bath awaited.

“Wait a second, Lydia. We wanted to talk to you, “Alma said, grabbing her bag. “How about coming down to Shorty’s with us and having a beer and fries?”

“Oh, I can’t– not tonight, have things at home to tie up and–“

Tony shook her loosely by the arm. “You can’t spare us an hour?”

Lydia frowned. Could she? Not really, not now. “How about Saturday night unless my mother comes by as supposedly planned? Or next week? I really have stuff to address…”

“Don’t say we haven’t offered… again…you’re a dodger!”

Lydia winked at them and was out the door.

She took her time. The wind was up but the sky was a radiant darkness from which stars beamed like heaven’s eyes. She recalled as a child, when wishing on one, how she felt certain her wish had been heard. But her mother, sitting on her bed beside her.

“If you wished on that bright one”–she pointed it out–“well, sorry, that’s a planet. Venus. Try another one.”

But that year her wish–wasn’t it the science kit?– came true at Christmas, so she kept wishing on Venus, or what she thought was Venus–even after learning it rained sulfuric acid and would flatten you dead if you went there. Now she didn’t wish, of course. But she still believed the sky with its remarkable planets and beautiful stars might hear her pleas, if distantly. She gave up a few secrets when they shone as they did tonight; they were perhaps God’s guardians at the gateway to the great beyond. Possibilities reigned in Lydia’s thinking, even if that’s where they simply stayed.

From the steps Feather watched Lydia walk closer. On the bottom step was the container and plastic fork, cleaned. She had the heavy Pendleton blanket around her shoulders and over her lap. Her hat was on.

Lydia bent and picked up the container and fork, smiled. But Feather was looking up at the sky with its stars saved up after days of rain.


Lydia finished her cup of coffee at ten o-clock in the morning, grabbed the bagel made of almond butter and raspberry jam, and a sausage and cheddar-filled whole wheat sandwich, a cold seltzer and put them in a large paper bag.

Feather was sleeping. Or she was pretending well. Her rumpled hat covered her face; the feather looked like a wet owl feather. It occurred to Lydia that this was a better name, then thought she ought to know her real name; Feather was just silly to call her. Like an owl, though, she was still most of the time, then looking everywhere but at her. Likely awake at night, standing guard of her stoop, few possessions, her safety. And then she’d fly off.

At work it was a regular day–that is, it was hectic again, as it would be until the New Year. She thought about little, working the phone, greeting customers, who for some reason were talking her ear off with their excitement for parties coming up. It was an infectious thing, their trilling away. They looked at her closer, and she responded with eyes warm and bright. Lydia was feeling pleased with things, it seemed.

Her friends knew nothing of Feather. It would stay that way. It was her personal life, her own experience.

That night, the stoop was empty. The items were gone. Lydia studied the street, waited a bit, then went to her home. Anxiety snagged her as she fixed a meal. Had she done too much, was that possible? The woman hadn’t asked for one thing; maybe she didn’t want anything. No, she ate the food, used the blanket and pillow. Maybe it was too hard, any “charity” taken. It confused her, and though she did not rest as well that night, she awakened feeling hopeful, anyway. She packed a few protein bars, a peanut butter sandwich, and filled a thermos with coffee. She tossed together a small baggie of sugar and one of powdered creamer plus a plastic spoon and fork. Added a can of tuna fish with a lid that could be pulled open with a tab. Lydia stopped. Did the woman drink? She didn’t think so. She never looked drunk or smelled of alcohol. She looked lost and very tired, but almost proud when she sat up

She was there, on her feet, and the blanket had slipped into a bunched tower of brightly striped wool. She was talking to someone, a man. He was listening, stood so close to her that Lydia knew they were familiar with one another, or she hoped. Then he slapped her across the face and charged off.

“What’s going on? Can I help?” Lydia’s heart crashed against her chest as she took in every feature of the woman. loveliness bloomed beneath grime and pain, and a youthfulness that was wearing thin.

Feather’s hands went to her cheek, but shook her head. She looked down the street and saw he was gone.

“I’m okay, wanted money, haha,” she said, her voice surprisingly low and a bit hoarse. Back to the stoop. She climbed and sat with elbows on knees, chin propped in her hands. Her hair, tangled by a long time unwashed, stuck close by her ears and face. She put the hat back on; the feather wobbled. She stuck it in better, looked away after she spotted the bag of food.

“Can I leave this with you? Will you be alright?”

She nodded, looked at her hands a long moment, rubbing them as if trying to warm them up. Or remove the street. “Who are you?” she asked as if to herself, but mostly to the odd woman.

But Lydia was on her way. She was trying to calm down. That man had hurt Feather. It made her feel ill, but she didn’t want to be late, either.


“Why is there a woman camping out on the watch repair stoop? And she had a blanket that looked much like your old one.” She took a bite of food, then shook her head. “Don’t get involved! I should buy that place… well, maybe not.”

Her mother was rushed more than usual, and she was barely finishing some Thai takeout; she had a meeting at Bartles. Had to leave room for great drinks.

Lydia said, “She’s homeless, Mother. But she’s okay.

“Is that your blanket, Lydia? I’ll get you a new one, but only if you don’t give it away.”

“It’s fine, I have enough. When do you leave for New York? Are you going to be back in time for our annual night out?”

Her mother shrugged luxuriously, her hands palms up. “Who knows for certain, my dear. I will try my best. Grant and I–“

“I know. It’s okay.”

Her mother got up. “So sorry to rush. I’m glad to see you looking well. Now, don’t give anything more away, you hear? Hard earned money and all that. Donate to a reputable charity if so moved. And if I can’t be here on the date we chose, I’ll make it up to you, of course! And I will call or text you.”

With that, her mother laid a slim hand against her cheek, gave her a peck where coolness was left by her touch. After she was gone, her signature perfume lingered on her skin and in the air. Lydia waited a few minutes, then washed it off.

She took the rest of her Thai dinner downstairs, left it beside the softly snoring body and returned to her refuge.


The next morning was Sunday and no work to take up time and energy.

The stoop was empty. The blanket was gone, the pillow was gone, there was no bag full of anything. The woman who lived there, the owl feather, had drifted elsewhere. Lydia left a bag with two croissants and two little tubs of butter and a plastic knife; also, a fat wedge of cheese and a giant sized water, plain. Then she yawned, put head on arms crossed on her knees. She welcomed thin sunshine on her shoulders and head. She had slept fitfully. There was rain in the air but it was holding back. The sharpening breeze was moving about buildings, pushing down the streets with its wintry intent. She decided to walk to the park a block and a half away, where there were skeletal oaks and green laden pine trees lining the walks and a small fountain burbling–if it was on in December, she could not recall. A walk before the downpour and very little to do at home.

At the park she circled twice, and thought she saw her. The brown coat hanging crookedly, the cloth bag stuffed overly full–the blanket, pillow?– hair tangled and lifting in a mass as the wind blew hard. She was talking with another woman and a man, people who might also be homeless if one determined such a thing based on clothing and heavy slump of shoulders, the way they huddled together like co-conspirators. Trying figuring out the next place to shelter. But they were far ay and it was not her business who they were or what they did.

Lydia sat on a bench, stared at the fountain a moment–no water–and opened her book. It would likely soon fall, the rain, but she had a few minutes to read, to be taken away; to watch and listen for the cranky train that would pass. Then she’d be home and listen to music, putter about her apartment, plan what to give her mother for a gift and also Feather the next time they met up. If they did. She hoped they might, unless it meant she’d instead found a safe harbor that was clean and warm–where folks were nice to her. No one slapping her, either.

Later, when the rain took a long needed break for the night, after Lydia had been knitting a scarf just like some old person with nothing better to do–Alma would tell her that; Tony would offer to take it off her hands but it was for someone else–much later, as the sun parted skittish clouds and daubs of blue were offering visitation, Feather opened the sack left for her. She had walked a long time. She had talked with others, found them hard to be around. The shelters were filling up already. A cold wet night again, soon, too soon. She found the croissants mostly dry–the bag had been left way under the awning, where little rain had splashed. She held the opened butter tub close to her nose and inhaled deeply its richness. Then the sweet and toasty croissants. She could imagine how tasty they’d be if they were warm and moist and…. she shook her head.

Of course they were cold as she pressed the butter on them. She took a big bite and then another, another, another, and she hummed with delight, then started on the second and Lordy, so good to me, she thought. So tasty, it nearly hurt but she licked her fingers clean one by one. Feather pulled the yellow and green striped blanket closer, its rough heat like a tent of power, her eyes shut against the confounding world. She prayed for the shy, skinny woman He’d sent her way, that she would sleep just fine inside the fresh starlight. Like she felt she might, too, with her belly fuller. The train whistle cried out to her one last time for the night and she let herself be at rest awhile.

(Readers, Part 2 is coming up next week. Stay tuned.)

The Cost of a Good Day’s Lunch

It’s not often that he goes to Gideon’s for lunch but today is a good day so he celebrates with a small act of charity for himself. Charlene at the office suggested they share a meal but he persisted in watching his computer screen until she went away. It is better this way; she is loud and sometimes uncouth in ways that can annoy him, like slopping coffee when putting the pot back on the hotplate  or noting that so-and-so has about gone bald this year or clipping her shoulder painfully as she rushes around a corner. Not that Peter is the most graceful or civilized person. But he tries to be, at least at work, whereas she tends to let things fall where they may, words included, though her work is good. She sits four cubicles away from him, so there is relief in that. But he still sneaks around at times to avoid her; it depends on his mood he’s noticed.

“I’ll have to hogtie you one of these days, then take you out on my own dime to see what else can develop,” Charlene informed him once in the elevator, smiling rather wickedly before flouncing off. He has been afraid she might manage it somehow, and that image is not pleasant but its funny, too. He can’t imagine why she persists when he tends to feel flattened by such boldness.

To be fair, Peter avoids most people, they are all too much in some way. He has one good friend and their camaraderie is based on passion for video games, something they can’t quite abandon despite closer to thirty than they ever imagined. They get together on every other Saturday night to play and compete and share a couple beers and pizza. Peter doesn’t much like pizza but Tim does; they both enjoy the strange trance that playing provokes when adrenaline kicks in. Other than Tim and his sister, Everly, who lives twelve blocks north and occasionally comes by on a Sunday (though they text once or twice a week), his world is solitary. He prefers it that way, overall. He has had more friends but they end up being a distraction from his research on gemstones or forest canopies or alternative fuels–whatever grabs his interest. Gaining knowledge is his main activity after the workday at Drummond Systems. It staves off the bleakness that creeps in like mildew, a little at a time until it cannot be eradicated.

But today he has received clear praise from his manager. It goes a long way in scrubbing the grayness from his cynical being even if it is temporary. To prolong the upwelling of happiness he felt after supervision, he has come to Gideon’s on Rose Terrace Boulevard, so-called because there is an old and neatly terraced rose garden across from the restaurant.  Peter glances at the garden as he pushes the door open; it has a long way to go before pruned bushes grace them all with greenery and showy blossoms. When they erupt into color he will come more often, maybe twice a month until they die down again. A small extravagance he allows each summer.

“Mr. Ellison, welcome back.”

The hostess nods at him and he follows her. He has been coming here off and on for six years yet he still forgets her name, he could be more mindful. When seated he glances at her name tag, Ursula, that’s it alright. He smiles at her and when a new waitress arrives with coppery curls and an overbite he smiles and orders what he often does, a club sandwich on triple toasted sourdough with a premium dill pickle. And then he sighs audibly, glad to be here, and sips ice water.

Matt Carter has been a tough boss to please. In fact, very few do and Peter has not been different in that respect. But he wants to move up, make more money so he can save for a bicycle trip to Holland or France, perhaps both, he works harder and longer hours than most. So the talk today acknowledged this; Mr. Carter knows a loyal and upward bound employee when he sees one, and Peter Ellison is fast becoming most expert in his domain. A bonus is due.

It might actually happen, his trip, maybe a promotion before he knows it. Peter gleefully looks about the open space with its casual but certain loveliness as if to spread his unexpected good cheer. Everyone is, of course, busy with others or on phones or staring out the window. He gazes out at a news stand and the cars inching by, and imagines telling Tim, then wonders if it will matter or if he will be envious since he’s stuck in a low paying, tedious sales job. Everly will shriek and throw her arms about him so he’ll have to pry her off. He might call her at her museum job so she’ll maintain a calmer demeanor. He chuckles. She’s three years older, is kind and protective of him ever since their parents split up when he was sixteen. If he calls them tonight,  Dad and Mom will murmur “Good work, Peter, really, it’s about time”, then swamp him with details of their busy lives until he begs off and hangs up. No, he won’t share it with them. Not yet, he wants it to be his good news, safe and sound.

Looking down at his glass beading up from warmth of his hand, he removes it and studies a ragged cuticle, picks at it until it reddens.

Lunch arrives. Peter reaches for his earphones when someone roars with laughter. He looks  over at the red-faced, bulky man in a charcoal grey suit. He tenses, rumples his napkin. He’s so like his father, boisterous, big, commanding attention of two others at his table. Both Peter’s parents excel in making their presences known. It was a chore for Everly and him to be properly seen so they got by those years like overlapping shadows until they moved to this sprawling city for college and work. Let their parents have their world, they had made their own; sometimes they got together, but not too often.

He plugs in to a playlist of electronic music and takes a big bite. Savors tang and saltiness, crunch and chewiness, feels lucky to have a place like this to enjoy lunch. To feel a little relieved and even good about his success today. Peter half-closes his eyes as he follows along with the music softly soothing his brain, is in a silver roadster and head out on the highway, the top down, the wind gleefully wrecking his hair, and he’s headed to the mountains when there is a fast flick of a sinuous tail, almost a snap at his shoulder. Peter’s eyes widen.

A dingy white and rusty brown cat. Parading along a low room divider as if performing for treats, tail swaying, head high. It then licks a paw a couple seconds. There was never any mascot at Gideon’s, certainly no breathing, licking, scratching cat so what is it doing here, a restaurant at lunchtime? It thrusts its head at Peter, sniffs, whiskers twitching, then pulls back and primly sits right above his table. The cat–a girl, Peter decides–has no intention of leaving him to his sandwich, it smells wonderfully of thick bacon and turkey and ham so he looks nervously about for his waitress who’s at the far end of the room. Waves at her but she moves away. The next table’s occupants don’t notice the cat as they’re intent on coffee and dessert, so Peter shoos the creature away, who simply follows his hand with bobbing head, then eyes the food. He pulls out the ear buds, unnerved. Takes a bite, then another and chews with mouth shut and stares at the cat in defiance of its motives to make ruin of his meal. How irksome and odd to have a cat present. It has to have run in when a door opened wide.

Peter overall feels neutral about animals unless they’re in the wild, then he’s all eyes and ears. They’d had a terrier when growing up but he got hit by a taxi in a rush to get their father to the airport. That was that. Everly asked for a cat once but the answer was a resounding negative; their mother found them fussy and unpredictable. His sister now had no time for pets; Peter had no inclination.

“Go!” Peter commands of the calm statuesque cat.

“Oh dear, where did this one come from? Now aren’t you something, pretty thing?”

Marcy, the name tag announced, is smiling at the cat despite a tremor of alarm in her high voice. She pushes back long wispy bangs. Squints, reaches out with lips pursed as if about to kiss the furry thing but her plan is to grab and hold on despite fear of scratches. The cat leaps down and behind half-wall so she moves slowly around the end, whereupon the cat darts between her legs, under Peter’s table. He can feel its warm body atop his shoe and moves the foot but it moves, too, remains there wedged between the wall and the world, a benign bulk settling in.

“I need to tell the manager,” Marcy says frowning.”A shame, such a pretty feline. Not yours, I assume?”

“No, no, I was enjoying my meal and it appeared as if invited.”

Marcy giggles. “It likes you, apparently.” She looks under the table a moment. “We could offer it some bacon.”

Peter shakes his head emphatically. “Not acceptable to encourage finishing off my meal.”

“Oh, right, sorry, sir, it might just do that.” She leaves in search of the manager.

Peter pushes the cat off his foot with the other foot. It remains close at his ankle, purrs, rubs its head on his pant leg.

“Leaving your fur on me, are you? You need to go.”

It persists with rubbing its head on his pants. Peter  looks under the table again, worries his pressed jeans pants will be hairy with cat fur, shakes his leg. It–she?–stops but stares at him without any concern and rumbles its purr even more.

“I got a bonus today and you had to interrupt my victory meal. Why not bother someone else? I never much cared for cats.”

The next two tables’ occupants have taken notice and watch with either distaste or amusement. He reaches under, tries to snag the cat but it slips around the barrier.  It has begun to feel like a battle being lost so he quickly finishes the sandwich, determined to get back to work late. The cat reappears, disappears, hides under the table. About the time he is ready to get the check, the manager rushes toward him.

A lanky man with a long nose, he looks down through thick black rimmed glasses toward the floor, then at Peter and the others.

“I am so very sorry. This has never happened before. I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.” He studies Peter, his features exuding regret. “It didn’t nab your lunch, sir, did it?”

“No, she must be full of mice as she might have made a pounce for it. May I have the bill, please?”

The manager beckons Marcy, whispers to her, reiterates regrets to him then finds the recalcitrant cat. Swiftly he grabs her by scruff of the neck so four legs stick out straight, then they rush between tables toward the front doors. Out she goes. Peter can just see this from his spot, tossed out just like that. He wonders if the cat’s fate is to scrape by and die on the street.

“No charge, sir, we’re so sorry this happened but hope you’ll return,” Marcy says, blue eyes downcast–but no tip, either.

Peter unfolds himself from his chair, smiles vaguely in her direction. “How generous of you. Crafty cat. No worries, I’ll be back.” He gathers ear buds and phone, gets his wallet out and tucks a tip at plate’s edge as she steps away, lips parting to reveal bright big teeth. He grabs his backpack, eager to leave it all, and exits. Marcy finds him attractive in a disheveled, studious way, hopes next time he remembers her name.

Once outdoors, Peter consults his watch–ten minutes for two blocks–and steps forward, nearly squashing a mass of something. He just catches himself from falling and it yowls–damned cat! She’s been lurking, wishing to hold him up. Now she slinks along the building’s wall and eyes him suspiciously. Maybe she’ll at last go, he’s fed up with shenanigans when he just wants a few more moments to celebrate on the walk back.

She dashes out into the street as a truck lumbers up to the corner so that Peter must run out and hold up his hands to stop honking traffic, then scoops her up, presses her writhing mass to his chest and makes for the corner right by the garden. He plops on a bench, clutching her. She stops wiggling, pokes her nose at his, licks it to his mild dismay. Now he will have to be responsible, how can you not be when you save a life? Isn’t it a spiritual law?

Peter accepts he will now be late. He worries…he knows his boss will not like it–but he will also overlook this slight error of his man of the hour. The cat settles in his lap as he takes out his phone. It rings three, four times and he is about to hang up when it is answered.

“Everly, what are you doing after work? I have news, work-wise and otherwise, can’t say what just now. A surprise, yes. We can order take out, Indian.” He pets the cat firmly. “I have a favor to ask, also, not that big, maybe just advice.” The cat tries to turn a full circle on his now-ruined lap. “Good, see you at seven.”

When Peter enters the office he walks right to Charlene who is startled by his sweaty face. He crooks his finger at her and she gets up, follows him into the empty break room.

“Hold on, now, I just have a chore to ask of you.”

“What’s that?” she asks, curls shimmering at him.

“Where can we keep a cat until I leave?”

“A cat? Here? A real live one?”

“Sshhh!” He lifts his backpack, undoes the flap buckle so two ears and a pointy face pop out.

“Hello, gorgeous! How exciting, Peter, I never imagined you—”

“Pipe down, Charlene, this is serious, I can’t leave work until five but this cat followed me, more or less…so where to keep it? Without being found out and duly dismissed, both of us?”

“Oh, well, there’s the storage room, put it in a box maybe. I do sit right by the door, no one can get in without my knowing. I’ll check on it a couple times. Hopefully it won’t be noisy. I even have leftover ham sandwich, we have milk here, I can feed it if it fusses.” She beams up at Peter. She’s finally gotten into his good graces. Or will soon. “I hope it doesn’t make any messes, though…”

“Perfect, you’re a titan of fine ideas. I really appreciate it. And if you want a cat at the end of the day…”

“No thanks, I have a white poodle puppy to oversee.”

He shrugs, hands off his backpack and she takes over as he lopes back to his cubicle. He turns at his desk and goes back.

“Want to go out sometime, maybe?”

“I passed a test or something?”

She looks undone by his question and it tickles him.


“Sure, of course, why not?”

She almost glows some moments, he thinks, like a peachy-orange sunrise moving along the horizon.

Peter returns to work. He has plenty to do and he’s no slacker, that’s for sure. Neither is he a cat person much less a people person. He hypothesizes that life changes at times without his full approval or understanding. But he suddenly feels ready for more happenstance; he’ll figure out the necessary details and make a few accommodations as need be.