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CAT PEOPLE
(EXTRACT FROM JACK SCAMP)
This extract first appeared in Ironstone Magazine, October 2007.
Post-preen, Soda returns from the bathroom wearing blue cotton pyjamas decorated with pink sheep.
Billy lies on his back, counting wolves in an effort to stay awake, so he can think about Fern.
Soda slides into bed and says, 'So what did the doc say about your leg?'
Billy remembers the lie. 'Clean bill of health.'
'Really?' Soda asks, unsatisfied with such a pat ending. 'He didn't refer you to a leg-specialist or something?'
'Nope.'
'Back on your bike tomorrow, then?'
'I don't think so. I'll try walking. Less stressful.'
'You're stressed?'
'Little bit.'
'Restaurant stressing you out?'
'No. Never.'
Soda giggles. 'Hoser,' she says, from the old country, then, from further back still, 'Han zi. So what have you got
to be stressed about?'
'Fudge knows,' Billy says, looking genuinely baffled.
Soda smiles and says, 'Can I ask you something?'
'Yeah,' Billy says.
'Something personal.'
Billy says, 'Everything's personal.'
Soda shakes her head. 'I want to ask Jeff but there's no way, and you're the next best thing. And maybe you don't even think
of it as an issue, so if I don't ask and I'm always wondering about it and you don't even have a problem with it, then it's
kinda like I've wasted this big opportunity to ask a guy about it, you know?'
Billy opens his eyes and puts his hands behind his head. It must be one hell of a question. 'Fire away.'
Soda wrinkles her nose. 'I can't, I'm all nervous now.'
'Probably for the best,' says Billy.
'How so?'
'Some things,' Billy says, 'aren't supposed to be talked about. No big deal.'
'I guess you're right,' Soda says. Without her makeup, in sheepish pyjamas, hands folded on top of the duvet, Soda looks much
too young to be in bed with. Dark chocolate eyes, button nose and that trick of a mouth, oh, she must be twelve, she must
be a slip of a girl. At times like this, Billy is tempted to offer her a glass of milk, he's minded to open up a bedtime story.
Yes, the only thing missing is a velveteen rabbit, but truth is, Soda's baby doll (her wá wa, sent with Soda to London
by her mother) stays in her own room, never makes it through to Billy's bed.
And it's over, time for sleep, a chance for Billy to revisit his latest Fern fantasy, except Soda says, 'I was in Asda today
and I was noticing all the things I don't buy. Chocolate fingers, canned fruit, cat food.'
Billy yawns. 'Interesting.'
'All that cat food. There's a whole aisle of it. There's food for young cats, old cats, fat cats, outdoor cats, cats with
hairballs, and I get to wondering, why don't I have a cat? I look at all the different flavours and brands, eh, and I think,
cool to have a cat, you know?'
'Cool,' Billy says softly. He turns onto his side, away from Soda, and starts counting cats.
'It's like everyone I know has one except me, like it's one of those things you're supposed to do. Graduate, get a job, get
a Jeff, get a flat, get a cat.'
'In that order?' Billy murmurs. Eyes shut, he is surrounded by felines.
Soda sits up, making the bed squeak, and says, 'All these people buying food for their cats. I'm standing there, looking at
young people, old people, rich cat-people, poor cat-people, the whole low-fat spread.'
'Sounds like a tense consumer moment,' says Billy.
'I saw this girl,' Soda stage-whispers, as if revealing a terrible secret, 'younger than me, buying cat food. It can't be
right, to be so far behind the pack.'
Billy has lost count. He opens his eyes. 'Maybe, Soda, just maybe, you should get a cat. Normally I'd say no pets before marriage,
but for you and Jeff I'm willing to make an exception.'
'Well sure, Billy, I'm running straight outta time here. Wedding shower's just around the corner, then there's the wedding
and as soon as Jeff and I cut the cake they're going to be asking, all of them, "So, where's your cat?" or "Cat on the way?"
and I won't have one, and whenever a bunch of people talk about their cats I won't have anything to say and even though they
won't mention it, they'll be thinking, "yeah, there's that...thing, that cat-less freak."'
Soda's voice is rising, straining at the leash.
Wide awake, Billy turns over and looks up at her. 'So do you want to get a cat?'
'I never got it before.' Soda pushes away the duvet and rubs her stomach. At first Billy thinks she's drawing attention to
the sheep, but then he realises that Soda is going beyond the cotton, into herself. 'Now I know I have this huge hole inside
of me, this gaping, windswept Grand Canyon in my life where a living thing should be.'
Billy sits up, resigned to a potential long haul. He pecks Soda on the cheek, as if she's grazed her knee, as if he can kiss
it all better. He says, 'Soda, we're still talking about cats, right?'
Soda sniffs, thinking it through. 'Expensive though. It's not just food. There's vaccinations, toys. And you'll always be
worrying about them. Even when they're adults, adult cats, you'll still be wondering where they are and what they're up to.'
'It's a big commitment,' Billy says softly. He strokes Soda's hair away from her forehead. 'You told Jeff about this?'
'Say I want to go away for the weekend, who'll take care of the cat? Maybe we'll want to take a trip someplace...' She pauses,
glances shyly at Billy. 'Hey, I know you don't go away, exactly, but say you wanted to and so did I, but we can't because
the cat will need feeding, kitty litter. And you have to talk to them and play with them, you can't just be nice when you
feel like it. It's a major responsibility and I'm not sure I'm ready for that. Do you think I'm being selfish? And to be straight
with you, I'm not so sure I like cats all that much. They seem kinda sneaky and snooty to me. But everyone likes cats! Does
not liking cats, does that make me a bad person?'
Billy dives into the opening. 'Actually, I have a cat-related secret to tell you. In the interests of full business disclosure.'
He pauses, then says, 'I'm allergic.'
'Really?'
'Sure. A cat just has to look at me the wrong way and I get this vicious rash, all red and blistery.'
'Yikes,' Soda says. 'Is it sore?'
'It's dinosore,' Billy says solemnly.
'Yikes!'
Billy says, 'It's not for life or anything. Just the next year or so, probably until you and Jeff find your own place. Then
I'll be fine. If you get a cat after that, I can visit, no problem.'
'So there's light at the end of the kitty-door,' says Soda with her special half-smile.
'Definitely. But until I'm better with this, if anyone asks why you don't have a cat, you can tell them I refuse to have one
in the flat, House Rules. Then you'll be in the clear.'
'Billy. You always know just the right thing to say. Thanks, Boss.'
'Don't mention it.'
Soda lies back down, curling into a ball. 'Shoot, I'm sleepy. Turn off the light.'
'I can't begin to tell you how much it's your turn to do that.'
'I'm too tired,' Soda says, and then yawns theatrically.
Billy groans. He gets out of bed, walks over to the light-switch and flicks on the dark. He pads carefully back to bed, negotiating
unseen terrors.
'My hero.' Soda's voice is muffled beneath the duvet when she says, 'You really need to get a bed-side lamp.'
'Better get a bed-side table to put it on first.'
Soda gives a snort of laughter.
Billy smiles in the dark. Then his thoughts switch over to Fern, and to whether she likes cats, and when she'd like them,
and where and how many, and he listens to Soda's breathing slow down, aware of his own stiffening shoulders and warm palms,
certain that he isn't getting to sleep any time soon.
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