Cat Path

The roses, golden reds, pale yellow edged in pink, stark white, framed the gazebo with bursts of color. If only they would last. Unable to concentrate on the story, Delia laid the book, face down, on the wooden bench and recorded the image of each blossom on the palette of her memory. With so much beauty to recall, she hoped to push back the disturbance that occurred earlier. She focused on a bud of one of the hybrid teas, not yet ready to open and wondered which one it would become.

The deep growl of a lawnmower intruded on the tranquil surroundings. Mr. Stilford was busy much earlier than usual for a Sunday. With all the commotion on that side of the fence an hour ago, it was no wonder. The Stilford's argument had spilled over into her yard just as she finished working in the flowerbeds. Not the nosey type, Delia tried to ignore their shouts and went inside to retrieve the novel she started the night before. Unfortunately, leaving the windows open to take advantage of the delightful summer breeze also allowed their voices to carry into the house. Their tone hostile and loud, Delia was forced to listen.

"I want to know where you were!"

"I'm a big girl and it's none of your business!"

"It is, too… wait! Don't you dare walk away from me!"

Mr. Stilford's voice stepped up a notch, then a door slammed making Delia jump. A brisk pounding resonated from the house next door.

"Open this door!"

"What are you gonna do? Break the door down? Leave me alone!"

Although fainter, there was a scornful edge to Mrs. Stilford's reply. The banging on the door boomed louder, and then her voice rose to a near shriek.

"I'm going to leave!"

"No, you will not! We're going to talk!"

A dull bang, then a bright crash of glass shattering carried across the space between the houses. Unsure if it was due to Mr. or Mrs. Stilford, Delia held her breath. Her neighbors had always been so quiet and nice; it was almost impossible to comprehend what might have set them off. In their early thirties, they had seemed ideal neighbors for the past ten years, although Mrs. Stilford dressed way too provocatively for a married woman. But that was just Delia's opinion. Moments passed, then Mrs. Stilford appeared on the front porch in tight jeans and a bright pink halter-top, her platinum blond hair cropped in a short, saucy bob. She slammed the door, and then huffed her way to the white minivan she drove to work every day. Tires squealing, she backed out of the driveway then shot off toward Mapleton.

Fifteen minutes later, a police car arrived in front of their home. A heavy-set officer rang the doorbell, then Mr. Stilford appeared and they went inside. Whatever was wrong, Delia realized it had to be something more than just a simple spat. Above all, she treasured her safety. Her home was in a cul-de-sac that butted against a wooded area far from the manic rush of the city. She cherished the peace and seclusion, and felt her neighbors, all three of them, were of like mind. For ten years that feeling had never wavered. She couldn't remember a time when she had ever seen the police in the area. Not once.

Delia glanced across the low, wood fence that separated the property. Mr. Stilford, tall, muscular and nearly as blond as his wife, pushed the mower with an intense expression, almost defiantly angry. Spots of red covered his cheeks, almost as if he had been slapped. His attention focused on the grass, she was afraid to raise her hand and reveal her presence. Sheltered by the intertwining canes of the rosebushes, she watched him attack the lawn, which hardly needed trimming at all, with a ferocity that seemed out of place. When he took a corner and his back was to her, she fled to the safety of the house.

Putty, her sweet, lovable and gorgeous Angora cat, meowed his presence as soon as she stepped inside. An odd shade of gray, she named him for the color on his face, paws, and tail; the rest of him was a delightful pure white.

"Hey, Putt Putt." She reached down and scooped him into her arms. Immediately, he purred his pleasure, bright blue eyes focused on hers. "You lonely? Need a good petting?" His purr deepened as she stroked his head.

The lawnmower died and the silence that followed gave her a chill. She hugged the cat closer. Sensitive, that was what her psychologist called her, although her mother thought she was just plain neurotic. What did she know?

"Go out and meet people, make friends," she told Delia on her last visit. "Do something with your life besides gardening and writing about it."

"I am perfectly happy with my life as it is. My books and columns on gardening are what pay the bills."

"Yes, but you're thirty-five and should be married. I want grandchildren."

If Delia had to listen to her lament about grandchildren one more time. Didn't she realize Putty was as close to a grandchild as she would ever get? "I am not interested in getting married. I don't need anyone."

"Everyone needs someone. You just haven't found that special person yet."

The eternal optimist, her mother's blinders were almost comically askew. Fifty pounds underweight for her height of nearly six foot, she had no illusions that she could be sister to Olive Oyl. "I'll keep my eyes open for a squinty-eyed sailor with anchor tattoos on his fore-arms."

At that point, her mother had thrown her arms up and gazed heavenward. "Give me strength!"

Besides, Putty was better than any man. He never gave her any argument, was always affectionate, cleaned up after himself, and loved whatever she served him. After a good cuddling, she set Putty down and went to her computer. The article on Perennials was due on Monday and she had to do her own editing, not that she minded. As the computer booted up, activity in the yard next door caught her attention. She pushed back the curtain to see what Mr. Stilford was doing. For a moment, she couldn't figure out what he was up to, his arm swung over his head then down so fast. Then she realized a small hatchet was in his hand and he was mutilating the gorgeous wisteria than had been trained to be a small tree in the middle of their lovely, English-style garden.

Skin crawling, she closed the curtain. Idiot. As her psychologist would say, his actions were displacement, taking out his anger on a pleasant innocent that had no connection to the actual issue. But, if Mrs. Stilford was the issue, it was much better to use the hatchet on the wisteria. A pop-up menu appeared on the screen when Putty hopped onto the keyboard and meowed.

"Get down, you silly kitty, you don't know Windows." He meowed plaintively and paced across the keys. "Okay, want outside?"

With a short yipping noise, he jumped down and trotted for the back door. She watched him take a low profile as he scooted down the cat path he had worn along the flowerbed toward the woods beyond the yard. He would most likely bring back a trophy and place it on the doorstep. The last was a poor, mangled squirrel. Still, she couldn't complain; an excellent hunter, he kept the yard free of gophers and moles, the bane of all gardeners.

She glanced toward the Stilford's. The yard was empty and only the ravaged remains of the wisteria were visible. The tip of Putty's tail disappeared into the low bushes flanking the stand of birches. Regardless of the disturbance next door, everything seemed back to normal. With a sigh, she returned to the piece with its pending deadline.

Two hours later, she finished the article and emailed it to the paper. The Internet was such a wonderful medium; she could work from home and hardly ever had to encounter another human being. So what if she was reclusive? She was paid quite well for it. The rumble of Mrs. Stilford's minivan carried from outside and the bang on the door as it slammed made Delia flinch. She hoped there would not be any more trouble.

Thankfully, the house next door stayed silent, and she spent the rest of the afternoon reading. Only once, around four o'clock, was there any noise, voices from the Stilford's back yard. No shouting, this time. The discussion seemed full of tension, but the exact content remained mercifully obscure. It wasn't until nearly six that she realized Putty hadn't returned. Although he often roamed the woods for hours, it was unlike him to stay out past his usual dinnertime of five. Concerned, she stepped outside. There was no sign of him, and no offering on the doorstep.

"Here Putt Putt," she called. "Putty, come home you bad kittypoo."

Sometimes he went across the way to Mrs. Detweiler's yard. An ancient woman, she must have been at least ninety, but was quite spry and still did her own gardening. Marigolds, impatiens and petunias festooned the boarders of her yard. Stooped at the shoulders, her sunbonnet bobbed as she fanned the spray from her garden hose over the plants. Putty wouldn't be there; he hated water and the threat of getting squirted would have chased him home.

Delia glanced towards the woods. Much as she hated to, she had to go look for him. Her sense of direction always got turned around when she went in there. Only a week before, she made a wrong turn and ended up on the far side of the hill. After what seemed like hours, she came across Foster Road and was able to make her way back. Biting her lip, she wondered what she could do to make it easier. With a flash of inspiration, she hurried to the potting shed and took out a bag of green twisty ties she used to train stubborn shoots. They would mark her trail.

Feeling a bit more confident, she followed the cat path Putty always took. As with all animals, especially those low to the ground, his trail was only partially visible as it wound between trees then through thickets of brush. Pushing back a low-hanging branch, Delia squinted as she scanned the ground. The cat path cut through a cave-like opening in a jumble of holly and vine maple. She would have to go around. With effort, she clambered over a fallen log, and then pushed though ferns and branches until she got to the other side of the thicket.

"Putt Putt?"

A purple finch twittered overhead. Unlikely that he was close. Most birds knew enough to stay out of his vicinity. Something white caught her eye and she knelt down. A tuft of long, white, silky hair clung to the end of a twig. She brushed Putty everyday and recognized the faint grayish tinge on the tips as his.

"Poor baby, lost some hair. Hope you didn't get a boo-boo." She stood and twisted a green tie around a branch. "Putty?"

Further down, she came upon another thicket, which she marked, then another. The trees grew closer together and the cat path more visible as the vegetation thinned out. Taking care to mark where she could, she continued down the gradually sloping hillside. Upon skirting a clump of birch saplings, she came to an abrupt stop. Scattered across the area were clumps of white hair.

"Putty!"

She rushed to the area and searched the ground. A splash of bright red on one of the tufts of hair caught her attention and she slumped to the ground. Blood. Heart pounding, she looked around, hoping to find him. Nothing. Tears blurred her vision and she ran a shaking hand over her mouth. What happened here? Struggling to stand, she braced herself against the trunk of a stout maple. If something had happened to her dear cat, she didn't know what she would do. He was her baby, her companion. Fighting back a sob, she noticed a splash of blood further down, then another. On legs quaking with dread, she made her way down the steep hillside. About ten feet further down, she saw it. The hatchet, its edge streaked with bloody crimson.

"No!" With horrified realization she knew Stilford had done this. "You bastard! Oh, you God cursed bastard!"

Unable to force herself to see her beautiful pet butchered, she turned and fought her way back through the brush. Heading for his home, she would confront him. Whatever his problem was, he had no right, no right to kill her cherished Putty. She should have realized his potential for violence when he mutilated the wisteria and never let her poor baby go out. Displacement. Oh, yes, that was exactly what it was, but it was no excuse. None at all.

Fury and anguish forced sobs from her as she followed the green ties marking the cat path back to her yard. Although the sky was deep blue with the approaching night, the Stilford house was dark. Wiping tears from her face, she stomped across their yard and banged as hard as she could on the back door. When he didn't answer right away, she banged again, this time kicking the bottom of the door. The sound of movement inside was satisfying. If he was asleep and she woke him, all the better. The door cracked open and the faint shadow of Stilford was just visible.

"What do you want?"

She didn't like the sound of his voice, it was a challenge, not a question, but she didn't care. "You murderer!" There was a moment of quiet, as if he were surprised; the door inched open just a bit.

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. I know what you did out there in the woods with your hatchet. How could you do it, you sick bastard!"

The door jerked open. Before she could react, his hand shot out, grabbed her arm, and he yanked her inside. His fingers dug painfully into her flesh and she squirmed to get away. "Let me go!"

"Get in here and shut up!"

He shoved her into the dim kitchen and turned her loose, then slammed the door behind them. Had he gone crazy? Not only had he murdered her cat, but this could be considered assault and kidnapping. Something had snapped in Stilford's mind, and for the first time, Delia realized she might be in danger. She glanced toward the dark living room, hoping Mrs. Stilford would investigate the commotion. The silhouette of her minivan was visible from the side window. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she took in Stilford's appearance. Dark stains covered his shirt and shorts, and Delia stifled a sob. Putty's blood. There was a wild-eyed look to him that she didn't like, a trapped expression that spelled trouble.

"Why did you do it? Don't you realize the horror, the shock, the pain you've inflicted?" She might as well get him to realize the terrible thing he had done. Her anger was in no way diminished by him forcing her inside, or the implied threat.

"You don't know what I've been through."

Gritting her teeth, she scowled and leaned toward him. "I don't care what you've been through! For God's sake! What you did was more than wrong, it was cruel, mean, evil!" Her voice was shaking. When she thought of poor Putty lying dead out there in the woods, the tears returned. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?" Unable to control her grief, she slumped onto a kitchen chair and sobbed.

Stilford walked to the counter and picked up something. As he got closer, she saw it was a pistol. He truly had gone over the edge. But, if he was going to shoot her, did it matter? Life just wouldn't be the same; another cat would never take Putty's place. Stilford sat in the chair across from her and hung his head.

"It's her fault, not mine."

"Oh, bullshit! Blaming your wife for your actions is despicable. You are the only one to blame for what you did, and to me, that makes you beyond contempt." He turned his face up to her and she noticed tears in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"As if that will change anything? Spare me your sympathy."

"Please understand, she just pushed me once too often, I couldn't take it any more."

"There is always something else, another path to take other than murder. Didn't you stop to think about the consequences?"

"It happened too fast, it wasn't until after that I realized what I had done."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? How do you think I felt when I saw the blood, that horrible hatchet?"

Stilford hung his head again and turned the pistol over in his hand. "But I loved her, how could she do this to me?"

"Whatever she did is not and never will be a justification for what you did. Do you understand? You are the one responsible for your actions, your feelings, no one else. Blaming your wife for what you did is nothing more than a cop-out, an inadequate rationalization for a deplorable act." Her psychologist would be proud. Not only was she confronting her anger, she was actually interacting with someone who had hurt her, admitting her distress and making her point. "Only you, yourself, are accountable."

Stilford looked at her, and she noticed his eyes were as blue as Putty's. After ten years as his neighbor, this was the first time she was close enough to really see him. Handsome in a robust way, his features spoke of Scandinavian descent, as did his height and build. Still, in those eyes she saw a lot of hurt. If his wife was playing around on him, was it a surprise? The way she dressed and carried on seemed to speak for itself.

"She hurt me."

"You let her." He visibly sagged, as if she had told him more than he wanted to know.

"My fault?"

"Of course, it's your fault. You allowed it."

Stilford looked off toward the back yard. "You're right." He stood and walked to the door. "I didn't mean to kill her, really."

"Him. Putty was a male."

He raised his hand and waved her off. "No, no, Suzanne. She shouldn't have followed me into the woods; it would have been okay if she had only stayed here. But, oh no, she had to go. Then when we got there to that place with all the trees, she mocked me, told me I would never be man enough for her. Guess I lost control."

What was he saying? Confused, she stood and put the chair between them. "But, my cat?" Stilford glanced back and she could see he wasn't listening anymore.

"You probably think I'm a monster, and maybe I am. There's only so much a man can take before something happens." He turned back to the window and fidgeted with the gun. "Maybe she's not dead?"

The scruffy outline of a couple days growth of beard framed his chin, accenting the deranged expression on his face. Delia had made a mistake thinking he killed her cat. The relief she felt was overshadowed by the horrible realization that he murdered his wife. Gooseflesh rose on her arms and she shuddered. What was he going to do?

"Yeah, uh, maybe I only hurt her a little. Sure, that's it. Um…" Eyes rolling, he yanked the door open, and then turned to her. "She's going to be okay, just needs some stitches."

Although ready to run for it, Delia wasn't prepared for his quickness. He lunged at her and grabbed her arm, knocking over the chair. Stumbling, Delia tried to keep up with him as he dragged her out the door then across the back yard.

"Let me go! What are you doing?"

"Gotta help her, she needs help. I, I didn't mean to hurt her."

He held the gun straight out in front of him as he pulled her along. She lurched and tripped over the undergrowth as they followed the cat path back down to the copse of trees. In his warped state of mind, if he found his wife dead, what would he do? The possibility that she would be his next victim was all too real.

"Please, let me go." Pleading for her life, she hoped he wasn't too far gone to show compassion. From the look of him, his mental status had deteriorated into a near primal condition. Mouth agape, air wheezed in and out of his lungs and his body moved in a stiff-legged stagger.

"Suzanne? Suzanne?" He knocked a limb out of the way. "Baby, I'm sorry."

Delia tripped over a log and fell to her knees but Stilford didn't slow a step. Dragged along until she got her feet back under her, the grip on her wrist was like an iron shackle and her hand had grown numb. Struggling did no good, so she kept her eyes on the cat path and tried to keep her balance. In the now nearly dark gloom, the lowering trees seemed alive, sentient beings observing her plight. Down the side of the hill, Stilford pulled her toward a mound of brush near the edge of the trees.

"Baby? I brought someone to help."

The sound of his voice was eerie, high-pitched and quavering like a frightened child. As they turned the corner by the bushes, Delia saw the body. No wonder she had made the mistake that the hair was Putty's. Bits and pieces of platinum blond hair attached to scalp dotted the hillside like white dandelion puffs. Stilford had literally obliterated her head, and there was little left to even define a skull. The rage he must have felt would have been enormous to do such a thing. Mrs. Stilford, Suzanne, was definitely dead.

"You take her feet, I'll get her under the arms."

"Are you nuts?" Delia couldn't help herself, what he asked of her was beyond crazy. "She's dead. We're going to have to call the police."

"Wha..? No! She's just sleeping! Grab her feet!"

He clamped down harder on her wrist and poked the gun in her face. She looked at the pistol. A strange calm settled over her and she wasn't afraid.

"Can't you see? There are pieces of her skull all over the place."

Grimacing, Stilford looked around. He let loose of her wrist and she grabbed it. Feeling the indentations from where his fingers had been, she tried to restore circulation. In a grotesque parody of a child creating a figure from Play-Do, Stilford scurried around, gathering bloody bits of hair and tissue, then patted them in place over the ruined remains.

"She's gonna be okay, just needs stitches, just stitches, see?"

A squishy sound as he molded the pieces turned her stomach. "Please, stop! She's dead! Dead!"

Gore dripping from his hand, he swung around. "No!"

The gun came up and pointed at her. The black hole a huge image promising an end to the insanity. She looked from the barrel then into his crazed eyes. In the semi-darkness, she noticed tears streaked his face. Calm, she quietly spoke two words.

"Join her."

As if a weight pressed down on his shoulders, he sagged, and then with an exhausted sigh, he turned back to the body.

"Suzanne?"

Finding her way back through the woods wasn't as hard as she feared. Maybe it was because she had been down the cat path so many times in one day. Even in the darkness, the going seemed easy. As she cut across the back yard, a soft meow carried from the porch.

"Putty?"

Movement and the whitish outline of her baby trotting over to greet her filled her with relief. She scooped him into her arms and took him inside. For a long while she sat stroking his silky fur. When Putty fell asleep in her lap with a satisfied sigh, she made the call.

--end--

© 2001 Sharen Nehoda

Back to FMTM