KITSY
by
Cindy Rosmus
Think I was five when Kitsy passed. Young
enough where they whispered about it, instead of saying straight out, “Your cat
is dead!”
But she wasn’t, not really. I still saw
her. When I threw treats into the corner where she slept, they disappeared.
Whether inside her ghostly belly, or into a black hole in space, who knows? Any
time I looked in that space between the scratched-up couch and the window,
there was Kitsy’s big, fluffy, gray body. Alive. Sleeping, or grooming, or glaring
about something she’d overheard.
“You fucking drunk!” Mom said, as Daddy
poured a sloppy shot. “Robbing me of my womanhood!” She laughed harshly.
“Blaming it on a helpless baby.”
Me. Cringing, I crawled into the space
between the couch and window.
“Bitch,” Daddy said.
As she smacked the shot out of his
mouth, I buried my face in Kitsy’s fur, real, or not. “It’s okay,” Kitsy
whispered, in her purry, cat voice. I breathed in the smell of dust, cat
treats. Trusted her to save me from misplaced punches, hurled furniture.
Then glass, as the window shattered
above us.
*
“Is she nuts?” Mom asked Aunt Josie, a
few years later. “Kitsy is dead. That cat’s been dead, since . . .”
“She still sees her.” Aunt Josie said.
“And . . . talks to her.”
Out of sight, I almost cried. I’d trusted
Aunt Josie with my secret.
“She’s got one,” Kitsy purred, from
her corner.
Kissing. And touching where they
shouldn’t have. Aunt Josie and Daddy. Somehow, even before Kitsy told me, I
knew.
At parties, Aunt Josie sipped from
Daddy’s drink. Sharing secret looks, half-smiles they thought no one saw. She
only wore that push-up bra when Daddy was there. In the summer, she had tan
lines from her boring bathing suit. The one Uncle Tommy made her wear. Curly
dark-haired Uncle Tommy, who’d almost been a priest.
For that, Kitsy got extra treats.
“No child of mine,” Mom told Aunt
Josie, “will see a shrink.”
Stretching, Kitsy yawned. Inside her
snake-with-fur’s mouth, I saw a lot more secrets.
“Then maybe,” Aunt Josie said, “Tom.”
*
Daddy had sandy hair; eyes gray as
Kitsy’s fur. A dimpled chin, which I didn’t have, either. All I had of Daddy’s
was his last name: Rusch.
Growing up, I looked like Mom, and . . . someone
else.
“Someone,” Kitsy told me, “Who likes
secrets.”
Like in confession.
This crazy, curly dark-haired teen had plenty.
. . .
Years of talking to imaginary cats. Hiding treats
in couch cushions. Wearing
splintered glass like a shroud.
And lately, sneaking antifreeze into sweet drinks.
Kitsy knew just how much to add.
THE
END
