Moonlight's Gift

(this story is a peek into the world of a new novel, soon to be written)

Hucklesby and I are out for our twilight walk up the mountain. Will I see Moonlight this time?

Today isn’t a good day for me. It’s Valentine’s Day, a day which brings, unbidden, images of what my life might have been, if only I’d made better decisions as a younger woman.

Regret, however, is a bitter companion. I prefer cats.

Like Hucklesby. A gray cat the color of twilight on a misty day. Though I might have been accompanied by other cats on my road not taken, none of them would have been my Hucklesby. He lives with me in my cabin in the woods but comes along on my twilight walks and never runs astray.

Up the trail, Hucklesby and I reach the little waterfall that I call Heart’s Chalice. It must be the most beautiful place on earth. It’s not well-known like the Blue Hole, down the creek a ways. The Blue Hole is a sweet spot – in pretty weather, lovers meet there to park, neck, and skinny-dip.

But it was at Heart’s Chalice where, on Valentine’s Day forty years ago, Robert proposed to me, and I’d split our paths in two, never to meet again. Why? Because Mom hadn’t liked him, thought his head was too far in the clouds to be "a good provider." At age twenty, I’d let her wrest my truest love from me and throw it away like a rock into the creek. The ripples still pummel me to this day.

On two of my last five twilight walks, I saw Moonlight. And on those nights, I dreamed of Robert and me: dreams so vivid – each more vivid than the last – that on the first blush of consciousness before dawn, I thought I was somewhere (somewhen) else: with Robert, young again, my life to live over, ripe with possibility.

The full light of day shone, instead, on the path I actually walk. But it isn’t bad. Not anymore. I have my Hucklesby.

And Heart’s Chalice.

I start, delighted and… expectant. There’s Moonlight, sniffing as he picks his way along the rocks on the opposite side of the bank near Heart’s Chalice. The fluffiest cat I’ve ever seen, he must feel like silk. I wouldn’t know – I’ve never touched him.

Moonlight looks well-cared for and wears a blue collar with a silver tag. He’s colored like moonlight transformed into fur, and his face, tail, ears, and paws are kissed with dark silver. Raising his head, his whiskers twitching, he watches me with sapphire eyes. Then he sniffs the rocks, moving nearer to where the water falls, froths, then flows. What’s he after?

Hucklesby plays in the fallen leaves on the trail. Odd that he pays no attention to Moonlight; usually, he hisses at other cats. Hucklesby has been an only cat for ten years, since my divorce. Harry wouldn’t tolerate cats in the house, so the first thing I did after removing our marriage from life support was go to the animal shelter and pick out Hucklesby.

Moonlight’s sniff quest takes him through the twisty laurel thickets to the giant tree above Heart’s Chalice where Robert carved our initials over forty years ago. Though the carving is faint, I can still see it: MLN + RMA, enclosed by a heart. Misty Laurel Nave plus Robert Michael Arrowood. Forever.

The tree’s still here, I’m still here, but Robert isn’t. Ten years ago, he died of drink and disappointment, far away from here.

Something has changed on the tree: an arrow now pierces the heart. Robert? My breath catches with anticipation, but I free it reluctantly. I’m not in my dream. Though this trail isn’t well-used, people hike here, and some of them probably like to carve on trees.

Years ago, I’d wanted to carve an arrow, but Robert stopped me. He thought the arrow would be tacky, given his last name. We’d both been poets, aware of words. I wonder if, deep in his heart, he’d seen what was headed his way: not the sweet sting of Cupid’s arrow but the anguish of mine.

Moonlight paws at the tree, gazing at the heart, the initials, the arrow. I study them more closely. They look fresher, like somebody spruced them up with his pocket knife.

No, not “his” anything. Only my imagination. A breeze carries away my sigh.

Moonlight disappears behind the giant tree. I watch, wait for him, but he doesn’t reappear. Where did he go?

I haven’t crossed the creek branch in a few years, but there are plenty of rocks, my legs are sturdy, and my balance is good. I have to see if Moonlight is curled up behind the tree, tucked in a hollow, or…

Or what? Where else would he be?

Holding my arms out for balance, I step, with a sneaker-clad foot, on the first rock. Pity I didn’t wear my waterproof boots, but I hadn’t planned on crossing the branch. Okay, here I go – don’t think too hard, just walk. Wobbling only a little, I make it to the opposite side of the bank, then I scramble up and round the tree.

There’s no hollow in the tree; Moonlight is gone. But he’s been here, all right. On a moss-covered rock gleams a silver tag identical to the one on his collar. The evening isn’t cold, but I shiver: the tag reads “Moonlight.” Underneath is an address I don’t recognize and “Robert and Laurel Arrowood.”

Laurel. I never could stand Misty. Harry had called me Misty.

The tree is no longer gigantic. It’s merely big, like it was forty years ago. And the carving on its trunk looks sharper. It could have been done yesterday.

Or today.

I hear a plaintive meow.

Across the creek branch, Hucklesby sits on his haunches. Come back to me, he seems to say, peering at me as if he can’t see me well. Perhaps, to him, I’m disappearing.

Could Moonlight live somewhere that Robert still lives and breathes; is Moonlight our cat? Is that how I know his name? Has Moonlight been looking for me, trying to bring me home, where I belong?

But I can’t leave Hucklesby. If I’m going to chase a phantom into a dream, I’ll take my boy with me.

My tremors have calmed, so I put the silver tag in my jeans pocket, cross back over the creek branch and pick up Hucklesby, cuddle him close. I look back; the tree is again gigantic, Robert’s long-ago carving looks faint. The arrow is gone.

Night has fallen – time to go home, time to dream. Perhaps time to travel. The full moon hangs in the sky, ripe with possibility.

New Year's Eve

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. It’s time to change my ways.

Not that I’m a bad cat. Quite the opposite. I’m a well-behaved cat. Mom tells me so all the time. Marilyn, she likes to say, you’re such a good, good girl. The only thing I do, once in a while, that’s naughty is to shred the paper towels while Mom and Dad are sleeping.

And sometimes I’m crabby with my brothers and sister. But for an eleven-year-old kitty girl who spent the first ten years of her life as an only cat, I do remarkably well in the “other cats” department.

No, my New Year’s resolution is more subtle. I’ve lived with Mom and Dad for a year, but I’ve never slept in bed with them. Ten years of hearing “No” formed a habit that’s hard to break.

I want to break the habit.

But every time I find myself on the verge of taking the leap – pun intended – I hear Mabel, the lady with whom I lived for the first ten years of my life, saying, “No.”

Not that Mabel wasn't kind to me. She'd loved me, and I'd loved her. She had liked for me to snuggle with her. Only thing was, she never let me in bed with her while she was sleeping at night. She believed cats steal a human’s breath.

“Have you ever heard anything so silly?” I say to Brainball as I lie on the sewing machine table, waiting for Mom and Dad to come to bed. Brainball sprawls on the bed, washing one orange, floofy paw.

He twitches his whiskers. “What are you talking about?”

I’ve spoken out of my ruminations again. Brainball thinks I’m peculiar. His paws are firmly rooted on the ground. He and I get along if I don’t get too close to him. He’s so big that he makes me nervous, albeit irrationally so. He’s a benevolent big brother and Alpha Cat, a gentle giant.

“Have you heard of cats stealing a human’s breath?” I ask him.

“Why would we want to do that?” Brainball says. “If anything, it should be the other way around. Our breath smells better than theirs.”

I blink in agreement. Give me chicken-feast breath instead of broccoli breath any day. Still, I want to snuggle with Mom and Dad in bed. I wouldn’t care if they ate broccoli morning, noon, and night.

Brainball’s no-nonsense expression brooks no nonsense. “What’s eating you?”

“I want to snuggle with Mom and Dad at night,” I say.

“Well, do it then.” Brainball licks his paw again.

“But my former human told me not to get in bed with her while she was sleeping. And for ten years, I never did. Now that I’m free to do it, I keep hesitating.”

“Quit hesitating.” He begins to catnap as though the matter were solved.

He makes it sound easy. I cock an ear in the direction of the living room, listening. Mom and Dad won’t come to bed for a while yet: Mom is typing on her computer, Dad is getting a snack. That’s fine with me. I need to work up my nerve.

The breath-stealing thing is silly, an odd superstition held by some – thankfully, by no means all – humans. So why am I afraid?

I think I know why, but I don’t want to articulate it. Not even to myself.

My younger brother’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “Mao!” he says. “Mao, Mao!”

“Do you know how many times you’ve told me your name already?” I ask him. He’s a Snowshoe Siamese, a talkative little fellow. I like him – how could I not like him? He’s the friendliest cat I’ve ever met – but he’s loud.

MaoMao sits on the bed next to the napping Brainball. He’s the only one of my siblings in whom I’ve confided my wish to snooze with Mom and Dad.

“Are you gonna go for it tonight, Marilyn?” MaoMao asks. “Start the New Year out right?”

“I want to, but I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what? You need to be more like me. I’m not afraid of anything.”

It’s true. MaoMao’s not even afraid of thunderstorms. “You’re only a year-and-a-half,” I say. “Give it time. The whole world isn’t your kitty toy, you know.”

“You need to loosen up.” With that, MaoMao high-tails it away. He rushes into the living room, skidding around the corner and making Mom and Dad laugh. Then I hear a squeak followed by a hiss, and Dorydoo, my younger sister, comes in.

“That MaoMao,” she says. “He drives me crazy.”

“But you love to play with him,” I point out.

“Yeah, sometimes,” she admits grudgingly. Fixing me in her bright-topaz gaze, she asks, “What’s the matter? You look like you might never get stinky goodness again.”

I decide to share my New Year’s resolution with her. “I want to start the New Year off right and snuggle in bed with Mom and Dad.”

“So why don’t you?” Dorydoo says.

“Old habits are hard to break.”

“Well, good luck. But just remember, I get snuggle time with Mom, too.” Dorydoo and I are often in competition for Mom’s attentions.

I reply by licking a paw, and Dorydoo leaves, probably to go back to snoozing on the recliner in the living room. Or on Mom’s lap.

I snooze in Mom’s lap, too. A whole lot. But these last few days before New Year’s Eve, I’ve waited on the sewing machine table for Mom and Dad to come to bed. Each night, I’ve tried to psych myself up and overcome ten years of “No.”

And each night, I’ve been unable to do it.

Tonight, though, is New Year’s Eve. My will to overcome ten years of “no” will be extra-strong. I hope. All my siblings have encouraged me, too. Tonight is the night.

I wait. And wait some more. I doze. The sound of footsteps awaken me. Mom and Dad are coming to bed! They pet me, and Mom gives me a kiss.

“You know, Marilyn, you can snuggle with us anytime you like.” Each night, she has encouraged me. She can see my wish in my face. Oh, to act on that wish!

She and Dad lay down, and Brainball approaches Dad, anticipating his nightly kitty massage. Dad gives the best massages in the world.

Go on, I tell myself. Jump off the sewing machine table, then hop on the bed and curl up on Mom’s chest. I can do it. I know the breath-stealing nonsense is just that: nonsense.

Or do I? Had Mabel’s fears seeped into me? I wouldn’t steal my human parents’ breath on purpose, but do I, somewhere down deep, believe I’d do it accidentally? That if I lay on the bed with them while they slept, I’d cause their demise?

Digging under my fears, I find more deeply-rooted fears. I hadn’t wanted to face them… until now. Mabel had died while I was curled on her chest. Did I worry, down deep, that I’d unwittingly caused her death?

And after Mabel died, I was cast out as a stray cat by her nephew. Now I had a lovely home, with loving human parents. I didn’t want to lose them the way I’d lost Mabel.

I glance again at Mom’s face. She looks back, encouraging, beseeching. “You can do it, little girl. Come on. Let’s snuggle.”

New Year’s Eve. The perfect time for me to bid goodbye to foolish superstitions, habits based in fear. Now is the time. Now.

Dorydoo and MaoMao start playing chase in the hall, but I refuse to be distracted. Now. Jump now.

I leap off the sewing machine table. Mom says, “She’s going to do it this time…” and I’m further encouraged by the anticipation I hear in Mom’s voice. I climb over Dad – who is massaging a purring, grinning Brainball – then I climb gingerly onto Mom, curl up on her chest, and look deeply into her eyes, waiting for her pronouncement. I expect “Good girl” or something similar.

“Oh, Marilyn," she says. "Thank you so much, thank you!”

Wow, Mom wanted this as much as me! She’d been encouraging me not only for my good, but for hers.

I hadn’t caused Mabel to pass away by accidentally stealing her breath, and I don’t have to fear that with Mom. Mom will be fine. I must have faith, for only through faith will I conquer fears rooted in my past and truly embrace my future.

Happy New Year to me! Purr, purr, purr.