McPherson: 'The Mick Situation'

The following is a an excerpt from my short story, “The Mick Situation,” third place winner in the 18+ category of RiverRun Bookstore’s 2015 Short Story Contest. It appeared in Compass Points: Stories from Seacoast Authors, published by Piscataqua Press:

The old bitch had Ed Jasper’s cat, and he was going to kill her for it. The plan was simple; the execution, all in the timing.

It started about eight weeks before, when Ed and his wife Celina brought home an early Christmas present to each other, to go along with their first house. They’d only just moved in, back in early October. They called a local veterinary, to see if there were any kittens available. There weren’t, but the vet’s office had just taken custody of a small cat, a stray male, about a year old.

“Oh my God,” Celina said when she saw him, like it was all one word. “He looks just like Thomas O’Malley from the The Aristocats!”

He did; orange and white, except he was always a smaller guy.

They’d spent an inordinate amount of time on paperwork. “About your particular situation, Mr. Jasper,” the nurse/receptionist said, handing over the clipboard. His name was Ed. Not Edward, or Eddie; it was just Ed. Everybody he knew called him Ed. He’d been Ed since he was born.

Average height, Ed was slightly built, not skinny but hardly muscular. An accountant for the power company, most people described him as friendly, but irritable. They said it just like that, too – with that slight but noticeable pause. He got to work early every day, so he could leave at 4 o’clock and avoid the really bad traffic. Celina was a dental assistant, in a strip mall out by the gypsum factory. They lived a quiet life, preferring to stay in most nights and watch movies.

Were they married? “What f*cking difference does that make,” Ed mumbled under his breath, as Celina played with the cat behind him. They’d been married for two years, this past August.

It was clear right away that this was an unusual cat; calm, but not sedate. It sat obediently in Celina’s lap, playful and affectionate. He swatted at her hand, gently, his eyes wide, looking from Celina to her hand, then purring violently and rubbing his face shamelessly along her jawline. “Do we have a fenced yard,” Ed was saying, shaking his head incredulously. Celina wasn’t listening; she was in love.

The cat stayed on her lap for the entire drive home. Ed offered Celina the pet carrier, just to get him to the car, but she clearly didn’t need it; with the cat snuggled right up under her chin, against her throat, she even had trouble putting on her seat-belt.

It was twenty minutes back to their house, a tiny two-floor duplex unit on a street of duplexes. They’d purchased recently, in what their realtor called an “up and coming neighborhood” – code for random property crime and the occasional drug dealer. Everyone was talking about resale value, and the location was hard to beat. Raised in an apartment, Ed just wanted a yard, in a neighborhood – “where kids play in the street,” Celina always mocked him, smiling. That is what he wanted.

And a cat. Ed wasn’t a dog person.

“I want to call him Mick,” he blurted out, as soon as they pulled into the driveway. Celina agreed, so Mick it was.

Mick never got beyond medium height and build, maxing out at ten or eleven pounds, but Ed said he oozed confidence – “Like a young Clint Eastwood.” He groomed himself constantly, meticulously. A damn cool cat, Ed would say.

“He’s so small,” Celina would say, as Mick lay across her shoulders. Whether she was watching television or reading a book, if she was sitting down, that’s where Mick was. If she was on her feet, he was right in front of her, staring into her eyes and meowing loudly until she picked him up, purring and rubbing his face against the side of hers.

Their sex life was inconvenienced, at first, until Ed started closing the bedroom door. Mick stayed out in the hall, his feet flashing into sight under the door, or scratching violently at the frame, wailing loudly. It was distracting, but Ed put on the radio to cover the noise. The three of them sleeping in the bed at night was a bit much, but they made it work.

Then Mick wanted to go outside.

At first Ed didn’t like the idea, especially since they’d told the vet they wouldn’t. “But it’s cruel to keep him locked up, when he wants out so bad,” Celina argued, unable to bear the thought of Mick unhappy. “Besides, the look on his face when he stares out the window – it’s so purposeful.

“He doesn’t care how long he lives,” she stated, with finality. They let the cat out.

And that’s how they met Francine Connolly, the skinny, ugly, rat-faced woman, no more than five feet tall, who lived down the street. A retired elementary school principal, at seventy-nine she’d never had any children of her own – instead dedicating her life to ruling over other people’s children with an iron fist.

She had a couple of friends, but they rarely came around. Slowed by age, but possessed with a pervading sense of purpose, she preferred to spend her time identifying those situations that offered her a chance to be useful. Frail and stooped, she shuffled around the neighborhood, dispensing unsolicited advice that people sooner rather than later learned wasn’t advice.

Her husband had been a commercial pilot, driving 747s four days a week. Twenty-four years ago an arterial embolism killed him instantly over the Rockies. The co-pilot was in control, so the passengers never noticed a thing.

Francine had waited on him hand and foot; she never remarried.

Francine Connolly knew certain things to be true. For example, a woman should visit the hairdresser at least once a week – not that she had much hair to speak of. More like a pale red afro the stylist teased into something resembling a bunch of broccoli every Thursday afternoon.

A man should help a lady – that was a lecture she reserved for men, usually after one had just been helpful in some way.

Another insight of hers was that kids were like criminals; she’d made it a point to share that particular pearl of wisdom with all incoming staff at Franklin Roosevelt Elementary. That’s also why she broke up groups on the playground, leaving the admonished children somewhat confused as to what exactly they’d done wrong.

Francine Connolly did not like long grass, long hair (on men), short hair (on women), trash cans left out overnight, work contracted without the proper permits, jay parking, jay walking, cycling without a helmet, skateboarding (with or without a helmet), any music made since John F. Kennedy was president, or private schools. Most of all, Francine Connolly disapproved of outdoor cats.

“An unpleasant situation,” she’d long been fond of saying, “requires immediate rectification.”

Mick became her latest situation. That’s why Ed had to kill her...

Read the rest here.