fever

by liane lemaster

    She found the cat in the Dumpster behind her apartment. When she raised the lid to toss out the remnants of last night’s party (Ted, flushed with vodka and tips, inviting half the restaurant back to their place, yet again), she heard the hitched, mournful cry—a baby. Someone had left a baby in her trash. She dug through the garbage, old pizza boxes and rotten fruit, coffee grounds and milk cartons, the heft of human waste slithering past her as she dug and dug toward the screaming. She pulled out a green duffle bag with the words “Becca’s Dirties” stitched across the front. Someone had stuffed a baby in with the dirty clothes. She’d read about those cases, the power of denial a force like rage, and an orange fury jumped at her face, hissing and spitting. It branded her with a swipe across her cheek and she grabbed its mottled skull and held it out, away from her, in the dim light of morning. Scars and bald spots circled his orange face, his eyes pulled into slits from the force of her grip. He blinked feebly, tried to lick. It was true love.

    “It’s okay, boy, shhh.”

    Carefully, she placed the cat back into the duffle bag and folded him in her arms to stop his squirming. She glanced down the street but saw no one. It was early. The streetlights were still on. She looked up at her apartment. Ted stood on the back porch in his underwear, staring down at her.

    “Someone left a cat in the Dumpster,” she called. She climbed the steps to the second floor, taking care to hold the animal firmly against her chest to couch his discomfort.

    “Are you just coming to bed?” Ted asked her. “How long was I out?”

He’d fallen asleep post-bong on the sofa. The nubby fabric had left faint pockmarks on his cheek.

    “We’re going to need towels, something to hold him in,” she said as she rushed past him toward the kitchen. Still holding the duffle bag close to her chest, she ran water in the sink and wet a paper towel, patting it to her cheek. “He’s hurt.”

    “Who’s hurt?”

    “The cat.”

    “What cat?

    “A cat. Someone left him in the Dumpster. He’s hurt.”

    “You can’t bring that thing in here,” Ted said. “You don’t know where that thing’s been. It could have rabies or fleas. That things scratches you and you’re infected, get a fever. People have died. Remember that movie? That dude had AIDS and the cat scratched him and he up and died?”

    She could feel the cat stirring against her belly.

    “Someone threw him in a Dumpster,” she said. “You don’t know what he’s been through.”

    “It scratched up your face,” Ted said.

    “He didn’t mean to. He was just scared.”

   

    She carried the cat toward the bedroom. Grabbing a quilt and pillow off the futon, she made a bed in the closet. She could think of no other option. She didn’t want him to get away until she could figure out what was wrong with him. Already, she could feel a searing hatred for this Becca. No one threw out their loves like refuse, no matter how much trouble they might cause. She couldn’t imagine what the poor guy could’ve done to make her mistreat him that way. She sat on the closet floor and untied the duffle bag. She patted her way through balled up t-shirts and socks, testing each one for a heart beat.

    “Maggie, you can’t keep that thing here,” Ted said.

    She shut the closet door. In the dark, she pulled the covers around them, bringing her knees to her chest. When he woke, she would be here. She whispered softly to him as he slept, meaningless babble. She asked him nothing about his past. His breathing leveled out, but still she didn’t sleep, fascinated by his inscrutable will and vaguely aroused. The things she had once admired in Ted seemed ridiculous now. Anyone could rub paint on a canvas, could coax more celebration from rich people at his tables and pad his check. Ted had a temper, she must admit. He was rough with her at times, more than rough. Even in front of other people. Curled around the warm, supple cat, she found Ted’s stiff, bony body unbearable and wondered why it had taken her this long to wake up.

                                                    *

    When she woke, the cat was nestled in her armpit, his feet curled tenderly below her breast. She hated to move, but he sensed the difference in her breathing and shifted, stretching his glorious legs forward and arching his back. He was stable. She could feel it in the buzzing purr, his abdomen to her chest. She waited, trying not to smile. He kissed her. His tongue was scratchy.

    “We should wake up,” she said.

    He said nothing and she waited for what seemed like a long time for him to get ready. It was necessary. He had been wounded and shouldn’t be rushed. She felt mildly unsure if she should pet him. Her own cheek had dried crusty on the pillow and she would welcome a tender caress, but she wasn’t sure yet what she was dealing with. He was the one abandoned in the Dumpster. She didn’t want to pressure him to explain.

    When they padded into the kitchen, Ted had left.

    She made eggs. The cat dodged from room to room, restless. She forced herself not to follow him, hoping he could see how well she trusted him. Her cheek throbbed, but it was manageable. Stirring the eggs, she was caught by the sight of her own arm, extended as it was from her robe, a thin, pale arm, covered in minute, blond fur. A few spots of blood clung to the pink chenille of her sleeve. The eggs sizzled. She made a low whistle in her throat. The cat walked into the kitchen.

    She watched him eat, great gulps, gasping as he chewed, moaning. She moaned with him, her own belly churning and empty. They would need more food eventually. There was nothing left in the cupboard but Saltines and granola. She could order from the deli down the street. They delivered. She wondered what he liked to eat, tuna, chicken? She would learn to love the things that he did. Should she buy a litter box? It seemed slightly offensive. She remembered a girl from her elementary school, Stacy Wingo, whose mother had taught their cat to use the toilet and even to flush, but she would never dream of insulting his intelligence that way.

    The cat sat back, licking his lips, studying her, tensed for any sudden movement. She folded her hands in her lap, waiting. It might take him a long time to trust someone again, but she would prove that she understood. She would be different than the ones he’d known before. She saw her life stretching backward, a steady stream of men that had never stared at her so watchfully, had never fully seen her, always looking in the mirror or down at their own needs. The cat was capable of sitting for hours, barely moving, registering every curve of her jaw, every strand of hair. She felt his gaze like a long caress. Ted rarely even noticed what she wore. Once she’d bought new glasses and it had taken him three days to see how she had changed.

                                                      *

    Bettina called later that week, wondering why she hadn’t come to rehearsal.

    “Are you sick,” she said. “You didn’t call anyone. They’re talking about replacing you.”

    “I can’t think about music right now,” she said.

    “You’re going to get fired,” Bettina said.

    “I have to think about the cat,” she said.

    The temp service called her on Wednesday. They would no longer send her out on assignments. They would mail her final check and warned her not to list them as a reference. She curled up on her bed, burrowed in a tangle of blankets and slept. The cat built a nest against her lap and pushed gently on her stomach with his fists as he purred.

    Ted came to collect his things.

    “What’s wrong with you?” he said. “This place smells like a shit hole. Are you

letting that cat shit in here?”

    “Not so loud,” she said. “He’s sensitive.”

   

    “I’ve been at my place all week,” Ted said. “You didn’t even call me.”

    “You didn’t call me.”

    “I’m not the one sleeping with a cat.”

    The cat tugged at her robe and she lifted him to her chest, cuddling him.

    “I can see in the dark,” she told Ted. “I’ve been practicing.”

    He pursed his lips, his eyebrows arching upward. She didn’t expect him to understand.

    “Maggie,” he said softly. “I’m worried about you.”

    She forced herself to reach out to him, trying to stroke his cheek, but the cat leapt to the floor. It lunged at Ted, climbing him like a tree. Ted danced and screamed, a high girlish sound that she could not forgive. The cat bolted down the hallway.

    “Would you look at what that crazy monster did?” Ted yelled, stepping back against the kitchen table and rattling the salt and pepper shakers, cute little things, shaped like two porpoises. He’d bought them for her one weekend in the country, the weekend of their first fight. She now knew with all confidence that he had never truly loved her. She needed flexibility, adventure, someone who would nuzzle her neck with affection, someone who couldn’t wait to get close to her. She walked toward the bedroom, searching for the cat. She barely heard Ted slam the door. The cat had a string in his paws and was dancing for her.

    They slept a lot, moving from room to room, seeking the sun. They read the paper together every morning, shaking their heads, equally puzzled with the changing world. She planted a row of catnip in pots along the window sill. She taught him how to play her violin and he plucked gently, respectfully, at the strings. When her heat was cut off, she and the cat cuddled under blankets and ate sardines from a can. She sold her mother’s wedding ring on eBay and bought groceries and play toys, but she could sense his restlessness, especially at night. He sat on the bed, staring with longing at the open sky.

Bettina called her again.

    “I just want to come by and see you,” Bettina said. “Make sure you’re okay.”

    “He doesn’t like visitors,” she told her. “Conversation makes him nervous.”

    “Makes who nervous?”

    “You know,” she said, “him.”

    Bettina cleared her throat. “Meet me somewhere then. I just want to see you.”

    “He doesn’t like to be alone. Maybe some other time.”

    “When?”

    “He doesn’t like me to do things without him.”

    “Do you hear yourself?” Bettina asked.

    “You don’t understand what he’s been through. He has a hard time trusting people. I have to go. He’s waking up now.”

    She sold her television because it made him tense, all that random human noise. He didn’t like her to concentrate on anything but him. She let her hair grow long again. He liked to play in the tangles, brush it over his body in dark waves. He’d dig his hands across her shoulders, tug at her shirt with a playful smile. They coiled around each other in the dark. He hummed to her as he slept, his lips inches from her face.

    One morning, he would not eat with her. He sat in the corner and sulked.

    “What is it?” she asked. He didn’t answer her. He went to the window and played absently with the plants, staring outside with a frown on his face.

    She wondered what she had done to make him so distant. She retraced her movements, looking for gaps in her love. She’d misplaced his pillow. She had forgotten to buy his favorite snack. Lately she couldn’t think of anything new to tell him. She wanted to say that she would change, that she would try harder, but instead she said, “We should go to the country. Get away for awhile.”

    He traced a cobweb with his fist, staring out at the alley, past the Dumpster. She stood behind him, hesitating, then opened the window, the smallest concession.  A slight breeze slipped through and he shut his eyes, his face screwed up with a pleasure that was almost pain.

    “We need fresh air,” she said. “A few days in the country. I’ll go buy train tickets. You’ll like the train.”

    She reached out to stroke his cheek, but he jumped away from her and walked silently into the bedroom.

    She grabbed her purse and tiptoed to the door. She shut it behind her softly, her fingers lingering on the doorknob, reluctant to leave. The hallway was dark and cool. In bare feet, she padded down the stairs, flicking her dark hair behind her, her eyes glowing green in the dark.

    Once outside, the light was blinding. She crept along the bright sidewalks, her face placid and her ears taut. She jumped over curbsides. Her hips rocked beneath her as she walked, two separate globes. Light filtered through the trees and she looked up, the sky bursting with movement. Birds jumped on the low lying branches, restless, flighty things, hopping inches from her face without purpose. She narrowed her eyes at them, a thick plug of hate dropping into her belly.

    She arched her body and jumped, digging her claws forward, grabbing the bird around its breast, its frantic, useless heart. She broke its neck swiftly, without remorse. Its bones were as thin as paper folding in her hands. She slid easily down the trunk of the tree, cradling her offering in her hands. She walked quickly, not looking back. Behind her, dark wings of grief screamed through the branches, but she heard nothing but the sound of her own righteous heart.

    When she returned, the apartment was empty. She walked down the hallway toward the open window, the pale curtains swinging in the breeze. Her breath was heavy in her throat. He must have flattened his body, twisted his head through the opening, forcing through, leaving her at the first opportunity despite all her efforts. She sat at the table, still holding the bird in her hands.

    A shiver ran through him and she loosened her grip, weeping apologies. His body was broken but his breast was still warm. She held him carefully, just loose enough. She walked back to the bedroom, searching the closet for a shoebox. She could line it with tissues, make him comfortable. His neck would heal. He might not be whole, but he would survive. She could feel him move in agreement between her cupped palms.

    People waited their whole lives for understanding, for the one who would see past the imperfections, the weak profile, the compromised ambitions. She herself had always been misread. Her old boyfriend, whose face she could barely remember, had accused her of being temperamental when really it was he who couldn’t control his rage. Her old friends assumed she was artistic and dreamy, settled with her choices, when really she was prone to flight. She wondered why no one had ever noticed it before. She would cut off all her hair tomorrow. She would live on a diet of seeds and grains, build her upper body strength. She would stretch herself until her arms could span the distance from her window to the bed. She felt liberated, flushed with a sudden recognition. She had narrowly escaped a life of napping in the sun, all those long afternoons of heavy silence when she’d needed to sing.

    She placed the bird gently in the shoebox, his thin legs scratching the sides. She could feel him struggle and she brought the box to her lips, cooing her devotion. She would keep the lid tight until she had taught him to stay.

Liane LeMaster is the recipient of the 2005 Porter Fleming Prize in Fiction. Her work has appeared in the Mississippi Review and the Chattahoochee Review and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize XXVII.  She is an MFA candidate at Georgia State University, where she was awarded the 2005-2006 Paul Bowles Fellowship for Creative Writing.