Theresa Kopper
Johnson County Library is pleased to announce that Theresa Kopper has won our short story contest on the theme Family with her piece "Unyielding."
Theresa lives in Olathe. By day she designs water & wastewater treatment systems. At night, she writes stories for her children and sisters. Sometimes they read them.
For the little creatures who keep us resilient
My name is Will. I am nine years old and tall for my age. Once, I ate so many mandarins I got scurvy.
My mother is an artist who works odd hours and disappears for days. Most of our exchanges happen while she looms in a doorway with one foot out the door while putting on silk gloves or straightening a feathered hat.
“You know I love you, right, Will?” she says.
She disappears to “out” before I can answer. Mum doesn’t wait, because I don’t speak. I haven’t since I was six years old. I’m not a mute; I just don’t care to talk. For this reason, I am ushered from psychologist to psychiatrist where I lay with my hands crossed on my chest in chesterfield couches while doctors with spectacles drone on. There is no one who loves the sound of their voice more than a doctor who doesn’t own a stethoscope. The longer I don’t speak, the redder their wrinkly faces get, until finally they tell my mother I am “unyielding”. I like the word “unyielding”. More sensible folks should be unyielding, in my humble opinion.
It’s not long before I’m whisked away to another doctor who tries their best to crack me open like a walnut. They cannot, and as they yap, I think about my secret.
For I have a secret.
That secret requires me to go to the market twice a week. The stout cashier with ruddy cheeks asks me how old I am while I buy milk and tuna.
I nod politely to the portly woman, who seems to have forgotten her question.
The secret is I’ve acquired a cat. His name is Ben. He is gray and clever. His glassy eyes see things I cannot, and his fuzzy ears turn and twitch. When my mother bursts through doorways, he is gone before she flings off her gloves.
Ben does not meow.
He is silent like me. He is partial to tuna and has a proclivity for milk. However, I have determined him lactose intolerant; on account of his farts.
When I found Ben down Butcher’s Alley he was spitting and hissing and was an overall dreadful creature. I suppose I am too. Nobody likes a skinny kid with no father, let alone one who never talks.
To my knowledge, Ben does not know his father either.
After some time, Ben starts to follow me around, as if he found an equal. I allow him to pad alongside me. All the tuna has made the pouch below his belly swing as he walks— and dare I think it— he’s become a handsome, chubby fella with a glossy, gray coat.
I make a collar for Ben with black velvet ribbon and a bell I pluck off one of my mother’s frumpier dresses. He sniffs it curiously before allowing me to tie it around his thick, furry neck. We rest near the fire with him by my feet, which he refuses to come near unless socked. I do a bit of light reading; my favorite novel being Dictionary (currently on the W’s: Wallop, Wallow, Walrus…) and Ben purrs like a bumble bee.
We exist like this for many weeks; him coming to visit me, me feeding him, him laying by my socked feet, then him sprinting away when mother returns.
Until recently.
I haven't seen Ben for a week.
First, I make signs which I plaster along our street: “Lost gray cat. Named “Ben”. Prefers tuna but will eat roast chicken- not spiced. Enjoys sitting by the fire near socked feet. Lactose intolerant but will attempt to deceive you into giving him milk. Do not leave unattended teacups in his presence, he will put a paw in it. He does not meow.” I draw a picture of him using a broken piece of gray crayon I find in the back of a drawer.
I look for Ben for days.
It occurs to me that I must ask dreary looking adults walking to work with leather briefcases and snappy shoes if they’ve seen him. Mustering up the courage takes me many tries, and my voice is a weak crack when I first speak.
“Ma’am, have you come across a gray cat with a black velvet collar that has a bell?”
They swat me away or walk past me. What’s the point of talking when adults never listen anyways?
By day five I start to worry.
I think: If I were a cat that likes tuna, and socked feet near a fire, where would I go? I check Japanese sushi restaurants where slim, elegant folk in turtlenecks use chopsticks expertly and talk in hushed whispers. I check cozy furniture stores with fake fires and generously upholstered couches which young couples try out one by one like Goldilocks. I investigate the shoe store which sells women’s heels. I am promptly kicked out of that shop when I ask, in a squawking voice, if most of the customers wear socks. I even went to the market to inquire about abnormal purchases.
“Has anyone purchased an unusual amount of canned tuna recently, sir?” I ask the cashier, who stares at me blankly while chewing gum.
My days grow grayer.
Finally, I think about returning to Butcher’s Alley. It’s raining heavily as I lift all the trash can lids and search and holler his name.
Then I hear it— a little tinkle, a muffled chime, and a trash can crashing to the ground.
“Ben!”
He limps towards me from behind a fallen lid. His matted fur looks black, and one of his paws is pink and angry. He licks it lightly before jumping into my arms.
“Ben! You beast! Why did you leave?”
He gazes at me with marble eyes.
“You do know I’ll take care of you, silly goose.” I pet him, and he rests his head against my arm. I can feel his tiny skull.
“You do know I love you, right, Ben?”
He responds with a weak “meow”.
I gather the courage to speak to my mum, to tell her about Ben. This shocks her so much she drops a lasagna. To my surprise, and even her own, she allows me to keep him. Mother and I still don’t speak much but I believe she loves me; and sometimes I tell her I love her too.
I care for Ben until his paw gets better. He eats all the tuna my mother can buy.
At night, he sleeps in the crook of my arm.
On those nights I get the best sleep.
The kind of sleep you have when your whole world is purring in your arms.