Ask the Cat: A Novel

By Beverly M. Rathbun

Ask the cat, and shell tell you that when youre free-falling, it is preferable to land on all four paws. Purely by chance, Jillian Holmes, Holly Monroe, and Jack Resendo are free-falling through some challenging circumstances and have landed under the same roof, but not quite on their feet. The unlikely housemates are drawn closer together as they regain their balance and move forward with what life has to offer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984547606

Beverly M. Rathbun

Author Bio This is Beverly’s third novel. Like Caring for Crabgrass, The Water’s Edge and Evidence of Mice explore the shifting lifestyles of women who have reached the other side of fifty. A musician, an artist, and a nature enthusiast, when Beverly isn’t hiking in the woods, she is in her backyard communing with the furry and feathery critters that comer her way.

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Copyright © 2018 by Beverly M. Rathbun.

Library of Congress Control Number:          2018909606

ISBN:                  Hardcover                              978-1-9845-4754-5

                            Softcover                                978-1-9845-4753-8

                            eBook                                     978-1-9845-4760-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/15/2018

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Dedication

For the family I was born into and the family I’ve been gifted with along the way, and for the wonderful surprise addition of Heidi-cat to our little band of sojourners.

To be truly intimate means to be truly alive, awake, and available; open to the moment you are in. One moment fully experienced is a lifetime.

Michael Hull

A flick of a tail

ears swivel, eyes blink, wide yawn

whiskery wisdom

CHAPTER ONE

I COULD PLAY it safe and live another thirty years or take a plunge over the edge and be dead in thirty seconds. Jillian Holmes wasn’t quite sure which scenario she feared the most, yet despite her momentary malaise, she suspected that plunging to her death was a bit over the top. Pushing aside the suicidal jest, she pried her stiff legs out from under her body and made a feeble attempt to stand. A million pins and needles rapid-fired from her toes to her hips as she leaned against the iron railing protecting her from the two story drop below.

A passing breeze dislodged a strand of Jillian’s gray-blond hair chasing it over her tired blue eyes. She tucked the runaway strand behind her ear, regained her balance, and renewed her pledge to stay alive, accepting whatever the day ahead had in store.

It was a beautiful sunny day in mid-June and all around Jillian the sights, smells and sounds gave credence to the dawn of another morning. Kitchen windows in every household on the upper east side of Providence had been flung open and she could smell the aroma of bacon and eggs popping and sizzling on a griddle next door. She heard the urgency in her neighbor’s voices as one spouse reminded the other to pick the kids up from soccer practice. Jillian empathized as a mother and daughter argued about an inappropriate tank top, a father sparred with his son over an unfinished homework assignment. All were conversations and confrontations akin to the domestic tete-a-tetes she’d engaged in with her own children not all that many years ago.

Jillian and Carl Holmes had done their best to be actively involved in their children’s lives without being overly oppressive parents. An easy task with Patrick, their oldest. A bright, studious, well-behaved young man, even as a teenager, Patrick had remained thoughtful and considerate, attracting like minded friends who, like him, had gone on to achieve great things. Now, at twenty-seven, the talented Patrick was a successful architect designing office buildings and living in Seattle.

Paige, his younger sister, had been the challenge child. Single-minded and strong-willed, she’d been more interested in breaking social mores than achieving academic excellence. Her teenage cohorts considered no one but themselves. They also considered smoking pot and shoplifting to be perfectly acceptable after school activities. Carl and Jillian had breathed a grateful sigh of relief when Paige finally scraped and scrapped her way through to high school graduation.

Desperate for a job, Paige and some of her wayward friends signed on to train as certified nursing assistants. They’d been told that becoming a CNA was a no brainer and that jobs were plentiful. Paige had been the only one to finish the course. Despite the menial tasks of emptying bedpans and changing adult diapers, Paige’s determination to get out from under her parent’s roof motivated her to press on as, one by one, her friends dropped out of the program. Her first job at a nursing home taking care of sad and lamenting residents was far from glamorous. Her stubborn nature stood her in good stead and she proved she could be as tough as any cantankerous old bitty. She surprised everyone by enrolling in a nursing program at Boston University and finished her studies to become a registered nurse. It was at BU that she met her husband, Gary Jones, also an RN. The happy couple was now working side by side at a mission hospital in Haiti.

The squeal of hydraulic brakes interrupted Jillian’s reverie. She couldn’t see the school bus from where she was sitting but she imagined the scene as children laughed, moms and dads hugged, bus monitors double checked. She listened as the bus pulled away and the children, moms and dads went off to school or to work, blissfully engaging in their daily routine. A daily routine that Jillian was very familiar with. A routine she’d once cherished, then hated, then cherished again. A routine that was, at the present moment, as alien to her as the house she now inhabited, the backyard she now surveyed. All because the man she married, the man she’d shared her bed with for the last thirty years, had suddenly decided to, quite literally, hit the road.

*     *     *

Isn’t she a dream? Carl said as he straddled the shiny new Harley. We’ll quit our jobs and tour the country.

Sure we will. Jillian was not phased in the least. Carl loved to tease. His mission in life was to conjure up outrageous schemes mostly for the shock value. Buying a motorcycle was his most recent scheme. Inevitably these big ideas quickly fizzled away, which was why Jillian took his latest pronouncement in stride.

When he proposed selling their house she actually laughed. And where will we live? It doesn’t look like that thing can pull a trailer.

That’s why there are hotels, Carl bantered back. Or maybe we could stay with friends. I’ve been on Facebook with some of my old college buddies and I could ask if they’d put us up for a night or two.

You do that, but count me out.

Jillian hadn’t thought anymore about Carl’s taunt until he made the appointment with a realtor. That was when Jillian realized this time he might actually be serious.

With the kids on their own, he rationalized as the realtor surveyed the family room, living room, dining room and kitchen of their four bedroom cape, this place is way too big for you.

What do you mean, for me? Jillian asked. "Where will you be?"

That was when Carl told her he was leaving.

*     *     *

Jillian rubbed the circulation back into her legs and descended the fifteen steps from the second floor condominium to the lawn below. She shuffled through the ankle deep grass on her morning pilgrimage to the lone spruce tree in the center of the yard. Several branches on the mature spruce had recently been trimmed and white sticky sap wept freely from the raw stubs as if the tree were mourning the loss of its severed limbs.

Under the tree, a smooth gray rock about the size of a bushel basket rested in the soft pine carpet and it was there that Jillian took refuge. Hugging her arms around her slender body she was struck again by how much weight she’d lost. She hadn’t intended to. She just hadn’t felt much like eating lately and what little she did eat was not all that healthy. A daily dose of multivitamins and a regimen of antacids had prevented her from making herself truly sick.

At arm’s length from where Jillian was sitting, a tiny pink nose poked up through the bed of pine needles. Hello there, Jillian said. The sleek brown head swiveled toward her voice as the chipmunk emerged. The black and white stripe markings from his shoulders to his haunches gleamed in the dappled patches of sunlight. Jillian dug a handful of almonds out of her pocket and scattered them on the ground. Motionless, the tiny critter studied her for a moment before scurrying over to collect the spoils.

Jillian’s first encounter with the chipmunk had happened the very same morning Carl had split. Standing at the window, she’d watched in disbelief as the Harley-Davidson had taken off leaving a trail of exhaust in its wake. Her first thought had been to chase after her dearly departed husband. Throwing whatever she could lay her hands on into an overnight bag, she’d stormed out of the condo with no idea what she would do if she actually caught up with him. Beg him to stay? Agree to go with him?

She remembered peering helplessly through the windshield of her securely locked car. Her irrational behavior to rush from the house without thought had yielded no keys, no wallet, no cell phone. Kicking the front tire, she walked sheepishly back to the house. Locked. And then it began to rain.

Too embarrassed to throw herself at the mercy of her neighbors, neighbors that were still total strangers, Jillian had no choice but to take shelter under the spruce tree in the middle of the backyard. She flung her bag to the ground and plunked down on the nearest seat at hand – a rock. The downpour was brief, over in a mere ten minutes, but Jillian stayed put, glued to the rock until her tailbone began to ache. She scrounged around in her overnight bag hoping to find something useful. In her haste, she’d managed to procure a lacy bra, three pair of underpants, a hairbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a crumpled facecloth and a packet of almonds. Folding the facecloth around the bra and panties, she placed the makeshift pillow under her sore butt cheeks and tore open the bag of nuts.

Stale. Jillian tossed the almonds onto the ground, took out her hairbrush and began vigorously brushing her tangled mane, tears of frustration running rivers down her face. A noise from above startled her. She looked up and was showered with pine debris as a brown fury body scrambled down the trunk of the spruce tree. Jillian remained very still, watching the chipmunk gather up the discarded almonds. One by one he stuffed the nuts into his mouth until his cheeks puffed out as if he had a bad case of the mumps.

She laughed softly. The industrious critter uttered a sharp chirp of alarm and did a running nose-dive into the safety of his hole at the base of the tree.

Not long after the chipmunk disappeared, Jillian was rescued. As it happened, Anthony Resendo, the man who’d sold Jillian and Carl the condo stopped by and kindly unlocked the door. He waved away her profuse thanks, suggesting instead that she invest in a spare key. He never once asked about the overnight bag.

*     *     *

You want a divorce?

No.

You’re leaving.

I’ll be back. This is something I’ve always wanted to do.

Why now?

Why not now?

And what will I do while you’re off gallivanting around the country like some cocksure teenager?

Aw, Jillian, don’t be like that. Come with me.

You know very well I’m no motorcycle mama.

Carl frowned. All I know is that at fifty-one my father dropped dead of a heart attack. I’ll be fifty-six this year. I’m already living on borrowed time. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it now.

Two weeks later Carl was gone.

*     *     *

Reluctantly, Jillian returned to the house. It was time to get ready to go to work. She stripped off her cotton lounge pants, laid her neatly pressed uniform on the bed and stepped into the shower.

The spacious tiled enclosure had a double glass door and a built in bench seat.

Plenty of room for two, Carl had whispered in her ear the night before he left.

The memory of the last time they’d made love sent shivers down Jillian’s spine. They’d been together for so long that even now Jillian could sense the touch of Carl’s fingers on her skin, the smell of his breath.

Change your mind, Carl had said kissing the length of her neck.

She had pulled away.

Squirting shampoo into her hair, Jillian watched her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall disappear behind a cloud of vapor. The moist steam softened the bar of soap in the recessed ledge, Carl’s particular brand, releasing the clean, fresh smell of him into the air.

Jillian didn’t use soap. She preferred to lather a moisturizing body wash over her arms and legs with a puffy twist of tulle. When she reached for the bottle her hand fell instead onto the square of soap. She slid it from its holder and rubbed it around on her belly, over her hip, down her thigh, between her legs. She pressed hard, not sure if she was trying to absorb the very essence of Carl or scrub him away forever. The soap slid from her hands and landed with a thud at her feet, bruised and dented by the unforgiving tile.

*     *     *

Sorry, Jillian said hurriedly greeting Meg and Nick as she flew through the back door of the post office. I got a late start and I must have hit every red light on South Main.

It’s like that some days, Nick said handing her a tray of mail to sort.

Jillian began inserting laminated cards, announcing the grand opening of yet another furniture store, into each PO box. A futile endeavor since nine-tenths of the brightly colored advertisements would end up unheeded and chucked into a recycling bin.

You’re name tag is upside down, Meg said to Jillian as they rolled back the accordion curtain separating the wall of post office boxes from the customer service area.

Oops. Jillian dutifully corrected the identification pin.

Any news from the great explorer? Meg asked. Meg, who liked to claim she’d been with the postal service since the carrier pigeon, had mentored both Jillian and Carl during their formative years at the post office.

Not this week, Jillian said. There was worry in her voice.

At first, Carl had called her daily, sometimes twice a day, keeping her on the phone for an hour or more, sharing every detail of his road trip. He told her about the trucker from Kansas he’d met at the all night diner, the ice cream shop he’d stopped at that looked like a giant milk jug. He told her about the hotel he’d stayed at with the Victorian pink trim – wistfully ending each call with, I miss you, wish you were here. As the days turned into weeks Carl didn’t seem to have nearly as much time to talk and the daily calls dwindled to an occasional weekly check-in.

The last time I heard from Carl he told me he’d buddied up with another biker, Jillian said. Apparently this guy, Sal, criss-crosses the US on a regular basis and was glad to have the company. Lately, anytime I try to call Carl, I’m sent directly to voice mail.

You must be relieved that he’s no longer riding solo, Meg said.

I guess, Jillian said wryly. For all I know this Sal person is an ex-con who has murdered Carl in his sleep.

That’s the spirit, Meg said snapping back the dead bolt on the outer door. It’s always helpful to imagine the worse case scenario.

The customers milling about in the foyer streamed into the post office and formed a long line.

For the most part, Jillian enjoyed her job. She thought she’d made her parents proud, being the first member of the family to graduate from college. Unfortunately, they’d had higher hopes of having a teacher, a lawyer or, better yet, a doctor in the family. They were less than happy when Jillian had applied for a job with the United States Post Service.

Our daughter is squandering her expensive college education in a job sorting Christmas cards for Uncle Sam.

Working for the United States government is no joke, Jillian said reminding them of the challenging examinations she’d had to pass, the arduous vetting process required. Throughout history, she defended, delivering legal correspondence, packaged goods, and important letters had been paramount to moving the country forward. Besides, it’s rock solid employment with excellent benefits and a decent pension.

Can’t rely on the damn government for anything, her father grumbled. He’d barely finished the eighth grade and had spent his entire life working twelve hour shifts as a machinist. Like Carl’s father, her dad hadn’t lived to see his fifty-second birthday; struck down, not by a weak heart but by a saturated liver. In a twist of fate, alcohol had also claimed the life of Jillian’s mother. She’d been killed by a drunk driver one afternoon as she walked home from the hair salon. It was no wonder that after her parents death Jillian made the conscious choice never to drink anything stronger than root beer.

*     *     *

I demand to speak with the postmaster general! The overweight, overwrought woman slammed her gargantuan handbag into the service counter like a battering ram.

I can help you, Jillian said. Of all the well trained employees at the post office Jillian was by far the most practiced and patient when it came to dealing with irate customers.

The woman shoved a mutilated envelope in Jillian’s face. I missed my nephew’s birthday party and it’s all your fault! She jabbed a directive finger repeatedly at the top corner of the envelope.

Look at this date. She punched out each word in rhythm with her finger. My sister lives less than two blocks away. Why did it take an entire week for this invitation to get from her house to mine?

Jillian studied the postmark. She knew there could be any number of reasons for the delay. The postmark was from the neighboring state of Massachusetts. Perhaps the sister in question had posted the invitation in a mail box across the state line. As farfetched as it sounded, it was not unheard of for a piece of mail to travel to the central post office miles out of the way only to be sent back the exact same route from which it came.

Jillian had another thought. Are you sure this is the correct address? she asked.

Of course it is, the woman sputtered. 291 Locust Street.

Jillian shook her head. I’m sorry, she said thinking that, if it weren’t for some well meaning neighbor, the invitation might never have been received at all. "This is addressed to 219 Locust Street."

The woman snatched back the invitation. It’s too late for apologies. She waved the envelope in the air like a battle flag. You’d think that with all of the fancy-dancy high tech machines you have now-a-days and the outrageous amount you charge for stamps, you people would have caught such a simple mistake." She spun on her heels and glared at the other people standing in line, looking as if she expected them to join her in a mass exodus of protest.

No one moved. Some shifted nervously, studying their shoes, raising their eyes to the ceiling; an elderly man shrugged sheepishly. Finding no sympathetic comrade-in-arms, the woman shoved her handbag forward and pushed her way out the door.

Her expression a mask of pleasantries, Jillian said, Can I help who’s next? Without comment she proceeded to weigh and label a package for the next customer in line.

If she lives that close to her sister why didn’t she just call? a young woman asked to no one in particular.

If she were my sister I would have scrambled the address on purpose, someone else said uncorking a murmur of conjectures about dysfunctional families in general.

Jillian remained neutral, continuing on with the tasks at hand, selling countless books of ‘outrageously expensive’ stamps and assisting customers with their choice of appropriate shipping options for their precious parcels. The final customer of the day arrived just as Jillian was getting ready to lock up. The gentleman seemed slightly rattled. As it turned out, he had no need