The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook (16 page)

This time Riya doesn't want to ignore our fight from that morning. Her words burst out all in a rush, not in caps, but bent over in italics, as if she's been holding them in too long. “
Oona I'm sorry I told what you did at the vet and I'm sorry I didn't include you in that sock thing but of course socks aren't as important as Zook!
”

“Apology accepted,” I say.

She isn't finished. Her words in italics pour out even faster. “
And Oona no offense but I was beginning to think YOU were weird wearing that sweatshirt all the time! I know it was in
honor of your father and that took a lot of
chutzpah
wearing it no matter what. But really you've been sort of weird no offense and now I bet you're going to be wearing that oversize O'Leary's thing every day!
”

“Well, my sweatshirt's a cat bed now, and none of my other tops fit me,” I say, frowning, and yes, taking offense.

Riya stops walking. “A cat bed?” she says.

“Zook's,” I say.

I snort. Riya snorts. Then we're laughing our heads off, shrieking and snorting and not caring who hears.

“Hey, I can lend you some tops if you like,” Riya says, catching her breath after a while. “We're the same size now.”

I look over at Riya. I hadn't noticed, but yes, we're the same size. Riya used to be the smaller one! Everything's changing. Continents are drifting and new stars are forming and my sweatshirt's a cat bed.

“OK,” I say.

f sunshine were called prune juice, it would still be sunshine. Words are just words—ever notice? The word “villain” doesn't have as evil a meaning to me anymore.

But still, I am trying to think of the Villain as Dylan now. That way “Villain” doesn't pop out of my mouth and cause a big uproar. It's hard, but a lot of the time, it's not.

On this sunshiny Saturday, our family is invited to see what Dylan has done to his backyard.

I am finishing up my breakfast with Gramma Dee. She's a vegetarian, but her big exception is smoked fish, and she's brought some over. We're the only ones who love smoked fish in our family. My mother says it's too smelly, and Fred's
scared of that fish with its surprised googly eyes lying there on the plate. And that's fine with me. Because when Gramma Dee and I eat smoked fish together for breakfast, we usually have a nice heart-to-heart.

Gramma Dee wipes her mouth. She has something on her mind, I can tell, and she's taking her time looking for the right words. She leans close to me and says, “Between you and me, Dylan's a little
meshuga
, in my humble opinion.”

I almost choke on my fish. “What?” I say.

Meshuga
is another Yiddish word. It means “crazy.” And when Gramma Dee says “in my humble opinion,” she doesn't really mean that. She means just the opposite, like “smart” or “terrific” opinion. Believe me, she wouldn't give her opinion if she thought it were wrong.

“He and Soma and their gardens! Your mom calls them ‘urban farmers'! But who needs to grow their own vegetables and fruits and herbs in this day and age? My great-grandparents grew their own food, but that was in the old country. OK, it was mostly potatoes. But they were farmers. They didn't have a perfectly modern Whole Foods and a Safeway within driving distance.”

My mom comes into the kitchen. “Keep an open mind, Ma,” she says. “Wait until you see it.”

“Urban farmer! That young man's beautiful hands are for music and healing,” says Gramma Dee. “Not for digging in the dirt.”

Right then and there is when I come up with my Common-Letter-of-the-Alphabet Theory.

There are three important things about Dylan, and they all begin with the same letter: the letter
H
.

1. Dylan is a nurse. He HEALS.

2. Dylan's HANDS are strong, but gentle, like the hands Michelangelo drew on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

3. Dylan makes my mother HAPPY.

That has to mean something, right? Is it possible for a three-H person, a healing nurse with Michelangelo hands who makes my mom happy, to abuse a cat?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Is it possible I was noticing the obvious but wrong things, like all those long-ago great thinkers used to do, the ones who were very wise, but very, very mistaken about the Earth and the Sun and the continents?

Maybe. Maybe not.

A street address on a cat's collar. A pirate's braid. A name
that rhymes with villain. Obvious but wrong clues of villainry? I don't know. I haven't had much experience with villains. But I'm beginning to think that my Name Theory isn't all that great a theory.

There is one possible way to find out the truth.

My mother and my grandmother think taking Zook with us to Dylan's backyard is a crazy idea.

“No, Oona,” my mother says. “Zook's been an indoor cat for too long now.”

“Well, I think it's a good idea,” I say.

Dylan has come over to give Zook his morning fluids. When he hears my plan, he takes my side. “Why not?” he asks. “The sun will be good for him.”

Of course he has just said my two favorite words. Well, my two favorite words when they are standing right next to each other. And Dylan sure doesn't sound like someone with something to hide.

“Yes, why not?” I ask.

My mom and Gramma Dee are old pros when it comes to answering that question.

“He's old,” says my mom.

“And he has a condition,” says Gramma Dee.

“Also, he may run away,” my mom points out.

We look over at Zook, and we all laugh. Zook is lying on his back on the braided kitchen rug. His legs are splayed comfortably, his fat belly facing the sun that is streaming through the window. He's waving one paw, trying to capture a floating speck of fluff. Zook looks like a hairy sunbather at the beach.

“I don't think he'll run away, in my humble opinion,” I say.

So off we go, with Zook in his carrier.

We enter Dylan's backyard through the driveway. The backyard is a blaze of sunshine and smoke. I blink as I enter. It is so sunny, everything looks yellow and white at first. Then, as my eyes get used to the sunshine, I see amazing colors, like crazy paint poured all over the place. Blobs of red, swirly swoops of yellow, a jumble of orange and purple. And great big splashes of cool green in between.

Mario and Maria are barbecuing pizza dough on a grill.

“Dylan's our newest zucchini supplier!” says Mario. “Who knows? We may start using other vegetables at O'Leary's.”

“It's about time, Mr. Creature of Habit,” says Maria.

That surprises me, because I'd always thought that Mario and Maria agreed on everything, especially the wonderfulness of fried zook!

Dylan is grinning. He looks proud of his garden, and there
are a hundred reasons to be proud, believe you me. “Let me give you a tour,” he says.

The garden is small, but its paths meander and circle. We walk around and around, and the garden seems to grow bigger as we walk. Plants are everywhere, in pots, in big dirt-filled boxes, and in the ground. Dylan gives all the amazing colors their vegetable names. Early Girl tomatoes and little pale orangey-green Sun Gold ones. Scarlet runner beans. Green zucchini with yellow blossoms. Furry green beans winding around his chain-link fence. Plump strawberries like polka dots, and the big purple flowers of an artichoke plant. And herbs (urbs!) everywhere: mint and basil and thyme, and others, lots of others, except I can't remember all their names.

“I have plants from all over the place,” Dylan says. “Here are California natives, poppies and goldenrod, growing in the sun near a Japanese maple and New Zealand flax.”

A multi-culty garden! I don't have to imagine a faraway magical forest, that game I always play in Soma's garden. Dylan's garden is magical already. And I don't want to be anywhere else but right here.

Zook flops down and lolls around, doing his hairy sun-bather act. Every now and then he gets up to smell or nibble.
I am watching him carefully. No, I can't say he recognizes where he is, but he sure looks happy.

Soon we're also lolling around, on garden chairs that Dylan has brought out. Our stomachs are stuffed with barbecued pizza and fried veggies and ricotta cake and cold mint tea.

“OK, I like this garden,” admits Gramma Dee, kicking off her sandals and wriggling her toes. “My mind has been opened. So, Dylan, where did you learn to do all this?”

I'm staring at the purple artichoke flowers, happy to learn that an ugly duckling vegetable like an artichoke can blossom into something so beautiful. The purple of its flower makes me dizzy, but in a sleepy, happy way. I burp softly; I can't help it. Beside me, Freddy laughs. Rowdies and five-year-olds think burps are the funniest things—ever notice?

Dylan is talking about an old, old man, some relative of his. I'm not really listening at first.

“… my great-uncle Phineas, the coolest, kindest guy on the planet. Phin for short. I was like a grandson to him because he had no children of his own. I came to live with him when my parents died. He taught me the guitar. And he taught me everything I know about growing things. He put in all the trees here and a lot of the raised beds himself. I just
added a few more, pruned a lot, weeded a lot, and beefed up the soil a bit.”

Now I'm sitting up. I'm not dizzy anymore. My mind is as sharp as a rose thorn.

“Phin wrote me letters when I was traveling around on my bike, working in different cities. I always made sure he knew where I was, and he always made sure to write. About this garden, or a book he was reading, or his spinach and dumpling soup. Or his cat.”

“His cat,” I say hoarsely. I look over at Zook, who is drinking from a leaky faucet at the side of the house, where a hose is attached. And now I'm waiting. I'm waiting for the story I've begun to hope for. The story I knew, deep-down, was there all along.

“Yup. He had this old cat he'd picked up at the pound for company. Phin was lonely when I was gone, I guess. ‘We're two old cats, just hangin' and howlin' together!' Phin wrote me.” Dylan stares down at his hands as if Phin's letter were right there. Then he shakes his head and looks up at the beautiful garden. “Oh, man, he loved that animal!”

Zook is rolling around on a gravel path, scratching his back. Then he lumbers over to one of the raised beds, climbs in, and rolls around some more.

“Will you look at that?” Dylan points to Zook. “Cats are all the same! Phin said his cat used to roll around in the garden dirt like that, too. In fact, his name was—”

Mud.

“—Mud. Saddest thing, though. Phin moved and took Mud with him, but one day Mud just jumped out an open window and disappeared.”

Open window. Miraculo. Jewel.

Now Dylan reaches for his guitar beside the lounge chair. “I think this calls for some Muddy Waters,” he says.

“What's Muddy Waters?” Gramma Dee asks.

Dylan opens his eyes wide, as if he just can't believe Gramma Dee asked that question. “Whoa. You don't know who Muddy Waters is?” he asks. “Muddy Waters was a famous blues singer. He sang the blues and he lived them. So did Phin. And that cat, Mud, did, too. Muddy was another reason for Mud's name, because that cat could sure sing. At least, that's what Phin said. OK, listen here.”

Dylan picks up his guitar, looks straight at my mom, and sings.

Baby, please don't go,
Baby, please don't go,
Baby, please don't go down to New Orleans,
You know I love you so.

I'm sitting here thinking I'm going to tell them the truth, right now. But there's my mother smiling with her whole body, and you know she's not going to New Orleans. She's not going anywhere, because she's staying right here in this happy garden. And Dylan sings another song about mojo and another about something called hoochie coochie and another about rollin' stones, and they are songs that are sad and happy at the same time, the saddest and happiest songs I've ever heard. You wouldn't think that's possible, but it is. And my mother's still smiling at him, happy, happy, happy. I'm going to tell them the truth. After this song. No, after this song. No, after this next song, for sure.