Thomas was thirteen minutes into his lunch hour when he heard the sound. Per usual, he’d taken his brisk walk around the block, finishing back in front of the sandwich shop just beside Barker and Strob’s executive office, where he worked as a ruthlessly efficient data clerk.
He was replaying Amanda’s voicemail again, dissecting her tone to see where, exactly, he’d gone wrong. Currently, he was staring at the calendar on his phone, trying to remember if it had something to do with forgetting … her … oh God … birthday.
He had the door to “Sub Town” halfway open when he heard the mewling in the alley just a few feet away.
The cardboard sign read “KITT3NS 4 Sale”. It was hand-lettered in marker and propped up against a large cardboard box. The seller was about eight years old, and was currently sitting against the dusty redbrick of his workplace.
“Want to buy a kitty mister?” She got to her feet, and raised her head of dirty blonde curls.
As John Strob often remarked during his weekly staff meetings, “Timing is everything.” Thomas looked at the box, and saw a way out of his predicament. He could hear Amanda’s squeals of rapture even now.
“That depends sweetie, how much are they?” Thomas had his hand on his wallet. He hoped sincerely that he’d be buying a cat in the next few minutes, not being mugged from behind by this urchin’s accomplice.
“I don’t know how much mister. What do you think they’re worth?” The girl was looking directly at him now, with eyes the colour of lake water. There was a musty, fungal odour coming from her, like wet laundry that had been left too long. He wondered if she was homeless. Still, no reason he couldn’t still make a good deal, “How does ten dollars sound?”
The girl looked back at the box, “I guess that would be okay. Only …”
Thomas paused. There was always a catch, “Only what?”
“Only I don’t want you to have one if you’re not going to take good care of it. They’re sad right now, ‘cause they weren’t treated nice before.” She tucked a strand of wet hair that had been hanging in her eyes behind her ear. (It wasn’t wet before, was it? Thomas was puzzled.) In response to her attentions the mewling coming from the box increased.
“I don’t understand … sorry, what’s your name?” Thomas was feeling less and less at ease.
“My friends call me Jenny, but my name’s really Jennifer.” She was petting her brood now. Purring like an idling motorboat drifted out of the box.
“Jenny, I don’t understand what you mean,” Thomas was officially unsettled, “Aren’t these your cats? Where did you get them?”
“I found them when I woke up this morning. They were lost, so I wanted to get them a good home. Hi kitty kitty.” Jenny’s voice was slightly different, like she was speaking with a mouthful of something. Thomas’s phone buzzed. It would be Amanda, trying to give him one last chance to hang himself. He made his decision.
“Right, Jenny. Here’s ten bucks. I’d love to buy a kitten. ” He moved to the box as he was speaking, wanting to pick up the damned cat and get on with his life as soon as possible.
Upon reaching the carton, he went to his knees and vomited. Inside the box had been an open garbage bag, filled with soggy, furry, bloated corpses; tiny holes gaping up at him where fish had eaten the eyes. The mewling was louder than ever.
“They were lost mister. Nobody wanted them. Just like nobody wanted me. I guess you don’t want us either.” The voice burbled down at him, all traces of humanity gone, but still it managed to sound hurt. Thomas couldn’t make himself look up, for fear her face would be like those of the kittens, a ruined and wet mess where a precocious child used to be. The smell overwhelmed him then, a scent of waterlogged rot and ruined meat that made him heave once more.
As he remained crouched over, he saw Jenny walking away down the alley, box in arms, singing a lullaby to her kittens, bleach-white legs trailing seaweed behind them.
The kittens were purring again.
© 2009 Chris Allinotte
Chris Allinotte lives in Toronto. More about his writing and links to his other stories can be found at chrisallinotte.blogspot.com .
