White Cat

by Elise McKenna

Millicent reached out her left hand and grasped the cord of the Victorian repro lamp. Fuzzy pink haze spilled over the small table. Diana, a sleek black shorthair, meowed and disappeared off the dark end of the queen-sized bed.

"Di," Millicent rasped, in a voice that belied too many years of smoking, and struggled out of bed. She'd gotten heavier over the years and found it increasingly difficult to get up in the mornings. Grabbing her lighter, she stumbled through the workroom in her green housedress into the adjoining kitchen, barely opening her eyes, and took a box from the half-empty cartoon of Salem's on the fridge. After peeling off the plastic, she opened the pack and lit one. She seemed to sense something in the air. It must be Halloween again. This time the children will come.

Felines descended upon her. Opening a cupboard, she retrieved three bowls. She then reached under the bottom drawer and grabbed two cans of Nine Lives. Diana and Loki liked chicken and liver, but Millicent fed Arioch prime grill. She didn't try to play favourites; Arioch had a weak stomach and would spit up anything with liver in it, and the stains just never seemed to come out of the carpet completely.

It was three weeks after Brian's death that Arioch found his way into Millicent's domain. The large orange tabby with white whiskers showed up in their backyard one day, several weeks after Brian keeled over from clotted arteries, meowing clearly as if answering an advert she and Brian joked about sending to the newspaper. Wanted: One fat orange thing to eat your butter and lounge on your sofa.

"Butter makes everything taste better, Millie," Brian often said. He did so love to eat buttery foods. Arioch reminded her of Brian, and she hadn't the heart to turn him away. From that day forward, she put a pad of butter on Arioch's food.

Millicent dolloped each bowl with a medium portion, and as she squatted to put two bowls for Di and Loki on the cat-mat, Arioch jumped onto the counter for his. Using the counter for support, Millicent stood up and opened the refrigerator. Grabbing a pat of butter in a Denny's wrapper, she removed the thin square, placed it on Arioch's food and tossed the wrapper into the rubbish bin. No, Arioch wasn't spoiled. A few bugs scuttled behind the assorted glass jars haphazardly scattered against the wall on the countertop. Sentinels of the kitchen, they feasted on the ramparts of food-caked dishes and pans piled in and around the sink.

"Bugs, bugs, bugs," Millicent muttered, flicking a long ash which fell between two plates stacked in the sink. "Does no one earn their keep?"

Arioch looked up and protested in a staccato meow.

"Sure you're old, so am I," she replied. "That's no excuse." Satisfied that she'd won the argument, she passed through her workroom and back into the bedroom.

Heavy burgundy drapery shut out all but one strand of sunlight crossing thin brown carpet that was dingy from years of abuse. She stubbed out the butt in the tartan beanbag ashtray on her bureau. Smoke curled upward.

Millicent pulled the dress over her head and dropped it to the ground, inspecting her figure in the bureau's faded mirror. Sagging a bit here and dimpled a bit there, but otherwise healthy, she thought as she squinted to remove the parts that didn't fit her assessment. A boyfriend once called her Rubinesque, which upset her, but many years and two husbands later; she finally adopted the term with affection.

Millicent opened the second drawer and took out a black gown that smelled of mulberries. None of that sky-clad crap for her. Besides, it was much too distracting to work in the nude, what with the flapping and all. Millicent savored the cool generous material against her skin, then slipped it on and headed back into the workroom.

Her workroom held no windows save a small antique table with Queen Anne style legs. "A workroom should contain nothing to divert the mind or body," she'd read. She'd even pulled up the carpet after Brian died, preferring the hardwood, which given Arioch's stomach made it infinitely easier to clean. Now only greyish dustbunnies gathered in the corners from Diana's fur.

The black temptress came to Millicent around the time an earthquake shuttered under San Franscisco and crushed dozens between concrete layers of highway, including her bestfriend Sherrie. Sherrie had been a vegan, and the cat, Diana, went crazy for ground beef. But Millicent supposed that you had worked with what you were given. Who'd ever heard of a cat that wouldn't eat meat?

All three cats had moved from the kitchen into the workroom. Diana diligently washed her face with quick tight paw movements, while Arioch watched intently. Loki sequestered himself to a corner and methodically cleaned his tail end.

Frank never liked Sherri, and to Millicent, Diana's behaviour left little doubt that karma was real. Millicent observed that Diana refused to "socialize" with Loki. Paybacks. They may eat the same food, but they never did cat-type things together. Arioch and Diana, on the other hand, groomed each other, teased and pounced on each other, but poor Loki would sit by himself or in Millicent's lap if she picked him up.

Millicent lit another ciggie and pulled a long deep drag into her lungs. "Not ready just yet." Her back wouldn't kill, the cigarettes would.

Underneath the table, a cloth and the ceremonial items lay hidden. Holding the Salem in her mouth, she bent down and retrieved a china plate with faded blue roses and gold edges, a small Indian incense heart, a candelabra she'd found in an antique shop off Ventura Boulevard that reminded her of Liberace, and a sliver wedding chalice from her first marriage. A small chime dinged eight in a miniature version of Westminster.

"Lots of time and lots to do," she reminded everyone and headed into the kitchen once again. Arioch followed, but Millicent ignored him, knowing he wanted a pounce treat. She ashed into the sink once more before taking a skeleton key from the window ledge and spreading the green shower curtain that sectioned off the laundry room from the kitchen proper.

A tall wooden cabinet, containing all manners of herbs carefully labeled and sealed in dark glass containers capped with cork stoppers, filled one corner and part of the lace-covered window. Peeking out between the designs in the lace, she saw her neighbours. The man mowed the front lawn while his blonde-haired wife weeded her flowerbed.

"If they don't start decorating soon they'll never be ready for tonight," she said and moved closer to the window, straining to see across the street. "Hmmph," she grunted. "Seems no one is in the spirit. Well, at least I won't disappoint the children; I'll be the only one celebrating. They'd definitely come to my door this time."

Millicent inserted the key, gave a twist and opened the thick beveled glass doors. She didn't notice the five bottles sitting on the second shelf and the five behind those as she chose the herbs she needed for tonight's brew.

"Rosemary and lavender for old memories; patchouli and tansy for old loves; artesmia and belladonna for old habits," Millicent recited. She substituted dittany of crete for the belladonna because the poisonous substance was illegal and difficult to get, unless you had heart troubles.

When Brian died, she wanted to be left alone in her grief; two husbands and a best friend were a lot to bear. Perhaps she'd worn mourning clothes too long. She was certain rumours circulated that she was an old witch. Millicent thought about itchy-witchy Grinda. That's what the children called old woman who lived at the end of the cul de sac of Millicent's childhood home. The old woman would scare her and the other neighbourhood children whenever she came out of her house, Halloween or naught. Now Millicent thought she knew what Mrs. Grinda must have felt like. Unlike Grinda, Millicent would have something to give the children should they come to the door.

"Well, at least I still matter." Shaking off the remorse, she thought of day's preparations. She really didn't care much. She pictured brave teens coming to her house begging for relief in all manner of adolescent anxiety from pimples to puppy love and she'd obliged these thoughts by purchasing a book containing potions and hexes from Walden Books. Recipes from love potions to conjuring the dead were laid out as simple as Betty Crocker's apple pie.

Millicent lifted the front edge of her gown, cradling the jars in her makeshift pouch, and returned to the workroom. If she guessed right, plenty of children would be knocking by sunset. Humming "That Ain't No Way to Treat a Lady," she brought out the tripod and caste iron kettle from the pantry, set it up and returned to the kitchen for a can of sterno and a large cup of water. The cats watched her every movement like a long tennis match as she ferried items into the workroom.

Lighting the sterno and pouring water into the pot, she mumbled, "Boil, boil, toil and…soil," then turned her back on the whole setup and walked into the kitchen. No use watching for it to boil, any wise witch knew that. All this work forced quite a sweat and a craving for nicotine. She pulled a ciggie from the pack on the counter and sat down at the card table that passed for a kitchenette.

"Guess I should make five potions, two for revenge, two for love, and one all-purpose for …general purposes, I suppose."

Loki padded in and placed both front paws on her leg. She felt the talons dig in and gritted her teeth. No sense in stopping him, he'd only be upset, she thought as she put her cigarette in the black plastic ashtray on the windowsill and reached down to gather him. Loki complied and dug into her left shoulder as she snuggled him. "Fluffy old thing," she murmured. "Ready for tonight? Huh?" She set Loki down and returned to her work.

Frank, Millicent's first husband, had been a policeman by trade. She was young and neurotic then and had found it difficult to quell a daily fear that she and Frank would not be together long. "Those who lived by the sword," a carnival psychic once said, "die by the sword." Millicent had lived with this shadow all of five years, until Frank left her with enough money to buy the tiny two-bedroom dream-house. Millicent thought it curious that although Frank was the first taken from her that he was the last to return. She might not have recognized him in the grey tiger-striped tom except that the bull's eye on his left side had seemed like a target, and the only one she knew had been a target was Frank. She didn't want to remember Frank as the policeman, so she called the cat Loki, god of trickery.

Millicent opened each jar, placed a good-sized pinch of each into the pot, returned the bottles to the cabinet, and locked the doors. The mixture wafted a heady steam towards the ceiling and she breathed it in. Conflicting soft sweet aromas merged with pungent woodsy scents, lifting her. Millicent stood over the concoction, boiling it down. Soon it would need to cool for bottling.

"You should never drink them," she'd practiced her stern monotone warning. "You must wear them or soak a cloth and place it in the room belonging to your desire. Give or take a week for results and absolutely no refunds." She'd never actually said this to anyone, but practiced none the less.

"Nearly done," she announced to the semi-napping trio surrounding her. The mixture was semi-viscous when she placed the lid on the can to snuff out the sterno and carried the caste iron pot to the kitchen, placing it on the waiting potholder. "Gets heavier every time," she said to no one in particular.

The sun midway in the sky splashed long orange bars through the window above the sink. The kids should arrive soon, she thought. Her heart pounded as she busied herself with setting up candy dishes and pouring glycerine in five different colourful bottles. Two purple ones resembled a child's O-rings, two other green ones were miniatures of the Eiffel Tower and one brown square bottle was a simple elegant square. All were filled with a fifty-fifty balance of herbal concoction and glycerine, corked, and set on the worn 1900's Secretary by the front door. The clocked chimed seven and Millicent rushed to the bathroom. She washed her face and applied the mascara, eyeshadow and brick-red lipstick she'd received in her free gift from Lancôme, then rushed to the living room in anticipation. She pulled aside the drapery from the single window in the room. A beautiful full moon lit the area.

"Seems every October 31st has a full moon," she remarked.

From here Millicent couldn't see inside the neighbour's screened porch. Their lights were off. "Probably out at a party, she thought, but didn't look any further. The minutes ticked by. Millicent waited poised, her legs jiggling. Everything was perfect.

She thought she could hear children giggling, imagining each group making their way house to house. But no one was there. A couple of times she was certain that she heard the cry of a smaller child scared by the spectacle of the day. But no one knocked on her door. And so she waited, hands folded in her lap, hoping this Halloween would be different.

Morning chimed seven and Millicent sat up. Although she felt disappointed, she noticed it didn't take the usual effort to rise this morning. I should sleep on the sofa more often, she thought. She went to the door and it opened. Blinking in the strong sunlight, she saw a white cat sitting on the doorstep looking at her.

"Who are you?" she asked, shielding her eyes. The cat stared at her. Who have I lost this time; she tried to place it but could not. She had her two husbands and best friend; there was no one else. But four always was my lucky number.

Millicent turned to see her own body slumped on the sofa, looking less Rubinesque and more like a large balloon. She felt a dizzying sensation and steadied herself on four white paws. "My," she said and stared at the empty human shell and then at the whiteness of her fur. What better way to lose weight? she thought and ran in to the workroom to embrace the other cats.



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