Exile on Kalamazoo Street Read Online Free PDF Page B

cradled the cat against my chest with both hands as it squirmed and tried to claw me. But my grip was solid and it could not move much. I looked up and out the door at my sister, who grinned as I struggled to contain the hissing cat. And because again it was not one of the days to drop off supplies, she coaxed her grin into a smile and nodded what I felt was approval of our cat kidnapping. Giving a thumbs up with one hand, she trudged down the driveway to her car. She drove away and only then did I realize how cold the air sweeping in through the door was. Using my elbow, I managed to pull the door closed. I carried the cat up the stairs to the kitchen and released it, laughing as it hit the kitchen floor with all four feet a blur. It slipped on the linoleum and hit a wall before disappearing around a corner. I did not see it again for three hours.
    * * *
    Where the cat slept at night was a mystery, but I knew it felt most vulnerable when sleeping and had probably already found a secure place in the basement, where there was an old sofa with old blankets piled on it, or in the living room or sitting room, where it could sleep on a chair and still feel safe enough. From downstairs the cat could listen for my footsteps on the stairs long before I could reach it.
    Fortunately we had also reached the point where it was aware of what time I generally got up and would slip onto the bed silently, without waking me, just before I naturally woke. And so it was time for a proper name and I named it Black Kitty. When my eyes opened each morning, it would be at my feet, watching.
    * * *
    A third blizzard came close on the heels of the second one. This time I sat by the bedroom window with the cat on the sill and we both marveled at the heavy flakes. I was used to the snow, and the cat was now outside its jurisdiction, so neither of us had any reason to feel threatened by the storm. As I sipped tea, I unexpectedly thought of James Joyce and “The Dead” and that last paragraph in the story: “Snow was general all over Ireland.” I thought, I could be in Ireland, or Sweden, or Canada, and it would all seem the same, except for the styles of cars and houses and other cultural artifacts not yet completely covered by snow .
    When the snow stopped, the clouds parted enough for a few weak rays to break through and dance on the snow, which glittered like an immense field of diamonds reflecting light. There was no breeze at all and nothing outside moved. No people ventured out. No cars squirted along the street, and it felt as if I was the only person left on the planet. But that feeling passed. I closed my eyes a moment and soon I felt the cat brush against me and sit with its paws across my legs as I stretched out on the bed.
    * * *
    Then came the days when I thought about drinking. At first I paced throughout the house deciding—hoping—that exercise would be enough to stave off a relapse, but suspecting I was misjudging the power of exercise. Even as I skipped up and down the stairs—the cat sitting on a living room chair to watch—I began the logistical analysis of what it would take to obtain a drink, or two or three, should exercise and willpower prove inadequate. I began to assess the walking distance, in the snow, to a store, which was not inconsequential, and as I sweated and went up and down the stairs, I grew tired enough finally to sit on a step breathing hard, the cat swirling in and out between my legs. Endorphins were activated. They exploded within me and I felt rather good, and slowly, like dying embers, the thoughts of taking a drink—or two or three—began to fade. Once again I was content to look out the window by the stairs at the snow hiding my driveway.
    A period of sleepless nights set in again. I thought I was past all that—liberated from it—and frustrated that I wasn’t. I was forced to admit that while the drinking was not happening but the underlying cause was still