Easter In Dry Creek

Clay looked at the man for a long moment. Then he turned to Allie. She nodded, as well. It was a wooden nod, like something was holding her back, but she did confirm the words.

“He used to just make sounds and we had to guess at the words,” Allie offered.

Clay felt joy start to blossom inside him. “Well, what do you know?” Clay said as he lifted his fist in a gesture of triumph. Mark—his friend, his buddy—was free from the blackness of being in a coma. He’d heard enough stories from men who had spent the night in solitary confinement to have some sense of what that release must feel like to Mark. Not to mention the hope it would bring to his family.

Clay had a sudden impulse to wrap his arms around Allie and coax her into dancing an Irish jig with him. They’d done that once in the rain when they’d clocked a good time racing some of the horses. He, Mark and Allie, all dancing in a circle in the barn and laughing like fools. He needed to do something to celebrate. But he said nothing because he saw Allie was blinking back tears.

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked anxiously. “Am I missing something?”

He supposed Mark could be talking and dying at the same time. That would explain the pinched look on Allie’s face.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. These are happy tears.”

Clay never had understood those kinds of tears. But he was glad Mark was apparently all right.

Suddenly Clay could feel the cat stirring. He put his hand over the place where the feline struggled against the coat, hoping to calm her until he could get her out from inside it.

Then he heard a sound and glanced down in time to see a movement out of the corner of one eye. A young boy was sneaking into the kitchen from the hallway. His flannel pajamas had pictures of galloping horses on them. His dark hair had a cowlick on the left side and was not combed.

The cat seemed to be calm now. Clay relaxed.

The boy slid forward and stood beside Allie. She put her hand on his head without even seeming to realize he was there. Then she stroked his hair in absentminded affection.

“I couldn’t find my clothes.” The boy looked up. “I want the blue shirt.”

“So you’ve been playing instead of getting dressed like Grandpa asked,” Allie said with strong affection in her voice as she leaned down to kiss the top of the boy’s head. The boy nodded sheepishly. Then Allie straightened up.

Clay had never imagined that Allie would have a son. But just because time had stood still for him during the past several years, it didn’t mean it had slowed for anyone else.

He knew Allie well enough to realize that if she had a son it also meant she likely had a husband. He supposed he’d never had a real chance with her, but it still left him empty. He’d pictured her so many times when he was in prison; there was something about her that reminded him of fireflies. Delicate yet bright, flitting from place to place. She always lifted his spirits. He would have given anything to be able to date her. Maybe give her a first kiss.

Clay must have shifted his shoulders as he stood there staring because the cat twisted inside his coat again. He saw that she’d pulled at one of the buttons until it was open. Before Clay could reach down and grab the animal, she flew through the air, landing on her feet atop the worn beige linoleum floor.

“What’s that?” Mr. Nelson demanded to know. He looked around like more cats might be flying toward him from everywhere.

The tabby, its rust-colored fur bristling, stood there in the middle of the kitchen arching her back and looking pleased with her flight. Then she hissed. Clay had no doubt the cat was ready to defend herself from any scolding. But the young boy slid down until he was sitting in front of her.

“Don’t touch her,” Clay cautioned as he bent down and put his hands out to protect the child. “She’s partly wild.”

The cat had likely been tame at some point, but Clay figured she’d forgotten any softness she’d ever known. It had been a long time since she’d had an owner, and he knew how quickly home manners could be forgotten. The boy was already pulling the cat toward him, though. Once he had her in his arms, he rubbed his face against her matted fur.

The feline looked up suspiciously, but she didn’t fight.

“I always wanted a kitty,” the boy said and gave a satisfied sigh. “And this one has orange stripes. That’s my favorite color. Does that mean she’s for me?”

He patted the tabby gently, as though he’d already claimed her.

Clay was glad the boy had never seen a tiger.

“Orange is a good color,” Clay agreed, noticing that the cat had relaxed in the boy’s care. Maybe she remembered more than he thought. “It’s the color for caution, though, so be careful.”

Clay braced himself to make a grab if the cat started to claw her way out of the boy’s embrace, but she stayed where she was. “I expect you’ll want to ask your father if you can keep her.”

Clay knew he shouldn’t have asked it that way. But he wanted to know. He tried to keep his expression neutral. Allie looked like someone’s wife, with her hair pulled back in a barrette and a faded apron covering her jeans. He hoped that whoever the man was he was decent toward her and the boy.

“We don’t talk about his father,” Allie told Clay and gave him a warning look. Her eyes darkened to steel as she stood her ground. She continued, speaking to the boy. “You’ll have to ask your mother, though.”

“Good,” Clay whispered. He felt his face smile. So Allie wasn’t the boy’s mother.

Allie was studying him again now as though she was wondering at his thoughts.

“I—” Clay stammered. He didn’t want her to know what he’d been thinking. She saw too much. He could tell by the questions shimmering in her eyes. He’d never been able to hide much from her. “The cat needs a good home.”

That wasn’t a lie, Clay assured himself. All those years ago, his father never had said anything about whether one had to always tell the entire truth.

“Everyone needs a home,” Clay added to give more weight to his earlier words.

The pink on Allie’s cheeks flashed red. “Are you saying we did wrong by you? We gave you a home as long as we could.”

“I just meant the cat,” Clay said gently. He was glad he hadn’t made the mistake of thinking the color on her face came from warm memories of him.

“Oh,” Allie said.

Clay turned so he didn’t see her. He’d give her privacy if that’s what she wanted. Everyone was silent.

“The kitty has too many bones,” the boy finally said as he looked up at Clay.

Allie bent down, obviously relieved to have a change in the conversation. “The poor thing’s half-starved and is going to deliver a full litter any day now.” Allie glared at Clay. “Don’t you feed her?”

“She hitched a ride with me—that’s all,” he protested. “Someone abandoned her and no one would take her in. I did what I could for her. I bought some packets of coffee creamer at the gas station and fed her.”

“Creamer?” Allie raised her eyebrow in question. “That’s not enough.”

“It was the middle of the night and I wasn’t near any four-star restaurants. It was creamer, candy bars or coffee. Not much choice,” Clay said. “And I scooped up a lot of packets.”

The owner of the station had charged him plenty for the creamer, too. They’d found a glass ashtray and opened the packets of liquid and poured them into that. The cat had licked up three servings. Clay had to buy the ashtray, too, because the station owner said he couldn’t sell it after it had been licked by a cat.

“I think she’s still hungry, Auntie,” the boy said.

“Speaking of hungry,” Mr. Nelson said then, looking more like the man he had been when Clay knew him. “I’m sure we could all eat something.” He glanced over at Clay. “How about we have some eggs and bacon to go with that toast?”

Clay nodded. “I’d like that if Allie’s willing.” He didn’t want to press things with her. “Just this once. It was a long, cold drive over here.”

“I’m glad you came,” Mr. Nelson admitted.

It was quiet until Allie spoke to the boy. “Now, you go take the cat into the back bedroom and get dressed. There are some of your clothes in the closet hanging on the short bar. I think the blue shirt is there. Then get some of those old towels that Grandpa keeps in the bottom drawer of his dresser. The ones he uses to shine his Sunday shoes. They’ll make a nice soft bed for the mama cat.”

“But,” Mr. Nelson protested, “my shoes—”