Finding Grace Read online

  “I don't know what you want to call him, but I've been calling him Pritchard.”

  I hate it when you do this. I'm torn with indecision. I long to fold myself inside your overcoat, where it is warm and safe.

  I looked up. Grace was gone. I could hear an awful screeching noise, like cats fighting, and laughter—nasty laughter.

  I threw the paper back into the box and ran out to the veranda. Grace was standing at the end of the veranda with her hands on the railing, swaying from foot to foot.

  The laughter was coming from the lime nightie woman next door, although she wasn't in the lime nightie now. She was standing on her veranda. She was doubled over, holding her belly, laughing. Shouter had Prickles. He was standing in the middle of the lawn facing Grace. He had Prickles and was throwing him in the air above his head and catching him by the stomach. He's sneering, “Hey, Nuffy. I gotcher caaat.” Heave.

  Prickles flies up into the air and lets out a long screech. His fur is all standing up. Screamer is laughing uncontrollably. Prickles is writhing in the air, turning himself around in the air. Shouter catches Prickles on the way down again.

  “Hey, Nuffy, I gotcher caaat.”

  I run out on the veranda. I bellow, “Put the cat down!” When I get angry I bellow, not a high squeak like a lot of people but a deep bellow from way down in the bottom of my guts. I take a deep breath and it comes out loud and low like a foghorn.

  Prickles is on the way up again, but Shouter doesn't try to catch him this time, he looks at me, still sneering. He pulls his foot back and watches the cat writhing in the air before him, aims and lays a boot into the cat at about waist height.

  When the boot hits him, Prickles' legs wrap around Shouter's foot for a moment and then he rebounds off. He moans as he sails through the air and falls in a heap on our front lawn. He rolls over slowly and lets out a long wail.

  I'm running down the steps. I'm running across the lawn. I can hear the screen door shut behind them as they go back into the house, but I'm looking at Prickles. He isn't moving.

  Grace is standing on the veranda. She is swaying rapidly from foot to foot. She has her hands up to her temples and she's making a short breathy sound, “Eeeh, eeeh, eeh.”

  I run over to where Prickles is lying on the lawn. His tail flicks once. Tears are running down my cheeks. He looks up at me groggily and then his little green eyes close.

  Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

  I'm grunting. I'm kneeling down on the ground over the cat.

  Oh no, oh no, what do I do, what do I do.

  I can't see because I've got hot, angry tears spilling out of my eyes. I'm blinking furiously. My hot tears are dropping onto his black fur. I brush them off.

  He's not moving, he's not moving, oh no, No, NO!

  I get up and run inside. I grab my car keys from off the kitchen bench and a towel from the bathroom.

  Back on the lawn. Kneeling. Prickles is lying very still, his eyes closed.

  OH NO, OH NO, OH NO!

  I pick him up gently. He is limp in my hands. His head is hanging down over my wrist. I put him on the towel and I wrap him up. I carry him to my car. His head is hanging down out of the towel.

  I lay him down on the backseat. He's lying on a funny angle.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no.

  I run back up the stairs and put my arm around Grace's waist. I lead her down the stairs. Her hands are still up in the air and her elbow hits me right in the bridge of the nose. Pain shoots up behind my eyes, and for a moment I can't see.

  “It's OK, turtledove, take it easy,” I say, trying to sound calm, but my voice is all scratchy, as if someone has poured a bucket of sand down my throat.

  I push her into the car.

  I run around the car. I bang my knee on the bumper. I jump in the car.

  Please be alive, please be alive.

  I start the car and roar off down the street. I can't see where I'm going because there are tears in my eyes, and I'm seeing stars. Grace is twisted around, leaning into the backseat.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  I pull up at the curb outside the vet's, four blocks away. I lift Prickles up and put him in the curve of my forearm. He's so small and limp.

  I open the door of the passenger side. I pull Grace out with my free arm, not bothering to close the door behind me; we rush into the surgery.

  The woman at the desk smiles as I walk in. There is a man with a birdcage on his knee and an old woman with a sleepy Alsatian lying at her feet.

  “Kicked.”

  It's all I can say. I'm wiping my sleeve across my eyes. I feel as though I've got a grapefruit wedged in my throat.

  “Kicked,” I say to the woman. Tears are pouring out of my eyes. Grace is swaying next to me with her arms folded across her chest.

  I'm holding out the towel bundle in my hands, stretched out toward the lady behind the desk.

  “Kicked. In here.”

  The woman frowns at me but does not speak. She stands up and opens a door behind her desk.

  A moment later the vet comes out. He's about thirty, with dark hair. As he moves around the desk I can see jeans under his white coat.

  “I'm sorry,” he says to the birdcage man and the Alsatian woman, “do you mind, if I see this little …” He lifts the edge of the towel in my arm and peeks in, “… fellow?” They shake their heads in unison, and the vet ushers me through the doorway.

  I put Prickles down on the stainless steel table and unwrap the towel.

  “Now,” says the vet, “this is?” I look at him.

  A cat.

  I'm not saying anything. No words are coming out.

  A cat, a cat, you're the vet here, you're supposed to be the expert in this scenario. A cat, a kicked cat.

  “Prickles.” Fresh tears spill out of the corners of my eyes.

  “And you say he's been kicked, is that right?” The vet is pulling up Prickles' eyelids and gently feeling each of his legs.

  “Very hard. Very hard.” I can't breathe. My mouth is full of saliva and tears.

  The vet looks at Grace. “I think we have met Prickles before, yes?”

  “She doesn't speak,” I say, wiping my eyes with my sleeve again.

  “English?” he asks.

  “No, she just doesn't speak.”

  I wasn't doing a very good job of speaking either.

  The vet nods, he's feeling Prickles' belly. “I would like to take a look in here, I think.”

  “He's alive?” I whispered. Fresh tears spring, actually spring. They're splashing on the stainless steel bench.

  “Oh, yes”—the vet smiles at me—“but we have at least two broken ribs and I would really like to take a little look inside.”

  The woman from the front desk comes through the door. The vet turns to her. “Ah, Marie, we're just going to have a little peek inside Prickles here, could you … please?”

  Marie nods and leads us back out through the foyer. “Has Prickles been here before?” she asks as she opens the filing cabinet next to her desk and flicks through the files. She pulls out a little blue card. “Ahh yes, here we go, look at that, vaccinations regular as clockwork, desexing at six months. Abscess drained two years ago. You're a very responsible pet owner, Grace.”

  “I'm Rachel. This is Grace.”

  Marie smiles at us both. “Is this the contact number?” She hands me the blue card.

  “Yes.”

  “Now, you go home. Make yourself a nice cup of tea. We'll ring you up in a little while and tell you how Prickles is doing, OK?”

  I lead Grace back out to the car, which looks like an abandoned getaway vehicle, parked askew with three doors open.

  When we get home, the front door is open. I take Grace inside and sit her in her chair. I flick on the jug and pick up the telephone.

  “Mr. Preston, it's Rachel,” I say in a terribly dramatic on-the-verge-of-tears voice.

  “What's happened? Is Grace OK?” he said.

  “It's Pritchard.”
>
  Oops. That's a slipup.

  “Who?”

  “Prickles.”

  “What's happened.”

  “Shouter,” I begin.

  Oops, and another.

  “I mean the man next door, he drop-kicked him about three meters. He's at the vet.”

  Silence. I thought for a moment that maybe I'd lost the connection.

  “I'll be right over.”

  Mr. Preston arrived about fifteen minutes later. I'm having a nice cup of tea as instructed. I'm sitting on the couch taking big hiccuppy breaths and making little whimpering noises.

  “What's going on?” He strides in, shrugging out of his big navy jacket and then rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  “The guy from next door.” I start to speak and begin to cry again.

  Mr. Preston sits down on the couch and points with his thumb over his shoulder toward Shouter and Screamer's house. “This bloke?”

  “Yes, he had a hold of Prickles and he threw him in the air a couple of times and then booted him in the guts.”

  “You saw this from where?”

  “I was inside. I could hear the cat screaming, so I ran out on the veranda just before he kicked him.”

  “And then you did what?”

  “I ran over to the cat and picked him up and took him to the vet with Grace and he's being operated on now. The vet says he has broken ribs.”

  “That's it?” He pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket. I nod. “Except Grace was watching what was going on and she was reacting.”

  “What did she do?” he says, fixing me with a piercing stare.

  “She was swaying and holding her head and making a noise,” I reply.

  Mr. Preston punches a number into his mobile and sits back on the couch with one long arm across the top.

  “Ben … Ben, I know you're there, Ben.”

  I'm wondering why Mr. Preston knows Shouter's phone number.

  “Don't give me crap, you know exactly who I am. I am the man who's going to take you out to the course and beat the crap out of you, and you know I can. I've done it before and I'll do it again.”

  I can hear the squeak of a voice on the other end of the line.

  “No, pal, you listen, you just don't get it, do you? I'll explain it to you again. You hold on to the leather end and you hit the ball with the metal end.”

  I'm lost now.

  Mr. Preston listens for a moment and then he tilts his head and smiles. “No, seriously, Ben, we've got a little problem over here, a man has just kicked the cat of a friend of mine, on purpose. He's picked it up and drop-kicked it about three meters. The cat's at the vet. We don't know if the little bloke is going to make it.”

  Mr. Preston is quiet for a moment; then he says the address, looking over at me. “Is he in there now?” he asks, pointing his thumb over his shoulder again.

  “I think so,” I say.

  “We're pretty sure the bloke's at home. Yeah, he lives next door, mate. On the right as you're coming up the street.”

  I can hear the squeak of the voice at the other end of the line. Mr. Preston is smiling. “You know I love you like a brother, Ben. No worries, I'll see you soon.”

  Mr. Preston puts his phone back in his pocket. “Now, you say Grace was reacting.”

  I tell him about what Grace was doing, and he makes me get up and do a demonstration. Then we go out on the veranda and I show him what happened.

  “Well, now we might just sit ourselves out here and see what happens,” he says, rubbing his hands together. He brings Grace outside and sits her down in one of the big comfy chairs. Mr. Preston leans against the railing facing us. I can hear sirens approaching—sirens, plural.

  Mr. Preston grins. “That'll be Ben.” He looks at his watch. “That was quick.”

  Two police cars race up the street, sirens blaring, and pull up in front of the house next door. Three police officers jump out of the cars, two of them walk up to the neighbors' door, pulling their hats on. The other, a middle-aged man with gray hair, saunters over and leans on the picket fence.

  “I'm here to arrest you for fraudulently claiming to be a golfer, A.P. Now are you going to confess, or am I going to have to take you back to the scene of the crime?”

  “You'll never take me alive, Officer,” says Mr. Preston. He steps off the veranda and shakes the policeman's hand warmly. “Benjamin, how're Fran and the kids?”

  “Well,” says the policeman, taking his hat off and scratching his head. “Jessica's going to have a baby.” He grins.

  Mr. Preston says, “A grandpa again, hey? Well, that's wonderful news.” He turns back toward the veranda. “These are my friends Rachel and Grace.”

  “Good morning,” says Ben the police officer, smiling at me.

  The screen door opens and Shouter, handcuffed, comes out meekly between the two police officers. They push him in the back of the police car.

  “Cuffs, Benjamin?” says Mr. Preston.

  “Well, I'm of the belief that it's not such a big leap from kicking cats to assaulting people, and I have the safety of my officers to consider,” Benjamin says, smiling at us. The smile fades. “No, seriously, mate, this is the kind of stuff I hate. It makes me angry, and I'm not the kind of bloke that gets angry. It's not for money, it's not provoked, it's just cruel. We like to bring them up with a jolt, you know? Might save us some trouble later on.”

  One of the police officers saunters over to us. Benjamin says to him, “You might like to take some details from these young ladies about what happened here today.”

  The police officer nods and takes a notebook out of his pocket. I tell him what happened and he writes it all down. I show him the exact spot where Shouter was standing, where Prickles landed and where Grace and I were standing.

  Mr. Preston and Benjamin have wandered off down the street and are chatting to each other, smiling and laughing.

  The two police officers take Shouter away. Benjamin and Mr. Preston shake hands again. Benjamin sits in his police car and winds down the window. “Nice to meet you, ladies.” He turns to Mr. Preston, grinning. “You know that I love you like a brother.”

  He starts the car and drives away.

  Mr. Preston stands with his hands on his hips and watches the car driving up the street. He turns back to me. “Well, now that's taken care of, I'd better go.” He opens the car door and climbs in. The passenger side window glides down. “Give me a call when you hear from the vet. See you, chum,” he says to me through the window, and then drives away.

  I take Grace back inside.

  The phone rings. It's Marie from the vet's. She tells me that Prickles is going to make it, but he's badly bruised and will be sore for a while. I can pick him up in about three days.

  Kate rang this evening. She says that she's having some friends over and would I like to come. I look at Grace sitting in her chair.

  No Prickles.

  I tell her that I will come over if I can get someone to mind Grace.

  I don't want to call the nurse. What I really want is for Mr. Preston to come over, because he would be sensitive about Grace missing her cat.

  I ring him to tell him that the cat's OK and ask if he will mind Grace. He says that he will be over at seven.

  As I hang up the phone I feel bad about going out after the day Grace has had. Maybe I should ring back and say that I will stay? No, the damage is done. Mr. Preston already knows that I was prepared to go out and leave her. I don't know why, but it's important for him to think well of me.

  I put Grace into her jammy jams, sit her on the lounge and put the telly on. She's not watching it.

  I'm getting dressed. What does one wear to these kinds of things?

  When I was at school there used to be parties. I went to one. It was held at the house of someone I didn't know. I drank too much and spent the whole night throwing up. The first time I missed and got the stupid apricot rug thing on the top of the toilet.

  Who has those? Why do they have those? Wha
t possible purpose do they serve? Who sits on the top of the toilet lid? Who spends so much time sitting on top of the toilet lid that they need a little apricot rug?

  One of my friends kept coming into the toilet, pulling my hair back and saying “Are you right, mate?” It was the most humiliating experience. The following Monday at school, the girl who held the party ran around and told everyone about me being sick on her stupid little apricot rug, and how slack it was because I didn't even know her. So presumably it's OK to be sick on someone's little apricot rug if you know them?

  All the other students teased me about it relentlessly. I never went to another party. As a result, I don't know what you are supposed to wear.

  I pull on a pair of jeans and boots that look like work boots.

  I spend an hour trying to make my hair look as if I haven't done anything to it. It ends up looking as if I haven't done anything to it, but not in a cool, casual way, more in a just-woke-up-from-a-very-bad-dream way. I give up.

  I find a little white tailored shirt with a gray pinstripe in Grace's wardrobe and I put it on, rolling up the sleeves.

  I put on some red lipstick that will blend nicely with my blushes.

  I sit next to Grace on the couch, put my arm around her and give her a little hug. She's still not watching telly.

  Mr. Preston arrives. He's not wearing a suit. Instead he has on the standard uniform of suits that aren't wearing a suit—a navy polo shirt with mustard trousers, brown shoes and a matching belt.

  Mr. Preston wears the shiniest shoes.

  My mother says you can tell a lot about a person's lifestyle choice from their shoes. She says the shinier and newer a person's shoes are, the more choice they have.

  He comes in with a stack of these little wee pizza boxes with the holes in the sides. I can smell them and my mouth starts to water. I love Turkish pizza.

  “I like your shirt,” he says as he makes his way down the hallway. “Will you have some pizza before you go?”

  Oh, all right then.

  Mr. Preston opens the boxes. He squeezes some lemon juice on the pizzas.

  Mmmm, Turkish pizza.