That Cat
Riddick had never liked the cat.
It would sit there on the edge of the wall, staring at him like it knew some secret. Every once in a while its tail would flick into sight over the stone top posts. Sometimes it would yawn, as if the universe had been made for its interests.
The spot on the wall differed each day. Occasionally the cat would stretch itself out across the stones that were nearest the back porch. Other days it would sit on the very edge of the gate, black back turned towards the house but head twisted to the side so it could stare out the corner of its grey eyes. One time it had dared enough to sit on the border, perched on the thin rail marking the difference between its domain and his.
The cat only ever stopped staring when Jack was around. She'd come back from the school the holy man had signed her up for and it would be there. Purring, arching its back against her legs, the white tip of its tail twitching ever so slightly in greeting. She'd scratch it behind the ears and under the chin, then set up her homework on the porch table. The cat would follow, hopping on the table, sniffing her school books and papers, and then taking up residence on the back of her chair.
From there it would stare, past the glass and into the house.
It was black all over with a white belly and white paws, the kind of cat that Jack referred to as wearing a tuxedo. She'd fed it table scraps when it first started showing up. After a few weeks in which it had become a regular to the backyard, she'd dared enough to buy some of that foul smelling cat food. She'd spooned it into an empty plastic bowl left out on the porch, and then filled a second with water in case the cat got thirsty.
It wouldn't eat while she was there, but waited until the only one left awake was him. Then it would crouch there by the door, watching him as slowly chewed every bite.
Officially the cat's name was Double-Stuffed Oreo, after the cookies Jack loved to con the holy man into buying. She'd shorten it to simply Oreo, occasionally adding an impromptu 'Mister' at the beginning to make fun of how the holy man kept referring to him. She'd laugh about it and smile the smile that made arguing with her so hard.
The cat sometimes went off for a while, disappearing for a day or two. Jack would worry every single time, fretting over the still full bowl of that stinking cat food. She'd never smile for real on those days, just a half grin that faded real quick. She'd be quiet, no questions, no arguments.
Riddick didn't like those days.
The cat always came back to stare at him though. It usually appeared in the morning as he was getting ready to leave for that job the holy man had insisted he get so long as he stayed in that house. Those grey eyes would stand out from the front wall, accusing him of something or everything. He'd stare back sometimes, but he never had time to spare to win that contest. Always he'd have to walk off, with those eyes boring a hole in his back until he turned the street corner.
Later he'd find the present, lying on the back porch, near the steps or just before the door.
A dead rat.
A dead bird.
A dead lizard.
A dead something.
Creatures killed in the name of Jack.
She didn't see most of them, because the first time it had been a rabbit. Floppy brown ears, vacant eyes, twisted neck. They were pests to most but he'd seen her stare at them in the window of the pet store downtown. She'd cooed about how fuzzy they were, how she'd like one of the speckled ones, how she'd name it Pepper or Peanut or some sappy name like that.
Rabbits went swiftly into the dust bin before she'd get home, the cat watching all the while.
Riddick didn't understand her infatuation with that cat.
It wasn't cute; it didn't cuddle beyond the initial afternoon greeting. Its hair got all over her shirt and the chairs and the porch. It scared away every other animal from the surrounding block. The other stray cats that used to wander the streets had moved in order to avoid treading on this one's turf. Even the few dogs were made wary.
He could, however, understand why the cat hung around.
It wasn't the affection, someone caring enough to take joy and smile at its existence. It wasn't the one-way conversations over algebra homework; the only sound that of her voice. It wasn't the food, with fish or chicken leftovers snuck in sometimes. It wasn't the attention allotted to a manageable three or four hours an afternoon, the time that was solely its own.
It was something much baser than all of that. Something territorial, a claim that couldn't be rescinded. This block was its turf and Jack was its property. The cat showed up every day to make sure that everyone knew that fact.
That's why the cat stared.
It knew.
It knew that he was a challenge to its claim. The affection, the voice, the meals, the attention. One day the block would belong to him. Everything would belong to him.
The cat was late that afternoon, nearly by an hour. Jack had set up her camp even so, desperately trying to decipher the meaning behind the prescribed equations. It came limping up the porch steps, back paw hopelessly mangled. She'd screamed, scooping the cat into her arms, ignoring the blood, ignoring its squirming claws.
The holy man made her put it down, ushering her into the house. He'd heard them on the phone with the vet, describing the wounds.
The cat stayed on the porch, watching him.
Riddick stared back, observing the ragged breath, the slow drip of blood and saliva from its jaws, the dent in its skull.
It blinked, slowly, gaze never wavering. Then it laid itself down on the porch, favoring the back leg but not managing to ignore it so completely. It blinked a few more times, coughing in a way that suggested its lungs were close to failure. Its head rested on the concrete porch, ears twitching spasmodically.
The cat died before the holy man hung up the phone.
It died before Jack could return to the porch.
It died still staring, claim still staked.
He got to hold her when she cried, but it made him feel hollow as well. Her sadness seemed infectious. The feeling filled the house for the next few days, created new nightmares for her to scream about, erased the smiles she would have had.
Riddick buried the cat for her, because she asked him to. She'd bought a concrete mold and made a tombstone for it, inscribing 'Mister Oreo' with her fingers. There were flowers put out too, the ten dollar kind that withered away within a week.
She still did her homework on the back porch, at least until the seasons changed. The cold drove her indoors to spend the afternoons at the kitchen table with him. Algebra came more easily with a two-way conversation, but smiles still were rare.
One day he walked home from the job the holy man had made him get. He passed by the store he always ignored and stopped.
Something was staring at the back of his neck.
Something familiar.
Riddick turned back and saw the store owner sweeping out front by a bench bolted into the ground. On the bench was a wire cage with a cardboard sign taped on the inside. A group of lanky fuzz-ridden kittens had dropped themselves in a pile in the middle of the cage, save for one.
That one sat in the corner, white tipped tail swishing, grey eyes unblinking as it stared.
He took the kitten home.
Jack smiled and laughed when it bit the buttons on her shirt. It purred when she scratched it behind the ears and under the chin. It insisted on making a nest out of the pillows on her bed. It ate the stinking cat food that she gave it in the old bowl, drank some milk she was able to sneak.
The smile never faded.
The stare never wavered.