Is he hurt down there?
What if he’s hurt?
Should I call Animal Control or something? Except then they’ll take him away to a shelter, won’t they? He’s got to belong to someone, right? Maybe I could put up flyers.
Except, I can’t take a photo through the slats at this point. I mean, it would have been hard to get a good shot when it was still light out, but it’s nearly dark now.
I call Willa. I tell her about the kitten hostage situation, and we share war stories of what happened since we left work…who we’ve called, who we’ve avoided calling. Then we hash out the events of the day in a macabre play-by-play.
“Taysom Reed was a highlight, though,” she says teasingly.
“How about the lowest point of the day for me.”
“I can’t wait to see your interview on ESPN.”
She’s on speaker, so I fix the phone with a stare that I wish she could see. We should have video-chatted. “I’m hoping they won’t even include it in the documentary. It was just…so embarrassing.”
“Why? You’re passionate about the center. I admire your guts.”
“It’s not like I stood up for the Center and convinced him to change his mind. It just ended with me being shot down.”
“Hey, at least you took a risk. And who knows? Maybe something beneficial for the Center will come of it.”
I thank her for being the wind beneath my wings, which causes her to sing, very off-key, the chorus to that old Bette Midler song.
“The fiancé is giving me looks,” she says. “I don’t think he likes my singing!”
“How dare he not!”
Ever since Willa got engaged, she’s been calling Michael “the fiancé” way more than his actual name. It’s cute, but sometimes it reminds me I’m going to be alone when she gets married.
Okay, that’s a dramatic way of putting it, and this isn’t about me. But still, maybe I should start trying to figure out this elusive dating thing.
We say goodbye, and I go indoors and wash my face, letting my hair down and out of its bun. It feels good not to be poked and prodded by those bobby pins anymore.
Bobby pins. The curse I must bear for having the kind of hair I have.
I walk into my bedroom and can hear the meowing even though my window is closed.
I dial Kyle’s number again.
“Kyle, I need your help.”
“Did something else embarrassing happen?”
“Not embarrassing, but it is an emergency.” I explain how there’s a cat stuck underneath the front porch. “Can you please come? I’ve got to figure this out. He could be hurt under there.”
Kyle sighs but says he will.
He only lives a ten-minute drive away, but he’s in a much nicer part of town than I am. It’s fine, though. Every house in my neighborhood is different—built in different decades, painted various bright colors, filled with different families. It’s home.
I watch the clock while I read, but I can still hear the poor thing from here. After thirty minutes, still no Kyle, so I pick up my phone to call him again when the doorbell rings.
“Finally,” I say as I swing the door open.
But it’s not Kyle. It’s Taysom. My mouth hangs open until I can recover.
He’s carrying a grocery sack in one hand and what looks like a big canvas tool bag on the other shoulder.
