Short Story

LITTER BOX FULL

by

Carolyn Steele Agosta
 

Cats. He hated his mother's cats and no sooner did he unlock the door to her house than three of them appeared and began mewling and twining around his legs. Tim nearly tripped and his foot came down heavily on one of the cats' tails. Tallulah yowled and leapt across the room, jumping from chair to table to top of the bookcase, spitting and swearing at him as she ran. "Yeah, whatever," Tim said. "Watch where I'm going next time."

He dumped cleaning supplies on the kitchen table and opened all the windows, north and south, despite the chill January air. Anything to dispel the ammonia fumes. The litter box, pan and all, he dropped into a garbage bag and took outside. After the floor had been swept and mopped and dried, Tim put down a layer of newspapers and a brand new Litter Maid Mega self-cleaning litterbox, advertised on TV as 'ideal for multiple cat households'. Four cats lined up on the kitchen counter, watching him. He could feel the itch starting at the back of his throat, that little tickle that would turn into a cough and runny nose and weeping eyes. Tallulah was still out in the living room, apparently nursing her grievances. Or maybe just pooping in the window planter. Tim opened the fridge and cleaned out the leftovers, dumping them into another garbage bag. Spencer, the tabby, dropped down to the floor and touched his pant cuff with one paw.

"Hungry? Tough." Tim washed off the table, collected all his mom's pill bottles into a ziploc bag, closed the windows.

He entertained the notion of letting the cats wait another day, too, letting them just wander around hungry and thirsty, letting them suffer a bit. Shoot, they'd probably just make a worse mess, to get back at him. Tim refilled the water dish, measured out the prescribed amount of Whiskas.

"When are you guys gonna pull your weight around here, hmm? Like maybe learn to dial 911?" Lucy and Ethel were the first at the food, Spencer holding back and Clark pretending he wasn't interested at all. Tallulah strolled in as Tim left the kitchen, her tail twitching disapproval. "Don't get high and mighty with me," he said. "I'm the one who keeps you alive."

His mother's bedroom was dark, shades drawn, bed unmade. Framed photos of John Wayne and James Dean stared down from the walls. He started to pull clothes from the closet but everything he touched was covered in cat hair. The bathroom door was still closed and Tim decided it could wait a little longer. Little goose bumps rose on his arms and he left, coughing as he locked up.

At his own apartment, he dropped his clothes in the hamper, showered, stood under the spray gargling, trying to get the oily residue of cat out of his throat. He shaved, dressed, shopped. When he got to the hospital, he found his mother leaning against the doorway of the nurses' station, her hair filthy, eyes flat. Tim leaned down and kissed her cheek, his lips feeling the sharp angle of her cheekbone, the deflated texture of her skin. "How's it going?"

She looked into the K-Mart bag he'd brought. "These aren't my clothes."

"They're all fresh and new, though. Thought it might cheer you up."

"Little late for a make-over. I want my own clothes." She took the bag and disappeared into her room.

Tim stuck his hands in his pockets and went to the recreation room. Several patients watched TV or played cards. One or two looked familiar, from other times, but then those people all tended to look the same. He could almost spot-diagnose by now. Darryl the Drunk, Cleo the Clinically Depressed, Schizophrenic Sue. He wondered what today's therapist would be like. Nurse Ratchet? Or one of those happy-hugger types? Maybe an oh-so-serious straight-talkin-kinda guy, like in 'Twenty Eight Days'. Too bad there wouldn't be a Sandra Bullock among the patients. Just his luck.

His mother appeared in the doorway dressed in navy sweatshirt and jogging pants, her wet hair piled on top of her head. "They're too big," she said. "How do I look?"

"Like Kate Hepburn in 'Pat and Mike'. All you need is a little towel draped around your neck."

"I liked her better in 'Desk Set'." She sat on the couch, her gaze darting about the room. Her eyes had that funny look again, the whites showing all the way around, and she kept touching the edge of the wrist bandage under her sleeve cuff. "Everybody talks about 'Philadelphia Story' but I always thought her later stuff was better. She was more herself, more comfortable in her skin. Did you feed the cats?"

"Yes. As God is my witness, they'll never be hungry again."



Group therapy was held in the dining room with the tables pushed back. He hated that. Why did they have to sit in a circle, it was awkward. Why couldn't they have a table, like dignified people, like executives? He never knew what to do with his hands. This time the therapist was a big guy with a deep voice--Sal. He looked like a football coach. Already, two of the middle-aged ladies were perking up, touching their hair. Coach began the session with introductions, going around the circle, everyone expected to give a condensed version of their particular sob story, family members encouraged to join in.

Tim did five minutes on cats in his best Jimmy Stewart. "And-and-and so I said to the cat, Mr. Jinkers - that's his name, you see, the cat's. Mr. Jinkers. I said why do you look at me like that? I'm doing the best I can. But that's the thing about cats, they don't care, they just don't . . . CARE . . .and-and-and I asked why won't you do …whatever is you're supposed to do… in the catbox and just . . .do it. Just-just-just . . . DO it." Little grins lit up around the room and he enlarged his gestures. "Did I ever introduce my friend Harvey?"

Coach Sal was not amused. "If you had one thing you wanted to say to your mother, Tim, what would it be?"

Tim turned to his mother and looked deeply into her eyes. "Why-why-why couldn't you get a dog, Mom? A little . . .DOG." The place cracked up. His mother smiled too, her gaze fixed on Coach's shoe. Tim's chest tightened. It wasn't his fault . He hadn't dumped her the way Dad had, he hadn't moved to Florida like his brother, Jack, just to stay out of reach. He was the good guy, damn it. He was the one who stayed.

"And Valerie, what have you got to say?" Coach asked. "Nothing? No?" She shook her head, her smile tightening.

After the session was over, they walked to the exit and waited while sign-out sheets were completed and the nurse had unlocked the door. "They give you any idea when you can come home?" Tim asked. "How long was it last time?"

" I don't remember." Her gaze flitted past his shoulder. " Don't forget Talullah's medicine. Stroke her throat to help it go down."

"Yeah. You be a good girl and take yours too." He kissed the top of her head. "Good-night." She walked away, veering off-center like a blind woman.


On Sunday Tim ran into his mother's apartment long enough to grab her clothes and feed the cats. Little hunks of cat shit encircled the new litter box. "Goddamn it," he snarled, taking a swipe at Lucy sitting on the table. She skittered sideways, up and over the chair back, down the hall. Ethel appeared, wide-eyed, in the kitchen doorway, took one look at Tim and flattened herself, squeezing behind the utility cart. Tim grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned up the poop, gritting his teeth at the feel of the cold lumps under the quilted picker-upper.

"You guys just don't get it, do you? I'm not going to clean up your messes forever. You think I don't have better things to do?" He got the squeeze-bottle of cleaning solution and spritzed the floor, getting down on his knees to scrub away the mess. "You think I can do this forever? I have a life of my own, you know. Enough is enough." He slammed the broom closet door with enough force to rattle the pans in the cupboard.

The silence was total. After the echoes of the slammed door died down, not a sound existed in the house. No traffic from the street, no TV or radio. Not a clock ticked. The cats, wherever they were, seemed to be collectively holding their breath. "Oh dammit," Tim sighed. He refilled the water and food dishes. No cats. "Here, kitty, kitty. Come eat." He whistled a careless little tune, jingling the keys in his pants pocket. "C'mon, Tallulah. Drag your flea-bitten carcass in here, I gotta give you your medicine." Still nothing. Tim swore and grabbed the bag with his mother's clothes. "Fine. Be that way."

His mother lay in bed, her face turned to the hospital wall. A chenille bedspread, thin and missing tufts, a bilious green, was pulled up high over her shoulders. "Time for group therapy," Tim said. "Come on, Pilgrim. We're burnin' daylight."

"I can't." Valerie's voice was muffled. "Go home, Tim. Go out with that nice girl. What was her name? Ellen? You still going out with her?"

"No. She's been busy. Eh, what the hell, she didn't know her Garson from her Grable. Come on, Mom. If I can drive all the way over here and take time from work, you can walk twenty feet to the dining room. You can't just give up. Think of Susan Hayward. Did she give up in 'My Foolish Heart'? Or Julie Walters in 'Educating Rita'. Did she let a little depression get her down? What about Sandra Bullock?"

"Fuck Sandra Bullock." His mother flung back the bedspread and sat up. Her topknot had slid sideways, loose wisps hanging over her face. She still wore the navy blue sweatshirt, now with stains on the front. "I don't want to go to group. I don't want any more stinking fish sticks for lunch, and I DON'T want to be in this PLACE! Why can't you just leave me alone?!" Valerie threw herself back down on the mattress.

A nurse came to the doorway. "Not having a good day, are we?" She leaned over Valerie, patting her shoulder, and spoke to Tim. "She'll be better when her meds kick in. Why don't you come back later?"

Tim walked out of the room. Other patients were gathering in the dining room. "How's Harvey today?" one of them asked. Tim kept walking, bumping into the information table against the left wall of the hallway. A stack of brochures labeled "FAMILY THERAPY, Westport Medical Center" fell to the floor. He crouched down and picked them up, one by one. At the nurses' station, he realized he still held the bag of his mom's clothes and handed it over to the blonde RN with the downturned mouth.


Two cat turds in the living room. Three in the hall. A pool of urine by the back door. And in the litter box, the surface of the clumping media was still undisturbed. He grabbed the Litter Maid Mega and ripped the paw-cleaning-ramp off the front. Sprays of Fresh Step went right and left, the sealed waste receptacle clattered to the floor. Tim broke the mechanized rake over his knee.

"You goddamned freaks of nature! You spawns of hell! You won't even try, will you?! . Well, fine, see if I care any more!" He threw the litter box out the back door, watching it cartwheel across the yard. Energized, he grabbed a bucket, filled it with hot soapy water and unlocked the bathroom door. His breath came in huffs as his eyes began to itch and sting.

Most of the blood was in the bathtub. Black now, congealed, it covered the white ceramic and the pink rubber mat. A sluggish river of shampoo meandered through, heading for the drain. Red finger-prints stippled the edge of the tub, black scuff-marks showed on the tile floor and along the baseboards. The white rug was ruined, he threw it in a garbage bag, along with towels and his mother's robe. Strong odors rose up as he turned on the sprayer - metallic, bitter-edged -- along with the floral scent of Dove soap. Tim used a scrub brush, the old-fashioned kind with stiff bristles and wooden back. Used both hands, got on his knees.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," he said over and over, rinsing the scrubber, coughing and sneezing as his allergies kicked in. His throat just wouldn't clear and he began to wheeze and the more he wheezed the madder he got. "Fucking mess, fucking goddamned mess," as his eyes itched and tears streamed down his face. Blood had seeped into the cracks of the tiles around the toilet.. He was sobbing now, rocking back and forth on his knees, nose running. His elbow caught the can of cleanser and knocked it flying. A cloud of pale aqua powder filled the air, coating his arms, face and shirt. "No wire hangers," he said and the tickle in his throat erupted in laughter, then he slumped against the toilet. "No more wire hangers. Oh god, I'm going crazy too."

Finally the room was clean. Every surface sparkled, bottles and jars were lined up with precision on the counter, even the toothbrushes stood at attention. Tim rinsed off his hair and face at the kitchen sink, threw his shirt away and sat down in the rocking chair in the living room. His t-shirt was wet in splotches and his trousers and shoes were filthy, but the bathroom was clean. Lucy and Ethel popped their heads up from behind the couch. "Hey, girls," Tim said. "How's tricks?"

He'd have to go home and shower before going back to the hospital. First he swept up the kitchen again, put down newspapers, found an old plastic dishpan and filled it with kitty litter. "Work with me, guys," he whispered. "I'm doing the best I can." Talullah sat on the windowsill, performing her ablutions. Tim got her under his left arm, pried her mouth open, and shoved the pill in. With his left hand, he clamped her mouth shut, with his right, he stroked her throat. "You know you need this," he said. "Just meet me halfway." She shook herself all over when he released her and walked off tail in the air. "You're welcome," Tim called after her. "Any time."


His mother was dressed when Tim got there, in her own clothes, sitting curled up on the couch in the recreation room, watching reruns of 'Columbo' on TV. Tim dropped down next to her. "I finished cleaning your apartment."

"No one asked you to." His mom reached over and grabbed his arm before he could pull away. "Sorry. God, I'm sorry. Don't know why I get like this. I'm so tired." She leaned over and looked in his eyes. "You don't deserve this."

"Neither do you. But damn, you have to try. We all have to get up each morning and try. You're a beautiful intelligent woman with lots to give. You think it's easy for me to watch you go through this?"

"No. But it's no picnic from my side either." She sank back into the couch and closed her eyes. "How are the cats?"

"They won't use the litter box. I can't understand it. I wish they could just speak up and say why."

"Wouldn't help. They don't know why. They're cats." She took a deep breath and looked up at him. "You just keep coming back, don't you?"

"Little Sheba, that's me." Tim let a small smile curve his lips, but he held her gaze.

Valerie patted his knee. "Well, we always have Group to look forward to. I hear the topic tonight is Controlling Your Environment. Sounds like a laugh riot."

"You never know. Maybe it has a happy ending. Something heartwarming with Barry Fitzgerald. 'Going My Way'. 'The Quiet Man'."

"'Drums Along the Mohawk.'"

"No, that was his brother, Arthur Shields."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Tim put his arm over his mother's shoulders. "Now, 'How Green Was My Valley', that was Barry Fitzgerald. You ready?"

"The show must go on. I guess."

Tim winked at her. "Here's looking at you, kid."



§ § §

Carolyn Steele Agosta lives in semi-rural North Carolina where she can enjoy lakes and trees and farmland while still getting caught in traffic.

Her fiction and essays have appeared in Peninsular, BuzzWords, In Posse Review, Eclectica, Conversely, Skirt!, and on BBC Radio 4. She is also polishing her second novel which she hopes will find a publisher soon or she will have to get a job and actually work. You can reach Carolyn at http://www.carolynagosta.com or cagosta@steelerubber.com

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