Your Grief Doesn’t Interest Me by Simon Nadel

“You got old early.”

Hannah didn’t need to finish the thought. She’d already said it so many times, and then, when she got tired of saying it, she left. But even when she came back to pick up this or that, she sometimes would say it again, maybe for old time’s sake. “You got old early when you lost your job and started spending your days getting way too wrapped up in the neighbors’ business.” I never had a good response, even though clearly I had plenty of time to come up with one.

“I think the guys from the group house killed Barry,” I said to her.

“Adam,” she said, “you’re way too invested in this. He wasn’t even our cat. It’s a little weird.”

“He was a cat. And he was my friend,” I said, though I was pretty sure that last part wasn’t going to make it seem less weird.

“And you don’t know that they did anything. He might really have been hit by a car.”

“I got a bad vibe from them, especially when I’d see them feeding him. It didn’t seem like they were being nice. They’re pretty shady. Have you seen the skinny one with the creepy mustache?”

Hannah was standing at the front door with a big cardboard box in her arms, looking like she wanted the conversation to be over. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” she said.

I shrugged. “What could I possibly do?” But we both knew there were limitless possibilities, and none that could be deemed smart.

“Can you get the door?” Hannah said.

“I was gonna make some steaks tonight, if you feel like staying for dinner.”

“I can’t,” she said, motioning toward the front door.

“Hot date?”

“Adam!”

I got up and opened the door. I waited in the doorway while she put the box in the trunk of her car and drove away. I could see the guys from the group house playing beer pong on their front lawn. It was Friday night, which meant they’d be having a party in a few hours. Okay, I thought, now we’re gonna find out what really happened to Barry.

***

When their overly indulged four-year-old daughter said she wanted a cat, the Sullivans quickly adopted Barry from a shelter on New York Avenue. He was missing half his left ear. He’d been named after our former mayor.

Barry walked the fence between our houses. Hannah and I called him Checkpoint Charlie. Sometimes he’d leave dead squirrels or rabbits for us, prominently laid out on our lawn. I felt bad for the little animals, but I couldn’t blame Barry. He was just being true to himself. “It’s just Barry being Barry,” I would say to Hannah, and she’d reply, “Would you just go clean it up?”

He never left the carcasses in the Sullivans’ yard. They would joke that it was because Barry liked me more. Barry spent a lot of time with me, especially after I lost my job and had plenty of time to hang out. Some days, he was the only one I talked to until Hannah got home. “That’s not healthy,” she’d say to me if I mentioned it.

Barry died alone on the dirty, dusty street right in front of that group house. It reminded me of the way Charlotte died at the fairground in “Charlotte’s Web.” Only Charlotte wasn’t murdered, and I was pretty sure Barry was.

***

I drank straight bourbon and listened to a mix of Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, and Shane MacGowan until I was right in that sweet spot between melancholy and inebriated self righteousness. Then I headed over to the party at the group house.

 “Did any of you see what happened to the cat, the one that was found here a few weeks ago?” I said to the crowd gathered on the front lawn.

The skinny kid with the creepy mustache stepped forward threateningly. “I heard his head was bashed in,” he said. “That’s the kind of thing that could happen to anyone.”

I so desperately wanted to punch this kid. “If you guys had anything to do with it…”

“Go home faggot,” he said. There was some murmuring and nervous laughter.

“Okay, tough guy,” I said, and poked a finger into his chest. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea.

He shoved me hard, and I lost my balance and fell flat on my back. For everyone else at the party, the whole episode was over. They went back to their drinks and conversations. I laid on the lawn and stared up at the night sky. The stars had formed into a perfect recreation of Barry’s face, right down to the missing half ear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to avenge you,” I said, I thought to myself, but more likely out loud. The Barry in the sky winked at me and I imagined I could hear him purring. Then somebody poured a beer on me, and when I wiped the suds from my eyes, the constellation of Barry was gone, replaced by random lights dotting the vast blackness. I knew it was time for me to go home.

Shortly after that, the guys from the group house moved out, and the old house was demolished and replaced with a McMansion, which was sold to a young couple with too many kids. I can’t say I liked that family much, but as far as I knew, they hadn’t killed any cats, so I suppose they could have been worse.

I got a new job, just as soul sucking as the previous one, and I fully expect to lose it soon. And I’ve started writing. I was thinking it might be cathartic to write a story about Barry, though it seems like everyone these days is writing about working through some sort of grief or other.

Simon Nadel

Image – Ginger cat winking – from Pixabay.com