Story: If Not For Flannery Then

This story first appeared on the web in Scorched Earth Magazine in the February/March issue of 2005 and remained up until the site folded in 2006. I received quite a few emails telling me how much folks liked this story and wanted to know how to read it again after the original Scorched Earth site went down, so here it is by popular demand.

Distributed under the Creative Commons license

For my Mom

If Not For Flannery Then
By R R Angell

For love. That's why we do things, right? That's why we sell our houses and hope that the next step we take will make us happy enough to skip the mourning process. That first, abandoning step that always begins the next thousand miles.

"That about covers it, " Sarah, the real estate agent, said to the middle-aged couple. She proffered two personalized pens across the conference table, but the McCarrans didn't move. "Here's where the signing begins. There are about thirty or so places where we need to collect your signatures. Don't worry, the house will be yours with that very first one. " She glanced at me briefly while wiggling the pens. "Do you have any questions? Any last minute concerns? "

Both McCarrans took a deep breath. I did the same and glanced at my husband. I squeezed his hand. I didn't want this sale, and he knew it. I wanted Jeff to take his promotion. He deserved it, and he was meant to have it. But why did it mean moving so far away? Was more money really worth uprooting our lives here? It did mean I wouldn't have to work part-time at the library anymore. I would miss the energy of the school kids, the quiet summers, the safety of books.

I was fully over the cancer now and done with the treatments that had left me sterile. Not a bad price to pay, considering they had given me little chance of surviving. I was meant to go on. Jeff and I could adopt a child, and it would be easier in the city. Chicago was only a couple hours drive from my parents. There were both good and bad things about that.

In a way, part of me wanted to get out of that backwoods town with its catty little social cliques and late night pickup truck rallies. Teenagers and rednecks whipped up and down the roads most nights, tossing their empty bottles into the woods. I was constantly picking them up from the edge of our backyard. I could get used to the culture and sophistication of the city, all those lights, and the restaurants.

But a life was at stake here. So I squeezed Jeff's hand. He could stop the deal now, before they signed anything. Bill McCarran reached for a pen.

"There's something else that you should know, " Jeff began. Sarah strained forward, pushing the pens closer to Bill, but he was dropping his hand and moving back into his chair. Sarah gave up. This had been the only offer in the seven months our house had been on the market.

A look of horror bloomed on Karen McCarran's face, and she gripped her husband's arm and mouthed the words, "I told you so. " She was an emaciated cocktail-blond, and she played the lawyer's wife perfectly. I envisioned Laura Ashley wallpaper with matching-fabric tablecloths and chairs invading my home. I shivered.

"It isn't like that, " Jeff said, his voice calm and clear. "There's nothing wrong with the house. It's just that, well-- "

"Here, " I said, reaching for my purse and the photo I'd brought. "This is Flannery, " I said, slipping the photo of a large orange tabby across the table. In the photo, Flannery lay along the inside basement windowsill, his head up, his mouth in that perpetual snarl we had come to love. He was looking out toward the firs and pin oaks bordering our backyard, hiding Route 9 from view.

"We're not cat people, " Karen McCarran said, practically spitting the words. "What does your cat have to do with the house? " Bill stroked his chin. I liked Bill. "Did she pee all over the place? " he asked.

"Not at all, " Jeff said. "Flannery goes outside. He's only used the litter box a couple of times in the years since we've lived here. And only when he was sick.

"And Flannery is a guy, " Jeff said. "Or he was. We had him neutered a few years ago. Debbie was concerned about him spraying inside the house. But he has never sprayed inside to our knowledge, and none of the previous residents could ever remember him doing anything in the house.

"Of course, he lives exclusively in the basement. Never comes upstairs. "

"Cute. " With a sneer, the wife pushed the photo back to our side.

"I'm glad you think so, " Jeff said. "But it doesn't matter if he likes you. He adjusts quickly to new people. " "What are you saying? " Bill sat back and put a finger to his lips.

"Flannery conveys, " I blurted out. It wasn't my intent to be choked up about this.

Bill laughed. Sarah politely looked away, and Bill stopped laughing.

Outside the silent room, the October sun blazed golden, its light slanting through the oaks in front of the library across the street. Kids were returning after dinner to finish homework or study together. Some came by bike, singly or in small groups. Some were dropped off. Others clustered under trees to laugh and tell each other lies, only venturing inside to use the bathroom.

I noticed our conference room was getting darker, and no one had turned on the overhead lights. It was cozy, drawing us closer around the table. Maybe it was Jeff's calm voice as he began Flannery's story, like so many nights in winter when he read to me by the fire. Maybe it was just the memories he pulled out of nowhere that opened in my mind like a mountain lake glimpsed chiaroscuro through trees. I held onto my chair to stay anchored and closed my eyes to pray as he began.

"It started about fourteen years ago, " Jeff said. "Though no one is quite sure how old Flannery really is. Some say he's fifteen, some say seventeen. His vet says he's in that range, but he doesn't look it.

"Flannery is a good hunter, despite the leg. His left one's a little stiff, and he walks with a limp. He runs okay though. "

The memories that came weren't mine, but I'd heard this tale so many times before that I could see it unroll as if I had been there.

In the darkening conference room, Karen McCarran sneezed.

"Bless you, " Jeff said, slipping the box of tissues across the table.

"Then what happened? " Karen asked, wiping her nose.

"They carefully slipped the cookie sheet under the cat and took it inside. All the while, the cat lay there, unmoving, except for its eyes. Its gold, gold eyes. Those it kept focused on her. "

"Did they put it in the oven? " Bill wanted to know.

"Yes, but they turned it off and kept the door open. She stayed right there with it until sunup, then they began calling around for a vet.

"One of them read names and numbers from the yellow pages, and the other one dialed. They got an answering machine every time, but no wonder at that early hour, right? When they came to Alfred Christy's number, the cat rumbled loudly from the oven, and the doctor answered on the third ring. And yes, he made house calls. "

"That's unusual, " Karen said.

"It is. Doc Al's an unusual man, and unusually gifted when it comes to animals. Not too good with people, though. " "Some say Doc Al is why Flannery stays put, " I said.

"It might be the house, " Jeff added. "Just a feeling on that, though. "

"So the doctor saved the cat? "

"Yep, came right over and sewed him up and set the leg. "

"That's why he limps? " Bill asked.

"No. It was his right leg that first time, " Jeff said. "They say cats have nine lives. Our guess is that was life number one. The limp he has now was caused by number eight. "

"You seem to know an awful lot about that cat, " said Bill. "Why? "

Jeff glanced at me, and I bit my lip. "Let me tell you a little more, " Jeff said, "and you can draw your own conclusions. "

"The couple stayed for almost a year. They set Flannery up in the basement. Put in a little cat door for him big enough to get through, cast and all. He wouldn't go upstairs. They said he didn't want to be any bother. And he wasn't. He even fed himself, hunting up his own food. One couple lived in the house for two years and never fed him at all.

"Soon after Flannery showed up, they got pregnant, " Jeff said.

"They had been trying for the longest time, " I interrupted. "And they'd been there in the house for three years. " "Two actually, " Jeff said, "before Flannery came. The guy's sperm count was so low, what few he had were dying of loneliness. They moved out just before their fourth anniversary in the house. Moved to Naperville, Illinois, and had healthy twin boys. "

"They took Flannery with them, " I said.

Karen frowned. "Are you saying that cat found his way back from all the way up there? "

"Not that time, " Jeff said. "He jumped ship the first time they stopped for gas, only a hundred miles or so away. The couple looked everywhere for that damned tabby. Even stayed in a motel near the gas station overnight hoping he'd show up. But they had to meet the movers at the new house and couldn't delay anymore. The twins were due any day.

"Three months went by. A new couple, two guys in their thirties, moved in and repainted the place. They began landscaping the yard with islands of rocks, decorative grass and specimen plants. The split-rail fence came down. It was late May or early June by anyone's best guess when Flannery turned up and quietly resumed residency.

"The first thing the couple noticed was that the field mice and voles suddenly disappeared. They saw an occasional orange streak slipping through bushes, and thought it was the neighbor's cat. But when they had their first open house, they found out from the Blackthorns (who had been close to the previous couple) that the cat was back, and it lived in their basement.

"They had hardly been down there, let alone the back part that they used as storage. Mostly they kept their rock climbing gear down there.

"Shortly after the open house they were out in the Cascade Mountains climbing, and one of the guys fell and broke his back. The doctors said he would never walk again. They went all over the country getting second opinions, and every doctor they talked to said the same thing. Almost no chance he'd ever walk again.

"So they went home. They put in the handicap access to the front door and raised the back deck six inches so it was level with the first floor of the house. The poor guy spent a lot of time out there in his wheelchair. He got to be real friendly with Flannery. That was when they found out that Flannery drools when he's happy.

"The vet told them Flannery had always been a drooler, probably because of that endearing sneer of his. "

"I'm highly allergic to cat spit, " Karen McCarran said. "And cat dander, and fur, " she added, looking around the table.

"Go on, " said Bill.

"Flannery turned out to be very affectionate, especially with the guy in the wheelchair, " Jeff said. "They learned to keep a stack of towels nearby to put on their laps.

"October rolled around, and the leaves started to fall. Flannery took to batting them around the backyard, and one day tackled a pile that had a broken beer bottle in it. Cut his underbelly wide open. It was a close one, but Flannery bounced right back.

"One early December morning, the two were sitting together in the wheelchair. Flannery saw a mouse or something, and sprang out of the guys lap, digging his claws into the guy's leg. They guy yelped, and that's when he realized he was getting feeling back in his legs. After a year of hard physical therapy, he was walking again, as well as you or I. "

"I've had enough of this, " Karen said. She pushed back from the table. She looked white with anger. "You ought to be in the National Enquirer. I don't want that cat in my house, no matter what you say. In fact, " she said to Bill, "I'm not sure I want to live there at all. Excuse me. " She took her purse and left the room.

The real estate agent got up and turned on the lights, then left to check her voice mail. A few cars outside had turned on their lights, though the library parking lot floods had yet to come on.

I stood, feeling that I should go talk to Karen.

"It's okay, " Bill said. "She'll be fine. "

"I have to use the ladiesí room, " I walked out and down the hall to the bathroom door and pushed my way inside. Karen stood at the sink. Her eyes were mashed shut. She had a fierce grip on the countertop. A bottle of prescription pills was open by the sink.

"Karen? "

"I thought I locked that, " she growled.

I wanted to leave her there to fester all by herself. Good riddance. We could stay in the house, stay with Flannery, and it would be fine.

"Are you all right? " I asked. "Do you want me to call Bill? "

"No. " She took a deep breath. "No to both. " She put the white cap back on the plastic bottle and stared at the label. "Look, I can't bear talk about some damned healing cat. Not right now. "

"What's the matter, Karen? " I moved closer, trying to see what was in the bottle. The pills looked familiar. "Is that for nausea? "

She nodded. "How'd you know? Your mother? "

"Me, " I said. "I was in chemo for a year. "

"And you're okay now? "

"I'm still here, as good as I'll ever be. It's been two years, and there are no traces. It looks good. "

We talked for a while. She told me she would be in a wheelchair for a while after her bone marrow operations. They wanted a quiet, accessible place.

"I hate cats. Even magic ones. "

"Could have fooled me, " I said. "It's not Flannery. " I shook my head. "It's the house. The house is lucky. It'sÖ " I looked around, hating to say it, "healing somehow. "

She watched me. Waiting.

"There have been three other owners. One survived a horrible car crash, another, a little girl, had childhood leukemia and went into spontaneous remission. The other one never had a problem that we know about.

"We only talk about this with the owners. It's sort of a rule. But we all think it's the house, that each owner gets one lifetime healing event, and that's it. "

"But the cat, " Karen said. "The cat has had two. "

"Oh, no, " I said, and laughed. "He's had eight. " I held up my hand and counted. "Run over by a car and frozen to the deck, cut open by broken glass, shot by a neighbor's visiting cousin, poisoned by fertilizer, poisoned by drinking antifreeze, fallen from a tree, crushed by a runaway riding lawnmower, and getting his leg caught in a barbed wire fence. " I held up eight fingers. "One for each life so far. We figure he's got one more coming. " "And if you take him with you? "

"He'll probably skip out on us like the others, " I said. "He knows where his luck runs deep. Two other families have taken him, and he always makes it back here. He cries the whole time in the car and escapes the first opportunity he gets. "

"No chance you could hang on to him? " Karen dropped the pills in her purse and snapped it shut.

"Very little, " I said. She looked distraught, and I felt sorry for her. Sorry because I couldn't understand why she had fixated on this wonderful, drooling cat when she had so much else to worry about.

Then I knew. She needed this house. She was the one meant to be there now. I had known it all along. The house probably did, too.

"We could try to take Flannery, " I said. "But there are no guarantees. "

"None with life, either, " Karen said. "Okay, it's a deal. "

She held out her hand, and we shook on it. Neither of us wanted to hug. We went back to the conference room. Night had fallen. We could see our reflections in the window superimposed over the library. Bill uncrossed his arms as she sat down. He reached for her, and she shook her head and picked up the pen.

"They'll try to take the cat, " she said, handing Bill the pen. "We'll deal with the future later. " And they began the long process of signing away what I hoped would be their next thirty years.

The house was spotless and echoed throughout the emptied rooms. I retraced all that we had been through here with a prayer that this house would stand for a long, long time.

Flannery lay on the back deck like a lion in a pool of sunshine. I felt bad scooping him up, but it was time to go. Jeff held the carrier open by the car. I shook my head.

"I just want to hold him, " I said. I got in the passenger side, and Jeff draped a towel across my lap. Once Jeff was behind the wheel, I let Flannery go. He hopped to the backseat and watched the house as we drove away. He gave a little chirp when we turned onto Saint Andrews Road. Then he crawled into my lap and purred, his drool getting all over my hand.

"Yuck, " I said. "I wonder how he got this habit? "

"Doc Al said it was the sneer, something about a broken jaw. "

"That first time, frozen to the deck. "

"Yeah. Must have been. " We looked at each other. It didn't add up.

"Stop the car, " I said.

"Here? But-- "

"Just do it. "

We pulled off on a lawn at the edge of our community. We'd soon turn left onto Route 9, then get on the highway, and that would be it.

I rolled down my window.

Flannery put his head on my leg and closed his eyes, drooling up a storm.

The End