A voice behind them said, “He hasn’t helped any cat, really. Not since he died.” The speaker was a dark gray longhair. “I knew the Catfather when he was alive. He was a serious dude. Cats listened to him. He got things done. That all changed when he died. He’s pretty depressed, really.”
“None of us have figured this afterlife stuff out,” the flame-tipped Siamese in line behind the longhair said. “We’re all return customers. This your first visit?”
Michael Stein nodded.
“Wow,” the Siamese said, “a first-timer. Sorry, kid. Get used to disappointment.”
By the time his turn to address the Catfather came, Michael Stein had heard more hard-luck stories than he cared to remember. Everyone had their own tale, and Michael Stein couldn’t claim that Lucy’s happiness mattered more than all the others. His paws trembled with nervousness as he realized he wasn’t at all sure what he was about to say.
“This one calls himself Michael Stein,” the secretary said, checking his clipboard. “Wait until you hear what he wants from you. Crazy kid.”
“Michael Stein,” a low, deep voice said, “my secretary says you’re a bit mad. I do hope that’s not the case.”
The Catfather. In life he’d been a mythic cat. Not only was he a bulky Maine Coon, one of the largest breeds of domestic cats. Even more, he’d been born with six toes on each of his front paws. He was famed as a hunter. Mice, rabbits, rats, squirrels: you name it; he’d caught it. He used to stalk the deer that came onto the high school fields at night. In his youth, he’d fought epic battles with other powerful cats. Even the local dogs granted him a grudging respect after a story went around town that he’d chased a Doberman up a tree. Michael Stein found that hard to believe. But, regardless of the exact facts, the Catfather had certainly been impressive.
He still was. He reclined in his basket. One enormous paw draped over the rim, claws just slightly visible. Even though they couldn’t do damage anymore, those claws made Michael Stein nervous. The Catfather stared at Michael Stein through his one good eye. The other eye was milky white, a battle wound.
“What brings you before me today?” he asked.
Michael Stein realized he’d been staring openmouthed. He had to do better than that. He was Michael Stein, after all, and he was doing this for Lucy. He said something he hadn’t expected to. “Catfather, most impressive of cats, I come to you with a humble proposal.”
“Is that so?” the Catfather asked. “I thought you were going to ask for something.”
“Well, yes…but I’m also offering something!” Michael Stein hadn’t known he was going to say that, but once he did he knew what he was going to propose. To make it work, though, he had to spell out a few things first.
Pacing in a slow circle, Michael Stein tried to sound confident, an older cat than his years. “I haven’t been dead a long time,” he said, “but I’ve learned some things already. For one, it’s not fun being dead.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” the Catfather said, crossing his paws.
“But the reason it’s not fun is different than I thought at first. The sad thing isn’t not having a body and claws and teeth. I mean, that’s a bummer, but that stuff just doesn’t matter quite the same way anymore. Something else matters.”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“The living people we care about. Living humans. Living cats. Everyone that comes here asks for something for somebody else. Somebody living.” Michael Stein pointed at the ginger kitten. “You came because of a kitten you’re worried is going to get declawed. You’re not here about what happened to you. That’s history. You came here because life goes on, and it’s filled with dangers for the ones you still care about. And you…” He found the longhaired cat. “You’re here because the nurse looking after your old human isn’t taking care of her properly.”
The longhair looked positively dejected. “It’s a tragedy.”
“Of course it is,” Michael Stein said. “And you’re tired of seeing your human boy get picked on by bullies.”
The Siamese cat agreed. “They take his lunch money everyday, but he never complains. He’s a brave little trooper.”
“So, what I’m saying is that the gift of death is also the tragedy of it. The gift is that we come to care about others more than we ever used to. The tragedy is that we can’t do anything to help them. We’re powerless to do anything but just linger, watching.”
“You’re depressing me, kid,” the Catfather said.
Michael Stein turned back to him. He knew now just what he was going to propose. It all made sense. He said, with great gravity, “Yes, but what if it didn’t have to be that way? What if there was a way to solve all our problems?”
“See,” Michael Stein said, “look at all those detective books.”
He and the Catfather stood side by side, having just walked through the wall into Lucy’s room.
The Catfather let his good eye roam over the shelves. “She’s read all of those?”