“Where’d you get her?” I asked.
Tate was yanking open the bacon packet and dumping its entire contents in the skillet without separating the strips. I bit my lip at witnessing these actions and rubbed Buster who was still rubbing back.
“Someone put a box with Buster’s entire litter at the front door of Bubba’s. Fuck knows why. Krystal brought them in and was gonna take them to the Shelter. I got to the bar, Buster fought her way outta that big box, ran toward me and put her claws in my jeans. I was claimed. Nothin’ I could do,” Tate told the bacon.
He was wrong. There was something he could do. He could have put Buster back in the box. He could have let Krystal take Buster to the shelter. He wasn’t claimed. You didn’t claim a man like Tate. A man like Tate did the claiming.
Something about this story struck me and I really wanted to ignore the silken feeling of the blow. I didn’t get it but I liked it and I didn’t want to like it and I didn’t get why I didn’t want to. It said something about Tate that was unexpected and even astonishing. But it gave me a warm, sweet feeling knowing it. And that warm, sweet feeling terrified me.
To take my mind off this feeling, I scooped up Buster, doing it carefully just in case she only liked Tate cradling her. She relaxed instantly in my arms and I turned her to her back, holding her close to my chest as I gave her scratches and wandered further into Tate’s house.
There were lots of wide windows showing views of the trees surrounding his house. He had a six-seater dining room table which sat by a sliding glass door that led to the deck, the door flanked by windows. The table was oval, u-shaped backs to the chairs and somewhat beat up. I moved to the right into the huge living room. It had a long opening but was delineated from the kitchen by a counter of about four floor cabinets you could see over. More beat up furniture, a couch, some comfortable looking chairs, a TV, coffee table, end tables, all of it looking like it had been there for awhile or been somewhere for awhile.
I surveyed his couch. Tate was right. It was shit. It was beat up to the point of tatty and needed to be replaced. You wouldn’t think twice if you spilled grape Kool-Aid on it. Even so, it still looked comfortable in a cozy, sit down, stay awhile kind of way.
There was no décor, no candles, no knick knacks, no toss pillows, no pictures on the walls. The dining room table was covered with what looked like mail. Some envelopes open, their contents in disarray, some not, magazines, catalogues. There was a blanket on the couch, part of it scrunched up on the seat, a wide drape over the back. Someone had been resting under it and threw it wide when they got up and left it there.
I spied some frames on a wall, the only ones in the room, in the area tucked back behind the kitchen where the counters fed into a wall that on one side held the fridge and a big pantry unit, on the other side was Tate’s living room. There were three of them, all the same size, stacked.
I walked to them, stopped and Buster and I studied them (well, perhaps Buster didn’t – she’d probably seen them before and she was again purring loudly so I didn’t think she was experiencing much but my cuddle).
When I saw what they contained, I stopped studying and started staring.
The top one had two boys, probably fifteen or so, standing next to dirt bikes – a younger, perhaps twelve, thirteen year-old girl standing between them. They were all smiling. No, the boys were smiling, the girl was caught in mid-laugh.
Tate, Wood and Neeta.
Tate, Wood and Neeta.
I looked down to the next one and saw the three kids, the two dirt bikes and a man I didn’t know. His arm was slung around Tate’s shoulders and he resembled the man Tate was now. Tall, handsome but in a different way, less edgy, his face more open, his smile so warm I felt it coming from the picture.
The next one down again had the three kids and the dirt bikes but a younger Pop was standing between the boys, his arm wrapped around Neeta’s chest, holding her back to his front. His smile was open and warm too.
Happy times.
Happy times with Tate, Wood and Neeta.
What was that all about?
I heard and smelled bacon frying and dazedly meandered back to the kitchen.
There was a loaf of bread by the range and the toaster had been pulled out. Tate was at the skillet. Buster and I surveyed him.
“There’s pictures of you and Wood on the wall in your living room,” I stated, Tate turned toward me, his gaze swept down to Buster, upside down in my arms, her feet dangling in the air, my fingers scratching her ruff, she was still purring but otherwise motionless in my arms. His gaze lifted and he caught my eyes.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“You were young,” I went on.
“Yeah,” he repeated and turned back to the stove.
I saw there were low stools on the opposite end to the island from him and I walked to one, pulled it out and sat on it.