He was sitting up on his knees at their dining room table, so I sat down in the chair next to him. He had both elbows on the table now, and his expression was so serious, I had to smother a grin. “Look in the front of the book, Tyler. You signed your name, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, and turned the book over. On the flyleaf, he had written his name in block letters, in heavy pencil. He studied the signature minutely, then looked up at me, still suspicious. “That looks like my name.”
“It is your name. And do you remember where you colored the beast orange?”
His eyes widened and he flipped through the pages. He nodded rapidly and tapped his fingers on the page. “It’s mine, it’s mine.”
“Do you like it?” his mother asked.
He rubbed his fingers over the crayon scrawling and tiny orange flakes came off on his skin. He nodded again. “Good. It’s . . . good. Mine.”
“So you’re happy with it?” Lisa said, prompting him to be polite.
“Yes, it’s mine. It’s good.” He stroked the page, then looked up at me. “Thank you, Miss Brooklyn.”
I’d had more effusive praise from my clients, but there was something honest and pure about the six-year-old’s approval. “You’re welcome, Tyler.”
Without warning he threw himself at me and hugged me as best he could, considering he was sprawled between two chairs. “How did you do it? You made it new. It’s like . . . magic.”
I laughed. “It is magic, but someday I’ll show you how to do it.”
He sat back in his chair. “Yes. I want to see how you did it.”
“I’ll teach you, if it’s okay with your mom.”
“Can I, Mommy?”
It was the first time I’d heard him call her Mommy, so I knew this was important. We both looked at Lisa, who smiled and nodded.
“Yes, yes.” Tyler rubbed his hands and bobbed and wiggled in his chair.
“Tyler, isn’t there something you’re forgetting?” Lisa said, and touched the pocket of her jeans.
“Oh.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out five wrinkled one-dollar bills. He straightened them, then handed them to me. “This is for you, Miss Brooklyn. You earned it for a job well-done.”
Pookie wasn’t eating.
It was early afternoon on Friday, and I could see the reason in her eyes. She’d been here long enough. It was so unfair that she had to stay at my place while Splinters, the sick cat, was allowed to luxuriate at home with Vinnie and Suzie at his beck and call. What had Pookie done to deserve this banishment? Why did she have to be the one to live with me, the human who almost forgot to feed her?
It happened only once, but I wasn’t off the hook yet. Probably never would be. Cats held grudges; I saw that now.
Naturally, Pookie didn’t say any of that out loud, but it was apparent every time she looked at me. She wore her contempt for me like a second fuzzy skin. She was the prisoner; I was the jailer. She let me know with each swift swish of her tail that she would despise me to her dying day.
Or maybe that was just my imagination.
The fact is, I love animals; I really do. But I was never very good with pets. While I was growing up, there were always animals in the house. My brothers had dogs and my baby sister had a cat. There were hamsters and gerbils and little white mice, but none of them were mine. At age seven, I finally insisted on getting a pet of my own, but my mom drew the line at another furry beast. I could have a goldfish, she told me.
I was thrilled. Goldfish were so pretty and shiny. I could have a fishbowl in my room and decorate it with colorful pebbles and fake seaweed and a ceramic treasure chest. At the pet store, I picked out the one fish I thought had the best personality in the tank. Shiny and bright orange-gold, she wasn’t the fastest swimmer, but she seemed to like me. And I liked her. I’d already named her in my mind. Goldie. Undulating back and forth near the side of the tank where I stood watching, she seemed to stare back at me, reaching out, calling my name. Take me home, B-B-B-Brooklyn, she seemed to say in her bubbly little voice. I am your fish.
Who could’ve known that Goldie had a weak gill? It was so unfair. That was why she undulated. That was why she wasn’t a fast swimmer. I came home from school and found her dead, bloated, floating on the surface of the water in her pretty little bowl. I’d had her only two weeks.
I took Goldie’s death personally. It broke my spirit and destroyed my confidence as a pet owner. Fear and guilt were my new watchwords. I could never ask for another pet after that. For goodness’ sake, I couldn’t take care of a fish. How could I be trusted with a mammal?
And Pookie knew it.
I called Suzie to tell her the cat wasn’t eating and she hung up on me. Twenty seconds later, she was knocking on my door.
“Thanks so much for coming over,” I said as I closed the door and led her into my living area.
“No worries, kiddo,” Suzie said as she followed me. “Hey, are you okay? Looks like you’re limping.”