Cat Scratch - Chapter 1

What was inside that cigar table Cassie bought at a flea market? Why won't it leave her alone?

by Ruth Apolonia Zamoyta

Cassie was finally in her element once again. Wearing a tight floor-length Gaultier dress with a pattern of a Mayan temple, standing in Jean and John’s living room in Danbury and holding a champagne flute before midnight.

A tall, fit-looking man—Roy—with a dimple and a beard—was telling her about his sports car collection when someone bumped him and he spilled his whiskey on her dress. She had found the dress on the rack of the designer bargain store and haggled it down to $60 due to a tear. Once home, she had sewn up the tear easily, along its seam.

“Oh god, I’m sorry—” Roy started to reach for her chest with his napkin and stopped himself. They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed.

“You know,” Cassie said, looking at him tellingly, “I like it. … It’s hot in here and the alcohol feels refreshing on my skin.”

Smile. Dimple. Moving closer.

“Is this your phone?” Jean interrupted them reluctantly. She had seen, from their locked eyes, that she was right about setting up her classy but recently divorced and lonely friend with the muscular hunk who had just replaced their roof.

But the phone was vibrating. It was the third call in a row.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks, Jean,” Cassie replied, taking the phone and crossing her brow in disappointment. She looked at the screen: her neighbor back in Jersey. That was odd. She turned to Roy. “Sorry, I gotta take this. Back in a sec. … Hold my drink?” She flashed him a smile.

It was frigid on the front porch, but quiet. She called back her neighbors. She didn’t even know they had her number. Oh yeah—a year ago they had asked her to feed the cat when they were on vacation.

“Hey it’s Cassie. Um, happy new year! Did you just call?”

“Yeah, uh, hi, Cassie. Yeah. Happy New Year.” It was the husband. Cassie didn’t even remember his name. “Um, I hate to disturb you on New Years and all, but a girl from your party just vomited on my stoop.”

~ ~ ~

The next morning—New Year’s Morning—Cassie wondered if the alcohol had entirely worn off as she tried to keep her CRV at 75mph on Route 684. John had kindly gotten up as soon as he heard her packing her suitcase and made her a coffee to go.

“Was it your son having the party?” he had asked as she entered the kitchen in her jeans, flannel shirt, and snow boots, no shower, no makeup.

“Yes, the bastard.”

John snickered, trying to diffuse the situation. “At least there were no overdoses or you would have heard from the cops!”

“I’m sorry I have to go early—”

“That’s all right. I hope you had a good time.”

“I’ll miss Jean’s reading.”

“There will be others in the future.”

“Hey, I really appreciate the invitation. And the coffee.”

“Just don’t get pulled over.”

She walked out the kitchen door, to the driveway, travel mug in one hand, roller bag in the other.

“Hey,” John called after her. “Can I give Roy your number?”

Cassie thought about the hopes she had last night—and fantasies. When the clock had struck midnight and Roy had kissed her gently on the lips, she had imagined meeting him again the next day at Jean’s book reading and maybe making a date. But now she had to leave early.

“I’ll think about it,” she called back. She threw her suitcase in the passenger’s seat and pulled out.

~ ~ ~

An hour later, Cassie pulled into the snow-covered driveway, glanced over at her neighbor’s stoop, which had been doused with bleach, she assumed from the smell, then put her key in her lock and entered her duplex apartment.

Cold. And wrecked. The leather sofa had a liquid stain on it, the curtain rod had been pulled down on one side, there were Solo cups on every flat surface, toppled, erect, empty, half full, the place smelled like beer and weed, and every window was wide open.

“Jason!” she shouted in the direction of the staircase.

She stepped further in, dragging her roller bag behind her. A Dorito crunched under her boot. The glass on the top of the dining room table was intact but under it, the veneer was sliced.

“How the fuck did that happen?!” she muttered to herself.

On the table was a pill or something. It looked like a Mike & Ike. She picked it up and scrutinized it. And on the bookshelf … the commemorative bowl that her mother’s 6^th-grade class had given her upon her retirement was shattered.

“Jasonnnn!!!” she yelled at the top of her voice, hurting her vocal cords.

“Coming!” she heard her son’s groggy voice from upstairs. Then she glanced down at the little oak cigar table she had recently picked up at a flea market for $20 from an old Chinese couple. It was solid oak with a cabinet beneath, a diamond pattern on the door, and an old iron hook-and-eye to keep it shut. The door was open. For the first time she noticed scratches on the inside of the door. She moved closer, crouched down, and started to peer into the dark cabinet …

To Be Continued

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