Out of Nowhere(7)
That memory is immediately followed by one from six years later when I came home from getting high at Xavier’s house to find Daniel on his knees in the alley outside the garage with that fuckwad Buddy McKenzie holding him down and—
My expression must be hostile because Brian changes the subject and starts talking about the Michigan marching band and how hot he thinks the girls in uniform are. I swear to god, my brother really needs to get laid.
As usual, Brian leaves a mess of beer cans, shredded napkins, and crumbs on the coffee table and between the couch cushions. They stand out, white against the dark blue fabric, and make my head buzz with the need to make them disappear. I slide the nozzle attachment onto the vacuum cleaner and go to work on the crumbs, then take the cushions off and vacuum underneath them for good measure.
When I shut the vacuum off, an unholy noise comes from outside. At first I ignore it, assuming it’s a neighbor’s TV. But it sounds like someone screaming, and unless they’re watching the horror movie I had on earlier….
If I had an ounce of sense, that’d be reason enough to keep my door shut and locked. But the noise is horrific. It sounds like a baby or something. I look out the small window in my front door and don’t see anyone outside, so I turn the doorknob slowly. As I push the door open, something streaks inside.
“What the—”
From the porch comes a scuffle and the high-pitched sound of a cat in heat. Jesus, I thought that was over for the year. Then, from just inside the door, comes an answering whimper. I shut the door and look around. Shaking under the recliner is a tiny, filthy cat—kitten, whatever. It mews and backs away from me, but its claws get stuck in the worn blue-and-white-striped fabric of the chair.
Oh man. Animals do not like me—not even the ones people say like everyone. And this is just a baby; I’ll probably squish it. I reach under the chair slowly and, in what I hope is a nonthreatening gesture, try to unstick it from the chair.
Not good. The kitten chomps down on my hand with teeth that are much sharper than I expected and starts scrabbling at my wrist with its back paws.
“Fuck, cat!”
It’s left bloody scratches down my arm. Jesus, I hope it’s not rabid. Probably there are animal control people or something that I could call…. I find a can of tuna in the back of the cupboard and dump it onto a plate a few feet away from the chair, trying to draw the kitten out, then go to clean the scratches it left on my arm. Within a minute, there’s a tug at my ankle, the kitten trying to crawl up my leg.
It’s filthy. I cuff my jeans and hoist the kitten into the cuff, where it grabs at the fabric, pricking my calf with its needle claws. In the time it takes to squeeze soap into a big pot and fill it with warm water, the kitten has fallen asleep, but the second it hits the water, it hisses and scrambles to get out. I hold it still with a towel and rub it clean, making sure to keep the soap out of its eyes and mouth the way my mom always did when I was little. Tilt your head back, close your eyes, and hold your nose, love.
It tires itself out pretty quickly, and I wrap it in a towel and put it on my bed. I’m flipping through an old issue of Rolling Stone when the cat wakes up and pushes up out of its towel. It stretches obscenely and pads over to me, suspicious at first, then pushes into my stomach with its paws. I lie back, and as I stop paying attention to it, the kitten jumps onto my stomach and curls into a tiny ball, tucking its head beneath its tail.
After a few minutes of rumbling, it flips over onto its stomach with all four paws spread out and its tail tickling my belly button. It’s pretty fucking cute. White with a black tail and a grayish stripe running from the top of its head all the way down its back, it reminds me of the original 1965 Shelby Mustangs, which were white with a dark blue stripe, so I name it Shelby in my head.
Not that I’m keeping it or anything.
When I run a finger over its head, though, it wakes up and takes a swipe at me. Which is good. The cat may be tiny, but it sure as shit isn’t going to let me hurt it.
SATURDAY MORNING, as soon as the first hood’s open, I lose myself in the guts of the car. Here, at least, are problems I can solve. If it’s bouncing excessively going over bumps, check for a worn shock or strut. If heat’s coming from the floor, then the catalytic converter is probably clogged. It’s a system, predictable and logical, and anything I break, anything I mess up, I can fix or replace.
Hell, given enough time and materials, I can take a car that seems beyond help and rebuild it, piece by piece. Give it a new life.
Not only does Rafael not have an oil leak, but nothing seems to be wrong with the car. It’s old, sure, but the 3 Series have great engines, some power, and good acceleration for an E-class. I drive it around the block just to be sure, and the only issues I can see are that I don’t know how such a big guy fits in such a small car and that all he has is a tape deck but no tapes. In fact, there’s nothing personal in the car at all: no change of clothes, no junk mail, no toolbox, no soccer cleats or gym bag. It’s clean inside, but not pristine. There are some cigarette burns on the passenger-side interior door and the backseats are a bit shabby. The lighter is missing from the console and there’s a ding in the windshield that hasn’t spiderwebbed. But nothing whatsoever that gives me a clue about who this guy is.