The Bone Shop

We stood for a moment in the dark close hall of the apartment building where he lived. Mike relished his slum. The worst was none too bad for him. He enshrined the run down long before it became a virtue. He embellished his own decay with uncleanliness. I guess he didn’t want to be that close to godliness. “Tender little iron maiden.” He turned on me in one of his unprovoked angers. Mike doesn’t scare me much either. “Dear Miss Stonyheart. Isn’t it about time for the lecture on how I’ve wasted my life and craft?” “Waste your life,” I said, pushing him ahead of me. “You’re not all that damn unique and lectures won’t help. Jesus Jenny, I don’t have you on my conscience – only my list of worries.” “Your conscience is a dangerous weapon,” he said bitterly. “Don’t point it at people.” “Just walk the hell slowly up the stairs, will you?” I said. “I warned you about that, Jess.” He shook off my hand. “Warn me again,” I said, “I forget.” “Quit taking care of me.” “I will if you will.” “It’s the same thing, you dumb kid.” He leaned against the wall breathing heavily. I found his key in his coat pocket. I unlocked the door and nudged him into the tortured disorder of his studio. This cell of his had such smells. It reeked of alcohol, linseed oil, turpentine and something organic, as if an animal had just given birth. In Mike’s studio you kept your hands at your sides or held close to your chest. Because your hands could find themselves touching a human skull or a monkey skeleton – moose antlers or a stuffed owl – a chastity belt or a Dervish’s tomb stone – an African mask or an old bird’s nest. But what dismayed me most was the slashed painting leaning against the wall. “That canvas called for the knife,” said Mike in sudden good humor. “You crazy warlock, that was a good painting!” “I’ll tell you about the painting, Jess.” He was assuming a mixture of weariness and spontaneity which is the trick of the raconteur or the liar. “I sold that –” “Don’t tell,” I said. “You’ll only lie.” “Lying isn’t so bad.” Mike broke the seal on a bottle of bourbon. “It’s what you do when you stumble on a few truths too terrible to tell. The gift is in the kitchen.” “The kitchen?” I asked with a feeling of dread. Let it be consumable or subject to immediate decay. “A dragon, no doubt, from last week’s binge. I told you –” “You can refuse it.” I opened the kitchen door and a small blond cat sidled out, tirading against his neglect in a tiny, cracked voice. He placed his forepaws on my shoe, looked up at me and told me more. I picked up the fragile complainer and he began to nurse on my neck. Mike was watching me. He had begun to drink while I was getting a bill of particulars from the cream-colored cat. “Well?” he asked. “Well?” I mimicked. “I can’t have a cat. I’d keep forgetting about him. Mike, you know how I hate being depended upon. It’s my nature to come and go. Oh, I don’t even want a cat!” “I said you wouldn’t. So, dispose of her, will you? Find her a home, call the Humane Society or drown her,” said Mike. He was watching me again. To observe so keenly and openly is in itself a vice. Being stared at is not the same thing. One can be stared at and not seen. But with Mike, it is, most wickedly, an assault. One’s psyche has been somehow ransacked, one’s secrets handled. “How do you know this kitten is a female?” I asked. “I know.” “No one will want her.” “So?” “So, the gods in their rancor have sent me a cat.” “You don’t have to take her.” “Oh yes,” I said. “I have to take her, just the way I have to be a mother to my mother, the way I have to love you though you sting me every change you get.” I held the cat out at arm’s length. Her eyes were yellow too. She was happy to get back to the salty warmth of my skin. “But I resent it, Mike. I resent having to take this handful of catmeat because she’s a female and no one will want her. I resent having my mother for a child and I resent you.” “Good! You are, at least, in no danger of becoming a saint. And now, if you will please take you resentment and your cat home, I will get down to some sincere drinking.” “Mike?” His eyes were closed. I carefully pushed the still wrapped painting under the couch, in case he woke during the night looking for something to kill. “Mike?” “Go home, Jess.” I put a blanket over him and left the light on. I tucked my animal inside my coat. I could feel the frightened engine of her nickel sized heart. The sensation was almost unendurable. She had another message for me too. She set her claws in my breast and meowed.