Behind her came something small.
Then another.
Then another.
Tom stopped rocking.
“Kittens.”
Three of them.
Tiny.
Striped.
Round-faced.
They stumbled through the grass like creatures still learning how legs worked.
One attacked a grass stem.
Another pounced on its sibling’s tail.
The third attempted to leap across a shallow dip and landed face first.
Tom laughed.
Not politely.
A full laugh.
It escaped before he could stop it.
The sound startled him almost as much as it startled the cats.
The brown tabby froze.
Tom became still.
“Sorry.”
The mother watched him.
Then continued.
The kittens followed.
Tom leaned forward.
Patricia would have loved this.
The thought did not arrive painfully at first.
It came warm.
He imagined her sitting in the empty chair beside him.
She would already have names.
That one is Pepper.
No, that one is Cricket.
Tom, stop calling them Cat One and Cat Two.
His smile faded.
Then the grief came underneath.
He looked at Patricia’s chair.
Empty.
Still.
For nine years, Tom had left it there.
He told himself moving it felt unnecessary.
Truthfully, he could not.
The kittens played in the grass.
Tom watched until darkness swallowed the meadow.
The next morning, he called Dale Stewart at Cumberland Community Cats.
Dale answered on the fourth ring.
His voice sounded exhausted.
“Cumberland.”
“My name is Tom Perkins.”
“Okay.”
“I have cats.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
A pause.
“That you own?”
“No.”
“That own you?”
Tom frowned.
“I don’t understand the question.”
Dale laughed.
“Tell me what’s happening.”
Tom explained.
Dale listened.
Then asked several questions.
Were the kittens nursing?
How old did they seem?
Had Tom handled them?
Was the mother aggressive?
Any obvious illness?
Tom answered as best he could.
Dale said:
“First thing, don’t rush them.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“We can set up a feeding schedule.”
“Then once the kittens are old enough, we trap everybody.”
Tom stiffened.
“Trap?”
“Humane traps.”
“Vet care.”
“Vaccinations.”
“Sterilization.”
“Friendly kittens can go into foster homes.”
Tom looked toward the meadow.
“Foster homes.”
“That is usually better than leaving young socializable kittens outside.”
“I suppose.”
Dale heard something in his voice.
“You’re attached already.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Tom ignored him.
They established a feeding station behind the old shed.
Tom built a small roof over it.
Dale told him a plastic shelter would have worked.
Tom built cedar.
“You were maintenance supervisor, weren’t you?”
Dale asked when he saw it.
“Yes.”
“I can tell.”
The feeding routine began.
Six each evening.
Tom placed food.
Fresh water.
Then walked away.
First evening, nothing.
Second, nothing.
Third, Tom saw the brown tabby at dusk.
She approached after he returned to the porch.
She sniffed.
Ate.
Then disappeared.
The following evening, the gray male came.
The kittens appeared two days later.
Within a week, the routine was established.
Tom began calling the brown female Fern.
The gray male became Stone because of the rock beside the creek.
The kittens remained unnamed.
Tom insisted this proved he was not becoming emotionally involved.
Dale disagreed.
“Fine.”
Tom finally named them Cricket, Poppy, and Beans.
Dale laughed.
“Not involved at all.”