The Wish Belly Part II
A Fiction Serial by Shane Kimberlin
Hank Williams warbled from the radio as I drove, the cat riding shotgun beside me. I turned the music off. I wanted something to distract me from the situation at hand, but his voice only made things worse. The cat looked at me with- wait- disappointment?
“It’s just not a good time for Hank Williams," I explained.
The cat stared at me.
“He’s too warbly.”
The cat kept staring.
“I’m losing it.”
No response.
“Really losing it.”
The cat turned back to look out the window.
They’d been following me over the last few months. Occasionally I’d see a shadow of one by a tree, or behind me on an empty street. Through trial and error, I’d come to a few clear conclusions. They probably weren’t human, that was clear, and they couldn’t go indoors. Anytime I went into a building they never followed. And, after a few minutes, they disappeared, no matter how close they were to catching me.
I didn't tell anyone these things. Not friends, family, co-workers or my wife. We were compromised, but there was no move forward with another person. The authorities couldn't help. Nobody would believe me. I sometimes wondered if I believed myself or if I was mentally ill. I had never shown signs, and it didn't run in my family. But in all families there was always the first one, right? Like anything. Maybe I was just one lucky guy.
But she had seen the blood from my nose, the sweat. I remembered running into darkness when they chased me. That was real. There's no way I could have imagined that. And I knew it had to do with the cat. The cat was the key to all this.
They wanted the cat because of its magic abilities, this I knew. But over the last few months, I had tried to replicate what had happened. I’d take the cat outside and reenact that scene, rubbing his belly and making a wish. Nothing. But I remained convinced. Even as I drove I rubbed the cat’s belly and uttered wishes, all about the same thing. That I wouldn’t have to go to the cherry tree. That she could escape from where they were holding her. That any of this would make sense. The cat would purr and nothing happened.
It was somewhere past 30th Avenue when the cat looked over at me and spoke for the first time.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” he said in a thick Eastern European accent. My hands turned the wheel uncontrollably, and I nearly hit a passing truck which honked angrily.
“Please be careful,” said the cat, “I understand this is frightening for you. Believe me, I get that. A talking cat is not something you see every day.”
I was hallucinating. I was sure of it. I didn’t turn my head to look at the cat, but kept driving.
“Listen,” said the cat, “you are not crazy.”
“That’s what crazy people tell themselves.”
“You are already bringing me to those creeps by a cherry tree to save your wife. And now you think you’re crazy?”
“That’s different. She’s gone. I have physical proof.”
“What is so different?”
“Cats don’t talk.”
“You’re right, cats do not, on average, normally talk. In fact, in the whole history of the world, I may be the first.”
“So I am crazy.”
“No, just in extraordinary position.”
“Insane.”
“Okay. So prove me wrong.”
“What?’
“Let me talk to someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like a drive-thru. Take me through a drive-thru and have me talk to the person taking your cash.”
“So, hold you up and you talk to them?”
“Yes, exactly, you have right idea. Hold me up and I will talk to them. If their eyes get big, if they seem confused and amazed, then it’s real. If I don’t talk, then you win.”
“What if I’m hallucinating that too?”
“You Americans are so solipsistic. You never seen talking cat, so talking cat could not exist! Tell me, if I am not real, why am I speaking with Ukranian accent?”
“Because I’m imagining it.”
“No, you would have imagined a British accent.”
“What?”
“That’s what you Americans do. You either imagine a British accent or one from your Southern regions. It’s the two easiest.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Wait.”
A truck drove up fast behind us honking wildly. It was the truck I nearly hit. There were three guys in the front.
“Oh man,” I said, they look mad.”
“Pull over, no?” said the cat.
“They have an energy drink sticker on their window.”
“They are going to keep bugging you till you pull over.”
I found a pullout up ahead, drove in and parked. The truck stopped behind me.
“Do you have weapon?” said the cat.
“Huh? No.”
“It’s a valid concern.”
I got out of the car. Three guys got out of the truck.
“Hey man,” said the driver. He was of average height and very thin. He looked like he was in his later thirties, but the bags under his eyes were tremendous. He wore baggy jeans and a dirty polo shirt.
“Sorry about that,” I said, “something startled me in the car.”
“‘Startled’ you?” laughed the driver. The two other guys laughed. One was just a kid, maybe in his early twenties, and shirtless. On his chest was etched a large tattoo of the word HOM3. He was incredibly pale. The other guy was heavy-set, maybe early forties.
“I’ll tell you what startled me,” said the kid, “was you tryna hit us, g.”
“I wasn’t trying to hit you.”
“Oh really?,” said the big man, slow and slurred, “I’m calling you out. You were.”
“Look at this guy,” said the driver. “Man, where you from? How long you been here?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Bull. I smell rookie. I can smell your fear.”
They came closer. HOM3 had retrieved a crowbar from the bed of the pickup.
“Smell that, boys? That’s the smell of a coward. Yella.”
They kept walking to me. I kept walking back. There was a dip in the ground and I tripped, falling backwards. They continued.
“Hello,” said a voice, “is there a problem here?”
“You got another guy in there?” said the big man.
“Yo,” said crowbar kid, “who’s there.”
Out walked the cat.
“You did not answer,” said the cat, “do we have problem?”
The driver scowled at me.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Tattooed G picked up a rock and threw it at the cat. The cat dodged.
“You have made grave mistake, you three.”
Suddenly, the large man pulled out a handgun and began to fire at the cat. The cat ran behind the car and, in a moment of distraction, so did I. The driver and young man chased behind and tackled me in the dirt.
“Now you’re gonna get it, man,” said the driver.
The big man with the gun walked over.
“Gee,” he said, “things sure heated up here.”
He looked at his gun, then at me.
It was at this moment I was pretty sure I was going to die. I wish I could say I had some deep revelation of any sort, but, admittedly, all I thought was, “I really don’t want to die right now.” I also felt regret at never doing a flip off a diving board.
The big man pointed his gun at me.
A blur of motion commenced. The cat hit the big man with the gun in the head, the gun went off in the air, and the cat attacked the two other guys. The big man fell to the ground and was knocked out. The young man, being shirtless, was in the worst position for cat claws. He swung his crowbar at me and the cat. I jerked back reflexively and avoided the blow, just, and the cat continued to bite and scratch. I ran to the car. The driver chased after me but, before he could grab me, found his leg attacked by the cat. He tripped and tumbled hard to the dirt. I jumped into the driver’s seat with the door still open.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” I yelled to the cat. He ran towards the car and hopped in. I hit the gas and left the three guys- all in different states of disarray- back at the pullout.
“Oh man, oh man,” I said, “that was insane.”
I drove with abandon, eighty mph.
“You do not have to drive so fast,” said the cat.
“Those guys are going to be coming after us, man.”
“No,” said the cat, “they will not.”
The cat lifted his paw to reveal a key.
“They will be there awhile.”
“You took their keys?”
“Always take keys from enemy. They cannot follow then. They cannot haunt.”
I slowed down.
A moment passed, long enough to slow my heartbeat, to quell the fight or flight.
“I believe you’re real,” I said, “that this is real.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. I mean, there’s a logical consistency to it, I guess. It’s not wonky. You’re just a talking cat.”
“So, no drive-thru?”
“It never had to be a drive-thru.”
“Well,” said the cat, “to tell truth, I am hungry.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. Ulterior motive, no?”
"Very. Well, after this. After I save her. Then."
The cat didn't say anything back, and for a time we didn't speak at all. I just kept driving. I thought about those guys back at the truck, about Hank Williams, about the old cherry tree and about her. I looked at the cat. He slept.
Just then the phone rang with my wife's number.
The Wish Belly series by Shane Kimberlin: