Catland - a humorous fantasy

Chapter Twenty-Four: Cats Don't Cry

Greg awoke to the sound of someone sobbing.  At first he thought it was his own voice sobbing, but as consciousness flooded up into him he realized that he couldn't feel the sobs in his chest or throat, but could only hear them with his ears, which was a pretty good sign that they were coming from outside his body.  Having reached this deft Holmesian conclusion, Greg opened his eyes.

Leopold was curled up in the corner of the cell, as far from Greg as he could get in the confined space, and his little white body—it looked very little, at the moment—was convulsing almost violently with half-choked, frame-wracking sobs.

Greg stole across the floor and put a hand on Leopold's shoulder.  The fur was hot, and slightly damp, and Greg began to wonder if the cat had caught a fever.  "It's all right," he said softly.  "It's all right."  If you had asked Greg what was all right, he would have had no answer, but it seemed like the only possible thing to say.

Leopold's face appeared beneath him in the murky half-light.  "It's all my fault," said Leopold hoarsely.  His face was raw and streaked with tears.

"Actually, it's my fault," Greg pointed out helpfully.  "I'm the one who had the bright idea to tear aside that damn curtain, remember?  If I were you, I'd be furious with me.  Hell, I wouldn't even blame you if you were."

Leopold shook his head slowly.  "No," he said doggedly.  "It was my fault from the beginning.  I have no business leading a rebellion—much less ruling a kingdom.  I was overthrown in the first week of my reign, did I tell you that?  The first week.  My father ruled for thirteen years; my ancestors have held that throne for centuries.  And it took me all of five days to foul the whole thing up."

"That wasn't your fault!" protested Greg.  "There were evil schemers plotting your downfall.  I've met Glimmerind; I know what I'm talking about.  You can't blame yourself for his duplicity."

"There are always evil schemers plotting your downfall.  That's what it means to rule.  If I wasn't ready for that, I wasn't ready to be king at all."

"Well, all right, but—lesson learned, okay?  You'll get it right the next time.  Don't you cats believe in second chances?"

"We believe in the laws of nature," replied Leopold darkly.  "Eat or be eaten."

"Well, fair enough, then," said Greg cheerfully.  "So which one are you going to choose?"

Leopold met Greg's eyes then, and a flicker that was almost a smile played across his lips.  "I owe you an apology, Gregory Tilson."

Gregory made a face.  "Oh, please don't.  I'm no good at accepting apologies.  They're even worse than compliments."

"Nevertheless, I must apologize.  I have treated you unfairly—with a contempt you did not deserve.  In truth, you have been an admirable companion.  You have been brave, and resourceful, and steadfast.  I am unworthy of such an excellent ... friend."

This was an apology and a compliment, and Greg felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair.  He wanted desperately to change the subject, but he couldn't think of any topics that weren't either terrifying or depressing, so he just nodded awkwardly and patted Leopold even more awkwardly on the shoulder.

Leopold looked at him curiously.  "May I ask you a question, Gregory?"

Greg tried to think of a tactful way to say No, but he couldn't.  "Yes," he said.

"Why do you lead such a circumscribed life?  You have courage.  You have spirit.  Why let yourself rot away in that cavernous house?"

Greg didn't think that was a very polite question, but under the circumstances he decided to let it slide.  He felt a great wave of sadness rising up inside him, and he knew he was about to talk about things that he had spent years conscientiously avoiding talking about.  He couldn't seem to help himself.  His lips were already moving, and the words were already coming out.

"I was married," he said.  "To a woman called Sarah."  Just saying her name caused a sharp stab of sadness, but it was too late to turn back now.  "She had these incredible blue eyes.  Almost purple.  And there was this delicate layer of down on her forearms.  And she had this laugh like a goose honking, which she was terribly embarrassed about.  She would try not to laugh, and that only made her laugh harder.  She was perfect."  Greg's heart had begun to burn and glow with a pleasure he had long forbidden himself.  It wasn't the sadness he was most afraid of; it was this dark, seductive, sick-feeling pleasure.  It felt good to talk about her.  It felt horribly, terrifyingly good.

"One day she was crossing the street from the deli to her office, and a truck came barreling around the corner, trying to make the light before it changed, and the driver didn't see her, and she would barely have had time to see him.  There was a nurse who happened to be passing by on the sidewalk, and she was at Sarah's side in less than half a minute.  It didn't matter.  By the time the ambulance got there, Sarah was long gone."

Greg was weeping now—long, uninterrupted streams of tears.  He hadn't lost control, though.  It was important not to lose control.

After a long silence, Leopold spoke.  "What happened to the driver?"

Greg waved a hand.  "Suspended license.  Community service.  It didn't matter.  I didn't even go to his trial.  I wanted to hurt him.  I wanted to kill him.  But it didn't matter.  It wouldn't have mattered.  It wasn't going to bring her back."

By now the pleasure was gone.  Greg felt vaguely ill.  There was a tightness in his chest that had been there, he realized, for the last three years.  Now it was a suffocating tightness—almost overwhelming.  Slowly, tentatively, Leopold reached out a gentle paw and laid it on Greg's shoulder.  And that was when Greg lost control.

Suddenly Greg's whole body was convulsing with sobs, the choked sounds of his anguish echoing off the cold stone walls of the cell, and Leopold had both arms around him and was cradling him, holding him tightly, and Greg felt something release inside of him, with an almost audible snap, and he closed his eyes tightly and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.