Laundry

Jun 30, 2008

The laundry basket is full of Tom's collard cotton shirts, grey socks and boxer briefs. Most of my laundry is already done; delicates fluffing in the dryer because I prefer wrinkle free silk panties. The cat, usually scared of the dryer, has been outside for three days and is hungry enough to ignore the monster rumbling of the machine churning and heating my undergarments. Her wet matted fur is like wet weeds against my legs as she mews, an announcement and her yellow eyes request attention. She stalks past to the food dish, giving up on a response, leaving muddy paw prints on the white tiles, and I imagine the paw prints in the garden sunken gently in to the damp spring mud. Cats are not as stealthy as they like to think; they leave footprints to follow, feathered remnants of hunting and one is always forewarned of a coming hairball when they are spotted eating lush strands of new grass.
Betsy is chewing her food from a the stainless steel metal dish, her tail flickering nervously, pointing at me with annoyance as she chomps down on Purina cat chow with little twitches of her tiny head. She is wondering why I have not disturbed her to wipe the mud on her legs off with a rag. I watch her eating and her tail whipping a threat to the monster dryer.
I had Betsy as a kitten when I met Tom three years ago, and they had grown to accept one another in two years of living together. Tom was not a cat-person and Betsy was not a man-cat.
I leave the basket full of Tom’s dirty laundry and step into the kitchen. I hear the bell of Betsy’s collar ring, and jingle as she prances, parting with more paw prints. Hungry she may be, but not enough to brave the rumbling monster without my reassuring presence. Instead, with an irritated posture in front of the oven she begins to clean her face and neck with her still filthy paws. Her movements are reflected in the door of the mirror, showing the flickering of her tail once more. The linoleum under the fridge feels like a corpse compared to the radiating warmth of the laundry room tiles. Each of the shelves of the fridge holds a scarce variety of condiments, past due lunch meat, leftovers left too long and the some browned, over ripe fruit. My stomach lies numbly, unmoved by the proposal of eating. Despite the presence of Betsy I will not yet brave a meal.
I close the fridge; find myself face to face with Tom. A 4X6 of us at New Years, his face slightly flushed from the embarrassment of dancing. Tom’s hair was always messy, tufts lying over his forehead like a tattered shield for his quick olive eyes. At five in the afternoon, he would look like he just rolled out of bed. I strip the fridge bare; leave the pictures, memo’s and calendar scattered like autumn leaves. It is our tradition to leave them un-raked for a few weeks.
Betsy mews, races over and twirls around my legs like in the disastrous swing dancing lessons I had taken with Tom last spring I stumble over her slightly. The house still smells like him, the floors still creak the way they did when he was here. I glance at the dining table, one of the table’s legs broken from when it collapsed under Tom’s weight when he tried to change a light bulb while standing on it. I can feel the walls holding the rumble of his laughter, like holding their breath.
Ignoring Betsy, I follow her trail of muddy footprints across the kitchen floor to the backdoor’s cat port. Through the glass door I see her paw prints flung across the deck, to the lawn and then fade as they sink into the mud of the rose garden. She has left her trail of evidence so I open the door and follow the prints to the edge of the garden where the rotting wood fence encircles the yard. My bare feet are leaving more distinguished prints alongside the cats. I was not afraid for her to know I am tracing her path. I enjoy the feeling of the cold mud, slide grittily between my toes and cling to my heels. The breeze blows right through my thin robe as I lean behind the bush against the fence where the cat prints end. This was Tom’s favourite plant in the garden; it has small purple flowers blooming over its entire globed surface: perceptive perfection.
I gasp at the sight behind the bush. There is a dead robin, half decapitated with dishevelled feathers and wet scars from Betsy’s claws lying on a pile of bones and partially degraded rat bodies. Even the cat has secrets.
I return to the house to find the cat curled in her favourite lazy boy chair cleaning her face again with her filthy paws. She likes that chair most because it was also Tom’s favourite chair. Her hair had been the constant companion to the seat of his jeans and dress pants. She is purring dominantly in the chair. Her tail displays her sense of accomplishment with rhythmic taps. Betsy is still not a man-cat.
I find a towel and wipe the filth from her paws as she purrs innocently, staring up with her enlarged pupils set in amber irises. After a short scratch behind her attentive ears, I return to the laundry room and stare with disdain at Tom’s dirty laundry. I slam my foot down on the pedal of the garbage can and drop each piece individually into it with a satisfying sense of loss with each item. I will throw him away, piece by piece. The wall’s rumble with his laughter again with each creak of the floor till my head spins with memories and my heart beats the sound into submission, or compassion. I tie the strained plastic of the bag and toss it out the back door. I see Betsy’s prints once more and wonder at how many footprints of Tom’s I missed. His footprints from the office, to a stranger’s house, missing dinner and back home. Footprints on his blackberry, footprints reeking through his perfumed scent, footprints in every guilt filled start to an unfinished conversation about his un-admitted filth.
I sit on the lazy boy beside Betsy and enjoy the comforting of her steady purr and the feel of her drying fur on my fingertips.
Tom has no more secrets.
Tom was never a cat person.