Their good friend, Blackie

by Kay Reynolds

The worst thing, Mrs. Miller told me, was that she never passed out. The old lady stayed conscious when she was "caught up" in one of her spells. She'd fall to the floor, unable to move or speak, and lay there until it was over. I found her the last time and called 911. Turned out those "spells" had been a series of strokes. Now I sat with the old lady in the medical center. It was just a matter of time. Perhaps only a matter of hours.

"I am 96 years old," Mrs. Miller said. "I'm not looking for a another chance. Not this time. I'm ready to go."

Her voice was still strong, stronger than the ailing body that housed it. The room was almost bare. The only flowers were the one's I'd brought. She'd outlived everyone she knew and I felt bad about that. It wasn't even as if we were good neighbors. But I'd been the one to find her and that made a bond between us whether I wanted it or not.

"I heard your cat last night." It was all I could think of to say. "I put some food out for her...."

"But the food was still there this morning?"

"I guess she's pretty finicky." This was going worse than I'd expected.

"Cats make good friends," Mrs. Miller said, serious. "But they got their own needs just like anybody else."

"She was a good friend to you. It was her crying that brought me over to find you."

The old lady laughed and went quiet for a time. Finally, she said, "That old vacant lot next door, that used to be a boarding house."

I nodded thinking, Here we go rambling again.

"An old colored man lived there once. Mr. Spatz. He was a big blues man in his time. A good man with a good heart. But there was always trouble with the ladies."

"And their husbands, too, I guess."

"One of them men-folk took exception, for sure." She sighed. "Mr. Spatz was all broke up when he come to live at the house. Just him and his guitar and his old cat, Blackie. And his liquor. That got him into a lot of trouble, too."

"It usually does," I said.

"Neighborhood wasn't much better then than it is now. People got to make a living. Mr. Spatz, he looked out for the children while their folks were off to work. He was a good soul and he finally found himself a home, some family." Her eyes went bright, remembering. "One summer afternoon, the boarding house caught fire. Went up like tinder. All anybody could do was keep it from spreading. Mr. Spatz, he kept running back in, bringing those children out until he couldn't go back no more. Then he just fell down on the ground. Dead."

"But he saved all the children first?" I asked.

"That's what everyone thought. But then, that old Blackie went charging back inside, squalling and fussing. A fireman made a grab for him and run up to the door. That's when he heard. One of them children been left inside. She been hiding all this time, scared. They just managed to get her out before it all crashed down."

"What happened to the cat?"

"I'll tell you a secret," Mrs. Miller answered. "Mr. Spatz, he had a smooth way with folks - and it came in a bottle of 120 proof Jamaican rum. He always poured himself a little shot when he put those children down for their nap. Didn't mean no harm, you know. He'd pour a little nip for Blackie, too, so they all could rest together. That cat wasn't running back inside for that child, he was looking for his afternoon shot!"

"Oh," I said.

"You want old Blackie to stop pestering you, put a spot of rum in a bowl of milk and leave that outside. And you tell her, I'll be with her presently." Black eyes sparkled. "Mr. Spatz been missing her a long while, it's time I gave her back." She smiled gently and said, "I'm going to miss that cat."

She fell asleep again and I went home wondering about a child hiding in a smoke-filled room. Who knows what made her stay behind? I thought about an old blues player's best and only friend, running back to finish what his master had begun, saving his family, keeping the old man's name clean. For all their nine lives, cats only live for fifteen or so years. That's what they say. But Blackie had kept faith longer far than that. Of course, being a cat, she expected a reward so when I went home, I put out the milk bowl. Laced it with a little rum.

I only felt a little bit stupid.

Later, when I called the center, they told me Mrs. Miller had closed her eyes for the last time only a few minutes ago. In the quiet that came when I hung up, it was easy to imagine I heard a child laughing. Coming close, as if she were running at me….

But then I felt a brush of fur against my leg.

I live alone. There are no children playing nearby and no cats. Mostly it's dogs roaming this neighborhood, pack-like and wild. Still, a moment of absolute silence rolled out from the apartment across the hall before the street noise started up again –

Thick, presence-heavy Silence – and a whisper-chord from a blues guitar out of the lot next door –

Followed by the quick-counter beat of my heart.

 
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