The Rescued
Sheryl woke to the low rumble of the midnight sea as it rolled up the beach at Haleiwa. She reached for Steve but found only an empty bed and remembered her husband had some kind of special combat training that night. A full moon cast its blue light through an open window of their shoreline bungalow. Palm trees rattled in the wind.
A wild cry sounded over the waves. Sheryl sat up. The cry repeated. She slipped from bed and stumbled to the window. The crescent-shaped strand stretched before her, its wet sand gleaming like polished chrome. In the middle of a mirror patch something tiny moved. It struggled on four legs up the slope, crying out. But after only a few steps, the next incoming wave engulfed it and dragged it backward toward the surf line. The cries grew louder as it fought against the ocean’s grip.
Sheryl tore from the house in her nightgown and ran full tilt toward the animal. It had quieted after the last wave and had stopped battling the water. Before the next bank of white foam overcame it, Sheryl bent and snatched up the bedraggled beast. Clutching its quivering body to her chest, she ran back to the house, not stopping until she reached the kitchen and flicked on the lights. The tiny cat, not much more than a kitten, resumed its crying, its little mouth open, pink tongue trying to lick its tabby coat.
Sheryl turned on the gas oven and opened its door wide. She placed a dishtowel on the flat door and set the cat on it. With another towel she gently dried the sodden feline in the blast of warm air. The cat nuzzled her hand and purred.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Sheryl said as she continued to massage the kitty until it stopped shuddering. She set it down on the kitchen tiles and it rubbed against her ankles. Could someone have tossed it into the sea to drown? Back at her family home in rural Pennsylvania, the farmers would drown unwanted kittens in their stock ponds. But on Oahu she thought maybe the locals had more respect for life.
The cat yowled.
“I don’t have any cat food. How about some warm milk?” she asked.
Sheryl couldn’t understand its answer. But when she heated a pan full and set it on the floor, the tabby lapped it up. It followed her to the bedroom, climbed onto Sheryl’s pillow, nestled in her hair, and after a time snored.
The next morning, Sheryl smiled when she found the feline lying on its back on her chest, paws in the air. She gave a heave of the covers that drew loud complaints. At the village market she bought a bag of dry food. Returning to the bungalow she discovered all the paperwork from her desk scattered on the floor and the cat wailing.
“What’s going on here?” Steve asked as he pushed through the front screen, still wearing his Army jungle fatigues. The camouflage face paint made him look ghoulish.
“I found it last night in the surf.”
“Huh. So . . . you gonna keep it?”
“Yeah, it likes me. Purrs every time I pet it.”
“Huh.”
“Do you want a late breakfast?” Sheryl asked.
“No, I ate at the officer’s mess.”
“There’s plenty of hot water for a shower.”
“Thanks.” Steve stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. “You know I’m shipping out to Vietnam in three months and you’re going home. What’ll ya do with that cat?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Maybe you should. Some local might want to take it.”
“Yeah, well some local might have thrown it in the ocean. I’m keeping it. I need a companion when I go painting. I think it’s a boy cat.”
“Yeah, it’s definitely male.”
“I’m calling him Purr Machine or PM for short.”
“Got it. I’m off to the shower.”
“I’ll be out painting most of the day. Will you be here for dinner?”
“Yeah. I can barbeque some steaks.”
“Sounds great. I’ll make a salad and we have beer.”
In the hot and heavy air Sheryl sat on the sofa and stared at the dark TV. Beads of sweat formed on her arms. After drying off, she slathered herself with Coppertone, packed her art bag and portable easel, stuffed PM in her satchel, and left Steve to his shower and nap.
PM sat quietly in her lap as she drove their clapped-out Ford Falcon along back roads, past cut fields, the air filled with the earthy sweet smell of burnt sugar cane. She’d arrived in Hawaii during winter, coming from her family’s Pennsylvania farm where everything looked white, black and gray. But on Oahu, she got to use all the blues and greens on her watercolor palette. She’d never seen such intense GREEN! Even after being on-island for nine months she still marveled at the lush life colors.
Sheryl found a tree-shaded cove at a rocky point and set up her easel and paints. PM scouted the area, staying clear of the ocean, and returned to flop at her feet as she sat and painted the seascape. The cat laid its head on her shoe and fell asleep, grumbling in its dreams. She wondered about the future, how her life would play out with Steve and the military, and what to do about PM.
Steven had attended a mixer at Sheryl’s art college in New York City near the end of 1963, on a weekend pass from the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He seemed so sure of himself. For Steve, questions and answers came mostly in black and white. And if he didn’t know the answer he’d say, “My superiors know. I trust them . . . they know more than I do.”
Sheryl fell for him, attracted to his clear convictions since her own frenetic life seemed more like a series of overlain watercolor washes that sometimes turned muddy. His handsome features helped seal the deal and she loved sketching him. But Steve had already married the Army, and Sheryl had just begun to understand how that would control their lives: frequently changing duty stations, losing and gaining friends, struggling to live on a tight budget, long separations, parties at the Officers Club swapping stories with other wives about husbands, families and war. It seemed to Sheryl that there would always be a war.
Among the wives, status depended on their husband’s rank: generals’ wives deserved the most respect while second lieutenants’ wives, like Sheryl, deserved mostly sympathy. At a Fourth of July party at the OC, she had told a group of women that Steve trained to become a forward observer for the artillery. They averted their eyes and murmured inane comments: “that’s nice,” “you should be proud,” “better than being cooped up in an office.” Only later did she learn from Millie, the sergeant’s wife next door, that forward observers didn’t survive long in Vietnam.
PM slept. The sun dropped toward the blue ocean. Sheryl studied her painting and smiled. She liked how loose and impressionistic it felt. It captured the drama of the surging sea against the determined coastline without tying itself to any particular map coordinates. Yikes, map coordinates? I really am starting to think like an Army wife. But the others think my painting is just a nice hobby. Hobby? Screw them. Bunch of troglodytes.
Frowning, she packed her gear, scooped up an almost comatose PM and returned to their bungalow, to eat steak, sip beer, watch TV, and make love with Steve as if it would be their last time together.
***
“So what do you think is wrong with him?” Sheryl asked the veterinarian.
Dr. Chén sighed. “I could do tests but I’ve seen this many times. Your cat has distemper. Not much hope. Only strong ones survive.”
Two weeks after pulling PM from the surf, Sheryl had noticed him stumbling. His eyes wept as if from some allergy and he kept sneezing. Then the diarrhea hit and she found repulsive accidents throughout the house.
Steve had issued one of his unequivocal orders, “Get rid of that thing. It’s disgusting.”
Sheryl had refused, found a strong cardboard box, filled its bottom with beach sand, and had hurried off to the veterinary clinic in Honolulu.
Now, sitting in the examination room with the vet prodding and poking PM, her chest ached with the thought of losing her new companion. Maybe this is some kind of training, a test. If I’m to stay with Steve and be a good Army wife I need to toughen up, get used to fear and death. But why should I?
“Isn’t there something you can do?” Sheryl asked. “There must be some medicine I can give him.”
The vet smiled and rummaged in a cabinet. “Give it these pills twice a day. Even if the cat seems to get better, keep giving it the pills until they’re gone.”
“Anything else? There’s gotta be more.”
“It won’t like taking the meds. Give it lots of water after you place the pill in its mouth . . . and feed it more water throughout the day. I’ll give you a needleless syringe you can use.”
“Is it safe for the cat to go outside?”
“Probably not. Keep it away from other cats, someplace warm with its litter box and food close by. Use bleach to keep the area clean.”
“Do you want to see him again?”
“No need. If it gets better, you’ll know. But . . . but the chances are slim.”
On the ride home, Sheryl’s mind reeled with what she must do: close off and scrub down the laundry room where the water heater’s pilot light would keep PM warm at night; buy a litter box and litter; lay in a supply of food; and explain everything to Steve.
Sheryl pushed through their bungalow’s screen door, the cat yowling in its improvised carrier.
“Why’d you bring it home?” Steve asked.
“The vet said he could survive distemper. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him . . . keep him out of your way.”
Steve shook his head slowly and continued reading the Stars and Stripes newspaper, muttering to himself. He grabbed his first beer of the day and retired to the lanai.
Sheryl purchased a pair of strong leather gloves and wore them whenever she handled PM. At first the cat struggled mightily, even in his weakened state. But as days passed, he grew to trust her, although she suspected that squirting water down his throat six times a day probably felt like torture.
Three weeks in, the diarrhea slowed then stopped. PM showed a renewed interest in food. By six weeks he had recovered enough that Sheryl again stuffed him into her satchel when she went painting. By two month, he’d fully recovered, except the virus seemed to have quelled his playfulness. He now loved laying in the sun and staring at the Pacific, as if daring it to try and snare him again. Otherwise he stayed close to Sheryl and would purr whenever she picked him up.
Steve’s departure day arrived. His entire battalion boarded transports docked at Pearl and set sail for Vietnam, to establish the field artillery in the Đắk Tô Valley. Their last days together had been strained and he spent nights with his Army buddies at the Officers Club while PM sat on Sheryl’s lap and she stared numbly at the TV. Neither she nor Steve talked about his not coming back from the war. But neither could she stand the false bravado that some of the Army wives displayed. She found no comfort there. They seemed alien, badly acting out roles, reading lines written by someone else.
“So, when you get there send me your address,” Sheryl told Steve right before he climbed aboard the troop transport. “I’ll write, I promise.”
“You’d better. I’m sorry I haven’t been good company.”
“Me either . . . and I understand. I’d be drunk as a skunk if I were going off to war.”
“Don’t think that didn’t cross my mind. But the year will go fast, so they say.”
“I hope so. But stay . . . stay safe. Bring your love back to me.”
“I will.”
Except during the early days of their engagement, Steve never mentioned love, never talked about future plans, never showed much interest in her art. She attributed his coolness to his pending date with fate in those far-off jungles of South Vietnam. But she also had a nagging suspicion that maybe going to war would be a relief for him, fulfilling his own personal manifest destiny. And besides, why the hell would a career Army officer want to live with an unknown capricious artist who painted blobs of color that defied description?
She watched the troop transports depart Pearl Harbor and only left the docks when PM complained, cooped up in her satchel without food or litter box. During her last two weeks on Oahu she painted every day from dawn to dusk, trying to capture forever the wild feel of landscape, people, and villages so full of color and life.
***
Sheryl and PM departed Oahu on a Matson liner bound for San Francisco. Stuffing him into a cat carrier had been the greatest challenge. Neither of them wanted to leave the island.
They eventually arrived at her parents’ farm in Pennsylvania the day after Thanksgiving. Her folks weren’t real farmers; they leased their land and barns to Pennsylvania Dutchmen who planted grain crops and tended dairy cows. They had purchased the farm in the early 1950s and moved her father’s freelance design business from New York City into the old stone farmhouse.
Snow stood knee high on the ground when Sheryl and PM arrived. She shivered uncontrollably, eyes crying from the cold and from the loss of island smells and colors. She hurried to her old upstairs bedroom and put on winter clothes, PM complaining all the while from inside his carrier. When she finally let him out, he shot downstairs. She caught up with him in the living room where he faced off her parents’ two huge tomcats, PM’s tail fluffed out, ears laid back, and a low rumble coming from his throat.
“Don’t worry, honey,” her mother, said “they’ll get used to him soon enough. It’s all about territory.”
“I’m more worried about how he’ll handle the snow.”
Sheryl cleared a space on the enclosed back porch for PM’s litter pan and food bowl. But he proved bolder than she ever expected. He secured the best warm spot near the fireplace, watched TV while resting on the back of the sofa near Sheryl’s ear, and sidestepped the aggression of the two fat bullies. One morning she came downstairs and found lumps of fur scattered around the living room, and it wasn’t from PM.
“What happened here?” Sheryl asked her mother.
“Your cat laid into Mr. Moto. I had to pull them apart.” Her mother examined the angry red scratches on her forearms.
The giant Siamese sat in a wingback chair and glowered at the two women.
“I’m sorry,” Sheryl said. “I’ve never seen PM fight.”
“Well, you’ve got a tiger there. And he keeps dogging me every time I go near the door. I know he wants to get out.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that too.”
Sheryl had retrieved her battered VW Beetle from the barn and ventured into the snowy Pennsylvania hill country, PM laying on a blanket next to her and staring at the whiteness flying by. She painted icy creeks, covered bridges, barns, skeletal oak and maple forests, Christmas scenes that she made into cards for her parents to send to friends and relatives. The side of her artist pallet that held all the shades of green paint dried and cracked. Only the red blaze of the eastern cardinal added color to her winter artwork.
On these painting trips, PM mostly slept in the car. The few times when he attempted to cross a snowfield he kept shaking himself every few steps, sinking over his head in the deep spots, and complaining all the way.
Over brandies one night, Sheryl and her father paged through the huge portfolio of artwork that she brought home from Hawaii.
“You need to add more edges,” he complained. “And use something more than green. It feels like I’m staring at a salad.”
“You should go to the islands, Pop. All us mainland artists have to learn to see differently. And it’s more than just the colors that are different.”
“You’re probably right. But even Rousseau painted tigers and jungle scenes with lots of edges.”
Sheryl grinned. “Yes, but he produced those paintings in his French studio; never left the country.”
As winter gave way to spring and summer, Sheryl and PM enjoyed the Pennsylvania countryside more and more. But the greenness didn’t satisfy her longing. She missed the roar and whisper of the sea, the scent of warm ocean breezes, the cry of gulls in the morning, the feel of beach sand under bare feet. She had been to the Atlantic before. It felt like a cold stormy lake put there for nautical commerce. But the vast blue-green Pacific . . .
Steve was due to return to the States during the first week in November. It snowed early that year and by Halloween the farm had already weathered two storms.
“What have you heard from Steve?” Sheryl’s mother asked. “I know he hasn’t been writing as much but he should be stateside soon.”
Sheryl groaned to herself and tried to control her facial expressions. “Yeah, I got a letter from him last week. He got promoted to first lieutenant and got his new duty assignment. Be back for a thirty day leave.”
“Well that should be nice for you kids. You haven’t talked much about him lately.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to remember our time on Oahu, but it’s getting harder.”
“You know, honey, you’re gonna have to get used to this. You’re married to an Army officer. Where are they sending him next?”
“He’s being attached to an artillery battalion at Fort Sill, Oklahoma for 90-days TDY. Then they’ll fly him to Korea for 18 months.”
“Lord, that’s quite a change,” her mother said and then in a lowered voice, “Are you going with him? You know, you can always stay here until he gets a stateside assignment.”
“Thanks, Mom. We haven’t talked about it. I’m waiting until he gets here.”
For the rest of the day Sheryl avoided her parents. She knew they loved Steve, felt his influence could moderate their daughter’s sometimes-erratic behavior and drag her back from her deep depressions. But Oklahoma? Then Korea? Even less green anytime of the year.
That night at supper she drank more New York wine than normal. PM curled at her feet and slept fitfully, rousing himself every few minutes to trot to the kitchen door before returning. Sheryl excused herself and holed up in her room, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She tried reading but it wouldn’t calm her nerves. The cold autumn tugged at her spirits and she dreaded meeting up with her husband, fearing what she might say or do.
Over the TV’s muttering, she heard her mother call, “Sheryl, come down here, quick.”
She bolted from bed and hustled downstairs. Her mom stood in the kitchen, wringing her hands.
“I’m sorry. PM must have slipped past me when I opened the door to take out the trash. I’ve called to him but he won’t come. Can’t see a thing out there.”
Sheryl ran upstairs and put on her snow boots, heavy wool jacket and gloves. She grabbed a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and headed outside.
“I’ll be back when I find him,” she told her mother.
“Be careful, honey. It’s freezing and there’s black ice on the roads. And stay clear of the farms. You’ll raise a ruckus with the barn dogs.”
Sheryl carefully descended the slippery back steps and stopped, played the flashlight beam over the snow. A faint trail of paw prints headed westward across the bottom field toward the far woods. A gibbous moon turned the snow bluish and the wind cut through her wool jacket like it wasn’t there. She proceeded slowly, calling out to PM as she went. The snow crunched under her boots. She came to a barbed wire fence at the edge of their property. Cat prints continued across the Glatfelter’s field, heading for the woods.
In the distance she heard a faint cry, reminding her of the night she had rescued PM from Oahu’s surf. Her heart ached with the memory and she quickly ducked through the wire fence and hurried toward the sound, calling out every few steps. A chorus of dogs barked. She ran across the snowy field, blowing steam in the frigid night air and calling to PM, “I’m coming, kitty, I’m coming.”
The cat tracks veered sharply uphill into a thicket of black oaks. She picked her way through the tangled trees, stumbled and fell onto the rock-hard ground but was drawn forward by PM’s shrieks and the barking dogs. A tree branch raked her face and she cried out, pressed a gloved hand to her cheek and kept it there.
The beam from her flashlight dimmed. She came to a clearing, the cat’s cry near. She approached a tall maple and stopped. Three dogs sat on their haunches, their wagging tails dusting the snow. They whined and looked upward. Sheryl pointed the meager light into the tree, its beam caught the eyes of PM, halfway up.
“Go home,” she yelled and stamped the ground.
The dogs looked at her and cocked their heads as if to say “Really? We do all the work and now ya want us to leave?”
But with constant commands, the hounds finally turned tail and headed home.
“Come here, kitty, come on down,” she coaxed.
PM backed down the tree trunk until she grasped him, his wet body shaking. She unbuttoned her jacket and stuffed him into the top and re-buttoned it. PM head-butted her chest and purred.
“So why the hell did you come out here? Were you running away? How many times do I have to do this? When is it my turn?”
As usual, Sheryl couldn’t understand the cat’s reply. By the time they reached the house, PM had fallen asleep, the rise and fall of his warm belly felt right as rain.
Her mother greeted her in the kitchen with a cup of hot chocolate. They placed PM on his favorite spot near the living room fireplace to steam dry. Her father glanced at them and smiled then returned to watching TV with Walter Cronkite and the Evening News – flashes of young soldiers jumping from hovering helicopters into an open field and taking fire from the Viet Cong. Anti-war protesters in San Francisco replaced the combat images. Sheryl shuddered.
Back in the kitchen, her mother asked, “What happened to your face?”
Sheryl touched her numb cheek. “A tree branch got me.”
“Well you’ve bled a bit but it doesn’t look deep. Might leave a scar.”
“Yes, I’m sure this place will leave its mark.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Mom. Nothing. I’m just tired.”
She climbed the stairs and entered her room with PM at her heels. Lying on her bed, she trembled, pulled the quilted spread over her head and closed her eyes. PM mewed and she let him slide in next to her. From downstairs the TV continued its mutterings. Her parents talked and Sheryl felt sure that they talked about her. I should get up and take off these clothes, clean my cheek, and maybe . . . Exhausted, she scooched under the covers and with PM nestling in her hippie-length hair, fell asleep.
Morning broke bright and cold with frost feathers on the insides of the windows. Her mother brought her a cup of cocoa and a heated scone, a recent Sunday morning tradition.
“Your Father and I will be leaving for church. We’ll be there until almost noon. Do you want to come?”
“No thanks, Mom. But thanks . . . for everything.”
“You’re welcome, honey.” Her mother paused at the bedroom doorway, shook her head then left.
PM batted her face, wanting his morning food. She flung back the covers, undressed and took a quick shower. The scratch on her cheek looked ugly, but once cleaned up it lost its drama. She wondered if Steve would complain and those thoughts caused her heart to pound. She gritted her teeth and pulled on a clean set of winter clothes.
Her parents’ station wagon rumbled down the long driveway to the County road, its tailpipe smoking. She fed PM then hauled her artist’s gear to her car and stowed it in the back seat. From her closet she removed a suitcase and packed it full of clothes and personal things, leaving her framed wedding picture on the dresser. She hardly recognized the woman in the photograph.
Lastly, she stowed PM’s cat carrier, food, and litter box in the trunk, braided her hair into two long pigtails, and wrapped a colorful scarf around her head and across her forehead. She looked like a ghostly Indian princess.
“Come on, PM, time to go,” she murmured.
The cat tore downstairs and waited at the kitchen door. She scribbled a note on the back of an envelope and left it on the table next to her father’s half-empty coffee cup. Checking her purse for cash and gasoline credit cards, she grabbed PM and hustled to her VW bug, placing the cat on his blanket.
The engine clattered to life. Sheryl adjusted the rear view, trying not to stare at the sober face looking back. She gunned the VW and muscled the tiny car down the rutted driveway, to the County road and the Interstate beyond, heading west. PM purred, his hind legs balanced on the edge of the seat, his front legs on the dashboard, staring intently through the windshield as the dull countryside flowed past. By dawn the next day they breathed in the cold dry air of the southwest desert. By sundown off the Santa Barbara coast, the green Pacific rolled before them and they slept that night under palms once again.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 430 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.