A Matter of Weeks This essay was written in 2000.
At 20 years of age, I had experienced relatively little in my adult life, and not only because I had been an adult for such a short time. Socially introverted, I had gone through adolescence without dating, with only a small cadre of friends and with my primary entertainments being video games and science fiction. My closest companion was a cat named Mittens, and he was 16 years old.

I vaguely remember when we got him from the Macomb County Humane Society. I don’t remember picking him out, and I don’t remember the inside of the building. My only memory is the ride home, with that little tiger striped kitten sitting in my lap, cradled within the brown fuzziness of my mother’s winter hat. I looked into his quite possibly frightened, huge, green eyes and proclaimed his new name to my mom.

“His name is Mittens!” I said, stroking his head in that brutal and clumsy way only a four year old would think was gentle.

“But this kitten doesn’t have any mittens, Joey!” And Mom was right. From the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose, the kitten was a uniform pattern of yellow and orange stripes. But some weeks before, Mom had taken me to the public library and had gotten out a children’s book, which featured a black cat with white paws that was named, aptly enough, Mittens. I loved that story and refused to consider any other name for my new kitten.

“But his name is Mittens. He doesn’t need to have mittens.” According to what Mom says now, this conversation went on for a while, but in my memories that was the end of it. He was Mittens from then on.

Mittens proved to be an unusual cat. He formed his strongest bond with me, the little blond child, instead of Sue, the much calmer and gentler mother. Mittens would follow me around the house, put up with my rough affections and would sleep at my side each night. I talked to him and read him Dr. Suess books. Recited them, actually. I couldn’t read yet, but I had memorized the words to “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.” It’s doubtful that Mittens cared about the story or the rhymes, but he seemed happy enough to hear my piping, little voice.

So loyal was he that If I went away for more than a day Mittens would run away and wouldn’t come back until I returned.

After returning from a week of visiting my father on one such occasion, Mittens sauntered in the door and Mother told me, “He was out looking for you,” I frantically squeezed the big, orange cat, “now he thinks he found you, and he’s happy!” In retrospect, I am less certain that Mittens was looking for me, and now consider it more likely that he simply wasn’t interested in anything in that house while I was gone.

As I grew, Mittens meant more and more to me as we shared our lives. When I was 12, he sat on my lap and gazed adoringly up at my face while I typed away on the family’s first computer. As I reached 15, he would sit in my room patiently as my stereo blasted his sensitive, little kitty ears, happy to endure the noise so long as he was close to his Joey. At 17, I would talk about him to my friends. Not long after my 18th birthday, I was posting made-up stories about Mittens’ adventures on a Prodigy bulletin board every day. I talked to the cat. I sang to that cat. I even made up silly songs about that cat.

When I was 19, and Mittens a healthy and active 15, my grandfather Vick passed away. After the family had returned from the funeral home, I stood in the kitchen and confided to my stepfather, Tom, “I don’t think I felt anything. I know I was supposed to be sad, but I’m sorry.... I wasn’t. Happy or sad, that is.”

Mittens had come up from the basement and had leapt onto the kitchen chair next to me. I absently stroked his round head. As the low drone of his broken motorboat purr wafted up from below, Tom replied, “You’ll understand a little about death when that cat dies. You’ll see.”

Mittens? Die? I’d always had Mittens, and he was still healthy. He would live for YEARS yet.

A year passed by. As I said in the beginning, I was 20 years old and inexperienced. I stood in my basement and watched Mittens stagger drunkenly towards me from the pillow he had been restlessly lying on. His back legs couldn’t move right, and he wove from side to side. Secondary eyelids half closed in pain, he still struggled to get to his Joey, purring half-heartedly. I’d taken Mittens to the hospital several days before because he wasn’t eating, had sat in one spot for a whole day, and wouldn’t come to the sound of his name. The doctor told me that his kidneys had failed him, but he would see what he could do. After much effort, the doctor de-toxified his system and gave me supply of prescription cat food. He told me that I might be able to keep the cat alive for another year if I fed him only this special food, and he sent Mittens home with me. But as I swept the frail, little cat into my arms, I knew that doctor Nelson had lied to me. This cat was in so much pain that he couldn’t open his eyes, could barely walk, and wouldn’t eat. I looked at our reflection in the wall sized mirror mounted behind the bar there in the basement. It was a reflection of a dying cat and his man. How very tiny Mittens looked in my large embrace! All those years I thought he was a big cat. But he had never been big.... I had just been smaller. Ironically, I never felt smaller than at that very moment. Mittens would be better off dead; that was single hardest decision I had ever made, and one that, in my cowardice and sorrow, I couldn’t follow through on by myself.

I begged my stepbrother, Gerald, to take him to the hospital for me. I couldn’t see through the tears, couldn’t stop sobbing, and told him I couldn’t drive in that state. I helped put Mittens in the cat-carrier and said goodbye. Watching Gerald drive down the street, I collapsed against the house and tried unsuccessfully to say goodbye in my heart. I found out later that Gerald was almost as unhappy as I, but had been much better at holding it in, much better at hiding it from the family. I’ve never forgiven myself for making Gerald take Mittens to die that Saturday.

Understandably, I wasn’t the most amusing guy to be around in the following week or two. I went to the house of my friend, Scott, to play cards the following Wednesday, just as I had every Wednesday since high school. Tim, Matt, Erich, and my best friend at the time, John, were all there, my only friends in the world, and I was hoping they might be able to cheer me up. Heather, Scott’s pretty younger sister, would also be there. She, with her short, straight hair, bright hazel eyes and penchant for wearing a conservative jean-and-T-shirt ensemble, was one girl I always liked to talk to, and thought about fairly often. She was four years younger than us, and would often bring me food and drink if I asked nicely.

“What the fuck is wrong with you anyway, Joe?” came from across the card table. This was from the wise-ass, Tim. He was the sort of person who only seemed happy when someone else was being laughed at. Normally, we would trade mock-insults the entire evening, trying to out-do one another. But my mind had a cat shaped hole in it, and I wasn’t up to the normal verbal sparring.

“I told you, my cat just died! Give me a break.” but they didn’t give me a break. I got no sympathy from them, and proceeded to endure their insults for the rest of the evening.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” Heather asked as I left the house an hour earlier than normal. I didn’t trust myself to answer her, so I silently walked past her, drove home, flopped into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours.

Saturday came. One whole week had passed without Mittens, and I wanted to go out with my best friend, John, to Metro Park, which was our Summer-time weekend ritual. We would walk the trails, look at girls, and shoot the bull for hours about nothing. Just the thing to get my mind off Mittens! I called John’s house and got no answer. Maybe he was at one of the other guys’ house? I called Scott’s house, and spoke with Heather.

“I don’t know where he went,” came her pleasant voice from the phone, “His car is gone, though. Do you want me to have him call you when he gets back?”

“Sure. Thanks. See you Wednesday, probably.”

Next, I called Tim, but his mother said he’d gone out, and she didn’t know where. There was no one home at Erich’s house, and Matt’s father had no idea where Matt was. Where was everybody?

Uncertain of what to do, and too depressed to stay at home, I drove to John’s house on the off chance that he was working outside and hadn’t heard the phone ringing. I pulled up into his driveway and walked slowly up to his door. Dark silence almost radiated from the empty house. I knocked a few times anyway, and then turned hesitantly back towards my car, face screwed up in puzzlement. That’s when I noticed the cars parked in the street. Erich’s truck, Matt’s little Chevette, Scott’s Malibu and Tim’s old Cutlass were all neatly lined up across the street. Only John’s car was missing from the line-up. The inescapable conclusion was that they all drove somewhere in John’s car. I wondered where they had all gone off to, but told myself I wasn’t that concerned. I can’t remember what I did for the rest of that day, but it likely involved lots of driving and video games.

The next day I visited John at home. We sat on his front stoop and watched the neighbor kids play in the street.

“So, where were you guys, anyway?” I asked, feigning indifference.

“Ah, we just went to Port Huron.” he looked away from me, not meeting my eyes, and threw the grass he’d been chewing down towards the lawn.

“What did you do up there?” I asked in confusion as I thought, “What in the world is in Port Huron?”

“We just sat around. You know, just wasted time. You didn’t miss much.”

Still, he wasn’t meeting my gaze, and I was perplexed. We hung out for a while and then I left, my butt damp from the cold, concrete stoop.

On the following Wednesday, card night again, I arrived a little late to Scott’s house. I lingered downstairs for a bit, talking to Heather, before going up to join the guys. Something seemed to be bothering her, but I wasn’t sure. Ah, well. I climbed the stairs, listening to the laughter of my friends who were already there, and I walked into the room smiling and ready to play. They were already at the card table, but instead of cards, they were passing around photographs. Curious, I walked behind Tim and craned my neck over his shoulder. There, on the table, was a celluloid sheet with an image of Tim, Erich, John and Matt in front of the gates at Cedar Point.

“When did you guys go to Cedar Point?” I asked, suspicion and a burgeoning hurt bubbling up as I anticipated the answer. Tim looked around the table at the rest of the gang, as if seeking tacit approval to be the one who explained the situation. No one else spoke up, so he finally set the pictures down and looked up at me.

“We went Saturday. We decided at the last minute to go, and couldn’t track you down fast enough, so went without you. You shoulda been there! It was great!” I wasn’t so sure about this story; especially given the bald-faced lie John had told me on Sunday. Listening to their stories about the rides, hearing about the things that happened to them on the trip, and enduring their retelling of the conversations they had and the jokes they told to one another, I felt confused and a little hurt. My AT&T answering machine was sometimes a bit flaky, so it is possible they might’ve had a hard time leaving a message. But I had been home the entire evening that Friday, and no one had called.

Later, as we all trickled out on our way home, I bumped into Heather downstairs.

“Call me later,” she whispered as her brother walked past us and into the bathroom, “I don’t want to talk in front of Scott.” My heart skipped a beat. Heather was, as I said, four years younger than I, but very pretty. I had been attracted to her since she was fourteen, but I was too shy and felt too old to talk to her. Age difference not withstanding, I was immediately filled with hope that perhaps she was interested in me, and I raced home. The Cedar Point incident, nearly forgotten in my testosterone-crazed ambition, was the last thing on my mind as I ran into my house and tore off to my basement to use the phone in private.

My fingers shook slightly, and my heart dashed against the inside of my chest as I dialed Scott’s-I mean Heather’s-phone number. She answered on the first ring, and as soon as I said hello in my wavering, nervous voice, she began speaking.

“I thought you should know: they planned that Cedar Point trip Wednesday after you left. They didn’t want you to go because they thought you would be too depressing to have around, and they all agreed not to let you know about it,” she paused, and as if to answer my next possible question, she rushed on, “I found out about it tonight, or I would’ve told you Saturday when you called.”

My heart, which had been racing with hope, stopped beating altogether and sank towards the floor with alarming rapidity. A year earlier, the guys had gotten Heather to call me and pose on the phone as another girl whom I had then liked. That had been a cruel and hurtful prank, and Heather had apologized, promising never to lie to me again. So I believed her when she told me about that trip to Cedar Point. The revelation struck me silent momentarily. My friends had, because I was “depressed”, planned a fun trip to Cedar Point, and had conspired to keep all knowledge of it from me. My “best” friend, John, had lied to me about it, though not very well. And then Tim lied about the circumstances surrounding their trip. I felt very, very lonely at that moment. Mittens was gone, and so were all my friends. With nothing left to lose, I found I needed no courage to ask the next question.

“So, do you wanna go out to a movie tomorrow night?”

…



We “dated” for two weeks, and during that time I was, for all intents and purposes, happy. But Heather never seemed very comfortable around me, and she let me go on a Saturday.

I arrived at her house to pick her up for a date, and she met me on the front porch with a concerned expression on her face.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” she blurted out. I somehow knew this was coming as soon as I saw her standing there with that strangely intent expression. My chin began to dimple involuntarily as my face began tugging my mouth into a grimace. I fought off the sob and asked in a shaky voice,

“But, why?” But I knew why. I was 20, and she was 16. On several occasions she’d alluded to the fact that this was an arrangement that made her most uncomfortable, and it had now come to a head.

“I just can’t handle the age difference Joe. I’m sorry.” There. She’d said it outright. My mind flailed, searching for something I could say to change her mind. Unable to think of anything on my own, I sought assistance from the only person nearby. Her.

“Is there anything I can do to change this? Can I do anything?” Her answer was to sadly shake her head.

In a matter of weeks, my life had changed three times over. It had been Saturday, death, Saturday, betrayal and Saturday, heartbreak. I learned a little about life that summer, and while I do not regret those lessons, I would never voluntarily repeat them again. Certainly, I’ll someday experience the death of loved one, but because of Mittens I may be a bit more prepared for how that will feel. Betrayal has visited me since but my calluses, thickened by my former friends, protected me well. Finally, heartbreak is a fact of life that can never crush hope, a lesson learned from the incomparable Heather. These are things I needed to learn someday, but was forced to learn all at once that summer. Lessons learned all in a matter of weeks.  ¶ 4:17 PM