This cat-sitting has deteriorated rapidly into a major imposition. It’s been a full week and not a word from her. Where is Ella Mae? Maybe something happened to her. When I go over there tonight, I’m going to check and see if I can find something that might tell me how to reach her. I’ve tried to not pry and poke around too much in her place, tempting as it. But now, privacy be damned.
Monday evening, 10 PM
I go over to feed and water the cat. Open the door. Wince as fleas jump on my legs. Wait for old Snuff to do his cat-scream thing and attack me. Don’t have to wait long.
While the cat eats, I look in the bathroom. It’s filthy. A layer of soap scum and toothpaste covers the counter and sink. There are several dark, red stains on the black and white tiles on the floor. It looks alarmingly like blood, but I think it’s hair dye. A worn toothbrush lies on the counter next to a tube of denture adhesive. There’s a hairbrush and several make-up brushes. A smaller brush filled with black cat hair is tossed on top of several used razor blades. The toilet seat is up.
Bernie follows me when I go into the bedroom. Maybe he’s curious too. The double bed is unmade, with rumpled and dirty pink flowered sheets that are covered with something that looks like graham cracker crumbs. No blankets or pillow, though. The white louvered door to the small closet stands slightly ajar. I open it up all the way and look inside. There are three dark men’s suits, a grey and pearl striped tie and a blue business shirt.
On the high shelf in the closet is a hat box, covered with crisp new pale pink and light green striped paper. the colors of those pretty pillow shaped after-dinner mints. I untie the string and look inside. A stack of what seems to be unopened utility bills is wrapped in a piece of pristine white tissue paper. A bar of fragrant honey almond soap, labeled Made in France is still in its wrapper. A clear plastic sandwich size bag is filled with ashes. Now I can’t tell if it’s human, animal, or Mt. St. Helens, but it is definitely ashes. A narrow snippet of lace ribbon encircles the bag of ashes twice and is then tied in a tiny bow.
The white chest angled in one corner of the room has five drawers — all empty, except for odd pieces — a woman’s narrow light brown leather belt, some loose change and Metro tokens, a small photo of Ella Mae with another woman who looks enough like her that I would guess it might be her sister. The photo is one of those little ones taken in a photo machine at a fair or fiesta. There isn’t anything written on it at all. No date. No names. It isn’t a very recent picture of Ella Mae. Maybe taken five or even 10 years ago. In the bottom drawer, there is one of those blue fuzzy stretch slippers like the ones they give you on airplanes for long flights, along with a pair of black socks, folded neatly into a roll. And there is a pair of new men’s boxer shorts, still in the unopened package, light blue with darker blue vertical stripes, size 32.
I go over to the window, pull open the heavy draperies and crank out the casement window just enough to let some fresh air in. A sudden evening fog has moved in, and I can hear the muffled sound of a car driving slowly down the street. When I turn around, I see it. Scrawled across the bedroom wall opposite the bed, in pink lipstick so pale that it is difficult to make out all the letters, is a message. Obviously intended for me.