Short fiction by Jacqueline Siglin, Contributing Writer

Marjean Reynolds did not like cats, not indoors, outdoors, or even across the street. Big Tom should have known better when he showed up at the back door of the Coffee Pot Cafe, but mere dislike had never been a problem for him. A veteran of the streets, Big Tom was a dirty white, slick-haired male with flea-bitten ears and a long, lanky body. He kept an ear out for mice and a nose out for leftovers. That’s what he was doing the afternoon Marjean found him at the cafe’s back door, finishing up a fine mess of hamburger and fries, which somehow had fallen outside of the trash can instead of in it.

“Skat,” Marjean said.

Big Tom moved a little, but not so far that he couldn’t keep an eye on the piece of mayonnaise slathered bun which had fallen to the other side of the trash can.

“I mean SKAT.” Marjean kicked at him, but Big Tom evaded the blow. He sauntered to a spot under the awning over the back door of the real estate office and began his after lunch bath.

Marjean unfolded the metal chair she kept near the door for the occasional dishwasher or waitress who needed to smoke and sat in it. The thought crossed her mind that she might take up that nasty habit if it would help, but it really was too late. She shook her head. The newly cut edges of her graying black hair brushed her neck. The new style hadn’t helped, nor had the fact that last week she’d learned Pete Wilson’s will gave her the Coffee Pot free and clear of debt.

She should be happy.

The cat stared at her.

“Mind your own business,” she said.

Big Tom yawned and closed his yellow eyes. Marjean turned her face toward the other end of the alley. It was the same as last year, and the year before, and the one before that. December, once her favorite month, now brought only the blues and way too much thought of Cal Reynolds. Sure, there were good memories, but she didn’t seem to be able to conjure them up. Not the way she could remember with perfect recall the cold Christmas Eve on which her husband of twenty-seven years had left for good, taking with him her heart and his set of their signed divorce papers.

Marjean sighed. Today was December 1, thirty more days of misery to go. Big Tom rubbed against her right leg. She looked down at him. “I hate men,” she said.

Big Tom rubbed around the other leg.

“I don’t like cats, either.”

Big Tom purred.

The cat was there again the next morning when she arrived. Someone, probably Haley Jo, her waitress, had set out a bowl and lined a box with a piece of an old blanket.

“Don’t get any ideas, buster,” Marjean said, and went inside. The cafe was in full swing. She checked on the cooks, punched down a lump of rising dough, and walked out front. The regulars greeted her with smiles. She filled their coffee mugs, then went to help Haley Jo with the tables, clearing off two and taking orders for a green chili omelet and a plate of buttermilk pancakes before she got to the table next to the back window.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

The man put down the real estate guide and glanced at the menu. He was about the farthest thing from a local that Marjean had seen for a while. Dressed in a suit, tie and regular shoes, he was not wearing either a cowboy hat or a ball cap.

“Coffee,” he said. “And a peanut-butter roll with a scrambled egg on the side.”

Marjean took the order to the kitchen, brought back the mug of coffee.

“That your cat?” He pointed out the window at Big Tom, who was posed like a white statue in the streak of sunlight crisscrossing the alley.

“No.” Marjean said.

“He’s a looker,” the man said.

“He’s a lurker,” Marjean said. “Hoping for a handout.”

The man grinned. He had a good smile and a nice head of hair.

Marjean slammed the cafe’s back door shut behind her. She zipped her red jacket all the way up and drug the folding chair into the sun. Big Tom stirred on his blanket bed.

She looked at him. “Wipe the smile off your face, I’m not out here to visit you.”

Big Tom licked his right paw.

Ten more days until Christmas. Her crew was inside singing carols along with the radio, but she had had it with decking the halls. That included the twinkly lights Haley Jo had strung everywhere, the real Christmas tree covered in red balls and silver stars, and the musical bear which played “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” every time she bumped into it next to the cash register. The mayor had dropped off twenty frozen turkeys to be cooked for the Santa Claus supper, a project she and Cal had started for families in need. There were orders for at least thirty dozen decorated cookies, including six dozen for the hospital Christmas party, another Cal project. The ho ho ho’s never stopped, and she didn’t feel one bit jolly. Marjean sat down on the hard cold metal chair and flipped up the hood of her jacket to cover her ears. When would people realize that kindness and love for mankind was a farce? The wind blew its breath down the alley. She shivered.

Big Tom finished his second paw, stood and stretched. Without asking or giving a warning, he made a beeline for Marjean, pausing only long enough to gather himself for the leap into her lap.

“Hey,” Marjean yelled. “Get down.”

Big Tom circled once and settled into her flour-covered apron.  

“I thought that wasn’t your cat.” The out-of-towner, who had eaten at the cafe every day since he appeared, had stepped out of the back door of the real estate office and was headed toward her.

“He’s not.” Marjean pushed the cat to the ground. Big Tom landed with the skill of an acrobat and sat back on his haunches, wrapping his tail around his feet. The man reached down and scratched him under his chin. Big Tom arched his head a little to the side to make sure the right spot was reached. The man grinned. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said to Marjean,“ but I keep getting that young waitress.”

 “I’m in the back baking,” she said. “Tis the season, you know.”

“Right.” The man patted Big Tom on the head and stood up. He looked to be about six feet tall. “I’m Marty Warner,” he said. “I bought a house in town today.”

His face looked happy, but there was a trace of sadness in his hazel eyes. She shook his hand. “Congratulations. I’m Marjean Reynolds, the owner of the Coffee Pot.”

“So I’ve heard. It’s a great place, especially those peanut butter rolls.”

“Thanks.” Marjean hoped her hair didn’t look too bad after being in a hair net most of the morning. “What made you want to move here?”

“A little life rearrangement,” he said. He pointed at the clouds gathering over the mountains. “Is it going to snow?”

“Could, but most likely it’ll just get cold. We’re more in the zone of brown Christmases.”

“You’re sure that isn’t your cat?”

“Positive. He’s a stray, doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Big Tom yawned at them, then wandered off, moving down the alley without a backward glance.  

“It was great to meet you, Marty,” Marjean said, “but I’d better get back to work.”

Christmas Eve Marjean dragged herself home.  The last tray of cookies had been frosted and delivered, the last group of carolers smiled at and given hot chocolate. She was exhausted, in the mood for nothing except a bath, a book, and a warm bed. The outside temperatures had been dropping all day, a front was moving in from the northwest. The cafe was closed until after New Year’s. If she were lucky, she’d sleep through the rest of the month.

The cold woke her around 5 a.m. She pulled on the blankets, but it wasn’t enough. Slipping into her robe, she walked into the living room to up the thermostat and glanced out the front window where she’d forgotten to pull the drapes. In the glimmer of the streetlight she could see at least a foot of snow on the ground and more falling. A white Christmas, she said to herself, and then she remembered the cat.

It wasn’t hers. She had no reason to care about him, especially in December. It wasn’t her caring month. She didn’t like cats. Marjean argued with herself all the way to the bedroom where she dressed and all the way back to the front closet where she rummaged around to find a pair of boots and a pair of gloves. The snowflakes were big and fat, falling down so thick she could hardly see. She hurried the two blocks to the Coffee Pot’s back entrance, shone her flashlight into the corners. “Here, Kitty. Here, Kitty, Kitty.”  

A pair of headlights lit up the alley. Marty Warner slammed his car door and came to her side.  “I was worried about the cat,” he said.

“I know.” Marjean’s teeth chattered. “I can’t find him.”  

They walked the rest of the alley, calling and moving the beam of light in and out of the shadows.

“Go on inside,” Marty said when they came back to the cafe. “I’ll check the street.” He held the flashlight while she unlocked the back door and pushed it open. A bolt of white fur shot by their legs and into the cafe.

Marty laughed. “Guess he knows how to take care of himself.”

Marjean nodded. “Why don’t you turn off your car and come on in. We might as well have breakfast.”

They sat at the table near the Christmas tree, eating eggs and drinking coffee. Marty finished the last of the peanut butter rolls, Marjean polished off two of the broken cookies she hadn’t sold. Big Tom curled on a red rug in front of the heater, an empty bowl licked clean of tuna at his side.

The sun peaked above the horizon. It tinted the snow a rosy gold. Marty looked at the scene through the Coffee Pot’s window, then back at Marjean. “Four years ago on Christmas Day, my wife died,” he said. “Since then, I’ve tried to spend Decembers ignoring the holidays. That’s why I stopped in this town. No one knew me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Marjean reached across the table and touched his hand.

“Thanks, but I’m not after sympathy, I want to tell you something. The first morning I came to your cafe, I saw that white cat looking at me through the window. Each day after it was the same. I’d eat and he’d watch, not begging or pitiful, just enjoying being himself. I thought a lot about him, then I made up my mind. If that cat could get on with his life, maybe I ought to do the same.” He raised his coffee cup. “I haven’t said these words for quite a while, but I know it’s time. “Merry Christmas.”

Marjean looked at Big Tom. One yellow eye winked at her. She raised her cup and let it clink against Marty’s. “Merry Christmas,” she said.