Emily, what made me flee back into the house was the look on her face.  It was not a peaceful look.

Ilsa

I was all ready to go dancing Wednesday night when I thought I should check the temp to see if I needed a sweater.  I opened the front door to step out onto the porch when I saw Ilsa, my cat, curled up against the stoop.  It was odd that she didn’t move out of my way, and when I leaned down to get a closer look — I didn’t have my glasses on — I could see she wasn’t breathing. 

I quickly shut the door and began to pace.  I knew something was up with her.  That afternoon I flashed on her, thinking something had happened.  She hadn’t come home the night before, which wasn’t that unusual.  These hot summer nights she liked to stay out late and hunt.  I’d find a dead shrew on the carpet the next morning. 

I wondered how long she’d been dead, how hard her body would be.  Ewwww, I shuddered and paced some more.  I’d never touched a hard dead cat before.  As a vet tech, some 35 years ago, I’d bagged tons of dead cats and dogs, but they were warm and soft, and they weren’t mine.  I’d held her dying brother in my arms as the vet put him to sleep, just a year old.  He was such a cutie-pie; I still miss him. 

Ilsa was too elegant and precious to be squished into a plastic bag but I was afraid the raccoons would get her if I left her on the porch.  I knew what I had to do.  I opened the door to see how long she’d been dead.  She was rock hard with not a scratch on her.  No blood, just a pool of clear liquid beneath her little body. 

I put her in the refrigerator and called my brother.  He said I could bury Ilsa in his yard as my dog would surely dig her up.  He’d soak the ground so it would be easier digging in the morning.  I paced around some more and decided to keep my date with the Canadian, not wanting to be in the house. 

I had two drinks, danced all night, and put her out of my mind.  The next morning I drove the cold bag over to find his girlfriend had the hole all  ready.  I opened the sack, trying to ease her into the dirt without having to touch her.  “I think I should widen the hole,” said Mary.  “Her head is too close to the surface.”  I didn’t want to put her to more trouble and I didn’t want to have to pull Ilsa back out so I picked up the tail and shifted her body so that she laid flat.  All this with no tears.  I think Mary thought I was being cold-hearted.

Maybe I am.  I was so mad at first.  Just when she’d settled in around here and could actually walk by the dog without a huge chase scene.  She had begun sleeping with me every night, racing up the stairs ahead of me when it was time for bed.  She would always be curled up against the back of my thigh, tucked into the bend of my knee.  I can still hear her hit the floor in happy anticipation of watching the the water swirl in the toilet when I’d get up in the morning.

In this last month she followed me everywhere, wanting to sit on my lap or help me get my make-up on.  If I went outside, so did she.  If I were on the computer she would be perched on top of the back of the couch.   I would always have to leave the downstairs sink running because she refused to drink out of a bowl.  The cushions to the couch had to be pulled up, even after the dog learned to stay down, because she liked to sleep where she would be squished if someone sat down.  I could never have a vase of flowers out because she’d dump it over trying to drink out of it.  Life is easier now but she had such a mystique about her that the house feels empty.

I don’t even really like cats but this past month I began to see how cool she was.  Lately we were able to communicate telepathically.  She used to have to make this little noise in the back of her throat to tell me she wanted something, and then she’d either lead me to her bowl or the bathroom sink.  But lately I would just get the signal, look over at her, and follow.  I started noticing her more, looking her in the eyes and telling her how great she was.  This was maybe two weeks ago .

Ilsa was beautiful in a muted way.  A barn cat, she was small.  She wasn’t a true calico but she was red, black, and white with the softest, most beautiful coat that always smelled good. She looked Egyptian, very regal.  But she was sweet and quiet, and had always kept to herself.  She fucked with the dog all the time but she did it on the sly.  After four years of tormenting each other they were finally friends.  Only now she’s gone.   

I seem to have made the guest list.  A woman wearing an offensive amount of perfume sat down next to me, and just when I’d decided to leave he brought her coffee over and said to me, “You two would have lots in common.”  I looked over at her and said, “He knows nothing about me.”  He replied to the woman, who I suspect is a good friend, “Yes, but I can tell she is smart.” 

The way he introduced us without being able to remember my name was interesting.  ”Is it Fiona?” he guessed.  Thinking of SR and flattered, a few seconds went by before I answered, “Prudence.” 

I should back up.  Yesterday it was too hot in the coffee shop, and I wanted to practice my Spanish aloud, so I sat at one of the two tables outside.  I chose the one in the sun.  He came out and sat on the other side of the front door, in the shade.  I forget what he said but I wanted him closer so I told him to come to my table.  That might have seemed aggressive since it was the first time he’d addressed me, outside of what will you have. 

He came over and when he asked for my name he seemed quite pleased with it.  People either like it or they don’t and want to figure out some nickname.  That’s why I have several.  Anyway, either I didn’t make much of an impression (doubtful) or he has a poor memory for names (doubtful, as he is a barrista and the owner).

Twenty minutes after the introductions were made she knew everything about me.  She had my email and full name with my phone number entered into her address book.  She knew my age and most of my interests. She’d invited me to the next gathering with the Thurs night crowd for wine, and before she went any further I stood up to leave.  “I hope I didn’t scare you off,” she implored, getting up to follow me when I said I had to go wash my hands.

Another wedding, this time my stock buddy’s.  I had the same perfect outfit on, thank goodness.  It gives me confidence in strange social situations to feel good about my outfit.  That can backfire on you, though, the confidence. 

I should have been content to sit with his bride’s people.  To the left of me was the 97-year-old mother and I didn’t stick around long enough to get acquainted with the people on my right.  When the music started I moved my chair over to the vine-covered arbor to be in the shade.  I was sitting on a dance floor fashioned from stone and mortar.  That’s where I met the people he does the “review” with.  I know I spelled it wrong.  Anybody know how?

The band was really good, especially the clarinet player.  Even though his looks repulsed me I fell into his trance.  And he was good enough that I knew he could play everything.  This was big-band music, like my stock buddy likes, but I approached the handlebar mustache and asked for the blues with lots of clarinet.

I had two women on either side of me who wanted to know how I was acquainted since I knew all about them.  I explained.  After people started eating  I decided to pay a visit to the groom’s table.  His sister and brother-in-law, who I always wanted to meet, as he is semi-famous around these parts and she buys stocks I wouldn’t have the nerve to, had an empty chair between them so I took it. 

He is full of himself and looks like he drinks too much.  He would be pompous except that he is bright and funny.  She is very sharp and thinks for herself.  I found her open, friendly, and quite confident.  Maybe a little on the cold side, polar opposites from her brother.  She introduced me around the table and I could see everyone knew who I was. 

I went to get in line for food as the toasts got underway.  That’s when his other sister, who had just met me, gets up and tells a story about how he was dating two women at the same time and she advised him to dump the one who traded stocks.  According to the woman I’d just met under the arbor, my face registered disbelief.  No wonder his bride won’t let him talk to me.  She thinks we were dating.

I don’t know if you remember his bumbling ways, his almost vacant memory, and the strange speech pattern, but the fact that he is married and I am the loser he dumped…  Life is perplexing.

Each morning since I’ve been back from Sunriver I dress to laces, as Flylady calls it, and leave the house by 8:00.  I drive to a new coffee shop with the Investors Business Daily or my Spanish book, and I study.  In between sips of iced coffee (I made the switch in this heat) I observe the men. 

There are many men at this location, and here all this time I have been sitting around the corner.  The coffee is better there but I much prefer this new place.  The morning sun plays with the many colors on the wall, softening the orange and brightening the yellow.  It is cheery and, as the regulars file in for their usual cup to go, Ray greets his favorites. 

I think he is the owner.  Short and slightly round, he wears black clogs and white socks.  I always like his shirts.  Slightly older than I, he spends his mornings with whatever 20-something girl is working that day.  He treats them like a good teacher would and when his shift is up he joins his golf buddies on the couch where he sips espresso out of a demitasse cup. 

The music is better here, too.  It’s like being at his party.  He’s a good host but so far I haven’t made the guest list.  What I like about him is that he’s one way with the girls and another with the golfers, but I think the real Ray sits outside.  You can tell when he comes out from behind the counter and stands close to someone that he’s a good friend to have.  He’s someone you can really talk to.

Sunriver was the same wonderful trip it always is.  I even listened to country in my car.  It seemed more of a departure from my world here.  The desert was dryer this year,  the haze from the fires came in closer.  The trucks seemed bigger compared to the smaller cars here.  And I ate BBQ twice.  I even played nine holes.  Geez, I haven’t played golf in seven years.

The wedding reception was at her parent’s ranch in Bend.  They roasted a pig with the head on, and it was succulent.  That and the fire dancer were the highlights of the reception.  I sat next to her and we talked a little bit about the days when my teacher was taking from her.  Then after she performed – After the poi she did a hula hoop with fire — I asked her about the hula hoop and she told me about this park where you can go and a bunch of people do tricks with and without fire.  I think I’m gonna check it out.  I was always good with the hula hoop. 

The wedding was very touching.  I haven’t been to one in ages, and I am yearning for a mate, so maybe that was part of it but I cried so many times.  Her old roommate sang a song the guitar player had written for the wedding and everyone was crying over that.  It was a small wedding, and I recognized all the people from Portland.  I sat in front of her Aunt who used to chaperon at a lot of her gigs.  A bellydancer needs an attendant to help carry, park the car, field off unwanted suitors, etc.  I did it a couple times.  So she caught me up on all the family news.

I sat with the other bellydancers, the ones from Portland.  Right before the fire dancer performed her friend showed up and I scooted over to make room.  From the back she looked 20-something, except for the grey dreds.  From the front I couldn’t tell.  She said she was closer to my age than I thought, not that she had any idea how old I am.  She had the most riveting eyes. 

She told me she’d just had her first bellydance lesson the day before.  I told her she looked like a dancer.  She said she was a stilt-walker. 

When my teacher came over to our table to say hello I was on the far end so she hugged the fire dancer first.  Then she came over and I stood up.  We held each other and cried for all the time apart.  She said she didn’t know what to say.

I am happy she has a husband.

I’m going to a wedding this weekend.  My bellydance teacher is getting married and since Teresa has a house in the same town, which she will be at this week, I’m going to stay with her.  I go every year so it’s not a big deal, except this year I’m not all that sure about my car. 

It kind of clicks when you turn sharply to the left or right.  This has been going on for some time but now the light comes on that says “service 4wheel drive.”  I had that fixed and he said it was no big deal but now the light’s coming on again.  Then there’s this clicking sound above the glove box.  My car is ten years old with 139,000 miles on it.  I suppose it’s on its last legs.  And since it has been costing over $60 to fill it up lately, I guess I should plan on getting a smaller one.

Normally, I’m pretty excited about going to Sunriver.  And I am looking forward to this wedding.  It will be exciting to see who is there, now that she is such a bigshot.  She travels around, performing with dancers I’ve seen on stage and taken workshops from so it will be interesting to see who comes and what they look like in street clothes.  But maybe it will be a very small wedding.  I don’t think she has that many close friends.

I say “normally” because this year I have no desire to leave home.  The weather is perfect.  My flowers are fantastic.  I’m in love with my cat these days.  She likes me too, lately.  My dog will be miserable without me, even though my brother will lavish her with attention.  But that’s just when he comes to feed her. 

I’m supposed to be packing but I’m still waiting for a load from the dryer.  Usually, I have a certain set of clothes that fit in the summer but because I thought I was going to have to get naked, I lost a couple pounds so there’s really nothing that doesn’t fit.  I can’t decide what to take. 

All I care about is the wedding outfit.  And that’s perfect.  I bought a new pair of sandals that are really cool.  And I painted my toenails to match.  The shoes are faux snakeskin, sort of dark red, almost maroon, patent leather. I haven’t worn pearls in ages but I drug them out today and mixed and matched a double-strand choker and bracelet to match, with a graduated strand and pearl-drop earrings.  None of them real but they all look great. 

I even have the perfect wrap.  I bought it to use as a hip scarf and I’ll be able to use it for that at the reception, but I’ll wear it as a shawl to begin with.  If I turn it inside-out it exactly matches the off-white/grey in the striping of the skirt, which is navy and white.  It looks like chiffon and the top is navy, sleeveless and very flattering.  Plus, I’m very tan so the idea of hanging out with all these amazing women is less daunting. 

What I’m really looking forward to is the kayaking and this place we always go for coffee.  I like being with Teresa there because she’s so much more at home in Sunriver.

So guess who showed up at the blues bar Sun night.  It seems he sent me the following email which I found in my spam acct the next morning:

“Hi

Edited to add:  You know, it just occurred to me.  The day after the Canadian told me about the cyclist I looked up to the heavens and asked for a gay, guy friend.

Rupert

 Actually, that shitty day was yesterday.  I just posted late.  Because I had two glasses of wine, passed out after dinner, and woke up around midnight to see that I had no email, no comments, and that nobody cared about me anymore.  I got so used to the phone ringing all the time and the email coming and now nothing.  No men.  Not even Wally.  His timing was bad.  I might have …Nah.

Yeah, it sucks to be the kind of woman who measures her happiness by the amount of wooing that’s comin’ her way.  I need to meditate more.

Thank God I have hobbies.  And girlfriends.  And children, though a little of that goes a long way.  The oldest was here ALL day yesterday doing the middle one’s hair.  Not wanting to wait for her big sister, she was an idiot and bought a box of something and tried to do her hair herself.  Three bleach jobs later –For some reason the hair was divided into thirds — plus a dramatic haircut –”Think bombshell” was the directive — they left to go have a drink around 6:30.  That entire time the hairdresser’s dog was mauling mine.  “Oh, she’s just being a puppy.”  Read her German Shepherd/Pitbull opened wide and would mouth my dog’s neck, like he was thinking about eating her, while Bridget hovered beneath my chair.  When I complained the oldest, mimicking an elderly dog in distress, recounted how when Bridget was a puppy she had tormented my poor arthritic Bella.   That shut me up.

I have a beer in the other refrigerator.  I’m gonna go get it.  Let’s see if I can drown my sorrows one more night. 

While I’m drinking this I’ll tell you a funny story.  About the time the Canadian was disappearing I started getting emails from a guy I went to high school with.  Not the one who said he was still pining for me all these years later, which I feel sure is bullshit, but the gay guy I sat next to in 8th grade.  We’d carpooled until I got too cool for choir, orchestra, band and all the music stuff I had loved but left in high school.  The last time I saw him we smoked pot in the back of someone’s car at the first reunion.  Or was it the second?  

I’ll call him Rupert, though he has an elegant name.  Not that Rupert’s not.  So Rupert and I are pretty excited about being reunited.  He’d seen my email address on the class reunion site and a couple weeks went by with long-winded exchanges back and forth.  He’s a good writer and is living in India doing orchestral, educational, liturgical work.  Right up my ally these days so I was pumping him about his work when all of a sudden the emails, which had been almost daily, came to an abrupt halt. 

The last paragraph, because I went back and looked to see if there had been some weirdness I hadn’t noticed, read “Are you still married?  I remember your husband from that reunion, but not his name.  Anyway, that’s enough for now.”

I’m thinking the whole point of the emails was to reconnect with Henry.  They met, not at the reunion, but at our house.  Henry has always been real homophobic and the girls used to insist he was gay.  This was based on how he hated women and loved to dress.  I think he could be bi.  That’s irrelevant.  Maybe. 

See, this is an example of why people say I’m suspicious.  I think it’s just having imagination.  All I’m sayin’ is that ever since I wrote back we were divorced:  nothing.  Maybe he’s working in a remote village for a few days.  All I know is that not even gay guys are emailing me now.  I wish I had another beer.  Or a bottle of wine. 

I’m in a shitty mood and have been all day.