Dewey's Nine Lives

For Vicki Kluever, the months after Johnny’s suicide were a fog. She has almost no memory of that summer, no recall of anything but a terrible darkness, despite twenty hours of daily sunshine. She had been in Hawaii with Sweetie, the first real vacation of their lives, when her brother died. He had called to say he loved her, to take care of herself. She had felt a terrible premonition, but what could she do? She was a thousand miles away. A few hours later, he was dead by his own hand.

The weight was crushing. She was drowning in grief. And she had no way to comfort her daughter or mother. Sweetie had loved her uncle Johnny. He rode a motorcycle; he wore a leather jacket; he was cool. She couldn’t fathom his death. Her mother couldn’t handle the loss of her child. She leaned on Vicki for support, as she always had. I remember that as well, the obligation of the good daughter, the need to be strong. When I arrived after my brother’s suicide, the first words my mother said to me were, “You can’t cry. Because if you start crying, then I’ll start crying, and I don’t know if I will ever stop.”

So Vicki Kluever held it together, as she always did. Through a terrible summer, as four more suicides rocked the small Kodiak community, she held it together for her daughter and mother. She leaned on whatever she could: work, friends, even Ted. But especially her cat.

And then, in August, Christmas Cat disappeared. He was gone three days before Vicki found his body, battered and lying in the thick undergrowth ten feet beyond her fence. She knew immediately what had happened: CC was sitting on his favorite fence post, taunting the neighbors’ dogs, when an eagle struck. The bald eagles of Kodiak had wingspans of eight feet or more; it was nothing for such a bird to pluck a twelve-pound fish from the ocean . . . or a nine-pound cat from a fence. She looked at the sky, so limitless and empty, but didn’t know what she was looking for. She remembered the sight of CC on Christmas Eve so long ago, his sputtering cough, his brave attempt to throw himself over the edge of the box. She was Vicki Kluever, strong and independent businesswoman. She didn’t cry. She definitely didn’t cry over cats. But she was crying now. She was crying so hard, and from so deep within, that she would physically ache the next day. Perhaps that seems too much, to cry so hard over a cat, but if you’ve ever belonged to an animal, you understand the grief. She had lost another family member. She had lost the friend that comforted her. What was she supposed to do now?

Noticing her despair, Ted brought her a new cat. Vicki, perhaps justifying, says he found Shadow outside his office; Sweetie, who, like CC, never cared for Ted, claims he found her outside a bar. Either way, the truth was that, only a month after CC’s death, Vicki was in no mood to adopt another cat. Not any cat. Not from anywhere. Believe it or not, there was still a part of her that didn’t like the idea of cats, and she certainly didn’t think she could just replace CC. But she accepted the tainted gift, the wedge Ted was using to push back into her life. She was too worn out and lonely to refuse.

So she was surprised to realize, when she started to come out of her fog a few months later, that she had grown quite fond of the little girl. Shadow was enough like CC, especially in her love of adventure and her mischievous eyes, to remind Vicki of what she had loved about him. But she was also very much her own cat. Unlike CC, Shadow didn’t have much interest in the outdoors. She didn’t have his cool dignity. She didn’t, if truth be told, let Vicki be the boss. And Vicki loved to be the boss. Instead, Shadow had a racing, jumping, wall-banging energy that completely disrupted, in the best possible way, Vicki’s life. She was always around, in other words, but never underfoot. Her favorite game wasn’t lap sitting; it was tag. If Vicki was in her casual clothes—there was still a prohibition against fur on the business suits—Shadow would sneak up and touch her on the heel. Then she’d take off running. Usually, Vicki tracked her down and tweaked her tail or tickled her belly, then ran away as Shadow chased after her. Sometimes, though, Shadow sprinted up the stairs. She had numerous places to hide up there, and Vicki could never find her. Shadow had no problem waiting for an hour. Then she’d come prancing out for a congratulatory hug. It was just a silly game, but Vicki liked it. It made her laugh. First Christmas Cat had touched her . . . now Shadow, too? Maybe, Vicki thought, I’m a crazy cat lady after all.