Little Grey
By W.S. Lacey
Copyright 2013 W.S. Lacey
At that time Devochka lived with me in a decrepit, sprawling building not far from the canal. It was in some places two storeys and in others three and wrapped its decaying arms around a courtyard full of weeds and a dry, leaf-filled fountain. Behind this building there was a ditch that filled with water when rains came.
The greater part of the city lay on the other side of the canal and its light made the night sky glow and wiped out the stars. On the near side of the canal, however, the streets were old and quiet and people moved along them almost furtively.
There were no other children for Devochka to play with and she spent many of her days wandering through the dim halls and playing in the barren courtyard. I, in the meanwhile, would go from the table to the window, look out at the street below, and walk back to the table with its piles of paper and dirty plates and coffee cup rings.
We saw little of the neighbors and I never quite caught the name of the woman to whom I gave the money each month. The only familiar face was that of the maintenance man, who checked hinges and windows and swept the walk in front of the building. He was large and sleepy looking and was often drunk.
It was the middle of summer and the evenings were long, seeming to stretch on in a prolonged sunless twilight that was neither night nor day. Devochka and I would go on walks down past the houses and along the canal, meeting no one and making our way, by and by, back to our home where we would skirt the ditch and enter through the courtyard. It was on one such still, peculiar evening that we saw the cat. She was grey and dirty, though well-fed and sleek enough to suggest that she had not lived long in the street. I could see that she was pregnant.
The cat hunkered in the grass at the edge of the ditch and watched us as Devochka called and wheedled. As we came near, she darted into the courtyard and Devochka hurried after.
“She’s gone,” she said.
“I think she may sleep nearby,” I said, “perhaps you’ll get a kitten.” Cheered by that thought, Devochka ran ahead of me to our door, her voice echoing in the stairwell and the silent hall.
The next day it rained and Devochka sat on the floor with scissors and paper while I walked from table to window and back again. Late at night, I lay in bed listening to the rain sweeping in gusts down the street and spattering against the window.
The morning was clear and sodden and Devochka splashed through puddles and floated paper boats in the leaf choked fountain. I stood at the window and watched the maintenance man sweeping the water from the walk, each push of his broom sending a dirty cascade of water into the street. I had gone back to the table when Devochka burst in, knees muddy and head bare.
“I found her! She’s under the stairs on the far side!” I followed her down to the courtyard where a wooden staircase was set against the far wall. The lattice covering the side was broken at the corner and Devochka, calling gently to the cat, peered in. I crouched down as well and saw the cat lying in the darkness. She meowed at us and Devochka asked if she might bring down some milk.
“Yes,” I said. “I think that those kittens will be along soon.”
That evening we walked along the canal, its waters swollen and dark from the rain. The water in the ditch had risen as well, breaking out in some places and laying in shallow pools. Devochka hastened to the stairs in the courtyard where the saucer she had set out was licked clean. In the dim light, the cat’s form was barely visible under the stairs.
“Come along,” I said.
♦
I kept a picture of Devochka’s mother in my pocket. It was curled at one corner and had had a white crease in it since I had fallen asleep on it one night. The dress she wore in the picture had been the color of new copper, with black flowers printed all over it. The dress was gone; where I could not remember.
♦
It was nearly lunch time when Devochka pulled me down to the courtyard. The mother cat lay on her side under the stairs, a litter of trundling, mewling kittens between her paws.
“Please, may I have one?”
“Not yet, Devochka. Soon they’ll be old enough to leave their mother.” As we looked at the kittens blindly seeking out their mother, the maintenance man came through the courtyard. He looked over his shoulder at us and scraped the bottoms of his boots before going inside. After lunch, we went out and bought a tin of fish. Devochka went back to the kittens and I stood at the kitchen window, looking down on the street.
♦
On Sunday, I sat at the table with my coffee and Devochka sat in her chair.
“The one that I want is grey like her mother. She can hardly walk but she’s very noisy. The handyman said it wouldn’t do to have them under there.”
“Did he?”
When the sun had gone down, I left Devochka to her play and went out into the long twilight. On most nights, we stepped out onto the street and from there to the canal. That night, I walked alone through the courtyard. The lattice on the stairs was hanging to one side and, as I passed the fountain, I saw the maintenance man coming from the far end of the courtyard.
He was carrying a burlap sack, tied at the top and dripping water in a steady stream that left a track through the weeds, past the building, to the ditch beyond. He nodded at me and disappeared. I waited a moment and went to the stairs.
♦
“Devochka,” I said as I sat by her bed, “I think the kittens have gone somewhere else with their mother.”
“I’ll look for them,” she said, “they’re so little, they can’t have gone far.”
♦
Devochka searched for the kittens all the next day. I heard her calling in the hall and, when we returned from our walk, she went to the stairs in the courtyard to see if they had returned.
“I couldn’t find them anywhere,” she said. We passed the maintenance man in the hall. He seemed to be scrubbing at muddy spots on the wall and he looked slightly more drunk than usual. Though I was vaguely aware that he lived in the building, I had rarely seen him working so late, nor had I ever seen him cleaning. Devochka wanted to ask him if he had seen the kittens but I shooed her inside.
♦
Devochka did not give up her search for the kittens and the next week, on a grey and foreboding day, she bounded into the kitchen.
“I found my kitten!”
“Really? Where?”
“She was wandering around in a hallway downstairs.”
“Are you sure it’s the same kitten?”
“I’m sure. She’s grey like her mother.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know, she got away. I think someone gave her a bath and she wanted to go dry off.”
♦
The next day Devochka played with her kitten in the quiet corners and darkened hallways of the building. I slept through the afternoon, only waking to make her dinner and listen to her enthuse about Little Grey.
“I wish she would sleep in my bed. She still lives with her brothers and sisters but some day she’ll follow me home and stay with us forever.”
I sat up very late that night. Just after midnight, it began to rain softly. The building sighed and settled and I propped my head on my hand. There was a faint sound out in the hall. I heard it a second time; the cry of a kitten.
The only light in the hall came from the doorway and I stepped carefully so as not to frighten the kitten away. There was something dark tracked across the floor and, crouching down, I saw that they were muddy paw-prints. The prints meandered along the floor before going up onto the wall and, finally, the ceiling where they continued until their abrupt disappearance not far from our door. I stared into the blackness at the end of the hall before going back to the warm li
ght of the kitchen.
♦
I awoke and found Devochka’s bed empty and crumbs on the table. The paw-prints were gone, the floor and wall where they had been looking freshly scrubbed. I went off in search of the maintenance man.
Though I walked through the building several times over, he wasn’t to be found. For that matter, I did not come across anyone, not even Devochka. There was a large closet where the maintenance man kept his brooms and buckets and I knocked on the door, hoping to catch him inside. There was no answer and I was turning to go when I noticed something about the door. It had been freshly painted with white paint and was pristine except for the very bottom. All along the bottom edge of the door were scores and scores of small, light scratches.
♦
When Devochka came in for lunch, she had a cough and looked peaked.
“Have you been playing by the ditch?”
“I was playing with Little Grey.”
“Have you seen any of her brothers and sisters recently?”
“Oh, yes. They’re in all the halls now, meowing and walking around. Soon Little Grey will be ready to come here.” She coughed and I heard it rattle in her chest.
“I don’t think we’ll go for a walk tonight. Will you stay here this afternoon and draw pictures?”
♦
The next day Devochka was sick. When she had her soup and her books in bed, I went to the kitchen and stood by the window. There was a small gathering on the street below. A policeman stood by a stretchered body covered in a white sheet.
Locking the door behind me, I went down and out to the front entrance where three women huddled together.
“Found him in with the paint and tools.”
“He’d drunk something.”
“Done it on purpose.”
“Why d’you suppose?”
I looked up at our own window high above the street and something like terror crawled across my skin. Standing in the window was a draggled grey kitten with milky white eyes. It opened its tiny mouth in a silent meow.
I ran back to our rooms, taking the stairs two at a time and sending the door crashing into the wall. I stopped suddenly just outside Devochka’s room. She was still sleeping. I stood by her bed and looked at her pale face and the rise and fall of her body. Her breathing was not very easy and sounded- it sounded wet. At the foot of her bed, just at the corner, was a small damp spot.
We moved the day after. Within the week, Devochka had recovered and was playing with a girl and boy she had met. I have not been to the other side of the canal since and, though I occasionally read a newspaper, I have heard nothing about the home of Little Grey and her kin.
Also from W.S. Lacey: Odd’s Door
https://www.facebook.com/OddsDoor