Not an Animal Person
Hibiscus Magazine/Fall 2024
Garvey, the landlord who opened the door, was no spring chicken himself, shorter than me, hunched and gnarled. A wild puff of white hair emerged from a chasm of baldness. Instead of a hello, he grunted.
“I don’t like this one bit. First I gotta put up with her, a homeless person with a home. Now this,” he said.
The stairwell was a deep turquoise, dark drips stained its walls. I gripped a rickety wooden railing, passed a series of doorways, guarding what I imagined were uninhabited apartments. Breathless, I followed a thin shaft of light streaming from above.
Harriet Schultz stood at the top of the stairs beside her open door.
Her face was a mask of rubbery layers of skin draping from her skull. She wore garish pink lipstick which missed her lips in spots, leaked onto her chin, cheeks. My late mother’s own blurried mouth flashed then retreated.
“I’m Margaret,” I said.
“Weird hair,” she said, examining my cropped locks.
I followed her into the sitting area, noting the dirty strands of grey hair colluding at her shoulders.
The afternoon light came through splattered front windows.
An unpleasant moth bally plus old food smell pervaded. I contained a rising sick panic.
Her pants were pilly polyester, a white stain on her left thigh. She wore a tank top. Large moles mushroomed from weathered skin. Her breasts hung low, braless.
A hot flash overcame me.
I removed my coat.
“Hot in here, huh?”
Her laugh was kind of a HA-haaaaaaaaaaaa-guttural, low, rising up at the end.
I tried to smile, to laugh along, but could only fold inward, press my lips together.
I took in the whole of the apartment.
Cats. Pictures of cats lining the walls, shelves, even the ceiling. Cats cut from magazines, books, labels, obviously wherever Harriet could find them.
“Do you have a cat?” I asked.
“Can’t take care of myself, why’d I have a cat?” she said.
She plopped on a cluttered couch. Her large age-spotted hands spread on her legs.
“The social worker said you might like me to read to you,” I said, taking a surreptitious glance at my watch.
Her ice blue eyes narrowed.
“Planning your escape? Can’t blame you,” she said. “Well, go ahead, read this.”
She handed over a book, James Herriot’s cat stories.
