meeses

I lived in Washington Heights for a while. Two summers between college semesters were spent in a sunny two-bedroom on Haven Avenue; north of Harlem, south of the Bronx. That first washington heights summer, I lived with Enid; my dear, dear Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa. We talked through the nights and into the mornings; shared recipes (her chicken a la king for my pasta e fagioli) and adopted a teenaged cat together (Heifer). When it came to raising Heifer, Enid was the disciplinarian whereas I was the indulger; when Heifer climbed up the curtains and sent the whole unit tumbling to the ground around her, it was Enid who shook her finger angrily - "mira! mira!" - while I was the one who scooped up the offending, startled heifer in a clumsy attempt to soothe her.

One afternoon, I was beginning the trek up the 4 flights of stairs to our apartment when I heard a familiar shriek. Enid! I sprinted up the remaining stairs and threw the door to our apartment open, burst inside and found ... Enid, atop a chair in the living room, with her hands pressed to her cheeks.

"A mouse! A mouse!" she cried.

"That's it - a mouse?" I asked. No rapist. No jerk ex-boyfriend. No jehovah's witness - a mouse; teeny, cute and gray. That's silly, I thought, to hide from a creature 3 inches long. What can a mouse really do - spit on your toes?

"There!" Enid shouted. I looked. A blur of grey, fur and sweat streaked from one side of the room to the other. Suddenly, there wasn't enough room on the chair for the both of us.

So we had mice.

Immediately, we went into denial. The little buggers made it easy - after their initial appearance, they were mercifully silent for a couple of days. It was a fluke, we agreed. Just one wayward mouse who had gotten lost on his way from one filthy apartment to another filthy apartment. Our apartment was clean and nice. He (we were sure it was a "he") didn't belong here. He must have sensed he was in a clean house and gone on his way. Yes.

We decided to have a mural-painting party. We laid plastic garbage bags down on the floor and pushed all of the furniture into the center of the living room. Sea life on one wall, we decided, free form on the others. Enid's friend declared that he would paint a portrait of himself as a Spanish parrot on the north wall. We thought that was a fine idea. We splattered paint on the plastic bags gleefully as we slopped our brushes on the formerly bland walls, working quietly, except for the random haunting bursts of song from Enid.

Underneath us, the plastic rippled. We paused, our brushes dripping, hovering in mid-air.

"Don't move," we told each other.

We were still. The ripples continued. We jumped onto the furniture in the middle of the room. The mice were back, and taking control of the place under the cover of the plastic bags so we could only guess where the ripples would next hit. It was the perfect plan, and we were beached on the couch at their mercy.

Then: a lithe lump of gray and white fur - muscles twitching underneath the black stripes - hurtled with white paws and sharp claws splayed onto the plastic. She darted, she leapt, she recoiled, she pounced. Heck yes! How could we have doubted our safety when we had a she cat on the premises? The mice? Toast!

In the minutes, hours and days that followed, it was discovered that stripey little Heifer was a really great mouser. Finally able to relax, we congratulated ourselves on being so brilliant as to welcome a cat into our home. Leave mouse poo on our dishes, yeah? Sneak around our house, would they? Scare us onto rickety chairs, eh? Heifer pounced on them before they even moved and for a little while, we were pretty pleased with ourselves and with our she cat.

Pleased ... until to our great dismay, we began to notice the grisly collection of mouse parts strewn throughout the apartment; a deathly trail leading to the sometimes still-shuddering carcass itself.

It was abominable. how quickly things changed. Whereas we had begun our relationship with the mice in our hice as sworn enemies, our hearts melted at their cruel fate and we began to feel compassionate towards them. Whispering so that Heifer wouldn't hear, we devised a system of allowing her to chase them towards us where we would be waiting with open plastic bags. Often, it worked; we captured quite a few quivering mice this way and were able to free them from Heifer's bloodthirsty maw by releasing them onto the fire escape.

But it wasn't enough. We couldn't be there at all times. At some point, Heifer was going to be alone with the mice. And after she chased and chased and chased them and sent them into coronary arrest, she was going to eat their little ears, their little arms, their little scaly tales and generously leave the rest for us. We'd read, of course, that cats and dogs often leave dead things for their humans as a "gift." Knowing Heifer as we had come to know Heifer, I couldn't help but wonder if the cat was, in fact, letting us know exactly what she was capable of. It was a terrifying, creeping realization - beneath the rattling purr and the soft nuzzling cheeks lay a twisted, cruel soul. What kind of beast had we let into our home?

Eventually, Heifer exterminated all of the mice in a five-mile radius, the cleaning products we sprayed around the house on the advice of my friend, Shiskabob, worked and/or the mice were scared away from our apartment for good because the trail of mouse grew fainter and fainter until it no longer existed. Enid and I exulted - not just for us, but for the poor little meeses as well. The reign of terror, it appeared, had ended at last. Heifer sulked. We placated her with more toys and food and she became quite fat and content to pounce at us when we entered or left a room. She lay in wait at all times and if we moved, she was there - claws and teeth poised to strike but, thankfully, inflicting no more harm than the odd scratch.

After college, I moved to the East Village. It seemed safe enough to bring Heifer with me. We moved into a three bedroom railroad apartment on 6th Street and Avenue A. There was a mouse; my blood curdled. In seconds, Heifer slashed its throat; the predatory princess was back. Thankfully, we only ever had two mice in my stay at 6 and A; the second, I managed to save from her jaws and set out on our fire escape where the poor thing - frightened beyond repair and possibly injured - breathed its last just as it received its freedom. Was my act a kindness or did I somehow make the death crueler by the twist of irony? Whereas I had once helped the mice, I had now unwittingly become an accomplice.

We moved to an 8 x 8 studio on the first floor of a building on Avenue A, and against my better judgment I brought her with me again. The place was quite cramped and after she took to running in circles around its perimeters, I sometimes considered allowing her to play in the small courtyard outside but my dreams were haunted by the thought that she would slay the squirrels that ran past and bring their remains inside. Just a friendly reminder. No thank you, said my night sweats. Heifer would have to deal with the close quarters just like me.

We moved to our current digs. Since she was on good behavior, I brought her with me again. Truth be told, in her sweeter, purrier moments, she is good company. At times in our current apartment, there are cockroaches (which she kills and does not eat). They remain in one piece and therefore, so do I. She skulks. She gnaws on my hands and shreds the burnt orange velour sectional couch that does not belong to me.

But aside from the times when we bicker, things are peaceful. Blood does not stain my home.

I've been away for a few days, living in my brother's apartment so O can take care of his dog while he is away. Before work tonight, I went back home to feed Heifer and clean the kitchen - I went to a friend's home this weekend (their clean, lovely home) and was inspired to make mine look clean and nice, too. I picked up a Tupperware container that was on the drying rack and froze. There, clinging to the bottom, were what looked like dozens of kiwi seeds. The Tupperware shook in my hands. My widening eyes took in the countertop - dozens of kiwi seeds were also scattered all over the metal surface. The sweltering room swayed, I put a hand out to steady myself. Mechanically, I began to mop up the kiwi seeds from the countertop. Kiwi seeds. Kiwi seeds. Nothing but kiwi seeds. I berated myself: must stop buying kiwis, coring them, and dumping their seeds around the kitchen....

The countertops dried. Heifer sat across the room - one lithe white paw crossed over the other, her eyes half-open. Did she look satisfied? Perhaps she looked satisfied. I had seen that look before. It sometimes happened after I shared chicken with her, or after she destroyed something I prized. Sometimes it appeared after she awoke from a nap. or after she sampled mouse liver pate.

If there was a "kiwi" running around in the kitchen, it is certainly no longer living.

It is to be a sweltering summer. I never run the air conditioning because I'm cheap.

I will come home. I will open a cupboard. I will slip my feet into my covers. I will move the bookcase from the wall. There will be a smell. It will smell like death.

I will find more kiwi seeds. I will find spots of red.

I wait.

Because I know it's only a matter of time.