Читать книгу Of Man and Animals - Thomas R. Hauff - Страница 9

Margaret Nadine Skyler’s eyes knifed open at seven a.m. at the clanging insistence of her old fashioned, round-faced alarm clock. She hated the morning. “If God wanted me to see the morning, He’d have scheduled it later in the day!” she always said. Her pudgy hand groped out from under the covers and slapped down on the alarm, silencing it. She stiffly rose, wrapped a terry cloth robe around herself, and waddled out into the kitchen. She snagged a piece of mushroom from a scrap of last night’s pizza as she passed the linoleum-topped kitchen table. Chewing it absently, she loosed the bolts on the door (one had to bolt the door to keep the weirdoes out) and looked down to see her cat, Tracker, waiting to come in for breakfast.

Tracker was a large—some would say fat—three year old, orange tabby. Margaret dubbed him Tracker because when he was young, he would track and catch mice in the back yard. He had pretty much given that up, which was fine with her, since he was getting older and slowing down. Kind of like Margaret. She was almost 35 now. And on cold mornings like this she felt it! It was hard to move her considerable weight when her joints were so cold and stiff, that was for sure. “Ah well,” she thought, “no one enjoyed the process of aging.” Well, except the physically gifted like that snooty Jean Reynolds. She was God-knows-what age and still ran around the block half-naked in spandex! She was some sort of freak of nature; at least forty and still rather slim and active. Not many were like that, that was for sure! It must be some genetic oddity. “Well,” Margaret thought, “she was a ‘sports’ nut anyway. All that running around. That can’t be healthy, obsessing over exercising like that. You need to be more well-rounded, and anyone who runs around the block in the morning is definitely not well-rounded in Margaret Nadine Skyler’s book!

Having let Tracker in, Margaret shuffled back through the kitchen. She pulled a nice piece of pizza from the box on the table and wadded half of it into her mouth as she passed the table again. Reaching the pantry, she took a box of dry cat food from the shelf, and returned to the door, cramming the remaining half piece of pizza between her lips. “Stans makes the best pizza,” she mused. And if you bought an extra-large, you got a whole bag of cheesy bread with it! Free! She noticed that Tracker’s bowl was only half full, and though he never seemed to actually finish his food (he was no “clean-plate clubber!”) she filled it over the brim until it spilled out onto the floor. “Damn,” she scolded herself, “now I’ll have to sweep!” She then went back over to return the box of cat chow to the shelf, appropriating another large piece of Stans’ finest on the way.

While Tracker was busily scarfing food, she trundled out to the living room toward the front door. She nonchalantly fisted a few mints from the bowel as she passed the mantle. “It’s always polite to have a few sweets out for guests,” she’d say. Some people like that Jean Reynolds didn’t know that! She’d been to her house a number of times. The Reynolds would have bar-b-cue and invite the whole block! And although there was always a nice selection of food, Margaret noted that there were no “niceties.” Things that make a person feel welcome, like mints, or popcorn, or jelly beans. Jean had said she didn’t care for mints, but that was not the point! One doesn’t just sit around eating mints. They are there as a welcome saying, “Come in! Feel comfortable! Have a mint!” They let a person know they were cared about. Margaret had been to the Reynold’s dozens of times and never had one mint! She had received small gifts from them too, and not once was it a nice chocolate or anything of the like! Well, one can’t force graciousness on others. She refilled her hand with jelly beans from the table, and went to the door.

It was bright and sunny out, but cold! Margaret hated that. There was Jean on her morning run. Red top today with blue tights. Pretty ostentatious! Jean waved and grinned at her as she passed, her breath pluming out of her mouth. Margaret waved back thinking, “I’m sure glad I don’t have a problem with ostentation!” And she lazily thought of her nice conservative brown, tan, and gray wardrobe. No one could accuse her of being self-involved! She dressed demurely at all times.

That damn paper boy! The paper lay at the end of the porch near the steps. Margaret was going to have to tiptoe over the freezing concrete to get it! How hard can it be to toss the paper a few more feet to the mat? Johnny Spellman had been the paper boy for three years now. He never missed Ms. Skyler’s house, that was for sure! Though he did on occasion miss the mat. She tipped well at Christmas, and paper boys always wanted more money. She often wondered what fun activities Johnny gave up just to get money. She recalled her own childhood and the fun she had had sitting with her mom in the kitchen baking. They made the best cakes and pies together. She would spend hours with her mom rolling dough, mixing fillings, and all sorts of things. Margaret slipped the last few jelly beans into her mouth still wondering what Johnny missed out on just because he wanted her money. She then lightly (as lightly as her bulk could allow) skipped out to the paper and picked it up (groaning with the exertion). She danced back to the warm carpet inside, breathing heavily, her breath pluming like that Jean Reinhold’s, and quickly closed the door. She deftly mouthed a few peanuts from the light stand near the window, and went back to the kitchen.

Margaret loved to read the paper in the morning on weekends. She always got up early, but enjoyed a good long read on Saturday and Sunday. She hated rushing off to work. And she was very conscientious. In at 7:30 (though the office opened at 8:00), and home at 6:00. She didn’t mind putting in long hours. The effort had made her manager in four short years, and she enjoyed it too! She moved the pizza box on the table, scooping up the last piece of cheesy bread and popping it into her mouth. All gone and cleared for breakfast! Margaret hated a mess. She knew people who were messy and she could not stand it! They always have a reason for not putting things away or cleaning up. But Margaret had learned from her daddy that “every thing has its place and every place has its thing.” How hard can it be to change that habit? She had been messy once. But daddy had helped her learn to clean up after herself. That’s all it takes is a little help from someone who cares. Margaret sighed. Perhaps that was the trouble. People just don’t care anymore.

Tracker had gorged on his breakfast and was lying on his side dozing by the door. He was a lovely cat! Pretty cinnamon orange, with orange eyes. He was so soft and cuddly too! Margaret smiled at him as she stood. She laid the paper out, put out a place setting, and began to make waffles. There is nothing like waffles on Saturday morning! Margaret made a small batch. As she did, she poured Tracker a nice bowel of whole milk. He needed it to settle his nerves. Often after eating he would wheeze and cough as he settled his heft down for a nap. Margaret was sure he was too excited about seeing her in the morning, and probably had some sort of respiratory problem too. The milk helped him to calm down and sleep.

As the first waffle cooked, Margaret nibbled at the jam. Just a few teaspoons to idle the time as she waited. She looked out the window and noticed Brian Gottlieb washing his truck. He sure spent a lot of time doing that! Here it was not much past seven a.m. and he’s out washing the truck. People get hung up on things and they can’t seem to see they are obsessed. It’s not as though the truck was actually dirty per se. He did use it to go “four wheelin’” (as he called it) but most of the time it looked as clean as any other car on the block. Certainly Margaret’s car was clean and she didn’t wash it more than a couple times a month, if that. In fact, no one she could think of washed their cars as much as Brian Gottlieb. He had a problem with his truck. Margaret spooned a large dollop of jam into her mouth as she contemplated Brian’s work. It was really sort of sad that he wasted such time on it. He was a nice looking young man; cute really. But he wasn’t married. He didn’t even date that much. Margaret doubted any woman would want some guy who obsessed over his truck! That was undoubtedly the problem.

The waffle appeared ready and Margaret dumped it onto her plate. She then filled the waffle-maker again for the next one before she sat down to eat. She quickly buttered the waffle, spooned the jam onto it (raspberry), and poured a little syrup on for extra pizzazz. “The coffee!” she exclaimed to herself. Tracker looked at her and blinked before laying his head back down to wheeze himself back to sleep. She set the coffee maker, and went about preparing her cup hurriedly: A little cream, three tablespoons of sugar, and ready to pour! The Bunn streamed out the coffee in short order and within a few minutes she was licking her lips over the last few forkfuls of her first waffle and reading the paper.

Councilman Dexter was in deep! She laughed to herself. He was notorious for womanizing and had been caught with a young lady in a motel. Margaret did not condone such things herself. She had never had sex as a teenager, or at all for that matter, and felt it was wrong to do so. She was raised right, as a good Christian woman. And respectable, good people didn’t sleep around like animals! People were not made to demean one another that way in Margaret Nadine’s eyes. Serves that bastard Dexter right if he gets tossed from office! And Margaret almost choked on her bite from waffle number two as she laughed at his duress. “Gotta get more coffee,” she thought, and started spooning sugar into her cup.

When the breakfast dishes were cleared, the paper read, and the table wiped down, Margaret settled into her easy chair in the living room. She loved to sit and read on Saturday morning with Tracker. He enjoyed the wide expanse of her lap in which to lie, as well as the occasional scratches behind the ears. He was flopped out on her right now, with his belly up, and his eyes fast closed. Margaret was wading through War and Peace for the second time. She enjoyed reading long, involved books in which the characters were well developed by the author. Count Rostov was her favorite in this classic, and he had just entered the army. Margaret sat nibbling a little popcorn and wolfing down his exploits in the fields of Russia. She glanced out the front window, and noticed Brian had finished his washing and was talking with the neighbor on the corner, Jeff Bonhart.

The Bonharts were very nice people. Well, Margaret thought they were anyway. She had had conversations with Shawna Stewart about them in the past, and had to admit they were sometimes a little selfish. They enjoyed their deck in the back yard, and often sat out in the evening chatting with friends. Sometimes though, they just sat out and listened to music. That was the rub for Shawna and her husband Stacy (“That’s a funny name for a man,” Margaret giggled. Stacy Stewart! Say that three times fast!). The Bonharts played their classical music too loud sometimes. And Margaret had to agree that it intruded on occasion—though she loved classical music. Some people just expected others to go along with their ideas she supposed. It was a common failing in many people. She could forgive it in the Bonharts. They were full of other good qualities. They sometimes invited her over to sit with them in the evening. And she always had a pleasant time, chatting and snacking on various treats. They would laugh, or sometimes just listen to music and watch the stars. It was nice. Besides, that Shawna Stewart shouldn’t complain. The Stewarts owned a restored “street rod” and when Stacy monkeyed with the engine it reverberated through the entire neighborhood! Some people just made more noise than others. And although Margaret would never play her stereo that way, or race her car engine, she had chosen to tolerate the insensitivity of the Bonharts on occasion.

Margaret’s musings were interrupted by the sight of Johnny Spellman heading back down the block having finished his paper route. She wrestled herself to her feet, and got to the door, huffing, before he could pass. She leaned out over the cold porch and hollered at him at the top of her lungs, “Hey Johnny Spellman! Try to hit the mat next time, huh?!” Margaret was sure Johnny flashed her a penitent “sorry Ms. Skyler” look before she turned to go in. Brian and Jeff had both snapped their heads in her direction at her bellow that had rung out up and down the street. This partially annoyed Margaret. It was none of their business if she needed to correct the boy!

Brian and Jeff loaded golf clubs into Brian’s shiny truck and they tore out to go “hit the pill” as Jeff called playing a round of golf. Margaret didn’t go in for such things. She didn’t believe in wasting time out of her day. She munched a little more popcorn, and seeing that the morning had disappeared, she ousted Tracker from his sleep and headed for the kitchen to start lunch. Margaret had a hankering for some dogs and beans. She opened two cans and poured them into the saucepan. Before placing them on the stove however, she plucked out two of the little hot dogs that are mixed in with the beans and placed them on a saucer. Tracker paced at her feet expectantly, and as she bent to place the daily treat down for him he squealed a long meow of pleasure. Margaret grinned and stroked him as he began to gobble his snack. She then set her own beans to cooking and looked in the fridge for something to accompany them. “Let’s see,” she thought, “I have meat in my hot-dogs, so I need something sustaining.” She closed the fridge, and opted for a large piece of French bread. Just the ticket!

Having finished lunch Margaret needed a nap. “People just don’t take naps as much as they used to,” she said to Tracker as they both lay down. Tracker climbed up her side and settled heavily on her stomach in his “sphinx” pose. His eyes seem to say, “I’m lord of all I survey.” Margaret scratched him and said, “You are one fat cat!” To this he closed his eyes and purred loudly. She marveled that a cat could get so big. Just the other day she had commented with pride on her tiger sized pet. She smiled softly as she drifted off to sleep.

Margaret awoke as Tracker huffed his way down off her and out of the room. She lay quietly listening, expecting and then hearing the crunch of hard cat food as Tracker began to munch. She lolled over and got up, glancing out the window into the back yard at her over-run gardens. She had had the idea once of growing fresh food, but had only gotten as far as the first year. Truth be told, she had not even harvested all the produce. She had found that weeding and hoeing and what-not was not to her taste. It was Vicky next door who had interested her in the project. She had a very large garden herself. Frankly, it had looked more inviting when Vicky was grubbing around on her hands and knees! Well, you can’t accomplish everything in life. You must pick and choose what to fill your time with and there were many other activities Margaret would rather pursue. She dismissed the garden and went into the living room to watch TV. It was near four o’clock by now, and having turned the volume up a little she went in to the kitchen to start dinner. As she passed the table she snagged a few mints.

Tracker was lying on his side by the door wheezing himself back to sleep. Margaret smiled at him, enjoying his color, thinking how happy she was to take care of him—especially with his breathing problems and all. Deep down she suspected he just ate too much, but he was, after all, just a cat and animals couldn’t be expected to have self-control like people. She’d watch out for him.

Margaret pulled the ham from the fridge and set the oven. She then prepared it and put it in to cook. She loved a good ham, the kind with the spicy rind. It gave a zesty flavor to dinner that she liked. She then put the cabbage and potatoes into a pot to boil a little later when the meat was near done. Then, she pulled a box of ho-hos out from the cupboard, and began to unwrap them. She knew some folks would say she was nuts, but she liked to arrange even boxed deserts on a plate. She put them down in a star pattern on a plate, nibbling down the extra two (and of course dropping a few pieces into Tracker’s bowl). She then went back to watch TV until dinner.

TV was dull. Mostly it was just frivolous pap that wasted one’s day. She tolerated it for the two hours it took for the ham to cook and then switched it off with distaste when the timer rang. She prepared the veggies, removed the meat from the oven, cut it into thin strips, and set the whole lot out on the table. She spread her napkin smoothly on her immense lap and enjoyed the fruits of her labor. It was well worth the effort to have a good meal at least once a week, and Margaret always tried on Saturday or Sunday to do just that. The ham was flavorful and tasty, the veggies were just the right consistency, and the dessert was the perfect topper. She sighed with pleasure as she pushed the last piece of ho-ho into her mouth, and sat back to watch Tracker watch her. He always expected something from the table. But he should know that nothing was forthcoming. Margaret knew it was not good to overstuff him. And by now he should know that table scraps were not part of his diet. He ate at set times, with one snack a day. That was set in stone. And no amount of begging would change that. After watching her chew and swallow the last piece of ho-ho, Tracker circled a couple more times and resigned himself to waiting till later.

Margaret cleaned up, and went out to the sofa to sit and watch TV until dinner settled. She relaxed, comfy, occasionally downing a few mints and nuts as she listened. Finally, a few hours later, she headed for bed. On the way she took the box of cat food down from the shelf, and letting Tracker out the back door, she filled his patio bowl to the brim. He meowed thankfully and dove in with gusto. Margaret closed the door, turned the locks, and went off to sleep, leaving Tracker to roam the neighborhood until tomorrow when she would again find him waiting for her.