The Empty House

My father turned his back to me and watched through the living room window as the moving van pulled away with my family's possession

"How long till he gets to Monmouth?" he asked me, his usually authoritative voice softened to a whisper.

"He's got another home to load, then he'll deliver their goods first," I told him. "He says it will take about three days."

Swede nodded. His broad shoulders sagged slightly as he realized that we had nothing left to sit down on. His eyes scanned the empty house with the practical mind of a man who had spent his lifetime in the construction industry. His ability to apply textured plaster and tape sheet rock had put me through college. He always professed to be proud of his "boy." I'd always suspected, though, that he would have been happier with a son who was less bookish and more adept with a football or basketball. I'd never been much to brag about at the coffee shop on Saturday mornings. While his caffeine cronies related Homeric tales of their offspring's athletic exploits, my father had his nearsighted son and no bragging rights at all. It had to be frustrating for so gregarious a man to have nothing to contribute to the conversation.

"It's just a house now," he observed, his back toward me still as he continued to gaze out the living room picture window. "It's the people that live here and their belongings that make it a home."

"Yeah," I acknowledged. I looked out at the bleak coldness of a February landscape. The front yard was stripped as bare of foliage and color as the house had been of life. The wind was swirling shimmering flakes of frozen snow about. They skittered across the ice to find refuge in small drifts that huddled on the east edge of the driveway. It was nothing to concern myself about. The new owners could get their shovels out.

Swede winced as a loud caterwaul of outrage came from one of the two cats imprisoned in one of the empty bedrooms. "They're still pissed off at us, aren't they?" he murmured. "You know." he said, still in that strangely muted tone of voice, "they fear change too. Just as much as we do."

"Yeah," I grunted as I walked over to the kitchen sink to splash some water on my face. "Just a bit flushed from the bullwork of helping to load the van, I guess," I apologized. It felt uncomfortably warm and claustrophobic in the empty house that had been my family's home for more than a decade and had been the scene of the first six years of my son's life.

"How'd the mink cage work out that I borrowed from Chet?" Swede asked.

"I've got it partitioned into three compartments," I informed him, looking down the hall to avoid looking at his face. "I'll lay a blanket down at the bottom of each compartment. They'll be comfortable enough. I've got the sedatives from the vet, too. Hopefully they'll settle the cats down. Otherwise the ten hour trip to Monmouth will be a horrible serenade."

Another yowl erupted from the bedroom as though to assure us that the sedatives wouldn't work. That was Josephine that time," Swede asserted. "I'd recognize her voice anywhere." He walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, as though contemplating going in to attempt to reassure her. Then he shook his head and came back into the kitchen. "I'd better leave her alone," he decided aloud.

"Thanks for coming to help us pack," I told him, trying to steer his thoughts away from the agony of having to listen to the cats give voice to their uncomprehending fear.

"When are you kids leaving?" he asked.

"As soon as Nancy gets back from taking care of the last of the paperwork at the bank." I responded, although it was information that he already knew. "And as soon as we get Napoleon in."

"When he comes in I'll help you sedate all three cats," Swede volunteered. "You'll have a hell of a time doing them all by yourself."

"I've doctored them before," I reminded him. "Everything from Josie's broken pelvis to Napoleon's kidney infection."

Swede looked up at the lights on the chandelier and asked "what are you doing with the cats while the three of you are at the motel?"

"The realtor said that we could leave them at the house. It's empty anyway, and all we're waiting for is the mover to deliver our stuff. We'll be there painting and cleaning for much of thedaytime. It isn't like we'll be abandoning them, except for the nights."

Swede slid open the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen to the second story deck. I watched him through the thick glass as he called Napoleon, repeating the cat's name several times. His voice had a mournful quality to it, as though indicative of some deeper pain than just our moving a day away.

Swede stepped back into the kitchen. "Are you happy with the house that you've bought?" he
asked.

"I think so," I responded. "Time will tell." I had to suppress a bit of a chuckle. Swede had always expressed an aversion toward monstrous old houses with high ceilings and deteriorating plumbing. I knew he wouldn't be impressed with the three story old Victorian dowager that my wife and I had fallen in love with. But then, he and I had never agreed on much of anything.

We heard a scratching, clattering noise on the outside of the house. Swede and I looked at each other, both recognizing the sound. Napoleon,our old battle-scarred tabby, had always been too impatient to wait at the front door to be let in. He'd discovered that by leaping three feet he could catch a hold on the cedar siding above the exposed, stuccoed portion of the basement. Using his claws to dig into the siding as though it was a trunk of a tree, he'd pull himself up the corner of the house to the deck that protruded from the kitchen. Then he'd wait to be let in through the sliding glass door.

"That's the last time that he'll use that enterance," Swede observed sadly, looking down at the grey tabby.  My father went over to the door,slid it open, knelt down and whispered "come on in, big guy."

Napoleon, recognizing the voice that coaxed him in, rubbed up against Swede's legs as my father stroked his back. Then, tiring of the attention, he moved forward to where the kitchen table would have been. He always used the legs of the table to rub his whiskers on. Abruptly the cat stopped and looked about in evident confusion. He began to give out  a series of increasingly panicky yowls as he tried to comprehend the absence of familiar objects and scents.

"It's alright, Napoleon," Swede whispered soothingly, attempting to reassure the spooked animal by kneeling to take hold of him.

Napoleon was beyond reassurance. He eluded Swede's grasp and ran into the living room, wailing his distress at the changes in his environment. His howls were now joined by those of the two cats that
were locked in the bedroom but determined now to add their chorus to his plaintive yowls.

"Jesus Christ," marvelled Swede, shaking his head in agitated astonishment. "I've never seen anything like this ever happen before." He looked as though the cat's distress was causing him physical pain.

Napoleon let loose with another series of ear-splitting complaints. Swede winced visibly at each howl of feline anxiety.

I tried my luck at easing Napoleon's worry. Picking up the big, frightened tabby, I began to cradle him in my arms. He was quivering with fear as he panted, already exhausted by his vocal protests.

"Settle down, big guy," I whispered, gently stroking his head. I looked over at Swede and saw that he was slipping on his coat.

Napoleon gave out another mind-shattering howl.

"I've got to get out of here," my father decided, in a voice choked with helplessness. "I just can't take this anymore."

I rocked Napoleon in my arms. His pupils were wide and black, testimony to his fear. "It's alright, big guy," I assured him, stroking him gently. "Everything's going to be alright, you big old baby."

My father looked at us for a moment, then turned away from us and went downstairs to the foyer. I heard the front door open, then shut softly as he slipped away. Napoleon howled again, a meowwwwwwww that echoed mournful as taps through the emptiness of the house that was no longer a home.