Alone together

The police were at my door again. There weren’t any voices, only an incessant banging. But no one else would knock at 1am on a Wednesday morning. I heaved myself from the couch where I had fallen asleep and crossed the living room.

My neck ached, and I moved on autopilot, navigating my way around the objects that made up my everyday life. I sighed as I reached the door, wishing for the thousandth time that I had a peephole. Instead, I made sure the chain was firmly in place and cracked the door to see what they wanted this time. 

The light from the hallway spilled through the slit and it took a moment for my eyes to work out what I was seeing. It wasn’t the police. It wasn’t even someone drunkenly trying to get into the wrong house or outrun a fight. 

He stood in the flickering light, wringing his hands together. He said nothing. His eyes were fixed on mine, but he couldn’t choke the words out. They looked out from below grey eyebrows. The eyes themselves bloodshot and glistening. 

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying not to think about the 6am start that was approaching. His pathetic arrival was so far outweighing my need for sleep, but I wasn’t above shutting the door in his face. 

“H... Have you seen my cat?” He said, still clutching his hands, looking at them as he spoke. His knuckles were swollen. As he moved them against each other, I could see the ache and stiffness of the cold. 

“What does it look like?” I replied. I had not seen a cat, but I couldn’t bear to leave him standing in the hallway with nothing. 

“He’s a ginger. Mostly. and he’s fat but old. He never goes far from home.” He raised his eyes to meet mine, searching for some sign of recognition. 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t.” 

He turned, and thanking me, shuffled down the hallway, casting a shadow on my neighbour’s door as he left. 

Before I could stop myself, I was calling after him. “If you give me a moment to get my coat and shoes, I’ll help you look!” He turned, venturing a tiny smile. He did not come back to my door, instead hovered in the middle of the passage, swaying as if a gust of wind could knock him over. 

I rushed to my bedroom and manoeuvred my way into my coat. The red clashed with my orange sweatpants. Pulling trainers onto bare feet as I hopped back along the passage, I stood in front of him again within two minutes of leaving him alone with neighbours’ doors bolted against him. 

“Thank you. You’re the first person who has opened their door tonight.” He said as we walked. 

“I thought you were the police,” I admitted. 

“Were you expecting them?” He said, glancing at me and sizing me up. 

“No, but they are in the building often enough, so I figured they’d be the ones knocking in the middle of the night.”

“That is a fair assumption.” He agreed. “I’m sorry for waking you. I just don’t know what to do. He hasn’t been at home all day.”

“Have you checked the roof?” I knew as soon as the words came out of my mouth that it was a ridiculous question. This man didn’t seem capable of making it to the end of the corridor, let alone up three flights of stairs to the roof. 

He shook his head. A dejected motion. His shoulders sagged. There was a small bubble of spit in the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away, pulling the corners downwards.

“Okay, you wait here, and I’ll go look,” I said, cursing myself for not closing the door to him and for not taking the extra thirty seconds to pull on a pair of socks. I felt the chafing on my heels from the first step. 

Outside, my eyes tried to adjust to another change in light. A blast of wind caught me in my chest and I buttoned my coat as I walked into the open space. Scanning my immediate surroundings, I hoped I hadn’t scared off anything lurking in the shadows. Cigarette butts and the remains of pigeon nests littered the ground. Someone had sprayed an obscene word onto the floor. There was no sign of movement. I circled the roof, self consciously calling out to the cat I was certain wasn’t there. 

“Thank you for trying.” He said, shrugging. “I think I will wait for him at home for now.” 

“I’ll walk you to your door” I offered, guilty for not volunteering to search any further. My bed was calling. 

“I’m one floor down from here.” 

It made sense. I had never seen him in the building before. But I left early and when I got home in the evenings, I was oblivious to what was happening around me. Staring at a screen all day will do that to your powers of observation. We made the brief journey in silence. We didn’t speak until he put his key into the lock of his door.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” It was another way for him to say thank you. 

I shook my head and tried to respond gently. “I won’t, thanks. I have to be up to get ready for work in a few hours…” 

“Ahh yes.” 

“Do you maybe have a picture of the cat? So I can keep an eye out for him?” I was a slave to the guilt gnawing at my chest. 

“Yes. Just hang on a few moments.”

He left the door open as he hobbled further into his apartment. It had the same layout as mine. Books piled every available space in his living room. They cascaded from the shelves and added at least twelve inches of height to his coffee table. If I read one a week, a lifetime wouldn’t be enough to finish them all. 

“Here he is. His name is Tiger.” He handed over a square photo. There was a round indentation in the paper. A magnet mark. The cat looking out at me had nothing of the fierceness or grace of a tiger. It was a ginger blob. His eyes half-closed as he lay on top of a pile of books on the windowsill. It was a miracle his weight had not sent the precarious arrangement to the floor. 

The next night was the first time I made my journey home with any focus. 

After leaving Tiger’s owner, I had struggled to fall asleep in the silence of my apartment, and I negotiated with myself. Go to sleep now. Tomorrow you find the cat. 

Finding nothing along my usual route, I walked through the “park” opposite our building. It was an old playground. The slide had rusted and there wasn’t a single swing still attached to its chains. They had locked the gate to keep people out. It worked. Until someone removed the gate. Now it was a convenient hangout for the local teens and drug users. 

I was alone. I wandered around the lot, peering into trash cans and underneath the skeletons of playground equipment. There was nothing living. Even the patches of grass had given over to gravel and dirt. 

I stopped at his floor on my way to my apartment. At least I could ask him if the cat was back; put my mind at ease. He did not open the door on the chain like I had. He let it swing open, guiding it with his slow, purposeful motion. His eyebrows made their way up his forehead, a question, and surprise. 

“I wanted to know if there has been any sign of Tiger today?” I said. 

He shook his head, but stepped backwards as he did it. “Please come inside. I believe I owe you a cup of tea, and by the looks of it, you could use it!” 

I did not realise how chilled I was until I waited in the middle of his sitting room and felt the warmth and smell of books wash over me. I did not sit. Instead, I paced my way around the room, taking in the titles. 

On one shelf, The Sword in the Stone, Le Morte d’Arthur, The Faerie Queene, Idylls of the King. On the coffee table piles of volumes on medieval castles, knights, and chivalry. On the windowsill, well-read crime novels. The only patch of wall which didn’t contain books held a small painting. A woman dressed in white alone in a rowboat. The only real splashes of colour from a tapestry which covered the seat of the boat. I moved closer. She was so sad and alone. I forgot the books. 

“The Lady of Shalott.” 

I spun around. I had not heard him come into the room. “Huh?”

“The painting.” Pointing at it with the mug in his hand. “It's called the Lady of Shalott. Based on Arthurian legend. She was in love with Lancelot, an unrequited love.” 

I nodded along as if I had a clue what he was talking about. 

“It’s a marvellous copy of the original. A friend painted it for me.” He stared at the painting, lifting his own mug to his lips and holding the other to me. 

“It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.” 

“Please, sit. Tell me who you are.” He sat in the armchair next to the windowsill of crime novels. I tore myself away from the painting and perched on the edge of the sofa, facing him. It felt strange to be sitting in his house without knowing his name, or him mine. 

“I’m Jennifer.” was as much as I could handle. Talking to people was reserved for work and family gatherings, not after hours on a weekday. Those were the quiet times. 

“Ahh another link to Arthur,” He nodded, peering over his cup. “They are everywhere.”

I stared at him. 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” 

“I really don’t,” I said, sitting back and dropping the tension in my core. 

“The name Jennifer has its ancestry in the name Guinevere. Wife and Queen of the legendary King Arthur. Have you heard of him?” 

“Yes, I watched First Night when I was a kid.”  

“Hmm, interesting. Usually, it’s the Sword in the Stone.” He frowned, not sure what to make of me. 

“I’ve never heard of it. I just saw the book on the shelf, though.” I stuck my hand over my shoulder, gesturing in its direction. 

“You should read it. Take it with you when you leave,” He replied, waving at me in an offhand way. 

I protested. My evenings were perfectly occupied with online shopping and watching whatever was on cable. There was really no time for reading. But he was looking more animated than the night before, even if he was semi-scowling at me over the rim of his mug. And so, I turned my protestation into a mumbled thank you and got up to fetch the book. 

“Well Jennifer, my name is George. Now that we’re properly acquainted, you can read the book and tell me what you think of it when you bring it back.” 

I nodded into my tea. I had the distinct feeling I had just been assigned homework. 

While I clutched my mug and sipped my tea, he filled the silence. First, he spoke about King Arthur, and then he spoke about the cat. By the time I left, I knew both characters’ life stories. He had a way of telling a story which made me want to sink back and listen to the words all evening. I was almost disappointed when it reached a natural lull, and he sat back, looking at me expectantly. It was my turn to talk. 

“I looked for Tiger on my way home from work. I looked in the park, but he wasn’t there. I’ll keep looking.”

“Thank you, Jennifer.” His voice was much stronger than the night before.

“I can make a missing poster for him too if that’s okay? I can print them at work tomorrow.” 

“That is very kind.” 

My cup was cool in my hands. I stood up, taking both the mug and book with me. “I should get going, thank you for the tea and the book.”

He pulled himself out of the armchair, pausing as he tried to straighten his back and hips. The movement was like a metal gear, rusted from disuse. 

I turned to face him at the door. “How do you know so much about King Arthur?”

“He’s been my entire adult life.”

It was a strange answer. 

The next evening, I made my round of the playground and the neighbourhood, holding out a hope that the cat might appear. He didn’t. Still, I went home via George's house. I wanted to show him the poster I had made. There were copies in every lobby and shop in the street. 

"It's perfect." He took the paper and examined it a few inches from his nose. "Whose phone number is that?" 

"It's mine. I figure if someone finds him I can come and get you or got and get him for you."

"Come inside and have some tea. I want to know what you think of the book." 

I followed him into the kitchen. My brain tried not to focus on the book which was lying unread on my dinner table. The yellow bulb in his kitchen added to the warmth. On the floor, there were twin bowls. Red. One with water and the other with untouched kibble. The fridge was full of photos. The sort you would expect to see framed in the sitting room.

Tiger made more than one appearance. There was a gap, the same size as the photo in my bag, and I fished it out to put into its rightful place. Two photos contained George. One in which he was flanked by two men around his age, the other of him surrounded by young adults in jeans and hoodies.

"They were my last students before I retired. And those were my colleagues." He explained. "I was a professor. English Literature, specialising in old King Arthur." 

I ended up back in my spot on his sofa for the rest of the week. Each visit started with the same question: Any sign of Tiger? And every evening the response was the same. Mine was the only mug next to his in the drying rack each day and there was only ever one fork, knife and plate next to them. I couldn't shake the nagging thought that Tiger was his only companion. 

On Sunday I got a phone call. It was an unknown number, and I answered it with the firm belief someone had found Tiger. The posters worked. 

Twenty minutes later, I knocked on the door. I didn’t ask him my question. I already knew the answer. He smiled and invited me inside at once. 

“George.. I’m so sorry....” I couldn’t say anything else. I knew my words were inflicting more pain than I could bear. He froze mid offer for tea. Searching my face for the rest of my sentence. Instead, I took the red collar from my pocket and offered it to him. The bell twinkled in the light and jangled a cheerful note. 

He didn’t move. I reached out and folded the collar into his palm. His hand dwarfed both of mine as I held it. The warmth in his spread into my aching fingers. I led him to his armchair and helped him sit. I made the tea. There was nothing that I could have said, and so we drank in silence. Long after night’s shadows had darkened the room, I got up and let myself out. Some grief needs solitude. As I washed the mugs, I looked at the blank square which had reappeared on the fridge and wondered if he would notice it. 

I did not see him for four days. I went straight home every evening instead, but on the fourth day, it was ready. I wrapped it up in a dishtowel. The package was no bigger than an A4 page. Small by most standards, but it was the only one I had finished in years. I slipped the photograph I had stolen into the back and walked down the stairs, drawing out my journey to his door. 

He did not open on my first or even third knock and I was getting ready to leave the package at the door and leave when it opened just enough for me to catch his eye. I smiled and put it in his hands. He took it wordlessly, and I fled, colour rising in my cheeks as I waited for the elevator. 

In the safety of my own home, I packed away my paints and easel, but I didn’t lock them in the closet again. I knew that they were out for good. 

When I got home the next day, it was on my doorstep, wrapped in my dish towel. My pulse beat out with each step I took towards it. He had returned my gift. I was wrong. Lead in the pit of my stomach, I bent to pick it up and carried it inside. 

There was a pair of scissors on the kitchen counter, and throwing my bag aside I grabbed them, shaking the dishtowel off while I readied my weapon of destruction. Turning over the canvas, ready to cut across the cat sleeping on a pile of books, I gasped. 

There was no cat. There were no books. There was only a lady in a boat, alone and cold.