Subterranean Homesick Blues

I had her key. Living in the apartment next to hers, it was reasonable that she’d wanted me to check on the cat. But she had an absurd list of requests for a two day trip. She wanted me to come over almost hourly to check on the cat. I went over twice the first day, and just once the second day. Her place made me sad. Although it was full of plants, they all drooped. She said it was her husband who had the green thumb. She said everything he touched grew. 

She left to go back to her hometown in the country to scatter her husband’s ashes. They moved into the apartment just a couple of years ago. They were old. They farmed their whole lives, but they sold their farm when they could no longer keep up with the work. There were no children; I didn’t know them well enough to know why. Eventually, they’d ended up in the city.

When she came back, I tried to return her key. She thanked me up and down for looking after her cat and insisted I hang on to the key – just in case. I think it allowed her to feel more tied to a neighbor, a little bit more at home. I was glad she hadn’t asked how often I’d gone over. I hate to lie. 

Then I began to worry that I’d let the cat get hurt because I could hear it mewing ceaselessly day after day. Through the wall, I would hear her scold it: “No, Claudia! Give it a rest!” 

They seemed happy when he was still alive. They missed their home. But they seemed happy still, just to be together. They would take little walks daily when they first arrived. They couldn’t go far, just around the block really. Sometimes I’d see them near the newspaper stands out front. I never saw them buy anything; they’d just stand around beside it. Now I know why.

After I hadn’t heard her come in or out for days, it sort of dawned on me. I was walking past her door and instead of hurrying past quietly, I slowed. A peculiar smell, like dirt, emanated from her doorway. I tried to remember if I’d heard her at all lately. I stood there for ten minutes before I decided to knock. Then I knocked again, and again. Then I came back that night and knocked again. She didn’t answer. 

I let myself in while saying, “Hello! Hello, Heather?! Hello?” The apartment was tidy, except the bathroom, which I only peeked in, but I saw that an enormous plant was absolutely taking over. 

I did one lap through the apartment and came back to the dining room to find her “journal” open on the folding card table that was her dining table. It was just a yellow legal pad, but she had become quite intimate with it. It was the same type of paper she’d written my overly explanatory cat-sitting instructions on. 

I started reading it where it was open to, the pages curled over the top and tucked under themselves, but I quickly turned back through the pages to start from the beginning. The first few pages weren’t used up. There was a grocery list on one. Another page held a list of medicines, directions to bus stops, a couple of phone numbers, and values that were probably bus fares. Then the writing began. It was short; she’d started it about the time that she’d asked me to watch her cat, which is to say, about when her husband passed away. Do I call the police? This is what I found:

Jean, 

I’m going to our house to lay you to rest where you belong. I fear no one will be able to take me to be with you when I pass. I know no one else here. Of course you know that. I may ask our neighbor. I have asked her to watch Claudia while I go away to take you home. I am very scared I will be stuck here, or somewhere else, without you. I miss you already. 

Jean, 

I’m going to leave tomorrow. I am writing our neighbor a list so Claudia will be well taken care of. I worry about her. She misses you already. I asked the neighbor to water the plants too. They droop already without your green thumb. I am very anxious to smell the country air. I have stood on our vent the last few days, next to the newspaper stand, as we always would. The air rushes up from it as before, but it has lost its scent of dirt and farm. Perhaps I cannot smell now, I have cried so much. I will only be gone two days. I have very little money to spend, and the bus was more than I remembered. 

Jean, 

We’re home at the farm. You can stay here. I will come back to visit when I can. I’ve scattered you under our big tree, and at the back of the barn where you would smoke your pipe, near the stream and the cattails. I would like to be there too, but I worry no one will be able to bring me back to you when I pass. But you know that. I bussed in this morning and must bus out this evening. I will be back to you soon. Somehow. 

Jean, 

I am back in the city. Claudia mewed a lot when I first got home. The neighbor was nice to watch her. The plants look droopy. Our apartment is not like our farm. I brought a plant from the farm, from down by the stream and the cattails. It was the first thing I’ve been able to really smell since you left. I wrapped the roots in newspaper, and now I will pot it. I am grateful to smell it. I hope it will be okay without your green thumb. I am sad to think of you alone at home, me here alone. 

Jean, 

Claudia will not leave the new plant alone! It is a viney plant I put in a hanging pot, and she claws and chews the tendrils. I have scolded her several times now, but I am no disciplinarian right now - I need her love too. I keep moving the plant. I went out to walk, and stopped at our spot on the vent, it no longer smells of the country. I’m sure of it now. I came back and Claudia had spilled some of the dirt from the plant on the rug from home. The dirt is rich and loamy like the soil on our farm. It smells fecund. I moved the hanging plant to the bathroom, near the window where it will get light. Hopefully she won’t bother it as much there. I love you. 

Jean, 

Claudia is really mischievous! I think she misses you terribly. We have been squabbling ever since I brought the plant home. She managed to climb the windowsill and spill dirt from it once again. It was easier to clean on the tile floor, some hit the basin of the tub and some went in the toilet. I don’t want it to lose that good dirt, it smells so rich. I was very angry with her, but I cannot punish her. I’ve taken to closing the bathroom door, and now she paws it and mews all day long. My walks are lonely without your musings.

Another grocery list interrupted the journal entries. Below the grocery list she had worked out her budget for the month. She’d budgeted her groceries into a meal plan. It was lean. I felt a pang of embarrassment as I realized just how indigent her circumstances were. 

The journaling continued:

Jean, 

We are at odds, Claudia and I. I need her affection and she is being an intolerable pest. She will not leave the bathroom door alone. She paws the door and mews relentlessly. I am at my wits end. I have walked twice today, to have a break from her. I feel very vulnerable standing on the vent by the newspaper stand without you. I pretend to look at the newspapers, but I don’t know what to do with myself. The smell of the country is gone, but I don’t know where else to walk to. I feel like you’ve always been there. I hardly remember you not being there. It is difficult without your direction.

Oh, this cat! I must go.

I miss you. Love.

Jean, 

The plant is doing very well in the bathroom. Perhaps it is the moisture from the shower. It’s growing voraciously. Is that the right word? The tendrils reach the floor and hang to the toilet bowl. I must trim them. I think it must be the dirt, it smells healthy, ruddy. It reminds me of you when you’d come in from the field, before washing for dinner. Claudia has not left the bathroom door. 

Dirty cat paw tracks were stamped across this page.

Jean, 

The plant was back in the toilet bowl today. It must have liked the water I gave it. It grows so fast! Claudia, tried to claw her way in as I pushed through the crack in the door and kept her out. I can’t believe her bad behavior. She is desperate to be a pain. I couldn’t find the scissors today; I have no idea where I put them. I tried to pull the tendril out of the toilet, but it was extremely long and had grown down into the hole and seemed to be tangled on something! I gave up quickly. What a bizarre plant. It’s bewildering. I’ll need to get another scissor.

Jean, 

 I forgot to get a scissor while I was out on our walk. I stopped and whispered for you at our spot. When I came home I was amazed yet again to see how much the plant had grown. It grows faster than corn, faster than a sunflower. I’m not sure what sort of plant it is, but it smells so familiar. It now has several tendrils reaching into the toilet. I couldn’t remove them. I’ve been stopping in to use the bathroom at the corner store because I don’t know what to do until I can cut loose these parts of the plant. How embarrassing. Claudia has worn little smudges in the paint on the bottom of the bathroom door where she reaches up and paws it over and over. The little nuisance - now I must paint the door! I feel bad because she used to like to look out the bathroom window too. She misses the country as much as I do, as much as we did. She has never liked being a city cat. But I can’t let her in there, she makes such a mess of that plant, and it is making such a mess on its own! 

Jean, 

I came from our walk and I saw that the bathroom door had come open! At first I wondered if Claudia had somehow managed to open it, but then I saw the tendrils of the plant were wrapped on the door handle! How strange! It’s taking over - wrapping itself on any protrusion it reaches. The plant is enormous. The smell of our farm’s soil now permeates through the rest of the house. I do love that. They did not have scissors at the corner store. I will have to bus somewhere if I want to trim it. I like the smell, and it is impressively hearty, I almost hate to cut it back, no matter the inconvenience. 

Jean! Help! I cannot find Claudia! The plant is sort of thick in the bathroom. I wonder if she’s hiding in there and I cannot find her???

Jean, 

I don’t think she could have gotten out the front door. I would have seen her in the hall, or in the elevator, or in the lobby. Someone would have seen her and brought her back to me. She must be in the bathroom. I have pulled at the tendrils and tried to find her in the mess that the plant is making. Jean, I don’t know what to do. I haven’t gone walking today. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t used the bathroom. I’m too upset. Where is she? Where are you?

Jean,

Claudia is not in the apartment. I dug through the plant in the bathroom again. I should get rid of it, it is impractical. Yet I still want it - it smells so nice. A whole mess of tendrils are growing into the toilet now. It is odd. There are others climbing across the shower curtain, wrapped around the light, across the window sill, wrapping all the cupboard handles, the door handle. Thick knots and nests of green are everywhere, but the main shock of growth is tendrils into the toilet water, and I can’t pull them out no matter how long I pull them. They go for feet and feet and feet, and I make such a mess of water when I pull on them. – But, I’m worried. There was a lot of cat hair in the toilet water. I am worried that somehow Claudia may have been hurt, or drowned, but I can’t think how. I am so confused without you to talk to. 

Heather’s handwriting was deteriorating, becoming a scrawl, though it was still legible.

Jean,

I had to go walk. I needed the facilities, and I needed to eat. At our vent, the smell has faintly returned. It’s the good dirt smell that’s now in the bathroom. Coming up from the vent were little fronds, little green leaves. I had thought it must lead to the metro? I don’t remember what you told me about it? If you had an idea of why it smelled like the country? It was nice to have our spot be familiar to me once again. I stood there for quite some time, I whispered, “Jean” over and over. But you know that. 

Jean, 

I still have not seen Claudia. In the bathroom, cattail shoots have sprouted from the bathtub drain. It is absurd. I have never seen a plant like this. It has more energy than me. I have no money to call a plumber, or any help. I’m embarrassed to ask anyone from the apartment, it looks like I’ve let it go on for years. 

– – – 

I went on our walk. The little green leaves I was telling you about have grown too. They too are cattails! It smells strongly of the country again. I have resolved to try to get the plant out of the bathroom now that I can return to our walks for some comfort. I don’t know what to do about Claudia. You remember that she would sometimes be gone for a day or two at the farm, but that was quite different. My heart is broken. I feel very disoriented.

Jean,

I have been using the big kitchen knife to cut back some of the tendrils. I cannot cut through some of the ones going into the toilet. They are thick. I pulled and pulled all morning and have pulled many feet from the water. A lot of cat hair came up as I did it. It made me sick with worry. I can’t imagine how it happened. I am angry, yet I still love its smell. I am unraveling. It’s like the smell is taking me home to you and the farm, and that comforts me, but I’m just sick about Claudia. 

– – – 

It has been several more hours and I’ve worked hard at pulling up more of the plant. I am scared. More cat hair came up. Then, as the tendrils were becoming narrower and it was easier to pull, it got stuck. At the bottom of the bowl was a thick green stick, or so I thought. It was very difficult to pull so I reached to grab it at the bottom of the bowl. The green stick moved when I touched it! It moved like it could feel me touching it. It curled at my touch, around my finger! 

– – – 

I went back to look and the green stick had moved back below sight. I pulled up on the tendrils again and got it back to where it had been. I am scared, Jean. The stick looks like a thumb. It is connected to a larger something. It looks like fingers are wrapped around the plant. I feel like I am losing my mind. It is just a plant. I tried again to just cut the plant, so I could flush the rest of it away that was in there, but it is very sturdy. I want it gone from the apartment. I need to go out. I want out of the apartment. 

– – – 

I feel better after our walk. Our spot has green growing up all around it. People looked startled by it, but I stood right where we always did and whispered, “Jean, Jean, Jean.” It is aromatic. I can taste the dirt. Like going home. But I’m still a bit scared, but less so. It’s a plant. Right? It cannot hurt me. Right? The “hand” has disappeared below sight. I am going to try and pull the plant out. When I see it again, I will reach down and grasp it. 

The journal ended there. I uncurled the yellow pages back over the top of the spine and set the key on top of them. I locked the door from the inside and closed it behind me. I called the police. While I awaited their arrival, I splashed cold water on my face in my kitchen basin. As the water swirled down the drain, I noticed tiny green leaves just beneath the drain guard.