A few peas fell off the plate as Maggie stared lazily at the remnants of the “fish and chips” remaining on her plate. She continued to “play with her food” which was an expression her mother often used. Margie hated her mother. She pushed a few more peas over the edge of the plate.  Small tragedies as each went over the edge, much like barrels over Niagara Falls. She smiled, thankful for her freedom and her mother’s death.

Maggie’s martini was becoming watered down, something she rarely let happen. Her mind kept drifting to her afternoon sooty find.  She stared at the stack of papers sitting on the coffee table in the living room. Almost hypnotically she walked into the living room and decided to restart the reading.

As she thumbed the colored pages of the unfinished work, the following words jumped from her memory: Living room - Strange word - Dead room.

Almost by magic, the words appeared on one of the white pages in front of her. She reread the paragraph which was oddly positioned by itself, smack in the “middle” of the second page – like a beacon.

• But the blue towers of Pedro’s light were not flashing. That was the first thing Antony noticed when he walked into Pedro’s living room. Living room! Strange word. Dead room? It must have been a “living” room at one time, red lights, blue lights bouncing off the silvery equalizer. Now it sat dusty with no hint of its purpose or destiny. Snuffed out with the simple flip of a switch. Humans took a little more effort. Death was not simple. In Greek the name “Pedro” means stone or rock.  How ironic. •

Maggie gasped when she re-read the words: “Living room! Strange word. Dead room?” Almost compelled, she turned the pages, wondering what the following pages might contain.

The name "Sheila" caught her eye. Sheila was her mother's name,  Maggie started reading one-third down the page. . .

____________________________________

Everyone adored Sheila, our new mailroom Supervisor. When Sheila first visited our department, I found her to be a large woman whose warmth and charming demeanor engulfed her big-boned frame.  She was a native of Newfoundland and appeared to be very friendly by nature. I found her east-coast "howdy" to be sincere and one of the highlights of my day. 

I soon learned, for the most part, that with Sheila, "what you saw" was "what you got."  She was certainly not a victim of peer pressure regarding fashionable office wear. The Fashion Goddess had clearly relieved Sheila of having to wear up-to-date "fall colors" or having to buy teetering stilettos.

Sheila was a fashion on to herself.  Her enviable footwear complimented her flowery blouse which seemed to be as comfortable as her blue jeans.  Sheila was too young to be motherly, yet old enough to suggest that she might have had an earlier life . . . one that embraced and built on her seemingly "country-style” and "child-like" innocence.

When Sheila entered a room, people would stop talking and politely acknowledge her presence.  Sheila had a tall and chesty stature that suited a well-proportioned, friendly giant. While Sheila easily weighed more than any man in our office, every pound of her was well-proportioned.

When I first met Sheila, she and I hit it off instantly.  What I liked most about Sheila was that I could easily talk to her. What she saw in me I have no idea.  At lunchtime, I would often visit her in the mailroom.  We would often natter about almost anything: holiday weekends, the "new postal rates," even the current antics of our stupid mayor.  One thing I liked, Sheila never, gossiped;  also, she stayed clear of those that did. Sheila and I also avoided talking about our personal lives or current problems. 

While she had her own sense of ethics and appropriateness, her informal style could easily disarm and mislead someone. Her temper?. . . fierce, especially if someone pissed her off.  At the appropriate time, usually long after the offensive event, she would burst into a litany of words that would embarrass any well-traveled sailor.  Then, almost instantly, she would raise her left eyebrow, give a short laugh then return to her normal self.

I tried to visit Sheila at least once a week and usually aimed for a Monday.  I knew that she loved to cook, and she'd bake on most weekends. If I was lucky, it was her weekend for making shortbreads. Hers were absolutely divine!  Lucky for me Sheila enjoyed her cookies as much as I did. Those were wonderful, often hysterical moments.  I remember watching her slurp black coffee, cookie crumbs tossing about in her gap-toothed mouth, and her laughing as she gasped for air. On some Mondays, we would shamelessly and "noisefully" demolish a whole small tin of her salted caramel treats.  I found Sheila truly to be a kind, considerate, and most-sharing person.  What I miss most is her laughing wildly with me. She and I had many wonderful moments.  I do miss her.

One Friday, hoping to get one of her leftover cookies, I ventured down to the basement. Few of the staff ever ventured down to her sub-level sanctuary filled with boxes and hidden baked treats.  Therefore, I was surprised to find several people crowded around the shipping table.  Sheila's head towered amidst the grouping. I elbowed my way inwards and saw a large open cardboard box. Too vain to wear my glasses, I squinted and saw five small white blobs.  As I stared it became clear that someone had brought in five very young kittens.  Sheila was beaming as if she was their actual mother. 

"Yours?" I stupidly asked.

Sheila's gap-toothed smile never looked so joyful and proud.

______________________________________

Even though Maggie found Sheila's character interesting, she flipped forward a few pages . . .

 ______________________________________

Mary stroked my new silent possession that was now facing the corner of a small shipping box.  "You're always traveling or out of town on the weekend.  What are you going to do with her?"

"I don't know.  Put it in the freezer," I replied calmly.

Mary rolled her eyes and gave a look of disdain.  "What are you going to call her?"

"Her?  Right now, it's an it.  I don't know..."  I remember at the time looking at my new 'white' responsibility and thought 'white elephant'

 ... "Well, how about Dresden?"  

Mary pursed her lips, then looked briefly at the kitten in a small shipping box.  She bent over as if she was looking at a store's last box of crab sushi.  She then straightened up and finally said, "I like that."

I continued, "You know, like the city that survived the War."

"Oh.  I was thinking about china.  White china. cups.

Mary gave a quirky smile of approval.

"Then Dresden it is," as I lightly tapped Dresden on her head. "Ouch!  Hell, the little monster bit me."

Mary looked at the blood on my finger, "Oh, you probably just startled her."

I know that Dresden's steel-blue eyes had deepened when she bit my finger.  I had quickly pulled back from her well-intended and painful bite.  The bite and few drops of blood would be the first of many to follow.

_______________________________

Maggie put the page down to wipe a tear from her eye. She tore a piece of newspaper and inserted it between the pages to mark the spot. She closed her eyes and vividly remembered Pumpkin, her first and last cat. 

_______________________________

This is a story that Maggie never shared with anyone:

Maggie was ten when the stray orange cat befriended her.  He would lie on the back steps in the sun as he tried to clean his matted fur.  Maggie threw him a Cheerio and to her surprise, the cat sprang to alert. He devoured it in one bite.  At least she thought it was a he.

Maggie tossed two more morsels and the cat quickly snapped them up.  Maggie found some grapes on the small nearby table.  Not certain as to the cat's diet or likes, she rolled a grape toward the cat.  It stopped, well hidden under his hind feet and fur. He went crazy looking for it.  Once found, he pounced on it as if it were a mouse, then bit into it.  In a second it joined the Cheerios.

Maggie screamed with delight. Desperate not to lose her newfound friend, she cautiously tipped a small pool of her lemonade onto the steps. To her surprise the cat stepped forward, indicating he, like Maggie, also had a fondness for lemonade

That night the cat disappeared. Two days later it returned with a cut above the eye, and a loss of some fur.

"Can I keep him?”

Maggie’s father looked at the black ball of scruff squirming in her arms. He scowled, “No!"

Maggie tried again, as she gave her friend a Cheerio and tried to keep him still.  “He doesn't eat much. In fact, he doesn't like cat food."

"How would you know?"

"I know. He likes what I like."

"The cat's not that dumb."

"He’s called Pumpkin. At least that's what I call him."

"Great, we can make him into a pie."

Silence. Maggie knew when to stop talking.

Her father looked away, showing his initial indifference.  "It better sleep outside, in case it’s a yowling Tom.”

Maggie sheepishly gave her new and only friend a hug. "I promise."

That was how Pumpkin entered Maggie’s life. 

In three days Maggie found Pumpkin on the kitchen table, wringing wet and lifeless. 

Maggie gave a loud and painful wail.  She was too stunned to cry. Maggie’s first encounter with death was both sobering and prophetic.  As she ran toward her dead friend, she slipped on the wet floor.  Unaware of her cut knee, Maggie looked up. Her drunken father, hanging on to the doorframe for support, had come from the front room. His arms and face were bleeding from scratches.

"Fuckin' monster clawed a hole in my chair." His voice was slurred, a voice Maggie knew all too well.

There was water all over the counter and the floor. The sink was still almost full of water.

Maggie stared at him. No words were formed.  A numbness spread over her. Her dead monster drooled in equal silence. Slowly, a strong feeling replaced the numbness. Maggie was too young to know the word for her newfound feeling - revenge.

Pumpkin’s burial was mostly a silent affair. Maggie stood tearfully in the shade, holding a single daisy. Maggie’s father patted the last shovel of earth, then leaned on the shovel.

Maggie placed the daisy on the grave.  Her father looked away as he spoke.  “I could tell by its wimpy bit of a struggle, it wasn’t a Tom -  it was a wimpy bitch.”

Maggie glared at her father.

___________________________

Maggie both laughed and sighed with delight. She had no idea that resurrecting her memory of Pumpkin would be possible.  And all because of a little white kitten named Dresden - a kitten with a bite. Maggie lifted her almost empty martini glass and toasted Dresden, "Well done, my lady. Well done." 

Maggie took a sip of her drink, flipped further down into the white pages, and read the following, mostly in a script font –

________________________________

They're talking about me. I won't look up.

- Dresden sat there silently, pondering her new name.

Better than Fluffy or Snowflake.

- Dresden closed her eyes and pondered her situation.

Shit, I feel lonely. I hope my brothers are OK. 
When I was inside, I could hear them all meowing and screaming. 
When I came out, they were all screaming wildly. 
Mom was panting and useless by the time I arrived.
I think they were all warning me not to come out. 
They were right. 
Fuck, I'm cold.

- Dresden looked about.  
  She shuffled her legs and raised her body slightly
  She edged closer to the corner of the box to keep warm.
  She folded her front paws snd let her body relax.
  Dresden settled down after giving a faint sigh.

I got the idiot accounts manager.
I wonder how they fared.
Man, I miss them. 
I miss Mom too, even though she clearly rejected me as the runt.
What a stupid tradition.
Actually, being last and small has its merits. 
When I'm quiet I get a chance to listen.
And since I have a small body, it means I can hide in lots more places.
I believe that white stands for  "pure".
Man, what a perfect color!
I mean I'm small, quiet, and white. 
What more could a very cute pussycat want? 
I bet my brothers will go into a tailspin when they find out
. . .I'm determined to be - quote: 'the most savage demon-cat of the century'.  

- Dresden gave a subtle grin of satisfaction.
   She checked her teeth with her sensitive pink tongue.
   She thought they felt very sturdy and especially sharp for her young age.

Wow, I feel great! 

- Suddenly she remembered the primordial taste of her mother's blood when she was born.
  The taste was surprisingly sweet and extremely addictive.
  Dresden closed her eyes and gave a slight purr.
  She savored the memory, along with the recent words of her first victim:
  . . . "Hell, the little monster bit me."

_______________________________


Maggie decided she needed another drink.

............... end of Chapter 3