Day 27: The ComfortCat(tm)

Another fictional time stamp.  It's actually 3:26am on the 28th.

Ahh, fear.  We wait and wait for "inspiration," whatever that is.  And then we start writing without it, and something happens.

The ComfortCat(tm)

Darrell Happleby started combing the fur of the ComfortCat. Darrell wasn't feeling too terribly well at the moment. He had just forgotten his wife's name when introducing her to his doctor. The doctor watched Darrell searching his brain, and made a note.

The sheets on the hospital bed smelled of bleach and lavender and the walls had been painted the color of summer wheat. Outside the windows, trees waved in the breeze. Absent from the corridor were the typical hospital sounds; they had either been deadened by carpet and soft wall hangings, or eliminated by careful training or advanced communication technology.

The ComfortCat had been patented by the hospital's managing director. So the label on its belly said. Its silky fur resisted the comb just enough to be satisfying, and as you groomed the synthetic beast it gave forth a euphonious purr.

If a fellow were to be losing his mind, this would be the place to do it. And what better companion than a blue, furry cat?

Rita Happleby sat in a guest chair at Darrell's feet. She had assumed a bright and cheerful look meant to comfort him, but he had been married long to her enough to know that beneath that look of repose a sob waited to burst forth as soon as she could find time alone.

Rita clutched a black patent-leather purse. Of course nobody called them purses anymore. And no one would have mistaken Rita's purse for a design current on the streets of New York or even Bayonne, although doubtless Rita's niece Sarah appreciated it.

Darrell wondered why he was wondering about purses. He saw himself wondering about wondering. And then he thought: if he could see himself think, did that not mean he was all together in the thinking department?

Rita's niece Sarah sat next to Rita. Sarah at age seventeen managed to dress fashionably and simply, in a way that seemed old and new to his eyes. She called her style vintage, but Darrell could not work out the relationship to wine.

Darrell had remembered Rita's name only a minute after he'd forgotten it. Still, his stomach hurt with the shame of it, and he feared to look at his wife and her encouraging expression for fear that he'd start bawling.

How strange, Darrell thought, the older I get, the more readily I cry. When I was a child, I believed that the whole point of growing up was to never to have to cry again.

The doctor made brisk noises and slipped out, only to be replaced by an equally brisk nurse who told Rita that she could stay if she liked but that Sarah would have to step out as it was time to bathe him.

Sarah left, telling her uncle how nice it was to see him, in that way that Darrell knew was a lie, but also that the lie was kindly meant. His wife excused herself as well, telling Darrell that she should walk Sarah out and perhaps get a bite in the cafeteria, as their sandwiches were very good, and she shouldn't pass up the the chance, and would he like something?

Darrell said that's alright, I'll see you soon.

The abrasions stretched down the length of his right leg. The nurse, who introduced herself as Pam, put a waterproof cover on the wound and the dressing, and started to bathe Darrell with a sponge.

(The emergency room staff had cleaned the gravel from the wound last night. They had given him a local anesthetic, not enough, and Darrell found his eyes leaking a bit at the pain but not complaining.

Then they sat him in a room, this room, and gave him the ComfortCat. Darrell looked at the orderly in confusion, and the orderly apologized and gave Darrell the comb. Then the orderly left.

So Darrell sat in the quiet hospital room, by himself, hours after falling off his bicycle on a country road, and ran the comb through the long, fluffy fur of the stuffed cat.)

The nurse sponged all the way up and down Darrell's legs. He got an erection, but Pam the nurse ignored it, and the erection went away again. That's a pity, Darrell thought.

The ComfortCat sat on Darrell's chest, purring still, even though he'd stopped combing it once the nurse had come in.

Pam finished bathing him, his lower half that is, tidied, pulled the sheets back up, and left.

Darrell breathed in the quiet of his room.

Rita hadn't arrived until about an hour ago. She didn't drive, and so had to wait until Sarah could meet her at the train station.

Where will Rita stay, Darrell wondered. Or are we going home tonight? I am in no fit condition to drive a car, and the bicycle won't be at all comfortable. Where is the bicycle?

The ComfortCat stretched, arched its back, and moved from Darrell's chest to the crook of his arm. Darrell thought that the creature had developed quite a personality in the past few minutes.

He dozed for a bit, and awoke when Rita came back in. She stood by his bed, looking down at him. He looked up.

How was the parade, he asked. She smiled and said it was fine.

Then he wondered why he had said that. Silly. No parades in hospital cafeterias.

He searched her face for signs of worry. Nothing, except for a bit of tension above her lip, and a tiny narrowing of her eyes. He reached out to touch her.

Hold my hand, Darlin, and I'll take you for a ride in my Mustang, he said.

Only if you promise not to drive too fast, she said. My Daddy doesn't like boys who drive too fast. Even if I do like them.

He smiled back at her.

I'll take you up in my rocket ship, then. We'll battle bug-eyed monsters together, far from your Daddy and his rules.

Her cool hand felt tiny in his. He held it gently so he would not hurt her. Her fingers, long and elegant always, had thickened a bit at the knuckles. Or was it that the rest of each finger had shrunk? He looked up at her face again. She'd pulled back her hair, but a wisp had escaped, falling across her forehead. She saw his gaze and knew what it meant. She brushed the hair aside.

The ComfortCat at his side began to irk him. With his free hand he pulled it out from under the covers and looked for a place to set it.

What's that? Rita asked.

Stuffed animal, he said. Hospital staff gave it to me to keep me company.

She looked at the thing, read the label on the belly. MADE IN CHINA. It's a pity, she said, we don't make anything anymore. It's the Chinese making everything.

Darrell looked at her and at the cat, troubled.

Where have they put my bicycle, he asked.

Your bicycle, Darrell?

Yes. I'm sure they have it somewhere.

Alright...I'll ask, alright?

Thank you.

Satisfied, he slept.

* * *

Rita Happleby looked at her husband as he dozed in the hospital bed. She only had to squint a little bit to see him when he was seventeen. He still had the same broad shoulders and narrow waist, and his belly, while it had grown, did not hide the man he'd been.

She weighed the cheap stuffed toy in her hand. She wished she could afford a better home for him. This place was noisy and smelled of hospital, but at least the staff were kind.

She set the toy on the bedside table. Put her purse there, too. Slipped her flats off. She let down the rail at the side of the bed, and climbed in with him.

He moaned a bit, and slid over. The scrapes from his fall last month still seemed to bother him, but he did not wake. She lightly rested her fingers on his chest and felt it rise and fall. She felt the warmth of him.

She stayed there like that for a while.

(c) 2011 Michael Bernstein