John Philip Johnson

In kindergarten during the Cold War, mid-day late bells jolted us, sending us single file into the hallway, where we sat, pressing our heads between our knees, waiting. During one of the bomb drills, Annette was standing. My mother said I would talk on and on about her, about how pretty she was. I still remember her that day, curly hair and pretty dress, looking perturbed the way little children do. Why Annette? There’s nothing to be upset about— The bombs won’t get us, I’ve seen what’s to come— it is the days, the steady pounding of days, like gentle rain, that will be our undoing.

She kept its bones in a glass case next to the recliner in the living room, and sometimes thought she heard him mewing, like a faint background music; but if she stopped to listen, it disappeared. Likewise with a nuzzling around her calves, she’d reach absent-mindedly to scratch him, but her fingers found nothing but air. One day, in the corner of her eye, slinking by the sofa, there was a shadow. She glanced over, expecting it to vanish. But this time it remained. She looked at it full on. She watched it move. Low and angular, not quite as catlike as one might suppose, but still, it was him. She walked to the door, just like in the old days, and opened it, and met a whoosh of winter air. She waited. The bones in the glass case rattled. Then the cat-shadow darted at her, through her legs, and slipped outside. It mingled with the shadows of bare branches, and leapt at the shadow of a bird. She looked at the tree, but there was no bird. Then he blended into the shadow of a bush. She stood in the threshold, her hands on the door, the sharp breeze ruffling the faded flowers of her house dress, and she could feel her own bones rattling in her body, her own shadow trying to slip out.