The Taurus pulled into the driveway, and Mike turned the ignition off. “Home, sweet home, hon.”
Callie sighed and squinted in the afternoon sun at the 962-square-foot tract home with grey cedar siding and green trim. Mike’s work van with the gold lettering proclaiming ‘Mike’s Plumbing & Heating’ sat next to them in the driveway. Tired zinnias drooped in the sun, thirsting over the long, sweltering Fourth of July weekend. The couple had returned to Eugene from their annual holiday trip to Florence on the Oregon coast, visiting Callie’s old middle-school friend Tricia and Dennis, her trust-fund husband.
Mike undid his seatbelt and started getting out. Callie wasn’t moving. “Coming?” asked Mike.
Callie stared straight ahead, the ticking of the cooling engine growing louder in her ears. She shifted in her seat. “Mike, I have to tell you something.”
“You didn’t leave anything at Tricia’s, did you?” Mike closed the car door, sitting back in his seat.
Callie didn’t say anything.
“So, what is it?” He turned to her, sunglasses perched on his head. “You’re scaring me. Wait, you’re not pregnant, are you?”
“I took it.”
“Took what?”
Callie reached for her daypack on the floor, unzipped it, and removed a seven-inch brass cat-face ornament with a hook in the shape of a cat’s paw extending down from the face. She had draped her towel on it while showering in Tricia’s guesthouse. Two holes where the screws had secured it to the bathroom wall were the cat’s eyes. She cradled it in her hand. “I took the cat-face hook.”
“You stole Tricia’s cat shower hook?”
Callie’s jaw tightened. “I guess.” She had never been a thief, but here was this object, warming her palm. To make matters worse, she had purloined it from one of her oldest friends. The weekend at Tricia’s, like all weekends there, was one long discourse on Tricia and Dennis’s international travels, antique furniture shopping, and whether they needed to add a new three-bay garage for Dennis’s vintage car collection. They weren’t overly interested in Mike’s latest heat-pump installation or Tricia’s new billing software at the Ace Hardware she managed.
“You guess? Hon, it’s right there in your hand.”
“Okay, I took it.” She didn’t believe it was premeditated. For three days, she had admired the cat-faced hook each time she showered. Callie hung the thick, hibiscus-scented robe Tricia provided her house guests on the hook, which reminded her of their beloved nine-year-old tabby, Shamus. She could not tell if the hook had called to her in some benign metallic manner or if she had taken it in a vindictive huff after tiring from the continuous bluster of Tricia and Dennis spouting about stock-market killings or the difficulty of finding good help to maintain their Puerto Vallarta condo. All the while, they cooed to each other like newlyweds while Dennis rubbed Tricia’s tanned neck.
“So, what now?” Mike grabbed the wheel with both hands. “She’s gonna find out, and we’re the logical suspects. Or should I say you are.”
“I dunno.” Callie placed the hook on the dashboard. “I can’t return it now—that would seem totally bizarre. What possible excuse could I use? Sorry, I accidentally unscrewed your shower hook from the wall and took it home with me. Tricia won’t buy it.” She and Tricia had rolled right through high school 14 years earlier. Not perfect saints but not exactly seasoned sinners either. Callie had hit the books harder and shared her maths and biology notes with Tricia, who often had a lame excuse for not completing the worksheets: I have ADHD, I didn’t sleep well last night, my boyfriend stopped by. When they graduated, Callie went to her hometown University of Oregon, and Tricia commuted to Lane Community College. After three terms at the U depleted Callie’s savings, she dropped out, hoping to go back. The Ace Hardware on Willamette Street was hiring, and Callie discovered she had a knack for business. Mike wanted her to finish her degree, claiming they could get by on his salary for a few years. She told him ‘soon’, but soon never came. Meanwhile, Tricia met Dennis while she was slinging enchiladas part-time at Fernando’s Mexican restaurant. It didn’t take Tricia long to notice Dennis was stopping by for more than the afternoon nacho special.
“Cal, I’m not sure where to go with this.”
“There’s a good chance she won’t know it’s gone. After I took the hook, I filled in the screw holes in the wall with toothpaste. The colour matched perfectly.” Callie brightened at her cleverness. “Besides, it’s the guesthouse, and it’s not like Tricia hangs out there, especially when she has her palace next door.”
“Toothpaste? That’s a new one. It could work.”
Callie saw a wave of relief wash over Mike. She didn’t like him to fret and disliked being the source of more stress—his business provided plenty of drama. He worked so hard with such high standards, Mike had a difficult time keeping employees. Kids these days—they just didn’t want to put in the time and effort. The two of them weren’t starving, but they were a long way from owning a condo in Puerto Vallarta.
“Where did you get the screwdriver to take the hook?” Mike asked.
“I went out to the car while you were in the shower and grabbed a Number 2 Phillips Head out of the toolbox in our boot.”
“Well, aren’t you the sneaky one.” Mike gave her a quick fist bump. A frown appeared on his face. “You did steal it, and that’s not cool.”
“I know. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing, and now I’m stuck.” Callie’s friendship with Tricia had always been a bit complicated, although they had always had each other’s back. Taking the cat hook was kind of like stabbing Tricia in the back. Et tu, Brute? You can do a lot of things to your friends, but stealing isn’t recommended.
“Look, there’s Shamus in the window. He’s waiting for us.” Mike waved to the cat from his seat. “It looks like the Watsons took good care of him while we were gone.”
After dinner, Callie emerged from the garage. “Mike, where’s your electronic stud finder? I didn’t see it on your workbench.”
Mike scrolled through a plumbing catalogue on the internet. “Why do you need it?”
“I want to put the cat hook up in our bathroom tomorrow. The screws need to hit a stud.”
“Whoa, whoa. You can’t put that up.”
“Why not?”
“It’s hot. That’s why.” Mike pushed the mouse to a corner of the desk. “We haven’t decided what you’re gonna do with it. Besides, what happens if Tricia comes over and sees her cat hook in our bathroom?” Mike stood up. “Look, hon. You messed up on this one.” He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Callie, placing his mouth by the nape of her neck. “I still love you, though.”
The tautness of his muscles, still linebacker-firm, enveloped her, and the day-old stubble scratched her neck. He was a big, unflappable kid, always seeing the best in everyone. She had swiped left and right many times in her past—who would have guessed she’d stumble on such a man-gem in Aisle 8 with an opening line: *I’m looking for a 12-inch braided stainless steel supply line with a 3/8-inch inlet nut and a ½-inch outlet nut.* “Even though I’m a hardened criminal?” Callie asked.
“There’s a good chance you are salvageable. Let’s set the hook aside for a bit and sort things out later?” Mike turned to face her. “What do you say?”
Callie sighed. “I guess so.”
She awakened in the middle of the night to curtains fluttering in a gentle breeze. Her conscience always kicked in during the wee hours and nudged sleep aside. Deep down, taking the cat hook was so wrong, yet there it sat on top of the dresser, radiating a burnished glow. Callie had never seen such a beautifully rendered brass cat or known where she could get one. Knowing Tricia, it was probably one of a kind and expensive—like everything Tricia seemed to purchase. Callie didn’t know why she hadn’t asked Tricia where she got the hook. Was it because she had already made the decision to steal it? Why did she need to take it? Two hours later, sleep descended like a warm blanket, with nothing in her mind resolved.
For the next two days, while the hook sat on the dresser, Callie stewed at work with a fierce internal debate over whether to ’fess up and return it, sneak back into the guesthouse and reinstall it, or keep the damn thing. She turned over each idea like she was examining a piece of glassware at a store, searching for imperfections, and then ran them past Mike.
“Tricia may hate you forever if you come clean,” Mike said. “It was no accident the hook wound up in your hands since you had to pry it off the wall.” He got up and started to empty the dishwasher, stacking clean plates on the counter before setting them in the cabinet.
“I didn’t pry it; I unscrewed it. There’s a difference.”
“Not sure Tricia will see it that way. It would be one thing if you mixed up her laundry with yours and you wound up with one of her shirts, but there is only one cat hook, and it was firmly attached to a wall last time I looked.”
“So, the ‘return’ option is a no-go?” Callie asked. It was her least favourite choice. It would be totally embarrassing to admit to stealing. Tricia might have been more forgiving when she was younger; she seemed to bounce over life’s speed bumps and handle the thumps and whacks that came her way with aplomb. Ever since she met Dennis, the bitchiness factor had ratcheted up way higher. There was no end to Tricia’s stories of indignities suffered from perceived slights from glacially slow bank tellers, foul-smelling delivery men, and overly chatty checkout ladies. Most people had to scratch and claw for every penny to get ahead. Then there was Dennis, stuffed with self-importance, with the good luck to have his parents hand him a million-dollar stock portfolio for high-school graduation. Couldn’t he be a bit like Bill Gates, who fixed kids’ cleft palates in Mozambique and stamped out equatorial diseases? For each philanthropist, there were others striving to get to Mars or vying for the largest yacht. At least she and Mike helped serve turkey and mashed potatoes at the homeless shelter on Thanksgiving and brought Shamus to the senior centre for pet therapy.
“I’m all for being honest, but in this case, I don’t see it working well,” Mike said.
“Okay, what about sneaking it in?” Callie took a few glasses from the dishwasher and used them for props. She slid one glass over the table. “I go into the palace and tell Tricia I lost something in the guesthouse and need to go get it. I chat her up a bit, get the key from her, hand it to you, and you head to the guesthouse with ol’ cat face.” She moved another glass representing Mike in the guesthouse.
“What did you lose?”
“I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go.” She touched an earlobe. “An earring—that’s it—I lost an earring, it’s tiny and hard to find. I’ll claim it was from my mum and had tons of sentimental value.” Callie rubbed her hands together as the caper came together. “You screw the cat face back on the wall and get outta there.”
Mike rubbed his chin. “What happens if Tricia wants to come to the guesthouse with us? I can’t put the hook on with her there. Besides, she might see it’s missing after we invite her back to the scene of the crime.” Mike returned to the dishwasher and put the remaining glasses away. “I don’t know—it’s pretty high risk.”
Callie admired that about Mike. He was so damn methodical. A one-step-at-a-time guy, so good at fixing things. She rarely flew by the seat of her pants, although Mike had pulled her back from the brink on occasion. The flip side was his phlegmatic nature required clobbering him with facts before getting him to act. “You’ve killed off Plan A and Plan B. That leaves Plan C: keep the cat.”
“I don’t like Plan C either. Tricia could stop by some time, use our bathroom, and there it would be, staring at her while she’s parked on the toilet.” He shook his head. “I think it’s a no-go.”
“It could work,” Callie persuaded. “After all, how many times has Tricia been to our house in the last five years? Zero!” It’s not like Tricia was a stranger to Eugene. Her mum lived there, and the town hosted an excellent cadre of doctors in town compared to the tiny burg of Florence. Tricia shared her boob job was done by a local plastic surgeon, which explained the 34B to 34DD ‘growth spurt.’ Tricia reminded her, “It’s now called ‘breast augmentation.’ Boob job is too crude.” The two of them would meet somewhere in Eugene for lunch, or Callie went to Tricia’s mum’s place. Callie had never minded; it gave her a chance to get away from the house or work. Now she wondered if there was something more to it.
The text message she’d been dreading for days dinged her phone: ‘Please call me.’ Tricia’s short, blunt missive lacked the normal informalities and funny icons. She must have discovered the missing cat face. Callie fumbled the phone onto her tuna salad at her desk, wiped a gob of mayonnaise off, and scanned the message again. She pushed the tuna away, unable to eat another bite, and wanted to call Mike, but she knew he was stooped over in a grandma’s crawlspace fixing a broken pipe. Not good timing. Was Callie making too much of a simple text message? Everything’s fine, so calm down, she told herself. Callie gnawed a fingernail. No, it’s not fine! She knows! Now what? Delay—always a good tactic—at least until she talked with Mike.
Mike opened the door and set a bag down in the entry.
Callie turned from the stove and did a quick assessment, detecting he was pretty whipped. Flecks of dirt dotted his face, and a slight gash on his forearm needed a plaster.
“I’m gonna jump in the shower before dinner,” Mike said. “Smells good.”
“Spaghetti and meatballs. It’ll be ready soon, so don’t take too long.”
“This is really good, hon.” Mike shoveled spaghetti like a starved man.
“So, Tricia texted today.” Callie got up and grabbed a dishcloth, folding and unfolding it several times.
“Oh.” Mike set his fork down. “What about?”
“We didn’t exactly communicate. I never responded.” She sat back down at the table. “I wanted to get your input first. You know, hash things out a bit.”
“Do you think she’s on to you?”
“I’m virtually certain she is. The thing is, why would she be snooping around the guesthouse?” If Callie owned a palatial home, she wouldn’t be hanging out in the guesthouse. Not that she’d know anything about that. She and Mike occasionally pitched a tent in their back garden to change things up. “It’s not like she’s vacuuming over there. She’s got all sorts of help to take care of stuff.”
“You can’t put her off forever. That’s pretty suspicious.”
“Yeah, I know.” Callie bit her lip. “I’ve got to get out of this jam.”
Mike raised his eyebrows and nodded. Callie knew from his expression she’d dug herself a hole Mike couldn’t help her out of. He was smart enough to keep silent and let Callie fill in the blanks.
After two more phone calls and several texts from Tricia, Callie couldn’t stall any longer. A mental drumroll passed between her ears.
“What’s with you? I’ve been calling and texting for two days,” Tricia said. “Are you sick?”
Callie had prepped the answer: “I lost my phone. It fell between the seats of the car.” Her face reddened, hoping her excuse would do the trick. “I just found it.”
“Good. Because I really need to talk with you.”
“So, what’s up?” Callie asked.
“I guess I’ll come out and say it: Did you take the cat hook by the shower?”
Callie appreciated Tricia cutting to the chase. There was no point dancing around the topic. “What cat hook?”
“There was a cat-faced hook hanging next to the shower in the guesthouse. Now it’s gone.”
“Why would I take your cat hook? That’s loony-talk.” Somehow those words came easier than she thought. When did lying to an old friend become so natural? Callie struggled to remember what she and Tricia had in common. Memories came back in snatches: the giddy laughter, the late-night sleepovers watching Jay Leno, smoking pot in the Douglas fir grove down the street. In the darkness of the trees, Callie flipped open a pack of matches from the pile they’d grabbed at Emilio’s Pizza. Tricia’s face lit up in the red glow of the flame before her face disappeared in the joint’s cloud of smoke.
Tricia cried on the phone. “You’re my best friend, and I really need some honesty right now.” She stifled a sob. “Dennis is cheating. I know it. We’ve been fighting like cats and dogs the last few months, and it’s killing me. The whole lovey-dovey thing over the Fourth was an act. Total bullshit.”
A gust of schadenfreude wafted past Callie, although she sagged more at learning she was Tricia’s best friend. You can’t be a bestie if the relationship turned one-sided. Why did they continue going to Florence for the Fourth? Was Callie’s tenuous grip out of respect for their shared past, or a selfish taste of a more upscale lifestyle? Tricia still felt they were BFFs, maybe because she had chased away all her other friends. She clung to a life she didn’t have any more, and it pained Callie since she did not feel the same way after all these years. Callie had built a vibrant group of friends in the community since high school. The fizz was out of the bottle.
“Anyway, I’ve been staying in the guesthouse—a lot—to get space from Dennis,” Tricia said. “I found the cat hook at a flea market in Antwerp and fell in love with it. I don’t know if it’s one of a kind, but I haven’t seen anything like it on my travels. Here’s what’s weird,” Tricia said. “The hook was there when you guys were here for the Fourth, and now it’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” Callie asked. “Does anyone else have access to the guesthouse?” Callie grasped. “Do you think someone from town stole it?” There was no shortage of meth heads in Florence ready to cash in.
“I’m positive. If someone broke in, don’t you think they’d take other stuff besides a cat hook? Besides, it was screwed into the wall.” Tricia paused for emphasis and lowered her voice. “This is what’s more crazy: When I checked for the hook, the screw holes had been filled in with some white stuff. Spackle or something. So, you don’t have the hook?”
“Of course not. Why would we have it? I’m sorry for it disappearing, though, especially since it meant so much to you.”
There was silence on the end of the line, then a sniffle. “Um, okay. I just thought…”
“It’s all right. I hope you find it.” Callie should have been more consoling, but the words didn’t come. Their friendship was like a movie film unspooling, only the clatter of the celluloid flipping against the reel remained.
“Yeah, me too,” Tricia said. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”
“Sure.”
“Keep what I said about Dennis and me to yourself.”
“Sure.” There was no apology from Tricia about accusing her of stealing the cat hook, even if she did take it.
“Thanks, I probably should go. I’m not in a good space right now,” Tricia said.
“I hope things get better for you, Tricia. I really do.” The call ended, and the phone felt uncomfortably warm. Callie hung her head.
Right before going to work the next day, Callie reached for the bin bag under the sink and walked to the side of the house where the wheelie bins were. Flipping the plastic lid, she tossed the bag in the bin and reached into her pocket. Her hand closed on the cat face, fingers tracing the smooth brass outline, and placed it reverentially on the bag. Callie stared at the cat face resting in the bin. Stuck in this liminal space where she couldn’t keep the hook and couldn’t return it, she closed the lid on the bin. The bitter pill of remorse still stuck in her throat. Maybe someone else will find it. Someone who truly deserved it.
DoubleSpeak 