A Trip to Greece, Part 7.

Meanwhile, back in Chippewa Falls. . . . . .

Photos by Anwen Mullen

A Trip to Greece, Part 6.

We waited in line over two hours at the airport on the day we were scheduled to fly home from Athens.  Zenetta had insisted we stay with her until the ash from the Eyjafjallajokull eruption cleared, but how long would that be?  Zenetta had been sleeping on her couch for 10 days already.  Mom and I knew we had to move on.  We decided on Santorini, the Greek island from where the nice American couple ahead of us in line had just returned.  We took notes from their guide book.  But when we got to the desk, and the man told us we would have to go stand in another line to buy tickets to Santorini, we balked.  The sign behind the desk said there was a plane heading to Cairo in 45 minutes.  "What do you think?" I asked Mom.  "Lynne lives in Cairo," Mom said.  Why not?  

After landing in Egypt, mom kept her cool.  I had a panic attack that didn't fully subside until twenty-four hours later when we arrived at Lynne's apartment, her husband, through a bit of acrobatics, having secured a flight home for us in four days.  This was April, 2010.  Lynne's husband, who works for the American government, said something big was brewing, though no one knew exactly what.  In December that year, the Arab Spring burst into full bloom.

Meema, our cab driver, taught us to say, "you're crazy," in Arabic. "Everyday my wife says to me, Meema, you crazy.  Enta magnoon! And I say thank you my wife."

"Enta magnoon!" Meema yelled to a man riding a donkey.  "Enta magnoon!" he yelled to an old woman trying to cross the street.  "Enta magnoon!" he yelled to kids hanging out the door of a crowded bus.  "Everyone!" he yelled shaking his fist as we flew down the restless streets of Cairo.  "Enta magnoon!"

A Trip to Greece, Part 5.

I spent a day by myself, on the island of Hydra, climbing the deserted cobblestone staircases, imagining that I would run into George Clooney.  

I didn't.  

But I did get to swim in the Aegean Sea with a fat man from Brazil named Henry.

On the boat ride back to Athens, I couldn't help but notice how an American father was ignoring his two morose sons, too busy talking on his cellphone, even on vacation, to notice them.

Against his will, without his knowing, I judged him.  

Returning to Zenetta's apartment after dark, my mom opened the door.  "Something's happened," she said.  A volcano was erupting in Iceland, and all fights through Europe were cancelled.  We sat squinting at CNN through the thick fuzz of Zenetta's television, the excitement of an unexpected turn of events, etched with the worry of how to get back home to the kids.  

I lay in bed that night, thinking about the man I'd judged to be a bad father, desperately trying to find a way to get his boys back home for school, soccer practice, choir.

A Trip to Greece, Part 4.

Sula does not approve of our plans to go for a hike.  "We like hiking," my mom and I tell her.  This does not satisfy her.  She complains to her sister Zenetta who translates for us.  "She says it's dangerous. There are lots of lizards." Mom and I laugh.  Zenetta is taken aback.  "It's true!" she says.  "I have seen one myself up there on the rocks."

"We will be very careful," we promise.

Sula lights a cigarette and tells a long story.  When she is finished, Zenetta translates.  "She says you should bring a big stick."

Zenetta insists on walking us down to the beach, to point out the trail that leads to a hidden cove.  "It will only take you 20 minutes or so.  It is a nice view.  Then you come back and take a nap."

We tell her we are going to hike for a few hours.

"A few hours?!  You will get lost!"

"We'll be back before lunch."

We find the cove and sit for a while enjoying the sound of the water rolling over the pebble beach.  We discover a road that leads up the hillside and agree to follow it.  We get grander and grander views of the Aegean Sea.  I leave my mom to climb down a rock face and investigate a little island attached to the mainland by a narrow strip of sand.  I wave to Mom from the island where there is a small shuttered church.  I walk around the church, find a walking stick, and climb back to Mom.

From the road, we see a very elegant white house perched on the top of the hill.  We decide to climb all the way up to get a better view.  The house is surrounded by a fence.  Behind the fence is a dog and a man working in a beautiful and vast cactus garden.  We say "Poli orea!" through the fence.  Turns out the man doesn't speak Greek.  We tell him we don't either.  He tells us his name is Nickolai and that he is German.  "We love your house," we tell him.  "We've been climbing towards it from the cove."

"I designed it myself," he tells us.

"And your garden is so marvelous," my mom says.  "Did you make the sculptures too?"

"Yes, all from driftwood."

"You are a wonderful artist."

The man lights up.  He yells up to the balcony where his wife is standing.  "Did you hear?  Me, an artist!"

He tells us that the road leads to a little village in the next cove.  We continue along the road and are rewarded with the most beautiful views of the turquoise sea dotted with islands.  In the little village, we find a small store right on the beach.  We buy sodas from the tall thin owner who smells like ouzo.  "It is Sunday," he says, raising his glass to us.

View from the store.

We check the time and decide that we better head back over the hill.  The sisters will be getting worried.  We retrace our steps but instead of taking the side trail to the hidden cove, we take the road over the ridge.  Aiga Anna spreads out along the beach.  "Hey," I say to Mom.  "Isn't that Zenetta?"  There is a dark figure, standing in the street with hands on hips.  "She doesn't look very happy," Mom says.  We wave and yell.  But the figure just turns and disappears into the house.

A half hour later we walk in the gate.  Zenetta and Sula are sitting on the porch smoking.  Sula crosses herself.  Zenetta leans towards us. "You have no idea what I have been through."

"We had a wonderful hike."

"I was calling everyone trying to find a car to drive up that mountain to look for you."

"Why?  We told you we would be out until lunch."

"But how did I know you wouldn't get lost?"

"Lost?  But there is only one road."

"There is?"

"Haven't you ever been over the ridge?"

"No," says Zenetta.  "Why would I go up there?"

We show them the pictures on Mom's camera.  Finally, Sula talks.

"What did she say?"

"She's surprised that it's just as beautiful as here.  She says maybe we will have to go over there someday.  But we will not walk like you foolish people.  We will drive in style."

A Trip to Greece, Part 3.

We rode the bus from Athens, the island of Evia close enough to the mainland of Greece to be joined by bridge.  On the way, my mom and I told Zenetta that we didn't know if we wanted to stay at her sister's house for the whole weekend since there were so many things we wanted to see.  First thing in Sula's door, we sat down to lunch.  Sula spoke only Greek and regarded us with suspicion as she smoked.  "Sula wants to know why you aren't eating?" Zenetta asked.  We were eating, but the table was set for 12.  Stuffed zucchini, cabbage rolls, fried potatoes, spanakopita, bread rolls, salad, Greek cheese, olives, fried fish, and octopus legs. Sula gestured to the octopus and told a long story to Zenetta.  "She was lucky. Because you were coming, the sea gave her this octopus.  She hasn't caught one for a long time.  This one she beat on a rock 75 times to tenderize.  And do you realize she is 73 year old?"  We told Sula over and over again, "Nostimo!" But she just shrugged.  "Why isn't she eating?" I asked Zenetta.  When Zenetta translated, Sula frowned and waved her cigarette over the table.  "She's not hungry," said Zenetta.

I had had a healthy sampling of everything on the table and was more than halfway through the giant fried fish that could have been the meal unto itself when I sat back in my chair, stuffed.  Sula leaned forward and pointed her cigarette at my fish and told Zenetta, "If she doesn't like it, I can make her something else."

After lunch, the sisters began closing all the curtains in the house, insisting my mom and I both lie down for a nap.  We refused.  We were in Greece!  How could we waste time napping?  We wanted to go walking along the Aegean Sea.  The sisters thought that was a very bad idea.  We said goodbye anyway and tried to convince them we would be okay.  Zenetta accompanied us down the street so we wouldn't get lost even though you can see the beach from Sula's front porch.

Sula crossed herself when my mom and I appeared a couple of hours later at her street that dead ends at the beach.  We knew the sisters would be worried.  It was our first outing alone in Greece since we had arrived, two days before in Athens. "Well, what do you think of Sula's beautiful Agia Anna?" Zenetta asked.  "We've decided we need to stay until Monday."  Sula kissed her hand, crossed herself, hugged us and sat down on a bench to have a cigarette.

Sula pushing the ouzo with our late evening snack.

A Trip to Greece, Part 2.

After Zenetta learned English, she got a job at Tech High in Omaha.  A man who worked there always greeted Zenetta when he walked past her desk.  For one reason or another, he irritated Zenetta.  One afternoon, at the end of a particularly irritating day, she wrote Skatá! on a poster board and hung it behind her desk.  The next morning, the man stopped and asked Zenetta what it meant.

"It's a general greeting in Greece.  Like Shalom."

"Well then!  Skatá, Zenetta," he said.

"Skatá to you too!" she replied.

The man was very pleased to learn this Greek word.  For the next six months, every day he came in and wished Zenetta skatá.  And every day, Zenetta smiled and said, "Skatá to you too!"

The very last time she ever saw him, on the last day of the school year, he told her he was going to see a Greek friend who lived in Texas.  "I'm going to tell him skatá!"

"He will be very impressed," Zenetta said, never regretting that she didn't reveal to him the true meaning of the word.*

*Shit.

A Trip to Greece. Part 1.

We are strolling the boardwalk in Chalkida, the coastal town where Zenetta was born.  The wide cement walk is lined with empty benches facing the inlet.  It is April, the end of the off season, the time Zenetta insisted we come.  Three women, one ancient, one middle aged, one young, all dressed in tailored black skirts and matching jackets walk towards us.  "Americanos," we hear them say to each other after we've passed.

"How do they know?" my mom asks, camera poised, in her t-shirt, jeans, bright white tennis shoes, and visor.

"Sheila's Nose." A Serial Cat Tail. Part 9. The Last.

And so he decided.
       The next morning, Mr. Elliot did not open his bookshop.  Instead, he donned his best suit, groomed his mustache, buffed his head, and combed his eyebrows.   He gargled, plucked, brushed, filed.  The cat needed nothing more than a change of nose.  He choose the cotton ball.

Mr. Elliot stood at Miss Abigail’s door with the cat in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.  He rang the bell and then suffered a seizure of self-doubt, growing near ill imagining what Miss Abigail may think of a grown man's infatuation with a stuffed cat. 

Miss Abigail was not in the mood for guests.  Still, she tip-toed to the door and put her eye to the peek hole.  She gasped. Why, it was Mr. Elliot!  She couldn’t possibly open the door.  She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers and hadn’t washed her hair in who knows how long.  

“Miss Abigail?  I wish to introduce you to someone.”  She squinted at him through the peek hole.  Though he was wearing a rather dowdy suit, his face twitched charmingly.  

“But Mr. Elliot.  You are all alone.”

        Mr. Elliot tried to decide how to handle the situation, blinking so rapidly he couldn’t see a thing.  Did he really have any other choice, having come this far?  He held the little cat up to the peek hole. 
           He heard a loud thump from inside followed by a grave silence.
           "Miss Abigail?" he called.  Now he had done it, making such an abominable fool of himself that surely she would never speak to him again.  "I'll be going home now."  He put his ear to the door waiting for a protest.  "Sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Abigail.  I'll be sure not to come again."  Nothing. He stood before the shut door summing up his life.  Yes, he had raised hems and lowered hems.  He had fixed what was torn and altered what did not fit.  And certainly one could not deny that he had recommended a good deal of great reading to people in search of such things.  But it seemed the door to love always remained shut despite his best intentions. 

            Suddenly, a groan.
            "Miss Abigail?  Is everything alright?"  The good samaritan took over.  Mr. Elliot reached for the handle and opened the door.  There on her back, was Miss Abigail.  He bent towards her, "Miss Abigail.  Please.  Allow me to help you up."
            She opened her eyes.  Looking up at him, she felt the funk draining away.  "What a lovely little cat you have," she said.
            It took some time to get through all the apologies, but eventually, they were sitting together at the kitchen table drinking tea and eating stale cookies while Mr. Elliot explained how he had found the cat in the poetry section.
           “She has such an interesting nose,” Miss Abigail finally said. 

          It was then that Mr. Elliot took from his pocket a ring box.  Miss Abigail choked on her tea, the deep fear of commitment rising within her like a tide.  He held the box out to her, his mouth twitching so rapidly, she was afraid that if she didn’t take it, he might suffer permanent damage. 
             With the box in her hand and Mr. Elliot perched on the edge of his chair, she knew there was no escaping.  She would have to open the box eventually.  She lifted the lid.
              “Noses,” Mr. Elliot said with a fair amount of pride.  “For the cat.”
             With two fingers she plucked from the box a tiny mustache that resembled Mr. Elliot’s. 

“I call that one The Transgender.”

             Miss Abigail snapped it onto Sheila’s face.  “Do you mind if I put her in the curio cabinet?” Mr. Elliot agreed that was a delightful idea.  
             Miss Abigail and Mr. Elliot stood beaming at the cat, both vaguely aware how strange it was that a little stuffed cat with a crooked tail, mismatched eyes and a mustache could inspire such complex feelings.

         “Sheila," said Miss Abigail.  "She seems like a Sheila to me."  

Sheila was so happy to be back in the curio cabinet, looking out on the two people she loved most in the world.  She had them to thank for everything.  Had she not lost her nose, she would not now have six.  Had she not been thrown in the thrash she wouldn’t have a new eye, that, though it did not help her see clearer on the surface of things, allowed her to see the good in even the most unfortunate of circumstances.  She was even happy to see the black cat clock perched on the wall, its eyes still ticking back and forth, back and forth.

Thank you for reading.

"Sheila's Nose." A Serial Cat Tail. Part 8. 'Wouldn't A Cat Who Had Lost Her Nose Enjoy Having Several Options To Choose From?'

The bells on the bookshop door chimed.  It was the elegant woman returning with her daughter, having changed her mind, he imagined, about the Pynchon.  Mr. Elliot hid the cat back on the poetry shelf and hurried to the door, his left eye twitching. 

The woman, who Mr. Elliot found fascinatingly repelling, said “Now, ask the nice man and he will tell you.  Your cat is not here.”  

Mr. Elliot, sensing the depth of her anguish, said to the girl,  “I don’t know what you are talking about.  There couldn’t possibly be a cat here that belongs to you." And then, so it wouldn't appear that he was lying, added,  "The mere notion of it is ridiculous.”  

He couldn't help but stare at the little girl's nose adorned with a large red scab.  “You’re lying!” she whispered.  Mr. Elliot who was not a liar by nature was so ashamed that he opened his mouth to say, "You are right dear child!" but he got no further than "you" when his tongue tripped up.  Despite all the work he had done with the halitothic speech therapist, he still was stumped by certain "r's".  The girl and her mother stared at the bookshop owner as he struggled, his face flushing crimson.  "Thank you very much!" the elegant woman offered, "I just remembered that she dropped it on the sidewalk."  And even though the girl knew this too was a lie, she followed her mother  through the door without protest, noting that in some lies, there was kindness.   

With "are right dear child!" flying off his tongue like shrapnel, Mr. Elliot dove for the door and locked it.  He flipped the sign.  CLOSED.  He was not surprised to see that the stuffed cat was resting on Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. 

“A fan of T.S. are you?” he asked, stroking down the fur on the top of her head. In this bewildered little creature was a determination that matched his own.  He was not ashamed that he had worked many years as a tailor to save enough money to finance his dream of owning a book store.  He still kept a workshop, upstairs, off the kitchen.

With his glasses perched upon his nose, Mr. Elliot rummaged through his old scrap box and found a piece of rabbit fur and a small length of wire, just enough to make a new tail, one a little crocked at the end seemed best.  In his button drawer, he found a gem stone that didn’t look half bad as an eye.  But what to do about the nose?  He held up trinkets and bits of fabrics and buttons.  How to choose just one?  
        Sheila wanted to tell her kind savior that it didn't matter at all which nose he chose, though  the white cotton ball was very handsome. After one has suffered as she, one appreciates any nose one gets. Sheila was grateful.
         Suddenly, Mr. Elliot was awash with inspiration. Why only one?  Wouldn’t a cat who had lost her nose enjoy having several options to choose from?

He stayed up most of the night, sewing a snap to the spot where a nose should go and the other half of six snaps to six new noses he selected from his drawer of miscellaneous curiosities.   He chose the most festive of the new noses, a tiny ball of sparkling purple tinsel to snap onto Sheila’s face.  He smoothed her fur with a tonic he had used to tame his own wild locks before he had lost them.  He cleared a place on his nightstand.  Then, feeling silly, but compelled, he kissed the little cat on the top of her head and wished her a good night.  He set her on the nightstand and turned her so that when he lay down, he could look into her eyes.  That night he dreamt of Miss Abigail.

When he awoke the first thing he saw was his new companion sitting in the morning sun.  How charming she was!  He wanted to set her in the bookshop window, but he could not risk the little girl demanding her back. 

Several times that day, he snuck away to check on the little cat who he had set on a doily in the kitchen nook.  Each time he was so thrilled to see her, he changed her nose, from button nose, to clown nose, to tiny silver fish nose.  “Yes, she does bring one a certain inexplicable joy,” he whispered to Miss Abigail.  Mr. Elliot stood straight and blinked, realizing that ever since he found the cat he had been carrying on one long conversation in his head with Miss Abigail.

"Sheila's Nose." A Serial Cat Tail. Part 7. 'She Couldn't Have Run Away Because She Is Not A Real Cat.'

The mother did something she abhorred in others.  She lost her composure in public. She  chased after her defiant daughter, spurred by a rage sprung in her own childhood and buried deeper each time it  threatened to emerge.  And now, of all days, it uncoiled.  It was not that she didn't once enjoy running, the former captain of the first girl's high school basketball team in the state, nor was it the heels, which she had been wearing so many years now, she could get around better with them than without.  No, it was the simple fact that her daughter was faster that goaded her.  She  lengthened her stride and was nearly within reach of the odious fur ball tucked under her daughter's arm, when the girl pulled ahead, rounding a corner.  Where had she been that she missed her daughter learning to run?  In France with Proust or Argentina with Borges? Is it possible that she used to sit and dream about how wonderful motherhood would be? And now she wanted nothing more than to grab that girl and shake her till she broke. No wonder she preferred books. In fiction she encountered her most honorable self.  But here on Main Street, she belched out ugly words.  Kicking her legs higher than they'd been in a very long while, she launched, snatching at what, she didn't exactly know.

Sheila heard a ripping and felt a coolish tickling on her back end.  The girl jolted and fell face first to the sidewalk.  She sat up, her mouth, a universe, strung with spittle, her nose smeared with blood.  It wasn't until she saw the tail her mother was holding, that the girl screamed.  Sheila remained stoic.  What more could one expect from the world?  Who had not suffered now and again, the vacuuming up of a nose, the loss of an eye, the removal of a tail?  Things could be worse. Sheila thought of Miss Abigail. At least she did not have the funk.
The girl's mother wanted to cry too.  But cry she would not.  There were too many things to get done that day and now they had to return home to clean up before proceeding to the bookshop.  "See what you've done?" she said, grabbing her daughter's arm and marching them back home.  She scolded, threatened, begged the entire way.  But the girl had never been so sure of anything in her life.  She would not let her mother steal her happiness. 
As soon as they got home, the mother insisted, if the girl had to be so stubborn, the least she could do was give the cat a bath.  Sheila, like real cats who purr and leap and meow, was not meant for baths and emerged clean, but looking disorganized and even more bewildered than before.

The girl’s mother tried one last time, demanding that her daughter leave that thing at home.  But the girl just glared, gripping Sheila even tighter.  "If that's the way you want to be, we will not go to the bookshop," the mother threatened, certain this tactic would work since going to the bookshop was what her daughter loved most.  "Good!" her daughter yelled.  "I hate going to the bookshop!"  The woman felt a small piece of her die.  In the end, she had no choice but to allow the child to embarrass her.  She hoped no one noticed.  First impressions are so vital to a person's reputation, and they had only just moved to town.

The bookshop owner was not nearly as friendly as he had been the previous week, and the woman was glad about that, thinking that if he were ill or distraught he would pay no heed to the child.  The elegant woman browsed.  The girl played with her new found friend, rubbing her scabbed nose against the smug where Sheila's nose used to be.  Sheila couldn't have been a happier nose-less, tail-less, one-eyed, waterlogged, stuffed cat. Sheila mustered all her remaining courage, to expose her joy to the girl, when a real cat crept around the book shelf.  The little girl dropped Sheila on the floor and ran after the cat.

The girl's mother took advantage of her daughter’s distraction to sweep Sheila up.  Making sure her daughter did not see, the woman shoved the fur ball on the top shelf in the poetry section where she was sure no one would find her any time soon. 

It wasn’t until they were half-way home that the little girl realized she had forgotten her cat.  The mother kept walking, suggesting that it had run away.  The little girl screamed, “She couldn't have run away because she is not a real cat!”  The mother turned and stared at her daughter in wonder.  She had no idea that her daughter could distinguish the real from the imagined.

Back at the shop, Mr. Elliot despaired.  He concluded that because of his obvious character flaws – his hopeless romanticism, his endless array of ticks and quirks, his weakness for knick-knacks – Miss Abigail was indifferent towards him and thus had decided never to return.  He took the little book of poetry he had selected for her and returned it to the shelf.  It was there that he saw the little cat, her single eye shining.  His heart skipped a beat sensing that Miss Abigail herself had shrunk and sprouted fur and lost a nose and an eye and grown two ears on the top of her head.  He reached and picked up the little cat, wondering how she had gotten there.  “What’s your name?” he asked.  And if the cat wouldn’t have been choked by his kindness and respect, she would have told him, Sheila. 

Thank You for Your Patience.

"Sheila's Nose" Part 7.  Under Reconstruction.

"Sheila's Nose" A Serial Cat Tail. Part 6. "You Don't Know Where It Has Been!"

The raccoon, making his nightly rounds usually wanted nothing to do with trash that was not edible, but there was something about the little bewildered cat staring up at him with one eye that struck a familiar chord deep in the raccoon’s psyche.  He was so taken by her that he did not even hunt through the trash for the tasty bits he could smell, though he did take the opportunity to gobble up the rotting onion.  Instead, he took Sheila’s crooked tail between his teeth, careful not to bite down too hard and crept along the alley. 

Sheila, though relieved to be in fresh air, rescued from the humiliation of the trash can, could not find the heart to embrace the idea of spending the rest of her life as the cat of a raccoon.  What about the other cat with the missing nose and eye?  This thought led to another more disturbing one.  Was it possible that she was that cat?  That would explain the coolish tickling and why she was having a difficult time seeing.  Drat that mouse!  He had not merely sniffed and licked but had also gnawed off one of her eyes, swallowed it, and disappeared!

You can imagine how Sheila felt upon making this astonishing discovery.

The raccoon, being a very organized sort of fellow, felt it necessary to first bring the cat back to his nest in the sewer before continuing on his nightly raid.  Just last week, he had made the unusual decision to drag a cardboard box back to his nest.  Normally, he did not like cluttering up his space with useless junk.  But he could not resist this particular box since it featured a picture of a very handsome three toed sloth.  The raccoon had always dreamed of vacationing to New Zealand to meet these distant relatives of his. 

Being absorbed in these thoughts, the raccoon was not paying attention in his usual alert way.  As he stepped into the street, a car screeched around the corner, nearly taking off the raccoon’s nose.  It gave the raccoon such a scare that he dropped his new treasure and scurried down the street, back arched, fur-raised, and disappeared into the sewer.  He was an unusually skittish raccoon, the determining factor as to why he had never been able to find a mate.  So despite his desire to have a little cat companion living in his cardboard box, he could not bring himself to leave his nest again that night.  

The next morning, an elegant looking woman, indeed the very one who Miss Abigail had seen the previous week discussing who knows what with Mr. Elliot, was out walking with her daughter.  The little girl, spotting something in the gutter, ran ahead despite her mother’s protestations.  What she found was not the real live bunny she had hoped for, but rather, a nose-less one-eyed bewildered stuffed cat with a crooked tail.  “Put that down right now!” her mother yelled.  “You don’t know where it has been!”

But the little girl had already discovered something in the little cat that was so familiar and comforting that she did not dare let her go, even if it meant suffering her mother’s wrath.  For you see, the little girl’s mother was a bibliophile and preferred to spend her time buried in the silence of thick books, leaving the girl hours upon hours to dream of a companion all her own.  

Her mother was more than repulsed by this trash her daughter held against her freshly laundered silk chemise.  Having been raised by unapologetic slobs, the woman had an extreme aversion to any disregard for personal hygiene and order. There was nothing more crucial than being freshly bathed, pressed, coiffed, and scented.

She demanded that the child drop the filthy thing that instant.  But the little girl, who was normally quite frightened of her stern mother, felt the rising of an unfamiliar sensation that stung her deep inside her nose bringing tears to her eyes.  "No!" she screamed and ran.

So there was poor Sheila, clutched so desperately by the girl, that if she still had both her eyes they would have crossed in pain.  Even the raccoon, as abject of a creature as he was, had, at the very least, been gentle with her.  

"Sheila's Nose" A Serial Cat Tail. Part 5. 'She Put On The Best Face She Could Without A Nose.'

That night when the cat woke to Miss Abigail lifting her from the curio cabinet, Sheila could not have been more elated.  “Oh!” she thought.  “How wonderful that Miss Abigail has overcome her disgust and can now see beyond my flaw.”  But Sheila’s delight quickly changed to bewilderment when Miss Abigail did not even pat her head or say sweet things.  She did not stop to place her in the poke-a-dot purse hanging from the doorknob, but rather, curiously, went outside and headed for the alley.  Sheila’s bewilderment turned to horror as Miss Abigail, without so much as an adieu, lifted the lid of the trash can, dropped Sheila in and turned out the lights with a crash of the metal lid. 

After her quaking abated, Sheila, always the eternal optimist, convinced herself that Miss Abigail, in a mad cleaning fit had merely mistaken her for a bundle of useless fluff.  She sat in the dark, staring up at the trash can lid, waiting patiently for Miss Abigail to realize her terrible mistake and come running to retrieve her.  Or maybe, Miss Abigail knew of some magic trick for producing cat noses, a trick which required the nose-less subject to spend the night in a trash can.  Or maybe, just maybe, it was possible that Miss Abigail blamed Sheila for the loss of her nose and this terrifying trip to the trash was just a temporary punishment she had devised.  Being in such a compromising predicament, Sheila of course could not differentiate between the logical and the absurd.  Every scenario ended with the joyous reunion they would have, Miss Abigail kissing her apologetically, Sheila forgiving her many times over, as Miss Abigail promised to never allow her to suffer like that again. 

So Sheila sat hour after hour in the cold dark trash.  And then came a rustling somewhere beneath her.  The rustling grew nearer and then stopped right beside Sheila.  But since it was dark Sheila could not see what the thing was even though it crawled up out of the debris and climbed upon her face, perched right where her nose had been.  Whatever it was, it sniffed Sheila.  She could only guess from the tickling of the little whiskers against her cheeks and ears, that the creature was a mouse.  As Sheila pondered this new development, she felt the little mouse licking her face.  It was a strange feeling indeed!  It licked and gnawed a bit and licked some more and gnawed some more.  For the first time, Sheila was happy that she no longer had a nose since a little mouse might have found it a treat for the taking.

And as suddenly as it had appeared, the little mouse sat up on its hind legs, swallowed loudly and dove back into the heap of trash.  How bizarre!  Sheila felt a coolish tickling on her eye, allergies, most likely, aroused by the proximity of the furry little creature. 

As the hours passed, Sheila pined for the curio cabinet.  She even missed that black cat clock which had caused her so much distress, its eyes moving back and forth, back and forth, always in search, never in find.

At some point in the middle of the night, Sheila was forced to acknowledge the naked truth that her hopes of being reunited with Miss Abigail were not the product of a clear mind, but one of a nose-less cat thrown shamelessly in the trash.  And so Sheila suffered, squished in the dark trash can between a rotting onion and an old shoe that had lost its mate.  More reason to be thankful for not having a nose.

Deep into the sleepless night, Sheila heard a new rustling and felt the trash can shake.  Oh joy!  How wrong she had been to believe that Miss Abigail would just drop her in the trash because of a missing nose!  Sheila put on the best face she could without a nose and sat, nearly quivering with excitement, looking forward to spending the rest of the night in the curio cabinet.  When the lid popped off the trash can and fell to the ground with a startling crash, Sheila readied herself for the apology and kisses to come.

“What a funny little cat you are, missing both a nose and an eye!” said a deep rough voice.  Sheila jumped, startled by the fact that the rough voice could not possibly belong to Miss Abigail.  But then the words settled in and Sheila was even more startled by the fact there must have been another nose-less cat sharing her same trash can, a poor little cat who was also missing an eye!

As the thing with the rough voice bent closer, Sheila could now see that she was correct.  It was not at all Miss Abigail, but rather, a menacing looking raccoon.

"Sheila's Nose" A Serial Cat Tail. Part 4. 'One Does Not Just Get Over The Funk.'

When Miss Abigail finally awoke, she was so busy preparing for her visit to the bookshop that she didn’t even look at Sheila until it was time to leave.  Holding open her poke-a-dot purse, she reached to grab Sheila from the curio cabinet.  That was when she noticed there was something dreadfully wrong with Sheila.  At first, she thought Sheila ill, since she looked so frightful.  But then she noticed that where her nose had been, there was merely a black smudge. 

Sheila was looking more bewildered than ever. 

Miss Abigail panicked, looking everywhere for poor Sheila’s nose.  At first she sought the logical places, combing through the poke-a-dot purse, investigating the curio cabinet, but then she started to check rather absurd places, like the medicine cabinet and the toaster oven.  She was down on her hands and knees, crawling about on the carpet when, with a whiff of that fresh pine scent emanating from the well-dusted antiques, Miss Abigail suspected the maid.  But of course, now it was too late.  The maid, as well as being punctual and determined, was also very efficient and had already finished her duties, grabbed her pay from the mantel and left. 

Even though the house was clean, Miss Abigail was sorrowful.  You can imagine how Sheila felt. 

There was no possibility of going out now.  How could she face Mr. Elliot, when the entire reason for the visit was to introduce Sheila who was now, obviously, un-introducible.  So Miss Abigail sat down on the couch, and feeling all her joy fade away, ate herself sick on sour cream raisin pie. 

Being Tuesday, and being that Miss Abigail seemed to have had such a lovely time the previous week, Mr. Elliot prepared for her arrival by selecting an appropriate book from the poetry shelf.  He boiled water in the electric pot for tea and combed his mustache.  He was sure that she would appear any moment and he wanted to be ready, to seem casual and surprised yet tidy and washed.  But as the morning wore on and she did not appear, he become more and more despondent. 

As we know, Miss Abigail was not on her way to Mr. Elliot’s bookshop.  She was in her house feeling trapped, unable to go into the dining room where the curio cabinet sat for fear that she might catch a glimpse of Sheila.  What everyone had so optimistically thought had disappeared forever, had in fact returned.  Miss Abigail was once again caught in the full throws of the funk. 

She ceased to care about whether it was night or day, about whether she showered or brushed her teeth or changed her clothes.  Miss Abigail no longer greeted Sheila in the mornings, nor did she come to say goodnight.  And, certainly Sheila could not blame her, for though she had not yet seen herself without a nose, she could only judge by Miss Abigail’s reaction that it was an atrocious sight. 

Miss Abigail spent her days and nights on the fainting couch and for hours would not stir.  Friends came by to visit, ringing the doorbell, trying to peek into the windows.  Sheila could hear them outside, their muffled voices coming through the glass panes.  “I hope everything is alright,” said one.  “Well, it’s no surprise.  After all, one does not just get over the funk,” replied another.  And so they took their leave, and again the house was silent except for the ticking of the black cat clock, its eyes moving back and forth, back and forth, reminding Sheila of herself before Miss Abigail came along, when she sat in the thrift shop window for months, watching passersby, hoping that in one there would be a thread of compassion for her unbearably lonely state. 

But now, as the days worn on and she remained in the curio cabinet, neglected, Sheila wondered if perhaps, she would have been better off having never left the thrift store window.  This thought nearly brought tears to her eyes since she had grown to love Miss Abigail despite her shortcomings.  But she knew that in the thrift shop window, she wouldn’t have been made to suffer so, missing both a nose and a friend.  

"Sheila's Nose" A Serial Cat Tail. Part 3. 'In Which Sheila Suffers A Terrible Case of Shock.'

Throughout the week, Miss Abigail found herself out and about, frequenting places she hadn’t been for a very long time - the hairdressers, the tea shop, the shoe repair, the perfumery, the tailors, the millinery, all in anticipation of meeting again, the next Tuesday, with Mr. Elliot.  So needless to say, Sheila did not spend much time in the curio cabinet.  Because of her initial negligence, Miss Abigail was sure to introduce Sheila to all the town’s people, opening her poke-a-dot purse, lifting the little cat from it and while giving a little pat on her head, saying, “Allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Sheila.”

Despite their misgivings about Miss Abigail’s unbridled enthusiasm for a bewildered looking stuffed cat with a crooked tail, the shop owners were all happy to see Miss Abigail again and some even dared to believe that Miss Abigail had finally overcome that horrible funk for good.  So the tailor, the hairdresser, the cobbler, the tea shop owner, the perfumer seller, the milliner and all the rest, plastered smiles on their faces and expressed how pleased they were to meet such a fine companion.  And they all agreed when they encountered each other on the street after Miss Abigail had gone home, that certainly the oddness of the situation was a small price to pay for the return of a grown woman’s joy.

And joy was exactly the feeling that Miss Abigail experienced for that entire week.

  With all of the comings and goings, in and out of the poke-a-dot purse, Sheila became a bit disheveled, her ears squished down, her fur ruffled, her tail all the more crooked.  Though Miss Abigail would never have been able to admit it, Sheila had not been made for such rough handling and was, unlike a real cat, made to stay in a curio cabinet.  Thus, after a week of outings, on Monday night, the very eve of the day that Sheila was to be introduced to Mr. Elliot, something rather extraordinary happened. 

It had been a day of last minute preparations and Miss Abigail was in a dither with so much still to do.  She returned to the house much later than she had planned.  It was already getting dark.  Between whipping eggs for the sour cream raisin pie and ironing her new dress, Miss Abigail saw that she had forgotten to put Sheila back in the curio cabinet.  Hastily, so as not to ruin the pie, she took Sheila from the poke-a-dot purse.  Unfortunately, on route to the curio cabinet, Sheila’s nose came loose and fell silently like a seed, landing upon the rug. 

Had Sheila been a more aggressive type of cat, she would have alerted Miss Abigail to the sudden coolish tickling she felt upon her face, and things would of turned out very differently.  But, as we know, Sheila was not that kind of cat.  She resolved that this queer feeling upon her face was just the settling in of an early winter cold.  Had Miss Abigail been less rushed in her preparations for the next day, she would have taken more care with setting Sheila in the curio cabinet and spent a moment wishing her a goodnight at which point she would have, most assuredly, noticed something amiss.

Needless to say, both Miss Abigail and her cat spend a restless, dream filled night.

Sheila woke several times and saw the black cat looking back and forth, back and forth, still perched on the wall.  She had decided that this was the way of this very odd creature and that there was nothing she could do about it but accept him for who he was.  But now, with this strange tickling feeling in the center of her face, Sheila was draw to the cat’s nose and noticed that this black cat had a very attractive and solid nose.  For the first time in her life, Sheila experienced the regrettable emotion of envy. 

Being Tuesday, the punctual and determined maid arrived just as the sun was rising.  Miss Abigail, having finally fallen into a very deep sleep after such a difficult night, did not awaken when the maid began her vacuuming.  This was not the case for Sheila who could not help but watch the maid in her cleaning frenzy, the vacuum being so loud it vibrated the glass of the curio cabinet. 

The maid, having spotted something small on the floor, bent to examine what it could be.  And so it was that Sheila saw the maid bend down to pick up what was her own lovely little cat nose.  Sheila was overcome with both horror and relief; horror at having discovered that the strange tickling she felt was not an early winter cold, but the absence of her very own nose; and relief that the maid was conscientious enough to save her nose from any further harm.  But, the maid, having scrunched up her own piggish nose at the thing pinched between her thumb and finger, concluded that it was just another detestable piece of fuzz and threw it upon the rug and vacuumed it up. 

Sheila suffered a terrible case of shock. 

The black cat clock ticked and tocked, its eyes moving back and forth, back and forth.

"Sheila's Nose." A Serial Cat Tail. Part 2. 'I'm Sure That Will Be Fine With You.'

The black cat clock mounted on the wall across from the curio cabinet ticked and tocked, its eyes moving back and forth, back and forth.  Sheila was both enthralled and terrified.  She sat staring, perplexed by just what it was the black cat was looking for, and much more disturbingly, what he was doing perched on the wall.  And so it was very difficult for Sheila to sleep that night, staring at the black cat clock, the ticking and tocking jolting her awake each time she began to drift off.

Miss Abigail too, had a difficult time falling asleep that night, her mind so preoccupied with trying to decide what dress Mr. Elliot would most enjoy seeing her in after all these months.  She wondered if she should construct an elaborate lie to justify her absence, or if she should simply tell the truth.  Regardless of these mullings, once she did drift off, Miss Abigail slept more soundly than she had in a long time and woke just as the sun was rising, feeling fresh and ready for the day.  The first thing she checked, after assuring that the cookies had not been disturbed in the night, was the curio cabinet.  There was Sheila, her new little cat, looking considerably less bewildered than she had in that thrift shop window the previous day. 

“Aren’t you looking wonderful this morning,” sang Miss Abigail.  Sheila was so happy to be greeted in such a magnanimous fashion that she couldn’t help but agree with Miss Abigail’s assessment.

Mr. Elliot was drinking tea when Miss Abigail appeared in the bookshop doorway in what he privately thought was a rather dowdy looking dress.  Still, he was so pleased to see her after so long that he jumped up from his well-worn reading chair and went to greet her.  He resisted grabbing her hand and landing a kiss upon her cheek, even though he felt moved to do so.  He knew, from several acquaintances of hers, that she had been suffering from the funk.  He had never known anyone with such an affliction, and so regarded her with curiosity and a bit of apprehension, though he did his best to prevent any such feelings from registering on his face. 

Miss Abigail proudly presented the shirt box full of oatmeal raisin cookies.  She tried to conceal the smile spreading across her face with a dainty cough into her handkerchief.  She did not want Mr. Elliot to know how pleased she was that the corner of his mouth twitched, that he cleared his throat three, four, five times, all signs that her presence made him nervous with excitement.  She had certainly chosen the right dress.  He asked her to sit with an awkward flourish and presented her with a book of poems and a cup of tea, and together they spent almost an hour munching on oatmeal raisin cookies and exchanging niceties. 

They had such a wonderful time, that Miss Abigail completely forgot about introducing Sheila.  It wasn’t until she was half-way home when she realized her insensitivity.  She immediately opened her purse and apologized to the little cat who she thought looked rather comfortable despite being neglected. 

Miss Abigail turned around and hurried back to the shop.  But seeing through the window that Mr. Elliot was busy with a customer, an elegant looking woman in a teal dress and a very becoming hat, Miss Abigail quickly stepped back so as not to be seen.  Miss Abigail thought this woman looked familiar and suspected that she was the one who had moved into The Snobbsinson's House.  She spied through the window for several minutes, noting that though Mr. Elliot seemed to be very interested in this woman whose cigarette dangled from the corner of her painted mouth, he did not invite her to sit and drink tea, nor, thankfully, to eat one of Miss Abigail’s oatmeal raisin cookies.  Now the thought of returning to the shop just to introduce Sheila seemed a tad absurd, so she decided that she would have to come back the very next Tuesday in order to introduce Sheila.

“I’m sure that will be fine with you,” Miss Abigail said to Sheila as she walked home, clutching her purse, wondering just what it was that woman had been talking to Mr. Elliot about.  Had Sheila chosen to answer she might have told Miss Abigail that she would prefer a break from the confines of the poke-a-dot purse, as it was a bit stuffy and overcrowded with pens and papers and handkerchiefs and twigs and assorted bottles, clips, buttons, and candies.  But Sheila was not one to complain.  And had Miss Abigail realized how uncomfortable the journey was for Shelia inside the poke-a-dot purse, surely she would have provided more appropriate accommodations.

But Miss Abigail had other things on her mind.