It wasn’t even a good book. It was something she found on the Summer Beach Reads shelf at the county public library. There was no beach, and summer sucked, but the dust jacket was tight on the sultry bright cover. Lydia read the first two sentences over and over as her elderly cat Peaches sunned himself at a window in their Craftsman bungalow. She imagined co-worker Crissy knew how to get through the book. She knew everything and finished stuff like that, no problem. Girl posted a mountain of hardbacks every spring before her annual trip to the mountains. “Good for her,” Lydia said under her breath, “Good for her.”
At the office, the fan in her cubicle blew the edge of her papers up and down, which annoyed her, but cool air hit directly in her face, so the machine stayed. Lydia was a big fan of self-care. Boss Guy Gary plopped a chunk-ton folder of garbage. “Mornin’, Lydia. Got those numbers done?” “On it,” she said, not looking up. He hung around.
Then Gary started tapping on her blinds, tapping on the wall and the table. “You’ve seen the interns?” he asked. “Uh-uh,” still not looking up. “Good. We don’t got ‘em!” And he pushed out a laugh so hard, she thought he’d fart. “Crissy’s up in the mountains.” “Mm-hm.” “Pretty cool. I told her she’d love it.” Lydia considered saying something. Crissy’s crew had been doing the mountain thing for the last twenty years. “Gave her all my favorite trails,” Gary said, “Nice, right?” He smiled expecting a miracle, but she would not grant it. Gary doesn’t even walk, she thought. Those legs? Instead of suggesting she try it, Gary tapped out of the workspace saying, “You behave yourself.”
Oh, how her eyes rolled back in her head. How sweet that cubby-crack-hole was once he left. Never so grateful. The tub of yogurt she brought for lunch was slightly open, and the liquid and solid were divided up in an alarming way. Maybe if she ate at the side that was covered. But doesn’t the liquid go over the top? Lunch was saltines left in the cabinet behind the powder creamer and Red Hots she stole from Luna’s desk. Almost a party, Lydia thought as she picked red candy from her molar. Or was that a filling. Crap.
She’d have to muscle through, through more folders and typing and boring people popping in to say stupid things. When Lydia cranked open the door to her ninety-two Toyota, there was an extra creak. Of course. But she wasn’t too worried. The ride got her here and there for years. No boyfriends, but here and there.
Back home, she went to feed the cat. It was in the road. Not hit, but sunning. Poor thing, mangy and blind, couldn’t see anything coming up on it, so it got in a few more scrapes than it needed. “Peaches!” Lydia called. The cat’s hearing was still in order, but he needed to consider if the trip was worth it. Would he die out there or on the way? Or if food made it into his mouth, would he die of bloat? Peaches took the chance. He made it all the way in but stretched out over the cool kitchen linoleum and died. Exertion.
Lydia put two Ziploc bags on her hands and slid the stiff, mangy creature out the backdoor and under the one tree in her parched backyard. You’ve got to be kidding me. How long are cats supposedta last?
The next day, Boss Guy told her she needed to bury the cat. “Can’t let that thing hang out. You’ll get other critters up in there. Don’t want that, do ya?” He said it with so many taps, Lydia thought about adding him to the kitty grave. “Got a shovel?” Lydia asked. “A shovel… A shovel… Let me get back to you on that. Must be a shovel around here somewhere. Hm… Okey-day and all that stuff. New numbers by Friday.” And he left. New numbers, new numbers. The place was freaking out with new numbers. Numbers on the walls.
Lance the custodial staff—the entire staff—brought a large metal spoon he found by the boiler. “Gary said you needed this.” “A shovel.” “Well, I—I guess you can shovel with this.” “A cat, not mashed potatoes.” “Sure, sure, sure.” “So…” “So, I’ll leave this and hope you do okay with the cat and all.” He gave her the spoon. “Thanks.” No smile for Lance. He just left. Lydia was ready for a wall or the ceiling to cave in. She was not ready to “do okay.” Do I look like a grave digger?
That night was the night for something sweet—the fruity wine she found on sale. It stained her lips, tongue, and left little spots on her shirt. But it wasn’t bad, and it should help her do the worst thing she could think of. The body was buggy by this point, and the sun cooked it an outer crust. The odor was more than she could handle, so she went back in to mask up. Stockings? She tied the nylons tight to her face.
It took Lydia a long time with that big, dumb spoon. The hole wasn’t very deep, but Peaches fit inside. Lydia covered him with dirt and gave it a pat. Geez-zoo, look what I did. It was the first moment in a long while when Lydia felt proud. She dusted off then went to make a celebratory meal of canned steak and potato soup with chips and blue raspberry gelatin.
She wouldn’t let it get quiet in the house. The radio went on loud. Mister Jazz Man was playing the hits. Dishes done, she felt like pampering and remembered Crissy in the mountains. Mountain of mountains. She does ten, I can do one.
Lydia snuggled into her cozy chair which squeaked and smelled like pee and old milk. She cracked open the library beach read and drew it in close to see the darn thing. She read the same two lines she always read but then went on to the next and the next and the next! Look at her go! I’m a genius! A reading fiend!
But between the spoon digging and all those words, Lydia’s heart stopped flat. As she waited to move from dead to the heavenlies, Peaches sat by her, purring and stinking like rot. Should’ve dug a bigger hole.