Kristin Leonard. Going Home.

Going Home

Neither of them knew the time.

Rita could feel the heat of the afternoon sun gliding across the back of her neck and figured it must be getting late. She adjusted her hold on the orange cat, and turned away from the porch, towards Sal.

“I got him,” she called. Her lips parted into the barest trace of a smile.

Sal was leaning against the pickup, staring at a crushed pack of Marlboros when he heard Rita.  He stuffed the cigarettes into his pocket, looked up.  

Before Rita could think of something to add – was there something else to say? – the orange cat snarled. It was a throaty baritone that came from the gut. Orangey – Rita cooed, in a voice little more than a whisper, Mama’s here – we’re going home.

Rita buried her fingers in the cat’s fur, vaguely aware of a flying insect zigzagging past. She looked down at the cat: at his ears; the two velvety triangles the color of tangerine, flattened against his skull; at his eyes, the bright slits of amber fixed downward, on the cobwebs and dust under the porch. It was here, in this house, under this porch, he had spent the entirety of his life avoiding the kids, avoiding the dog, stalking rodents. It was here theworld made sense. Rita understood.

Six weeks had passed since the notice had been posted on their door. It was the notice that started the countdown, triggering the crying and the blaming and the screaming and the slamming of doors. And after all of these had finally passed, they tucked the kids into bed, grabbed the ashtray, and sat down at the kitchen table, resigned to the task at hand: to sorting and tossing and packing and moving, and moving on.

Pushing aside the memory of the notice and the days that followed it, Rita glanced over at

Sal. He was looking over his shoulder now, at the road behind them.

“I’m ready,” she called.   

Sal spat into the dirt, turned around.

Rita shifted her hold on the cat, who wouldn’t stop snarling. “Except he’s still trying to get free.”

“Then leave him.”

“No.” Rita tightened her grip on the cat.

Sal swatted at an insect that had settled on his elbow.

“I was just tellin’ you, that’s all.” Rita said, watching him.

Sal reached into his pocket, pulled out the keys. “Let’s go. I work at six.”

“I know.” Rita’s words were sharp, clipped. “Did you think I forgot? How could I forget? That’s exactly what I mean, why I had to …”  Rita swallowed, stopped. It was no use bringing it up, not again. Tiny chunks of dirt and gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she made her way to Sal. By the time she reached the door to the pickup the cat had begun to relax into her arms.

Sal opened the passenger door, walked around to the other side. The sun was directly overhead now, above the clouds.

Rita climbed in and closed the door. She looked out the window at the yard that used to be theirs – all gold and green and grey – and the fence that lined the western edge of the property. It was still leaning to the left, exactly as they had left it.

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Beyond the fence was the road. Hard to recognize in the best of conditions, the road was now nearly overtaken by weeds. Most noticeable were the dandelions, whose yellow middles bobbed ever so slightly in the breeze, first one way, then the other.

Sal pressed the key into the ignition, and the engine hummed to life. It startled the cat, who lunged free from Rita’s arms.

Oh, Orangey – Rita sighed as the last splotch of orange disappeared under her seat.

Sal glanced at her; then, just as he had done a million times before, he pressed on the gas and turned the truck around, navigating the tires over the edge of the road, onto the shoulder. But this time, the soggy expanse of rocks and mud caused the truck to rumble, then jolt. Sal pressed down harder, willing the truck to plough through.

He realized his error just in time, seconds before they crashed into the old mailbox. He jerked the steering wheel left, braked hard.

Sal and Rita looked up from the dashboard to find themselves in front of the gate to the backyard; to what used to be their backyard and the small pile of possessions they had left behind: a broken stool, an old gas can, an upended stroller. 

Rita could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and the sting of tears gathering, followed by Sal’s eyes, watching her.

“It’s a’right,” she brought the back of her hand to her face. 

Sal scratched his chin.

“It’s a’right,” Rita repeated, her voice quivering.

Outside the window, a small breeze rustled past.

Sal set his hand down on Rita’s leg, looked at her.

Rita swallowed, and for a moment, their eyes met. Then Rita placed her hand over Sal’s. His skin was warm against hers. 

Sal leaned in closer to Rita, close enough so that his shoulder touched hers. He lowered his voice. “Let’s go home.”

Rita nodded, and as she sat there looking out the window, at their past, she listened to the sound of Sal breathing. She tried to remind herself of her future, of their future.

 And it was then, at this exact moment, Rita felt the slightest tickle of cat whiskers brush against her ankle. Sal was right. It was time to go home.


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