{"id":8897,"date":"2024-11-15T16:42:50","date_gmt":"2024-11-15T23:42:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8897"},"modified":"2024-11-15T16:42:50","modified_gmt":"2024-11-15T23:42:50","slug":"dillons-door","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8897","title":{"rendered":"Dillon\u2019s Door"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Charlie Kieft<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You install cat flaps for a living. It\u2019s reliable work in this yuppified city. Pays better than you\u2019d expect too. You chitchat with the client, cut a hole in the door at feline height, insert the flap, put in some screws, and, bingo, there\u2019s another free-roaming kitty for the coyote buffet. Oh, and while you\u2019re there, you don\u2019t forget to check the property for security cams, door alarms, and the like. That\u2019s how you choose the houses you\u2019ll come back to rob.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You had forty-three clients in Missoula over the summer. Now it\u2019s winter, and many of them have snowbirded south to Palm Springs or Cancun, or gone skiing at Big Sky. That\u2019s forty-three empty houses for Christmas. From what you can tell, only sixteen of them have fully equipped home security systems because a) Who can afford that luxury these days? or b) \u201cI\u2019ve got a gun; why would I need a security system?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s well past midnight. You\u2019re strung out on horse pills in a client\u2019s bedroom, having broken in through the cat flap you installed four months ago. You\u2019re rifling through her turquoise leather-veneered jewelry box\u2014old rodeo belt buckles, interesting<\/em>\u2014when something touches your leg. Your heart stutter-steps, so do your feet. You shine your Maglite down at the carpet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh! Hi there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s a cat, an old, three-legged calico. Or rather, she\u2019s <\/em>an old, three-legged calico.<\/em> You know that 99% of calicos are female; you basically grew up in your father\u2019s vet clinic. The coloration has to do with the X chromosome or something. You\u2019ve always had a soft spot for cats. She nuzzles against your pantleg, purring urgently, leaning into the headbutt. Her golden eyes flick up to yours. They\u2019re all affection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Flattered, you squat and stroke the calico\u2019s vibrating throat with the side of your finger, then your fingernails, and work back along her cobbly spine to that sweet spot just in front of the tail, which makes most any cat stand on tiptoe, this one included. Her fur is clumped and oily, flecked with dander.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re about eight lives in, aren\u2019t you, girl?\u201d you say. The calico sits and cocks her head, like reminiscing, tallying up her near-deaths. She gives a sly twitch of her whiskers. She\u2019s playing coy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A coyote howls outside. You remember that you\u2019re mid-burglary and shoot to your feet. You need to get the hell out of this person\u2019s house. Heart racing, you dump the contents of the jewelry box into a duffel bag, and you\u2019re about to tear through the drawers of the dresser, when something fishhooks your eye, pulls you back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wedged in the bottom of the empty jewelry box is a photo of a kid in a western-cut shirt with a horseshoe pattern. School portrait, must be, kid about eight or nine, with the goofiest dimpled grin. A missing tooth. The kid\u2019s gaze is off-center, though, well away from the camera lens, as if at an adult who\u2019s scolding them. Sit up straight, goddammit! Smile!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice her, the tripod calico, patiently regarding you from below. She\u2019s ancient, but still cute. The missing leg makes her spunky, grizzled. It\u2019s like she\u2019s waiting for you to do something. The way the bridge of her nose is perfectly split by one patch of orange and another of black\u2026she\u2019s so familiar. And so is that kid in the photo, you realize. Who is that? <\/em>Your gaze ping pongs between the photo and the cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The photo. The cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kid. The calico.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recognition stampedes through your chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cD-Dillon?\u201d you ask, wide-eyed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And Dillon responds with an affirmative \u201cPreow.<\/em>\u201d Like: Finally, you understand<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your gut tenses, coils, and springs, taking your legs with it. You leap over Dillon, sprint out of the bedroom, down the dark hallway, banging against walls, shining your stupid Maglite every which way. You fling open the back door (the one with the cat flap), close it behind you, fly across the crinkly frozen lawn, vault over the back alley chain-link, get into your waiting shitwagon car, and you\u2019re off, sputtering, into the frigid night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dillon watches you go, then slips back inside. Too many sharp teeth out tonight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

\u201cMysterious Cat Flap Burglar Pounces Again,\u201d Missoulian.com declares next morning. They ID the homeowner\/victim as:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Former champion barrel racer turned rodeo announcer, \u2018Calamity\u2019 Jane Landers, a local legend who now resides primarily in Texas.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFuck!\u201d You fling your phone at the wall of your trailer. Last you heard, Calamity Jane was shacked up with some retired rig worker in Corpus Christi two thousand miles away. When you installed that cat flap last summer, Jane wasn\u2019t there. If you\u2019d seen you, you would\u2019ve run for the hills. It was the neighbor who let you in, right? And, surely, Dillon wasn\u2019t around. As far as you can remember, you did your thing (noting the complete lack of security features) and left, intent on returning months later in the dead of night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You retrieve your phone from the floor and pull up PayPal. You flick the transaction screen back to August, looking for the payment for Dillon\u2019s cat door. Looks like you were paid in full, but not by Jane Landers. She used a pseudonym.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Kitty Russell.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You groan. How could you not have seen it before? She gave you the clue of the century! Ms. Kitty Russell was the name of the saloon-owning madam from Gunsmoke<\/em>, Calamity Jane\u2019s favorite old-time TV show. You think Gunsmoke <\/em>was pure horseshit, a black-and-white Wild West fantasy of gunslinging heroes, lazy-eyed villains, and helpless women. The real West, what it\u2019s become, is nothing but tragedy upon tragedy, cold, stacked stones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You abandon your trailer and start sleeping in the shitwagon on the outskirts of town. Cops must be watching for you. Probably WANTED posters at all the pawn shops within a two-state radius. You\u2019ll have to lie low for a while, stay hidden and silent, like a lost cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

In the shitwagon\u2019s backseat, you look through what you stole from Jane. Or, you now gather, what she meant for you to steal. What she gave to you. The only things of any value are those studded and engraved rodeo belt buckles from the jewelry box. You spend your sober hours tracing each of them with your fingertips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THREE FORKS RODEO 1990 CHAMPION.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE 1983 LIVINGSTON ROUNDUP.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

CALGARY STAMPEDE CHAMPION 1982.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

PENDLETON ROUND-UP 1989 CHAMPION.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

HOUSTON LIVESTOCK SHOW & RODEO 1982.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All those rodeos, Jane\u2019s glory days, happened long before you were born. You look down at your own brass belt buckle, which holds up your torn and stained Walmart jeans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the center of the buckle, there\u2019s a cowboy on a bucking horse, a rodeo clown nearby, a mountain range behind. The Absarokas or Beartooths, you reckon. Twisted rope and barbed wire border the outside edge of the oval buckle. It\u2019s a thing of beauty. 2015 ROSCOE RODEO CHAMPION <\/em>it reads.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You remember the flared-nostril battle and thrill of bronc riding. Like straddling a bolt of lightning in front of everyone you\u2019ve ever known. The rodeo community was your family. You hear again the boom of Calamity Jane\u2019s voice coming from the announcer\u2019s booth. She joked about being nervous for your first professional competition as you mounted the horse\u2014a spitfire pinto named Oil Strike. The chute opened and Oil Strike everything he could to send you flying. He bucked and spun and writhed, but you held on for the full eight seconds with good form. Even before dismounting, you knew you\u2019d won. You felt like the king of Montana. Oil Strike must\u2019ve sensed you loosened your grip because he gave his hardest buck yet. You tumbled to the dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You hear again the sound of your pelvis shattering under Oil Strike\u2019s hoof. It happened so quick. From one instant came endless pain. You remember dehumanizing surgeries, orthopedic scaffolding sticking out of your waist and hips, torturous physical therapy, online classes to finish high school, and fentanyl, fentanyl, fentanyl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

A week later, the first blizzard of the year parks itself over the Missoula valley. It snows into the night. You\u2019re far too sober to simply endure. Shivering in the heater-less shitwagon, you decide to cruise past another cat flap you installed last summer on a big, green craftsman near the university. The Dean of Veterinary Medicine\u2019s home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The streets are empty, the accumulating snow unmarked apart from the shitwagon\u2019s tire tracks. When you drive past, the green craftsman\u2019s lights are on inside and out, and the resident dog (a one-eyed rottweiler) watches you from the living room window. Way too risky<\/em>. You keep the shitwagon rolling, thinking what to do. You contemplate spread-eagling naked in the Dean\u2019s snowy front yard, inscribed in the blankness, your organs crystalizing. Like the Vitruvian Man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You wonder what the Dean would think of that, if he, patting his huge dog, happened to look out the window at the right moment\u2014to see his child\u2019s bare body in the snow. Does a vet know how to resuscitate a frozen human heart? Would he even bother? He\u2019s probably figured out by now that it was you who nicked the controlled drugs safe out of his truck. It contained enough phenobarbital, trazodone, and fentanyl to kill several horses. Those drugs kept you rolling numbly through this half-life for a long while, but now they\u2019re gone. The pain rooted deep within the confines of your Frankenstein pelvis is reawakening, isn\u2019t it? It\u2019ll never go away, will it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, the shitwagon\u2019s mirrors ignite with light. A blazing sun floats in either sideview mirror, the pair together in the rearview. Headlights, wide-spaced and circular. Unmistakable. Your mind fills in the details your blinded eyes can\u2019t see\u2014a 1972 Chevy pickup, seafoam green, license plate: COWGRRL.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Calamity Jane.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You floor the shitwagon, tearing down the slick avenue, and slip-slide hard left at the next intersection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like any decent outlaw, you make for the hills. The Chevy hurtles after you like a comet through Missoula\u2019s deserted intersections. Blocks fly past. You leave the illuminated suburbs and fly up a narrow, snow-paved track. The shitwagon slows, its bald tires unable to grip the steep, deepening powder. You feel the Chevy\u2019s chrome grille closing in from behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The impact is surprisingly gentle. Calamity Jane fishtails you, easy as anything. The shitwagon spins out into the hillside ditch. It lands hard on the left headlight, which is snuffed out. Miraculously, the airbag still works. It saves your face from becoming a bloody pancake. The shitwagon settles on its left side at the bottom of the ditch. Its pistons sigh one last revolution, then die.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You orient yourself in the cramped, pale darkness, and find that you\u2019re pressed up against the driver\u2019s side window. Pulling with both hands, you extricate your legs from under the dash. You rotate your body to align with gravity, plant one foot, then the other against the smashed driver\u2019s window, and stand halfway. You force the passenger door open over your head and emerge into the blizzard. The Chevy\u2019s twin sun headlights douse your face. You\u2019ve got a helluva nosebleed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Calamity Jane steps down from the Chevy\u2019s cab in a wash of diesel fumes, reverse-haloed against the frosty midnight sky by her black Stetson. She slams the door, takes five crunching boot steps, rifle in hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey, kid,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMa,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Many, many hours later, you awake in Calamity Jane\u2019s bed beneath a grizzly bear of withdrawal. You\u2019re feverish, nauseous, you hurt all over. Dillon has placed her little, rumbling body on your chest. Her weight over your heart is reassuring. Your father once told you that cats purr at a healing frequency. You believe it. She stretches her sole front paw out to touch your lips. Her golden eyes ask you where you\u2019ve been, all this time. And you think of the darling schoolkid posed at the bottom of your mother\u2019s turquoise jewelry box, which is still sitting there on the dresser. Dillon was just a ragamuffin kitten back when that photo was taken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You kiss Dillon\u2019s toe beans. \u201cYou first. What happened to your leg, girl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe went looking for you,\u201d Calamity Jane says. She\u2019s standing in the doorway. Your mother\u2019s voice is raspy, always has been, like blades of prairie grass rubbing together. She\u2019s gone two shades grayer since the last time you saw her. \u201cAfter you left, Dillon searched for you. She ventured farther and farther out until one day she got run over and limped back home with a broken leg. Your dad tried to pin the bone together, but it didn\u2019t heal, so he had to amputate. That was a long time ago now, before the divorce. Anyway, she gets around pretty good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou had a nasty accident of your own, huh? And on my account?\u201d you ask Dillon. She just keeps on purring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jane hands you a couple pills and a glass of water. \u201cIbuprofen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You swallow them. A part of you wishes they were opiates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI haven\u2019t told your dad that you\u2019re here. You can tell him if you want. He assumes, basically, that you\u2019re dead,\u201d Jane says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d The last time you saw your father, he pulled a gun on you. No, you won\u2019t be speaking with him anytime soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jane comes around and sits on the side of the bed. She doesn\u2019t go so far as to touch you, yet she\u2019s close. \u201cHere\u2019s the deal,\u201d she says. \u201cBy now, you\u2019ve figured out that I set this house up to lure you out. It belongs to a friend who lives down the street. When I heard about a \u2018cat flap burglar\u2019 in Missoula, well, I kinda knew it was you from the beginning. Dillon and I have been living down the street since you put in the cat flap. She\u2019s been spending her nights over here, waiting for you to show.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You don\u2019t have anything to say to that. You\u2019re amazed Jane went to so much trouble to catch you. She even got Dillon in on it. The cat\u2019s intentions are pure, but what is this about for Jane? Revenge? Justice? Are the cops on their way right now? Your body tenses. You wait prostrate for Jane to deliver her verdict.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAt any rate, you can\u2019t stay here. Lou\u2014my partner or boyfriend or whatever you wanna call him\u2014he owns a ranch down in Texas. It\u2019s where I live when I\u2019m not announcing on the rodeo circuit. It ain\u2019t Montana, but it\u2019s peaceful. You\u2019ll be comin\u2019 back with me to live there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, that\u2019s how it\u2019s going to be. You finally force yourself to meet Jane\u2019s eyes. They\u2019re as unreadable as ever. \u201cAre you puttin\u2019 me out to pasture?\u201d you ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You expect her to scoff. Instead, she sighs. \u201cIf I\u2019ve learned anything over the past few years, it\u2019s that anyone and everyone is an addict. Hell, I still haven\u2019t quit smoking. Your dad\u2019s always been addicted to cable news. And Lou\u2019s a recovering alcoholic. You\u2019re hardly unique in being an addict.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re not sure what she\u2019s getting at.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jane continues. \u201cAA didn\u2019t work for Lou, so he had to find his own way to getting clean. Now he helps others. He been running a rehab out of the ranch since before I met him. It\u2019s fully licensed. They got a doctor, therapists, a cook, yoga, hot tub, everything. They even got therapy horses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You hear what Jane\u2019s saying and you know these are all good things. You ought to be deliriously happy to have a mother who suddenly gives a damn, or maybe you should be furious that she took so long. But you\u2019d given up on having a future, on escaping the spiral. To see a better future for yourself materializing through your mother\u2019s words is so unexpected it\u2019s unbelievable. You look to Dillon for reassurance. She\u2019s still on your chest, eyes closed, smiling in her cat way. She carries on diligently purring. Hers is the cyclical breathing of a mystic, a looping expression of everything-is-alright-ness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI-I can\u2019t leave\u2014\u201d you say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBe reasonable, kid. You don\u2019t have a choice in this. You either get clean with me or go to prison. The system won\u2019t be lenient this time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know. It\u2019s just\u2014I can\u2019t leave her again. I couldn\u2019t.\u201d You wipe tears from your eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dillon\u2019s four eyelids flick open. Her wide pupils contract to slits in the daylight. You stroke her neck. She\u2019s so skinny. It feels silly, getting this worked up about a cat in front of a woman who\u2019s as unsentimental as they come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jane places one of her hands over yours, so that you\u2019re both cupping Dillon\u2019s neck. It takes you by surprise, the warmth of your mother\u2019s palm. Now Jane\u2019s the one avoiding your eyes. \u201cDillon\u2019s a very special animal. She\u2019s been waiting for you this whole time. I should tell you something,\u201d she says. You notice that her hand is trembling\u2014from age or emotion you don\u2019t know. \u201cShe hasn\u2019t been eating well lately, so I got your dad to take a look at her last week. He took X-rays. Her body\u2019s riddled with tumors. He wanted to euthanize her then and there, but Dillon gave me this look, like: Not yet. Not quite yet. I\u2019m still waiting for my friend to come home<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Although you already knew that Dillon wasn\u2019t long for this earth, you begin to sob uncontrollably. You sob for the years that\u2019ve slipped away. Did you let them slip? Or did they slip of their own accord?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unperturbed, Dillon rides the turbulent waves of your chest. She\u2019s still purring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

CHARLIE KIEFT<\/strong>\u00a0is an American writer living in England, where he earned his MA in creative writing at the University of Bristol. His flash fiction has been longlisted by the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize. He has two adorable cats, a lovely, doting partner, and uses a bookshelf as a standing desk. You can find him online @CharlieKieft<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Charlie Kieft You install cat flaps for a living. It\u2019s reliable work in this yuppified city. Pays better than you\u2019d expect too. You chitchat with the client, cut a hole in the door at feline height, insert the flap, put … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":8894,"menu_order":3,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-8897","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-2jv","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8897","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8897"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8897\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8909,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8897\/revisions\/8909"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8894"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8897"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}