Category: Fiction Factor

The cat eyed the visitor standing outside the front door, let out a quick yawn, and then laid its head back down on the sofa, its fluffy, gray tail switching rhythmically.

“You must be Jeff from that dot com,” said Malcolm Scrimm, his gap-toothed smile stretching across his wrinkled face. “Come in, come in. Here … I made you a cup of my famous tea. Everybody that enters the House of Scrimm has to at least try it.”

Scrimm was the owner of Vlad, a Norwegian Forest cat who – according to its owner – was 39 years old.

Jeff Jaffee worked for CandidCritters, a website that specialized in writing offbeat articles concerning animals. Having received a call about Vlad a week earlier, Jaffee wanted to see if there was something to the story.

“I appreciate you letting me come out,” said Jaffee, who had no real interest in the tea but politely took a sip after Scrimm passed the cup. “Wow … that’s really good, thanks. Well, I can see Vlad has quite a tail. Now I want to hear the tale of a cat that’s nearly 40. Do you mind if I pet him?”

“Please do.”

Jaffee gave Vlad a couple of soft rubs on the head, then scratched his chin.

If Vlad was, in fact, 39, then the folks at Guinness would need to amend their list. Creme Puff was a Texas feline that lived 38 years and three days from 1967 to 2005, making it the world record holder.

“Just curious,” Jaffee said. “How exactly do you know that Vlad is 39?”

Scrimm walked over to a table beside the sofa and grabbed a scrap book.

“Because I found him 39 years ago,” he said with a chuckle. “Just showed up on my doorstep on July 3, 1985. Couldn’t have been more than three or four weeks old. Here, look.”

Scrimm pointed to a photo of himself holding Vlad while standing on his porch, which was decorated in Fourth of July bunting.

“There’s your proof,” he said. “As you can see I had some 1980s hair going for me. I think I was trying to channel Howard Jones.”

Jaffee looked at the photo and it appeared to be legitimate. Still, he needed more proof than a faded Polaroid.

“That certainly looks like you and Vlad as a kitten,” he said. “But don’t you have any veterinarian records or something like that? I just need to cross the Ts and dot the Is … you understand.”

Scrimm rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Lemme get it from the drawer in the kitchen.”

As Scrimm left the room, Vlad continued to eye Jaffee. There was hardly anything unusual about a cat stare, but the look he was getting from the creature was unnerving. Making things even weirder was that he was struggling to look away and felt himself overcome by a wave of dizziness.

Jaffee stumbled back against the wall after Scrimm returned with a yellow piece of paper and silver tag.

“I found what you need,” Scrimm said. “This is the paperwork for his first rabies shot in 1985, as well as the tag. Of course I’m guessing the last thing on your mind right now is your little write-up.”

Scrimm plopped down on the sofa next to Vlad, who moved onto his lap without ever breaking eye contact with Jaffee.

“I can’t tell you the number of people who are just amazed by ol’ Vlad here,” Scrimm said, gently stroking the cat. “They can’t believe he’s as old as he is and looks as healthy as he does. But I’ll let you in on a little secret before you nod off, Jeff. It all comes down to diet.”

Poisoned by the tea, Jaffee could no longer move. He slowly slid down the wall, his shirt riding up his back and his legs sprawled in front of him as his life drained away.

“See, cats need a balanced diet to stay healthy,” Scrimm said. “A little chicken, a little fish, some grains … now you feed a cat that, and he’s probably gonna give you 15 or 20 good years. But Vlad here, he’s special. And as soon as he showed up, I knew we had something in common.

“I like killing people, and he likes eating the people I kill. Turns out you give a cat some long pig, and it adds years to their life.”

Scrimm grabbed Jaffee by his feet, pulled him toward the door leading to the basement, and shoved him down the steps.

Vlad’s tail raised straight in the air as he leapt from the sofa and headed for his dinner.

Scrimm reached for his phone and punched in seven digits.

“Yes, is this CandidCritters? This is Malcolm Scrimm. That fellow you were supposed to send – Jeff was it? He never showed up. But it’s probably just as well. Me and my cat don’t really like drawing attention to ourselves, anyway.

“Have a blessed day.”

Grady Grande had always dreamed of being in the big leagues.

Like a lot of kids, he was a Little Leaguer, so naturally he entertained the thought of staying a kid forever and playing ball for fun and profit.

And by the time he got to high school at Iron City Union Magnet, he thought he was a pretty good catcher.

His coaches, unfortunately, didn’t share that opinion.

By the end of his senior season, he had caught a grand total of six games in four years, playing on a team that never made the district playoffs and managed just one winning campaign during his entire time on the roster.

At the senior baseball banquet when the awards were handed out, all he earned was the equivalent of a participation trophy.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

The plan in his head was to make All-State, be an All-American at a Division 1 school and then become a first-round selection in the Major League Baseball First-Year Player Draft where he would sign an incentive-laden contract with either the New York Yankees or Chicago Cubs – depending on who made the best offer.

A long, storied professional career would end with him as a multi-millionaire baseball legend, one who would open a string of sports-themed restaurants right after making the National Baseball Hall of Fame on the first ballot.

Instead, as close as he got was playing beer league softball after work.

So, years later here he was on a Saturday afternoon in late June, sitting in his den watching the Yankees-Braves game with his granddaughter, Stella, daydreaming briefly about what was and what would never be.

“Papa,” Stella said, pointing at the TV screen, “you were like Jose Trevino once, weren’t you? Did you play the position like he plays it?”

Trevino was the New York catcher, and on this day, he was on the receiving end of Gerrit Cole’s four-seam fastballs.

“Oh, goodness no,” he said with a chuckle. “Jose is great. He played college ball, summer league ball, worked his way up from the minors … I’m afraid your dear ol’ grandad was never great. Or even good. I was more of a doorstop than a catcher.”

Stella smiled.

“I wish I could’ve seen you play,” she said. “I bet you were a lot better than you let on. Just to be out there on the field had to be fun. I’ll tell you what … that would’ve been enough for me. Just to have had the chance.”

Grady thought back to the days when he could get up and down with little effort, although the strain on his knees was more evident as he got older.

Even the pain in his catching hand still flared up now and again.

Still, knowing he had an opportunity that Stella never would put things in perspective.

“I played,” he said, “but you know the one thing I could’ve never done? Coached. I wasn’t smart enough to fill out a lineup card … to figure out what players were best at their positions. I would’ve never known the right time to make a pitching change, whether to send or hold a runner … none of that stuff. I was too busy trying not to screw up that I didn’t observe what was going on around me.

“But you can do all those things. I’ve watched you scribble on your note pad and strategize like a boss. And you’ve been filling out scorebooks since you were a little girl. Shoot, I bet you know more about baseball than I ever did – or ever will.”

Stella paused before responding, watching Cole strike out Marcell Ozuna to retire the side and end the fifth inning.

“I do love the game,” Stella said. “There’s something about it that makes me happy, and I can’t even explain it. So many sports seem – I don’t know – complicated. But when I watch baseball, I see players work together on defense but then have to stand alone on offense. It’s like two games wrapped up in one game, and that’s really, really cool. And knowing you got to do that when you were my age makes me jealous.”

Stella put down her notebook and manipulated the joystick on her electric wheelchair, allowing her to navigate closer to her granddad. She then reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Do you really think I could be a good coach, Papa?” she asked.

Grady’s eyes welled up.

“Are you kidding me, sweetheart? You’ll be the best there ever was.”

Considering Tandy Merritt was 10 years old, there was nothing particularly unusual about his bedroom. He had a place to sleep, a chair to sit on, and a table to place his stuff.

Throw in “Commander Clash and the Renegades” and “Francisco Fiend” movie posters – as well as a pennant of the local Class A baseball team, the Cambridge Bunt Cakes – and the walls framed a space that was much like countless others.

Thing is, Tandy never sat on the chair because it was reserved for Conch.

When Tandy would get home from school, first thing he’d do is rush up the steps, plop on his bed, and start chatting up Conch.

His mom and dad, Jackie and Glen, would often carefully (and quietly) crack the door and peek in on Tandy in deep conversation.

But Conch?

They couldn’t see him.

He simply wasn’t there.

That was true again on this day, as Jackie slowly closed the door and joined Glen in tiptoeing away.

Once they reached the kitchen, Jackie buried her face in her hands and mouthed a silent scream.

“Glen, what are we gonna do?” she said, pleadingly. “It’s gotten to the point where we’ve got to confront him about this. This isn’t just a cute case of a kid with an imaginary friend, he thinks this Conch person is real. That can’t be healthy. Can it? Maybe we shouldn’t have ignored it for as long as we did.”

Glen paced back and forth and shook his head.

“I know, I know … I just don’t know how to even bring the subject up,” Glen said. “I mean, he’s a great kid – excellent grades, polite, good little soccer player, has plenty of real friends – but this thing with Conch, what do I say? ‘Hey, buddy, mom and me are worried you’re a nut, so please don’t be a nut anymore, OK? Good talk.’”

The two sat in silence for a moment before Jackie let out a long sigh.

“We just have to present a united front,” she said. “And the longer we wait the worse it’s gonna get, so let’s go.”

Glen gave the door to Tandy’s room two quick raps and opened it.

“Mind if your mom and I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure,” Tandy said, standing up before swatting his strawberry blonde bangs out of his eyes. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No, no, not at all,” Jackie said. “But we do need to talk to you about something that’s bothering us. Well, it concerns us, I guess I should say.”

Tandy sat back down on the bed.

“It’s about Conch, isn’t it?” he said.

Glen sat down next to his son and put his arm around him.

“Look, you’ve been talking to Conch ever since you were knee high to me, and we used to get a kick out of it,” Glen explained. “A lot of kids have imaginary friends, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Shoot, when I was little, I had a pretend friend named Aloysius and we used to go to the woods behind my house and play all day. I thought I could see him, too.

“But after a while, you grow out of stuff like that. You start making new friends … real friends, real people to have real conversations with. Don’t you think it’s time to let Conch go?”

Tandy furrowed his brow.

“Why did you let Aloysius go?” Tandy asked. “If he was your friend, how come you abandoned him?”

“Because it was time,” Glen said. “I mean, there was nothing to abandon, really. Aloysius was just a figment of my imagination. He seemed real, but he wasn’t. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. And Conch isn’t real, either, buddy.”

Tandy pointed to the chair.

“Are you sure? Just because you can’t see Conch doesn’t mean he’s not there,” Tandy said. “And I’ll bet if you really think about it, Aloysius was there, too. I know you and mom can’t see him … only I’m supposed to see him. But he knows what I’m thinking even when I don’t talk to him. When Jenny in homeroom smiles at me, he knows exactly how it makes me feel – no one else does. And when I see Hector struggling with his knee brace going to the gym, it’s Conch who lets me know I need to give him a hand. And that time I made fun of Randy when he tripped over his desk and dropped his books, Conch let me know I shouldn’t have done that. I felt bad that I did.

“Conch is just like me … only he’s better than me. When I look at him, I see who I want to be.”

Jackie threw her head back and then chuckled.

“I cannot believe this,” she said. “I cannot believe what an idiot I’ve been. Conch. Conch! I never asked because I never made the connection, but that’s just the name you gave your conscience, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Tandy said. “We were at grandma’s house. I don’t remember how old I was or what you and dad were talking to me about, but I do remember you saying, ‘Let your conscience be your guide.’ And from that point on, I’ve been letting Conch guide me.”

Jackie gave Tandy a kiss on the head and grabbed Glen by the hand. She then glanced at the chair

“We’ll leave you alone, kid,” she said. “I’m not saying I fully understand what’s going on in your head, but if you believe Conch is sitting in a chair and it makes you feel better to talk to him, we’re not gonna stop you. Seems like he’s been steering you in the right direction.

“What’s important is, we love you, Tandy, always have and always will. And we’re proud of you.”

After they walked back to the kitchen, Glen gave Jackie a big hug.

“We should’ve had that talk with him earlier,” Glen said, with a laugh. “I wish I was that creative.”

“I definitely feel better – and a little stupid for not figuring it out before now,” Jackie said. “Weird the things that stick with you … it’s why you have to be careful of what you say to a child. Anyway, we need some bananas and apples, so I’m gonna run to the store. Wanna give me a ride?”

“Sure thing,” Glen said. “Lemme go to the bedroom and get my wallet and keys.”

As Glen walked toward his nightstand, he glanced at the small rocking chair situated next to the dresser.

Usually, it had his work shirt and pants hanging over the back, but not today.

Today, the chair belonged to Aloysius – and it had been a long, long time since Glen had seen his old friend.