Mr. Chuckles
opening excerpt
Last evening a comfortably fat marmalade cat plunged from a balcony and landed on Thomas Wu, who now lies, all his certainties numbed, in St. Joseph’s Hospital. So far, Mr. Chuckles is still at-large.
The police, with more pressing cases in a rough, but slowly gentrifying neighbourhood, arrived late this morning and are now on the top floor of my apartment building. I know I’m sole witness to the near fatal encounter. The question is: Will I tell them the truth or offer something more useful?
Built circa 1965, this six story, low-rise is faded and scaly, but the walls remain solid as a mausoleum. I’ve left the door open to keep track of the investigation. With Thomas oblivious—a lump on the top of his head, a crack at the front—it’s clear the crime solvers have concluded it’s a case of workaday assault.
I hear them knock on Audra Bilger’s door. She owns Mr. Chuckles as well as a head of confused hair, loyally tinted the same colour as her cat. You’re right. At fifty-ish, she’s no oil painting.
It’s not just her hair I find egregious or that she doesn’t clean the lint out of the dryer in the laundry room when she’s finished. It’s what she said after Thomas left with his fresh laundry.
“Thank God I’ve got Mr. Chuckles and not a dog,” she declared, struggling to fold a fitted sheet. “You know them Chinks—they love to make a nice little stir fry out of Fido.”
She waited for a girlfriend giggle or complicit smile. I kept to myself, but got a measure of revenge by folding my fitted sheet with the precision of a ritual solider before he hands the flag to a military widow. Audra’s been a bit stiff with me since.
Early this morning the cat’s baffling absence sent her everywhere, inside and outside the building, calling—panic rising. I let her carry on. I suspect he’s “gone to ground,” which is cat talk for hiding under porches and bushes until the coast is clear by feline reckoning.
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