SHORT STORY Sultan, Pretty and Me Part 2
In February’s issue you were introduced to part one of this story and you can now read it along with part two, with part three coming next month. If you haven’t read last month’s issue just head to p30 to read part one.
a king, or Sultan of Sloth, as I liked to call him. Sult for short. Long ago, as a young tom full of enthe height of the next building’s roof was at least as important as the next meal, when the quick turn of a bird’s wing would have him off like a muscular, orange missile, long ago, he had had a When Leticia had gone, JonTom grew listless and started a milk belly. And let the birds go by. The birth of a sultan. They say that pets grow to resemble their owners. The sallow visage in the mirror indicated that the reverse was true: sparse, grey whiskers, tattered hair... with the burst vessels of age and long-forgotten over-indulgences, were yellowed and opaque, the irises and pupils shone with all the verve and energy I had ever had. Looking into my eyes was like looking at the ancient light of a distant sun. The energy, palpable and shining, weighed heavy I turned away. Tired from my self-examination, I slumped against the edge of the bureau, envying the sleeping grip on the sprightly beam. Light danced and shimmered, but away and away. Sultan, feeling the weight of my attention, raised his head, looked up. His drooping whiskers begged comfort and love. Pet me. A familiar command, almost urgent enough to override the perpetual accusation of his solemn, pink-tongued smile: How could you let her go? Where is she? ‘I don’t know Sult, I don’t know.’ The old guilt resurfaced. Survivor’s syndrome squeezed my heart. I stepped to the bed, arms and head hanging. Sult bumped his head up into the palm of my criminally unoccupied hand, reminding me of the I ran my hand down his back. ‘Okay Sult, old man, looks like you’ve got me.’ Recalling my earlier, dark contemplations, I added, ‘For a while at least. Now, if you can bestir that hefty ass of yours, I’ll give you some pets.’ I smiled through the insults that came so automatically. It was a part of our relationship: I bugged him about his weight, he woke me up at zero dark thirty in the blessed AM to go out. Or come in. Or just from contrariness. Long ago I had realized that cats don’t care what you say as long as you say it through a smile. In those days I would grin like an idiot and state happily, ‘JonTom, you insufferable piece of batshit, get off my paper.’ And long ago I realized that you don’t make anyone so happy as yourself by talking to an animal. What you say doesn’t matter. Leticia had often observed, ‘You talk to that cat more than me!’ Mock hurt. Then she would lose the fake frown and laugh. And hug us both, warm embrace. Her shiny black hair would fall over us then. Leticia possessed and gave it in plenty. Her Hispanic upbringing had instilled in her a sense 36
