Grim anthology. Christine Johnson
college, Eli ramps up his appearance schedule, and after each performance, a music journalist or blogger sits him down for an interview. They ask the expected questions about his one-hit-wonder of a father, how Eli will avoid the same trap of overconfidence, how he’ll stay down-to-earth despite drowning in contract offers, each bigger than the last.
He always answers, “My friends keep me humble. They remind me that success doesn’t come from my efforts alone. Some of it’s luck, of course, and I feel very lucky right now.”
But each time he says it with less conviction. When they start asking about me, his “good-luck charm,” Eli gets antsy.
These days, we don’t talk much.
One night, after a standing-room-only concert at a local nightclub, a reporter with a different sort of angle wants to talk to Eli.
“Hi.” The lady is about thirty years old and carries a bag that screams organic living. “I’m doing a story about good-luck charms and successful performers—musicians, sports stars, that sort of thing. The article is called ‘Beyond Rabbit’s Feet.’” She sinks into a chair and signals the waitress. “Your little cat is quite the legend.”
“It is?” Eli glances over to the chair next to him, where I’m sitting atop his guitar case.
You just called me “it.” Not cool.
The reporter smiles at me. “So I’ve done some digging...”
“Great,” he mutters, reaching for his Coke.
“It is my job.” She flips a page in her notepad. “Turns out, your father was also known for carrying around a cat-shaped good-luck charm when he was with Boyz on the Korner.” She points her pen at me. “Is this the same one? Did he give it to you?”
Eli just sips his Coke and stares at her impassively, saying nothing.
She reaches into her bag. “I have pictures, if that would help.”
“Don’t bother.” Standing quickly, almost knocking his chair over, he sweeps me up and crams me into his inside jacket pocket. “For the record, yes, the cat was my father’s, but it’s just a gimmick. My girlfriend likes holding it during shows. It gives her something to do with her hands when she gets nervous for me.”
“If it’s just a gimmick, then why is it insured for over a hundred thousand—”
“I have to go. Good night.”
Her protestation fades behind us as Eli stalks out of the club.
Once we’re outside where it’s quiet, I ask him, Am I really a gimmick to you now?
He pulls out his phone to pretend he’s talking to someone else instead of the bulge in his coat. “Fig, I think next time you should stay home.”
* * *
I do stay home for the following gig, perched on his windowsill, angled so that I can also see the aquarium. As frustrated as Eli is with my influence over his life, he still takes the time for small kindnesses.
Just after 2:00 a.m., he pulls into the driveway. I can feel the slam of car doors from up here. Soon the stairs, then the floorboards shake with his footsteps.
The bedroom door jerks open. Eli dumps his guitar case on the bed, then paces, hands on his hips, shoulders lowered in defeat.
How’d it go? I ask, though I can guess.
“It sucked.” He sinks onto the edge of the bed. “I suck.”
You do not suck. That’s one thing I know for sure about you.
“Maybe you know, but I’ll never know. Not as long as...” He raises his head from his hands to stare at me. A look I recognize all too well comes into his eyes.
No...
He gets up and crosses the room toward me, slowly, as if I’ll bite. I wish I could bite.
“I have to do this.” Eli picks me up with the gentlest of touches, but I can feel the fury in his bones.
Don’t put me away. You’ll regret it.
“No, Fig, I won’t. Not in the long run.” He slides me into the envelope his dad sent me in. “I have to make things happen for myself. I don’t even know whether people like me because they want to, or because you’re making them.”
Fine. Let me stay here in your room. Just don’t put me away. Please. Don’t be like your father.
“I’m not like him. You were the one who told me I could succeed on my own. He needed luck, but I don’t.” Eli staples my envelope shut, as if I could escape.
I’ll miss you if you put me away. I’ll be miserable and lonely.
“No,” he whispers, on the verge of tears. “Figments feel nothing, remember?”
I’ve become more than a figment with you. I thought we were friends!
“I’ve given up friends before, when they’ve hurt me.”
But I’m still your Fig. I lower my thought-voice to a whisper. I’ll always be your Fig.
Eli’s hands begin to shake, but I still hear him clearly. “No matter what?”
The toes of my boots bend against the interior of the envelope, and my paws reach out, forever. No matter what.
* * *
In a box in the attic, I lie upon something soft—clothes, I imagine—and wait for Eli to return. Because he still believes in me, I can still feel him. Sometimes I hear him downstairs in his room, playing the song I woke him to write, the song that could make him huge.
It’s cold up here. My cat ears pick up the scrabble of insects and mice, creeping about in what must be an ideal home. My plush body conforms to the shape of whatever I lie upon, the way my soul (if I have one) conforms to the shape of whomever I—well, serve is the wrong word, but it’s better than love.
When Eli moves away—to college or stardom—I begin to fade. It takes months, maybe years. Time loses meaning. My senses dull. I forget who I am.
It ends, as always, in darkness.
Epilogue
A veiled light meets my eyes.
“There you are,” a woman whispers. “Just where he said you’d be.”
A slight rip of paper, then I’m tugged out to see her. Familiar, I think, but...was her hair always that gray?
She stands, crosses the attic, then carries me down creaky stairs, clutching me to her side.
We enter a living room, where the television is on, playing the Grammy Awards. “My friends were going to come over to celebrate,” the woman says, “but I told them I was sick. Eli wanted to make sure you saw, so I figured it should just be you and me.”
Eli...I know the name. Was I once his? Were we each other’s?
I don’t think she can hear me. She sets me on a coffee table, propped against a stack of magazines.
Wait! Was that his face on the cover?
She definitely can’t hear me, and I can’t turn to face the magazines. I strain to see out of the corner of my eye, but these eyes don’t seem to have corners.
“Coming up next,” says the voice on TV, “Grammy nominee for Best New Artist—Eli Wylde!”
Eli...
When they return from commercial break, he’s there onstage, just him and his guitar. His age shocks me—I expected to see a twenty-year-old Best New Artist, but this man’s closer to thirty. It took him thirteen years to reach this height without me, but he reached it, with the song I made him write.
When he wins, his acceptance speech is full of names I don’t recognize. The only