by Cerys Harrison

Bertha never tired of sitting on the back porch of her house, although the scenery had changed in the fifty years since she arrived as a bride. Tobacco and peanuts no longer sprouted in the fields. The barn was quiet without cows and horses. And the two-room cabin her husband built for his in-laws was now a playhouse for her grandchildren.

Trucks occasionally rumbled along the bypass at the foot of the hill, but not as often as when the road was built twenty years ago. She reckoned that there wasn’t as much need for an interstate in these parts anymore. What with the shirt factory closing and the Dow Chemical plant moving, the highway snaked quietly along the hill at the edge of Parker land. Bertha squinted at the tiny balls of black fur bouncing in a line behind a large black tail as they disappeared under the bushes near the road.

“Ain’t nothin’ more precious than a mama cat and her babies,” Bertha muttered as she gently rocked the porch swing.

The gravel road was another change. Laid by the county over the dirt path that once meandered in front of her house, it linked Camden with Big Sandy. John thought the road was a sign of progress, an investment in the farming community, but she was sure her husband wouldn’t be happy if he could see it now.

A few years back, some big shot from Knoxville built a juke joint up the road a piece. Bertha knew there was no use in trying to stop changes, but the late-night clatter of pickup trucks spewing gravel as they sped from the bar towards the bypass made her anxious and more lonely. Thank God for Albert.

A soft breeze lifted the hem of her house dress as she reached for her glass of sun tea. Albert yawned, stretched, and rolled on his back for a belly rub. She ran her fingernails through his fur, pausing to check for ticks. Movement in the trees to the left of the porch caught her attention, and she squinted again. Some bird. A hawk after the kittens?

Bertha used the hem of her dress to clean her glasses and held them toward the trees. It was no use; she could see only green blurs. At her last visit, the doctor described her vision as looking through a dirty window and predicted it would only grow worse.

He held up the file with her test results as if she were Moses receiving the Ten Commandments.  Bertha waved her hand and turned away. 

“Ma, people have cataract operations all the time,” Walter said.

“It’s no trouble if you stay with Jack and me when you have it,” Polly added.

“That’s M-D after your name, not G-O-.” Her mouth set in a firm line as she glared at her doctor. “I don’t want nobody coming at my eyeballs with a knife.”

 Dr. Davis paused, then turned to her children and described the surgical procedure as if Bertha weren’t sitting beside him.

This is what happens when you get old, she thought. People talk to you like you’re a kid, or you become invisible to them. It’s worse when you’re a widow. She rummaged under her chair for her pocketbook and stood abruptly. The doctor stopped in the middle of his sentence and turned in her direction.

 “If that is all you’ve got to tell me, I’ll be going.” She grimaced at the petulance in her voice.

“You’ll send me the bill?” Without waiting for the doctor’s reply, she gathered her coat and yanked the doorknob, leaving Walter and Polly to apologize for her behavior and scurry to catch up. If they’re going to treat me like a child, she groused, they can’t complain when I’m childish.

Unfortunately, that old coot had been right. It was as if her glasses were getting dirtier with each passing day. Another flutter of activity in the trees and the squawking barn swallows drew Bertha’s attention from her glasses to her growling stomach.

“Shoot, Albert. I forgot to set out breakfast for the cat family.”

The back door banged behind her as Bertha trotted into the kitchen. She broke pieces of fresh cornbread into a heavy stoneware bowl. Albert looked on with his head cocked to one side.

“You already got yours, Mister. This here’s for the little ones.” She paused. “Heck, I can’t say no to you.” She dropped a piece of cheese into Albert’s dish.

“Got your groceries, Ma!” Polly let the living room door slam as she pulled bags into the house.

“You’re just in time to meet the cat family. You remember me telling you about the momma cat? She never came out before dusk, but now she’s warming up to me. She’s started bringing her babies for breakfast.”

Bertha planted her feet, and her fists moved her hips. “I know Walter’s told you this cat family is all in my head because she’s never come around when he’s here, but he’s wrong. The mama’s just shy.”

“I don’t know why you’re taking on a black cat and her kittens, Ma. Bad luck and all.”

“I think she’ll let me pet her soon. She might even become a house cat. Although Albert keeps his distance when she’s around, which is odd. He doesn’t mind cats usually.”

Bertha held the door open. “Here, you take the cornbread and milk for the babies. I’ll take the water for their ma.”

Polly followed her mother as she carefully made her way down the long flight of stairs off the back of the house and laid the bowls on the ground.

“I think,” Bertha whispered, “the mama cat made her nest nearby. We won’t have to wait too long for you to meet her.”

Polly peered at the black tail flickering in the shadows behind the farm equipment parked under the porch. “Ma, we need to get back up the stairs. Now.”

Her mother, looking in the same direction, grabbed her arm and whispered, “There she is.”

“Where?”

“There, by the tractor.”

“Let’s go, Ma.”

“I told you Walter was wrong. You see her babies, too?”

“Yeah, but Ma, let’s go.”

Bertha’s fists returned to her hips. “Polly Ann Sparks, I cannot believe you are so superstitious that you’re afraid of a black cat.”

“We can talk about it later.”

“Talk about what? It’s just a mama cat and babies.”

“Ma.” Polly chewed the inside of her lip. “Do you remember seeing Dr. Davis? The eye doctor?”

“Of course I do. Stop talking down to me.”

“You remember he said your cataracts would get worse if you don’t do anything?”

“What’s your point, Polly?” She reached out to pet the mama cat, who was chewing a piece of cornbread as her babies lapped the milk.

“That ain’t no cat, Ma. That’s a skunk.”

Bertha’s hand froze.

“So, Ma, will you finally let me schedule your cataract surgery?”

Cerys Harrison is a freelance writer in Michigan. She’s a former librarian, advertising executive, and New Yorker. She’s married to an electron microscopist and has a soft spot for Shih Tzus.