The Penny Box
The old man wrote down the things that he wanted and beside each one its price. Every so often he referred to the check in his breast pocket. His uncle in Tampa had died and left him a thousand dollars. All this the old man learned from the letter which accompanied the check, written by his cousin whom he had not seen in thirty years. It had been signed "Love", which the old man thought was curious.
"We could use a new bed," Martha suggested. "It would help your back."
"My back's alright," he said. He began crossing out items from the list that cost too much. What was left was a few toys, none of which, he realized, would matter much to an old man like himself.
She lifted one of the cats and stroked it in her lap. "Henry," she said softly. "I would like a wedding ring. We never have gotten my first one back. It still may be at the shop. Or we could get another one; just silver would be alright. Plain. I'd like to have my wedding ring back."
"Jewelry! Blah!" the old man cried. "This money is too little, too late. It ain't enough to make us happy. You understand? It ain't enough." He crumpled up his list and threw it under the table. One of the cats pawed it across the floor.
All seventeen cats swarmed at Martha Johnson's feet hoping for a scrap. Every few moments one leapt to the counter; Martha swatted it to the floor where it flopped against one of the others and meowed angrily. She was fixing smelt which the old man had brought back from the market. First she would scale them, slice off the head, and scrape out the guts. The heads and guts she set aside for the cats.
"I'll have to save some of this for the cats," she told her husband, who sat at the table. "They've run out of food, and you haven't given me money to go shopping yet."
"They can last a day or two!" the old man said loudly. "I've wasted half my life with these fucking cats."
"They'll fight," Martha said. "You don't want that."
The old man held a wooden spoon over his plate, ready to strike; when a cat crept too close, he lashed out and sent it flying from the table. With his free hand he would plop an entire fish into his mouth, and then his tongue and teeth would set to work on it. There were loud smacking noises, and his breath wheezed through his nose. Still guarding his plate, he would pick bones out one at a time, or pull the spine out in one long sweep. Then he would spit the tail out onto the table, which disgusted Martha the most.
"Be careful not to hurt yourself," she said.
Martha was careful to leave a little meat, and even left a few smelt on her plate. But the old man snatched these up and sucked them clean as well. When at last he quit eating, Martha scraped the dishes onto a newspaper, added the heads and guts, and set it out on the landing. The cats jumped about and destroyed the papers. Martha could only watch for a few seconds before closing the kitchen door.
"The cats were your idea," the old man said.
"And you've brought a few in here yourself," she replied.
The old man was in the basement hammering and sawing and swearing. The cats scurried about the kitchen at each blow, and when one dared to venture down the steps, it came running back again in just a few moments; those looking for the gravel boxes took it the worst, and some just found quiet corners upstairs to do their business. Martha tried to comfort them with gravy soaked bread, but none would eat. "Hush, kitty-kitty," she said. "Good kitty-kitty."
Martha was curious herself about Henry's project. He had been gone most of the day and returned in a borrowed truck loaded with wood. Then he ordered Martha to help carry the wood downstairs. Now Martha lingered near the doorway; the smell of the saw dust and the sound of hammering held her close, and kept up her curiosity, like the cats.
She went down the steps quietly, but when Henry saw her he glared and took a deep, sucking breath; "What!" he yelled.
Late in the evening, Henry bumped one of the litter boxes, disturbing the tom that squatted there. Henry kicked it up the stairs, and threw a hammer at it; the cat was struck in the neck and killed.
Martha peered around the corner. She stepped towards it cautiously, gagged briefly on the smell of gravel and droppings, and then lifted the dead cat into her arms and cradled it. "Poor kitty-kitty," she said.
The old man sat at the table counting out the few bills from his pocket. He'd not washed since two days before, and Martha lit a candle on the Lazy Susan. She kept one hand free to push away cats that came too close to the cinnamon flame.
"Forty dollars," he said.
"Oh Jesus! That's all that's left from the thousand?" Martha asked. "What did you do? Oh Jesus!"
"I bought a plot and a marker." He pulled a crumpled brochure from his pocket and shoved it across the table. "There's a map, and the red circle is where it's at. That's the Brooklyn Heights Cemetery."
"You only bought one?"
"They're expensive."
Martha watched him put the dirty bills into his pocket. "Could I at least get a ring?" she asked.
"Nope," he said. "I'm going to get some pennies. Coins that befit a man of my stature."
Martha sat on the steps with two cats in her lap. The old man was gluing pennies onto the wooden box he'd built. He'd reach into the bag for a penny, and look to see if it was shiny enough for his tastes. He'd dab glue on the tail side and stick to the box. He'd covered one side already and was most the way through on another.
"Henry," Martha said. "You want to die? You're ready to die?"
"Yep."
"But how can you do it? It's a sin. And the mess. What will I do?"
"I'm just going to lay down and die. There won't be no mess. I'll close my eyes, and...."
"Oh Jesus!" Martha turned her head away. "Oh kitty-kitty," she said. "What will we do?"
"For Christ's sake!" Henry said. "Christ's sake! I got insurance. The house'll be yours. You can live for as long as you like. As long as you can. Quit your God damn yapping!"
In the morning, Henry took some coffee and toast from Martha, and went out for the day. He had a few dollars, and wanted to see some things and spend those dollars. In the evening, when the glue would be dry, he'd do it.
Martha tried to busy herself around the house, but it was no use. She couldn't understand how Henry could do such a thing now, after all these years. And to leave her without a wedding ring! No one would believe that she'd been married. Perhaps she wouldn't believe it herself. She'd have nothing. This man was beyond belief; it'd always been difficult, but they had each other. All the years of no money (it made her sick just thinking of how they got by) what did they have except each other? It had been enough for her. But he had to have his booze and his cigarettes. Now, he only wanted himself.
She wished there was someone she could call. But her sisters were dead for many years now, and of course she had no children. She sat on the steps, and a marmalade leapt onto her lap.
"Kitty," she said. "What'll we do?"
She couldn't get the image of the coffin out of her mind. Thousands of shiny copper pennies gleamed upon its surface. It revolted her, but still she couldn't turn away. What sort of a fool would have himself buried in such a thing? So what that he'd been poor all his life? All men were equal in the end. Couldn't he accept that? Did he have to spite himself even in death? Couldn't he see that they had each other?
"Come with me kitty," she said, and lifted the cat up. Then she went down the stairs to look at the coffin once again.
The old man came home drunk. The walk from the bus stop took much longer than usual, but he was in no hurry.
"Martha!" he called as he came in. "Martha! I'm ready. You want to watch?"
He waited in the kitchen, and called to her again. But there was no answer. One cat came up the stairs and peered at him. Then it turned and ran downstairs again.
The old man emptied his pockets on the table, smoothed his shirt, and took a final drag on his cigarette. He dropped the smoldering butt into the sink and went downstairs.
The cats sat on the workbench beside the coffin. One scratched at a penny and meowed. A sack of pennies was spilled on the floor; one of the calicoes peered at the old man from inside the sack. For a moment Henry regretted not having had Martha help him carry the coffin outside so that his final breath wouldn't taste of litter and droppings, but too late now.
As he approached the coffin, Henry first chuckled, then gasped at what he saw lying inside. "Martha," he said. "What's this...."
The cats meowed and cried as Henry tried to rouse her; but her hands were cold and pale. The light from the naked bulb made the hair on her upper lip stand out, and the whites of her eyes were bright beneath half-closed lids. Her lips were blue; they pushed against each other in deathly relax.
Parma, Ohio, 1988