Kitty

A grey, viscous sky hovered above like a harbinger as I moved into the studio apartment on Haven Street. It was my first home out of college and settling into it gave me the sense that my life was finally beginning; the weather seemed all the more gloomy for the simple reason that it was utterly unable to mar my optimistic mood for what great things I had in store for me. I was on my own, educated, and prepared to take advantage of all that came my way.

Or so I thought.

That night, Mr. Chips, my pitch black cat, finally relaxed in a corner of his new lair. I followed suit, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir I had bought just for the occasion and starting the first of several paperbacks I had sworn I’d read when all my textbook days were over. At last, I had a place to call home.

Just as I was setting the book aside, I heard muffled yelling from one of the apartments. I put the book down and unfolded my futon, hoping the noise would die down in a moment. When it increased in volume, I became a little agitated. I hoped this was not a regular thing to hear in my new home.

The shouting got even louder. Then I heard banging and stomping; I was certain a domestic struggle was getting out of hand. I went to my front door and opened it to try to see if I could tell from which apartment the ruckus came. I stood in my doorway, peering around, but the noise ended abruptly. After a beat, I closed my door and looked at Mr. Chips who regarded me as though waiting for an answer to the disturbance.

I shrugged at him and resumed my preparations for sleep.

The next day, endless errands and chores filled my time and I forgot all about the noise of the night before. One of my tasks was cleaning out the cat box. It’s the Virgo in me that has to empty the box at least once a day and immediately take the refuse outside to the garbage bin.

Said bin stood in the back of the building. As I got there, I met my first neighbor. He was taller than I by a few inches, aside from being significantly huskier. Of course, I looked like the ugly twin of an anorexic runway model, so the comparison seems a little useless, but it was what I noticed at the time. He had an incongruously bookish, mousy kind of face and looked like a little boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar when he turned to see me.

“Hi,” I said.

He stood, frozen with the little brown bag in his hand. I slowed my pace a bit, feeling like I had intruded. Was this guy so anal, he was embarrassed by his trash? Then, he shook the bag ever so slightly and I heard the contents slide around inside. He smiled a sheepish smile and said simply: “Kitty”.

I returned my own smile, lifted my own bag, and—giving it a reciprocal shake—explained: “Mr. Chips”.

He looked at the bag and then at me. He let out an odd, nervous half-giggle and then tossed his bag in the garbage bin. He held the cover up for me and I tossed my bag in, too. Then, we looked at each other for an uncomfortable beat.

“I’m Danny,” I offered. “I just moved into number 18.”

He nodded, never losing that odd, kind of mindless smile. Here I thought we’d have bonded with this shared act—like new found comrades. But instead, I felt like I had knocked on the door of the local haunted house where something creaked inside but refused to answer.

“Well,” I added. “I’ll see you around.”

I turned and walked back to my apartment, feeling a little rejected and kind of spooked. I wondered if all my neighbors were going to be cameos from a David Lynch movie.

It turned out that the rest of my neighbors were all quite normal, if reserved and overly quiet. I felt a little like I had moved into a commune for shy people. And at least a few times a week, I would see Mr. Bookworm at the garbage bin with his little brown bag. And, if he ever he saw me there, he’d hold up the bag and remind me: “Kitty.”

Like I’d forget.

Then, he’d toss the bag in the trash and quietly amble back to his apartment and close the door securely behind him.

I was so busy with my own life, trying to secure a job and meet people and whatnot, that the routine around the apartment became utterly uninteresting; that is, until I came home from my first day on the new job and found the police taking Mr. Bookworm away. He remained as calm and mousy as usual; I couldn’t help but watch, wondering what this feeble-minded, milquetoast could have possibly done. As he got in the police car, he caught my eye. He smiled that strange, unsettling smile of his. My thoughts, though, as a devoted cat-lover, ran in a new direction. I went into my apartment and promptly left a message for the manager. Someone would have to take care of poor little Kitty.

However, I discovered the next morning that Kitty had already been taken care of. I almost choked on my cereal when I read the news online. There was a picture of Mr. Bookworm with his real name, Melvin Peter Keller, and the story of how he had killed his wife and cut her up into little pieces, put her in the refrigerator in Tupperware containers, and was getting rid of the body, bit by bit, by depositing it in the garbage bin.

I knew before reading it that his wife’s name had been Kitty.