Annabelle, Thatch, and I lay on my bed. We had just awakened from our late morning-early afternoon nap and we were watching our soaps.
There’s so much bad acting on this episode, Annabelle observed. That actress playing the insane mother is working way too hard and going nowhere. You should DVR this so I can use it in my acting class.
What acting class? Thatch asked.
When I stop acting and teach.
You’d be a good teacher, Annabelle! Thatch said.
I think the secret of soap acting, I said, is to speak every line serious as if it’s of major importance –
But they repeat the lines over and over, Thatch said. You’d think some of the people would listen!
That’s for the benefit of the viewers who don’t watch every day like us, I told him. You can go away for a year and catch up on everything in a day or two.
They all need a sense of humor, Annabelle said.
I saw a musical comedy in summer stock once, I said, and the leading lady was a big soap star. She made it a musical drama with her intense, humorless performance. She sang okay, though.
The front door buzzer rang, and I got off the bed to answer it. UPS had an Amazon delivery. The thought of a new carton so excited Annabelle and Thatch that they dropped their analysis of soap opera performance to meet the UPS man at the door.
Is there anything for me? Thatch asked.
Ummmm . . . perhaps, I teased.
I hope it’s jewelry!
It was an envelope containing a book. For me. Christmas murder and detection stories.
Awww, nothing for me, Thatch moaned.
I said “perhaps,” Thatcher. He sniffed the envelope and then chased a Ping-Pong ball across the floor to the bathroom.
You never buy me anything, Annabelle snarled as I tossed the empty envelope into the recyclable paper trash.
That’s not true and you know it! And speaking about things for you, have you or Thatch seen your laser toy? I can’t find it.
Why blame us?
Well, for one thing, I don’t climb on the computer table and dance around. I think you’ve knocked it onto the floor.
That’s something Thatch would do! I’m too graceful and refined.
I laughed. Graceful? Do you remember the day you jumped onto the table, landed on my plate and took my dinner down with you? I had to wash mushroom soup off you and mop the floor.
I was a little girl then. And you are very rude to bring it up.
Just don’t blame Thatch for everything.
I don’t.
You do.
I don’t.
She didn’t speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.
Annabelle! Thatch! Come get your dinner, I shouted.
Thatch came running. What is it? he asked.
Chicken slices in gravy, I told him.
Yummy! he yelled, and he ran for his food dish,
Annabelle! Time for dinner! Come on, Missy!
Annabelle, who’s been sleeping lately inside a bookshelf on top of my theatre programs, sauntered in, checked Thatch’s dish, and wandered over to hers. She looked at the food, walked away, returned, and finally ate.
Jesus, I thought, she’s still angry with me. Or is she really angry about something else and taking it out on me? I decided I would wait it out and see if I could determine the problem or if she would finally talk to me about it.
I had dinner, watched the news, cleaned up all the dishes, filled the humidifier, and set out fresh water and kibble. Annabelle retired to my theatre programs and avoided Thatch and me all evening, so we watched a movie before he wandered off to play with his toys. I read a bit, and got ready for bed. As soon as I turned down the bedding, Thatch jumped onto the bed to join me.
Good night, Annabelle! I called just before I turned out the light. Sleep well. I love you!
There was no response. Poor baby, I thought.
After my first cup of coffee and looking over my emails, it was time to clean the litter. I washed out my cup, set a new pot of water on the stove and entered the bathroom. Good, I thought, Thatch hasn’t been digging for oil in there. Some mornings I find the litter mats covered with the litter he’s tossed out of the box in his enthusiastic burial work. Annabelle never buries anything.
I took the litter box apart and began sifting the dirty litter. Where’s Annabelle? I wondered. She’s usually in here with me telling me what I’m doing wrong.
I dumped the dirty litter into a trash bag. As soon as I pulled the heavy carton of fresh litter from its corner space, Annabelle leaped into the empty space to claim it for her own. As I poured the clean litter into the litter box, I eyed her with some anger.
Annabelle! Get out of that space! I need to put this carton back.
It’s my space now, and I’m keeping it.
Thatch, who was fascinated by the litter pouring from the carton, observed, She always does this, you know.
Thatch, I obey the law of physics, she explained. An empty space must be filled.
I stopped pouring the litter. I don’t know if that’s a law of physics or not, I said. Get out of there before I smack you, Missy.
You wouldn’t treat Bernadette Peters like that, she said, or Inga Swenson.
I would if they were sitting in the space for this heavy carton of litter, so move it, Missy.
Annabelle stepped out of the space and ambled over to Thatch. I pushed the carton back into its assigned location. I’ve got to keep order here, I said. You two hooligans leave this place a disordered shambles.
Remind me, Thatch, she said, to teach you how to deal with difficult humans.
I’m not difficult! I said as I headed out of the bathroom to wash my hands. I’m easy. You walk all over me.
Whatever. Where’s my Backstage, Thatch?
Where you left it, Thatch said.
Ah, yes! Let’s check the casting notices again.
As I dried my hands I saw the two of them run to the computer table, where Annabelle had spread out the Backstage an hour earlier. I took the dirty litter to the garbage chute and the recyclable paper trash to the basement. When I got back to the apartment, they were singing “White Christmas.” They really want to go caroling this year. The only catch is that after the Man with the Bike threw them out of the building last September, I’ve been leery about letting them out of my sight.
Nothing in Backstage? I asked.
No. Not a thing. No one’s casting. Thatch and I looked over it again today – in case I missed something – and there’s nothing. Same as yesterday.
I’m sorry, baby. Don’t let it get you down.
It’s all so depressing!
I’ve never told you my theory about that, have I?
No.
Well, I believe that if you don’t have a show biz job by Thanksgiving, you won’t be offered a job until after January second when the holiday is over.
You know what this means, Annabelle? Thatch asked her. We can spend all our time getting ready for caroling!
And Christmas! I did my gift list, Annabelle told him. Did you?
I’m still thinking about it, Thatch said.
Gift list? I asked. Who are you shopping for?
It isn’t a shopping list, Annabelle explained. It’s gifts for me. I’ll give it to you after Judge Judy.
Look at the clock! I said. It’s time for the soaps.
I tossed myself onto the bed, stretched out, changed the channel with the remote, and relaxed into the softness of my pillow. Who wants to lie down with Daddy? I asked.
I do! Thatch shouted before he jumped onto the bed, walked across my chest, and lay down beside me. He curled into the space between my arm and chest and dozed off.
Sleep well, baby, I said.
Annabelle crawled onto my lap, and gently kneaded my belly before she relaxed, gave me an affectionate glance from those beautiful green eyes, and laid her head at the bottom of my ribcage to doze. Her purring soon turned to the trilling sounds she makes when she’s truly happy. At that moment a huge, powerful and painful wave of emotion, love, contentment, and concern wracked my body as I looked at them. My breathing stopped from the shock. My heart pounded. The pain was intense. I wanted to weep with joy, explode with happiness, shiver with fear of my future and theirs. Longing to tell them my love and affection in words they would never comprehend, I only knew they were mine, and I would protect and care for them for as long as I could; forever, if possible.
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 