A Quiet Mourning

This is hard.
I decided to scoop what was left of Vernon up from the street, to place him inside a shoebox (I didn't have any, so I emptied out my cereal and used the cereal box instead) and placed him in the freezer. God bless, I said. I called Ronny and told him that something happened.
"To Vernon?" he said.
"You better come over," I said.
"On account of Vernon?" he said.
"This is hard," I said, "to tell you over the phone."
"Is it or is it not about Vernon," Ronny said.
"It is about Vermin," I said.
"About the mice then," Ronny said.
"No, I meant Vernon."
"It is about Vernon?" Ronny said.
"Yes. Please come over Ronny so we can talk in person."
"Why didn't you just say so then."

I waited, with a knot in my stomach, until Ronny knocked on the door. I opened it, maybe too quickly, and Ronny stood there, with nothing prepared to say, so I said, "Come on in, please."
He asked about Vernon. "Where's my little rascal? Where's he at?"
"In the kitchen," I said.
Ronny stepped behind the counter, looked at the floor, even opened a cabinet door.
"Freezer," I said.
Ronny opened the freezer door. As if a live cat would dwell in that space! I could have laughed. I could have laughed and embraced the man because he believed that his cat was inside, alive, purring or licking a paw with a hard, pink tongue. I could have cried out, "Oh, Ronny!"
But instead, Ronny said, "Where?"
"Something happened. Something unfortunate, Ronny."
I took out the cereal box with Vernon inside. Ronny looked sick. He looked green.
"You see," I said. "It was an accident. The window and then the mice and he was up there and before I knew it and then--"
"Oh god," Ronny said, and then he was crying. I didn't know what to do but hand him the box. "This is what's left of him," I said. "I'm so sorry."


Ronny was crying, sobbing, screaming, without making a sound. It terrified me to see a man's face scrunched up that way. And then, a loud, slow, inhalation, trembling, guttural. What could I do but hug him? So hug him I did. "Sorry," I did say. Pat him on the back, I most certainly did. Pat. Pat. Until he settled down. The cereal box flattened against his chest, a sad tail poking out from an open flap.


"I knew in my heart of hearts, I just knew something like this was bound to happen, but I didn't know it would happen so soon," he said.
"But he was a good cat," I said. And wondered why I said, but. As if all good things left this world in such a terrible way and that this was an accepted fact.