Member-only story
Black and White
a short story
It was the cats. Granny Currin must have had twenty or more cats. There were black ones, white ones, big fat striped gray ones, little calicos, tuxedo cats, orange tiger striped cats, mama cats, old cats, tom cats. The number seemed to multiply every week.
On a good day, Granny Currin looked like a shriveled up mummy, all leathery brown skin and brittle bones. No one knew how old she was. The other kids in the neighborhood called her the Cat Lady. We lived next door to the Cat Lady.
Granny Currin’s house was painted white. I was one of those old Victorian gingerbread houses left over from the 19th century like Granny Currin herself. She always wore black. A black dress, black shoes, and a black bonnet like the pioneers wore. She stood every morning on her big wide porch and call them.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
And they would come bounding up the porch from everywhere. Out of the trees, from under the house, from the weeds along the fence.
And then she poured out bowls and bowls of cat food.
One day, I stood in my yard and watched. I sneezed. Granny Currin looked up and saw me.
“Hey, boy,” she called.
Surprised and afraid, I just stood there like a wooden Injun.
