Off Center In The Attic Read online

  I held my breath as I passed the Jon, but realized the mewing came from inside. I stared at that blue cubicle, putting my hand across my mouth and nose. Must I? I took a big gulp of fresh air and swung the door open. To my surprise, a teeny ball of orange fur lay on the floor. I grunted in surprise and expelled my breath. If not newly born, it had to be only a day or two old. It mewed and tried to move about but was much too young and still couldn't hold its eyes opened. When it tried to raise its head, it wobbled and fell back down. It was probably weak from starvation. A strand of shriveled umbilical cord was still attached. I gently but swiftly scooped it up, turned, and kicked the door closed with my heel. It was so tiny, it fit in the palm of my hand. On the way back to the lanai I checked and found the kitten was a male.

  I sat on the lanai with this tiny sweet bundle on my lap. He had stopped crying and soon went to sleep in the valley between my thighs. I brought one leg up and propped my foot on another chair and kept my hand gently across his body to shelter him from the sun and wind. The owner of the Once More Consignment Shop, above the coffee house, saw the kitten and seemed truly surprised. “Where'd you get that little guy?” Lani asked.

  “In the blue box,” I said, nodding toward the Jon. “Someone abandoned him where he could be found.”

  Lani looked relieved but dashed off like she was on a mission. I sat there covering the kitten with my hand as the trade winds wafted over us. The gentle trades were fine with me, but this little guy could be cold. I drew the edge of my sarong over him and wondered how I might find him a home. He was so young, I wondered if he had ever been allowed to suckle. I didn't want to take him to the Humane Society. While those dedicated people would lovingly care for him, Kauai has so many abandoned cats that he might live in a cage for months or not given a chance to live.

  I was about to leave when Lani dashed back with a handful of items. She had been to the Vet two blocks down and brought back a tiny bottle with a nipple and baby kitten formula. My heart went out to her selflessness.

  “Can I feed him?” she asked. She must have fallen in love. She jumped up quickly saying, “Wait.” She dashed upstairs to her consignment store and returned with an old soft tee shirt and wrapped the kitten in it. The kitten took the bottle immediately. “What'll we call him?” she asked. “Should we give him a Hawaiian name?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “He's the color of orange Pekoe tea. How about Pekoe?”

  We giggled like young girls. Lani's instincts were more like a mom. Lani finally handed Pekoe back to me so she could tend to customers. Others on the lanai had crowded around to take a look. Everyone wanted to pet Pekoe on his head, which was the only thing that stuck out of the folds of the old tee shirt. I worried about that little knob being tapped on by so many and covered his head with my hand for protection.

  Could I take this kitten home? My neighbor already has six large, prowling cats that hunted food in mine as well as the neighbors' yards. Those hungry animals kept the rats under control that came up from the nearby stream.

  Fortunately for little Pekoe, the onlookers were enamored. None more so than Lani. She returned with a small cardboard box containing a cushion. “Are you taking him home?” she asked, sounding disappointed.

  “I can't,” I said. Lani's smile stretched across her face. I wanted to tell her about my neighbors' cats but she didn't give me a chance.

  “I want him,” she said, and that settled it. Pekoe would now—or when he was grown—be the mascot-guardian of the consignment shop. He would have his own rats to chase among the trees and underbrush in the back lot.

  Lani, all smiles and giddy, carried Pekoe upstairs.

  A bearded man sauntered over and sat down beside me. His clothes were clean, but stained from our iron-rich red dirt. “Where'd the kitty go?” he asked.

  “Upstairs,” I said, smiling.

  “She gonna keep it?” He asked like he knew he was too late.

  “Guess so,” I said.

  “I could o' used that cat,” he said, standing and starting to leave. “Got a lot of creepy crawly things out on my farm.” If Lani were forced to give up the store mascot, Pekoe would have another home waiting.

  I scooted over into the shifted shade of the table umbrella and propped my feet on another chair. Heavy equipment sounds made me look. The Jon was being moved farther back. Kilauea wasn't erupting this morning and the trades blew fresh. I breathed in deeply as the nearby coconut trees swayed in the breeze. It was another magnificent day in paradise.

  Great Lady of Wisdom

  Some people eat goat.

  On the property beyond the back yard fence where my neighbor Alana and I live in Hawaii, goats are raised and sold as food. Others use them in place of lawn mowers. Hungry little animals they are, eating and ruminating all day.

  Alana had eaten goat meat when she was a child and thought it delicious. She has long since become a vegetarian.

  Her leftovers get tossed to the goats. If fruits and vegetables in her refrigerator so much as droop or begin to wilt, it gets tossed to the hungry goats; a welcome change in diet from wild grasses and grain. They're like humans thrilling over an edible seldom included in everyday meals.

  The goats love her food. The moment their gate is opened each morning, nearly all of them make a dash across the meadow, bleating and arriving at the downtrodden area opposite her side of the fence. They hurriedly find the goodies she's thrown out. I also throw out food. Alana's big thrill is hand feeding. Some of the goats rush right up to the fence in a smelly huff and accept the carrots, avocado peels, lettuce leaves and other delectable treats. Some try to climb the fence. Gluttons they can be.

  Out of those diverse goats of different sizes, ages, colors and markings, Alana had a favorite. Her conversion to vegetarianism prompted spiritual renewal. She wears a golden Om meditation symbol on a chain around her neck.

  “How can anyone eat such lovable animals?” she asked, sounding truly proud of her decision.

  Yes, goats can be loveable, at least, these were. Temperamental goats can be friendly and cute. These look at us as if they understand the gibberish conversation Alana tries to have with them.

  We became acquainted with personalities peculiar to each animal. One brown goat stayed back at the edge of the ravine seeming like a non-conformist, following and watching the herd. That nanny seldom came close in the beginning, but would watch. Alana enticed her closer by waving a sprig of broccoli in the air and throwing a piece in her direction. She was timid at first, darting away from where the broccoli landed.

  One morning, Alana sat on her patio watching those ravenous creatures. The brown nanny happened by, the closest she had so far ventured. She was large and a subtle medium-brown, not a dirty black-brown or a brassy red-brown like some. Some black was present, down her spine to her tail and at her hooves, with a shadowy white arc across her head above her ears. The tops of her ears were also white, and in the middle of her forehead was a large round white mark.

  “A tikka dot!” Alana said, excited to see such a mark on an animal.

  Looking at her head-on, the lights and darks of her face symmetrically framed that dot. She surely was special. As if intentional, she turned, exhibiting her right side.

  “Look at that!” Alana said, excited as her elevated voice carried over the fence to where I stood in my yard.

  In the middle of the nanny's right ribs, from the top of her body to her underbelly and also in white, was a near-perfect reverse image of the Om meditation symbol Alana wore around her neck.

  “A holy goat!” she said. How could such a marking appear on an animal, and reversed too?

  The nanny ate near the fence in front of Alana for the longest time, as if inviting friendship. After a while, Alana retrieved her source book and paged to the section on female Indian names. That sweet animal with the reversed Om deserved a name.

  I'd gone to the front yard and entered Alana's property through the side gate. I'm looking over her shoulder as she
looks for names.

  “That's a good one,” she said. “Mahesvari. It translates to Great Lady.” Since the Om, whether in frontal view or reversed represents the Sound of spiritual Wisdom, as Alana long ago explained, she searched for another name and found Viveka. That translated to Wisdom. So, with her limited ability to conjugate Indian names, she titled her four-legged friend, Mahesvari Viveka, which meant Great Lady of Wisdom. At least, it meant that to the goat and to her and Alana knew they understood one another.

  After that, every morning the great lady came with the group, running buoyantly with ears flopping like the others. “Just like me,” Alana said. “Timid till I get to know you.”

  Maheshvari would eat the treats. Afterward, she'd stand without moving, staring intently at Alana through the dark, oblong pupils of her yellow goats' eyes.

  Alana spoke softly to her day after day until the great lady knew her voice. Often times, she stood back by the edge of the ravine while the other goats relished the vegetables. She would come when called by name and jump against the mesh wire fence with her cloven hooves, trying to get closer to what might be offered. She became friendly enough that Alana was able to pet her. It made me wonder how anyone could eat a creature such as this.

  Several weeks later, I noticed Alana standing out by the back fence with no goats present. The pasture was completely empty. Alana seemed in great distress. I rushed over to learn what might be wrong.

  “The goats were sold,” she said. Her eyes were red, her expression one of true sadness.

  I wondered if the goats had been sold for use as pasture animals to keep the weeds down on someone's property, or if the whole herd had been sent for slaughter.

  The Last Thing I Do

  Passing of the clouds is barely perceptible, unless the boat rocks and disturbs their reflection before the water returns to glass. The landscape is completely calm, not a tree branch bending. Sunlight beats down, felt, and seems the only thing moving.

  I sit endlessly, caught up in the serenity of the lake. I think long about the last thing that I must do, but haven't been out on the water since you left. Left, but not quite gone, and this is not the place. I will know when I find the spot, where you and I used to sit and pass the hours as precious time together waned.

  I row. We used to take turns rowing. Our favorite pastime was to try to find the exact mid-point between opposite shores. I always had trouble locating the right spot but today I remember your words: Just about where the church steeple on the hill comes into view.

  Your presence as always, with me, even after there is no bringing you back. You can no longer speak to me, but our playful bantering haunts my memories, as does our laughter.

  I wait till the water has smoothed again. Then slowly, I open the urn and set you free from a mind that held you captive and kept us apart yet together for years; set you free to be the liberated soul that you are.

  Future Winner

  Kauai's heat and humidity were nearly unbearable due to the trade winds taking leave. The doors of the Hale Ho'oki'iki Gallery at Kinipopo Village in Kapa'a on the laid-back east side stood wide open. I didn't wish to be the first one to arrive, but found others already there. I had time to meet some of the artists. Just in case, I carried a small portfolio of some of my other art.

  My photography and one large floral oil painting were on display and for sale. I dared enter a contest for local artists and some of my work was accepted for the New Kauai Art expo of florals in canvas or photo. When I learned several weeks ago exactly what was accepted it made my heart pound. It seemed confirmation that I had chosen the right topics for my work. Taking a quick trip around the gallery rooms, I observed that at least one fourth of the artwork had sold tags attached but no tags graced any of my pieces. Also, as people circulated through the room, I noticed little interest in my displays. I felt a little unsure of my abilities at that point.

  I stepped outside for some air. People milled about the small interior courtyard carrying drinks and 4pupus, slices of Spam Musubi, and chunks of grilled pineapple on skewers. A brown-skinned Hawaiian, in full native costume, sat whacking fresh cold coconuts with a machete. Cold coconut milk was a staple in the Islands. I recognized quite a few locals. On an island, those having something in common tend to congregate together. However, I saw some new faces too.

  Chatting is not one of my strengths but I've learned to hold my own, somewhat. I greeted everyone I knew and was surprised at how many acquaintances were interested in art. Soon we were summoned back inside for the awards.

  Awards ceremonies were something I enjoyed in the past and only wished my art could garner some accolades. Judges for this showing were well-known Kauai artists and gallery managers. One judge flew over from Honolulu for the occasion. Just my luck, too, that many of the artists in the show knew the judges. That made me nervous.

  The presentation took a little too long and fans had to be brought in to circulate the air. Not all sold works won awards. Some unsold works won the best awards, pre-chosen before this day. My name wasn't called; no tag labeled any of my art as being sold or winning special recognition. I was deflated.

  I wandered around the four small rooms and noticed the same people winning as usually did in most competitions. In fact, I was aware that some of the judges and artists were personal friends. I had to ask myself exactly what might be going on here. I sighed. I didn't know the judges personally, nor other artists either. I'm sure my shoulders must have sagged. Yet, I was determined to be a future winner.

  The local newspaper photographer took shots of the winners. Attention was called to one person in particular who won “Best of Show.” She had painted a scene titled “Beach Flowers.” To me it looked more like sticks and stones in mud. Where was the glistening beach and frothy aqua-colored water at least bordered by morning glories and vines creeping around some lava rocks and across the sand? I was shocked as she appeared. She looked as if she had just walked in off the beach; stingy hair, old faded sarong, and rubber flip-flops on dirty calloused feet. I cringed. She must spend her days painting en plein air and neglecting day-to-day upkeep. The dull browns, yellows and blacks of the painting seemed to emulate the feel of her. I reminded myself not to be critical. She created something someone loved, regardless of my inability to interpret the work. My turn would come one day, but if I was supposed to get to know a few judges first, I'd find another way.

  By this time, I was sorely disappointed in myself. I went to take one last look at my three-by-four foot painting of a red hibiscus that I titled Big Red, hanging in a gallery, for this short duration anyway. It offered a spectacular burst of color. Viewers may remember it as not having won a thing. I wish I could have snapped a photo of my canvas hanging in a show for the first time but pictures were not allowed, not even by the artists themselves.

  As I made my way through the crowd, I was surprised to see a middle-aged woman wearing a tasteful Hawaiian dress and a distinguished-looking man with gray hair and wearing white shorts and an expensive Tori Richards aloha shirt viewing my hibiscus. They nodded and smiled but hadn't taken their eyes off the canvas. They stepped back to see it in total, then stepped forward again to examine it close up. My heart began to pound. I slipped closer, pretending to examine the next painting over.

  “Isn't this wonderful?” the woman asked with a New York accent as I sidled in.

  “You like Big Red?” I asked.

  “We wish to see more of this artist's work,” she said. “We could use some big exquisite canvasses. This artist has a knack for great angles in her macro photos too.” She gestured around the room.

  My antennae went up. My heart leaped up into my throat. “I think that can be arranged,” I said, bringing up my portfolio.

  “Do you work here?” the man asked.

  I was so tickled I couldn't stop my teasing smile. “This is my painting,” I said.

  Surprised, the woman gestured to what I carried. She asked to see my portfolio. Her gleaming gold Kuuipo
and other Hawaiian Heirloom bracelets jangled as she quietly flipped through the clear plastic encased pages. Seeing a desk near the doorway, she sat down to peruse them more thoroughly.

  Her husband looked over her shoulder. “Ah…!” he said. “Ah!”

  “Yes, this one… and this one,” she said, flipping through pages.

  My emotions careened up and down. In a room full of people, no one came to interrupt. Had they sensed something important happening for me?

  The woman stood and offered her jeweled hand. “I'm Eve Hutton,” she said. “This is my husband, Benny.” She caught her breath and asked, “Where can we see the rest of your work?”

  Shaking hands gave me enough time to compose my thoughts. I didn't want to seem too eager. “Are you new in town?” I asked, hoping this distinguished couple wouldn't think I was new to the shows.

  “We are,” Benny said. He produced a business card and pulled several eye-catching brochures from his shirt pocket.

  I looked at them briefly and, inwardly, had the biggest Aha! moment of my fledgling artist's career. Benny and Eve were owners of the soon-to-be-opened Ma'alea Gallery in Poipu on the island's upscale south shore.

  “We've moved to Kauai,” Eve said. “Retired and closed our gallery in New York and relocated to paradise.”

  “Art is our lives,” Benny said. He smiled warmly. “Evidently yours too.”

  “Art in all its forms,” I said. I was so beside myself.

  “In that case,” Eve said. “We've decided we like your macros too. No one here has done macros that come close to what you've produced. Your gigantic Big Red painting is spectacular.” Her hand swept across the portfolio. “This orange slate pencil urchin photo is extraordinary.”

  “The urchin is from my underwater collection,” I said, unable to stop smiling.