Mel trucked Louise’s hot meals over to his pal, Larry, for a whole month after Fran died.  When Larry protested, Mel held up his hand. “I know. You don’t want anybody fussing over you. But Louise sees this as a last favour to Fran. Humour her,” he said, “and you’ll make my life easier.”  

What he didn’t say was that Louise was raging about the unfairness of Fran’s sudden death. She seemed to think Larry had cheated by out-living the good woman who’d cared for him through two heart attacks and a triple by-pass.  Still, Louise was a good woman too, and she was determined to keep an eye on Larry, just as she knew Fran would have looked in on Mel had their fortunes been reversed.

            Louise’s attention was suddenly diverted, though, when her sister in Vancouver had a stroke. “Good thing we both have vacation time,” she told Mel. “I have a feeling this will be more than a weekend visit.” She’d made plane reservations and had the old brown Samsonite out on the bed.

            Mel could think of a hundred places he’d rather spend his holiday than installing bars beside his sister-in-law’s toilet. “Y’know,” he said, “we could both retire next year and we’d be on permanent weekends. Heck, you could quit now and stay out at the coast as long as Marge needs you.”

            Louise looked up from the shirt she was folding. “Mel, retirement is one of life’s bad jokes. Don’t we know at least three people who died within a year of quitting work?  And then there’s Larry.”

             She had a point. In the weeks he’d been dropping off the dinners, Mel had mourned the loss of the old Larry as much as he’d mourned Fran’s passing. All the early years Mel had envied Larry’s carefree bachelorhood were erased by the sad-sack image of his sick and grieving friend. Mel could’ve pointed out that Larry retired after the bypass surgery, not before. This retirement debate had started six months ago when two guys in Mel’s office took buy-outs. He knew that all he had to do was say the word and an envelope would be on his desk. The only thing holding him back was Louise’s prediction.  She had an irritating way of nailing the grim truth.

Louise snapped the suitcase shut and heaved it off the bed. “There’s a pot of chili on the stove. We’ll drop it off at Larry’s on our way out.”

            That was two weeks ago. Mel had hoped Louise would forget about feeding Larry after they were back, but tonight, as soon as he put down his fork, she shoved a foiled-covered dish across the table.

            He’d tried to call Larry several times, but the phone had been busy. When he pulled up in front of the bungalow, he was relieved to see the flickering ghost of television through the window. He stepped from the truck, plate in hand, and grimaced. Time to get his stiff knees back to the weight room and sauna.

            There must have been a thaw while they were away, because the sidewalk was a sheet of black ice. Mel slid the last few feet and caught the railing just in time to save himself an ass-over-tea-kettle. The plate slammed against the step, the cover flew off, and the chicken breast skidded over an icy crust of snow.  Mel retrieved the meat and re-crimped the foil before the door opened.

            Larry looked as though he hadn’t left the house in weeks. Green plaid pyjama bottoms pouched around his knees, and his Edmonton Oilers sweatshirt gave off a strong whiff of sweat when he stepped aside to let Mel in.

“You’re back! Why’nt you call? Hey, come on in.”   

            Mel held out the plate. “Your phone’s been ringing busy.” He followed Larry to the kitchen, stepping around a cereal bowl in the middle of the floor.

Larry turned from the fridge where he was rearranging jars to make room for the chicken dinner. “I’m gonna save this one. I ordered Chinese tonight.” He pulled a couple of bottles of Big Rock off the top shelf and handed one to Mel.

             In the living room, the La-Z-boy was pulled in close to the television. A glass-topped coffee table, usually aligned with the sofa, sat alongside the recliner like a buffet sidecar. There were pizza boxes stacked under the table and coffee mugs on the floor beside the chair. Cartons of food and a serviette full of bones clustered at one end of the table. Newspapers and bottles littered the other end. 

             Mel moved a pile of clothes, and sank onto the middle of the sofa. He shook his head when Larry motioned to the cardboard containers. “Ate already.”

 The clothes beside him looked fresh from the dryer. A knitted afghan hung from the back of Larry’s chair, and a sweater or scarf of some kind of ratty-looking black wool was crammed into the corner of the seat. When the black garment began to writhe, the hair on the back of Mel’s neck sprang to attention. “What the hell is that!” Yellow sparks flashed from the pile of wool.

            “Hey, Earl’s back!” Larry scooped up the black lump. He lit up like a kid who’s just spied skates under the Christmas tree. “Nine, ten days ago — the night we had the freezing rain — I’m watching the hockey game and I hear this scratching on the front door. Couldn’t be, I tell myself. I’m dreaming again.” His face went slack. “You know I hate falling asleep, because I keep dreaming about Franny and then I wake up…” He turned away, but the saffron eyes of the cat stayed fixed on Mel.

Even though the ears were now chewed-off stumps, there was no mistaking the belligerent pug face of Larry’s cat, Earl. Mel shook his head. “I thought Earl croaked,” he said.

“Me too. He’s been MIA for two years.” Larry stroked the cat’s head, running his hand over matted fur to a tail warped to a sixty degree angle and hairless from the bend to the tip. “Since I went to Winnipeg for my brother’s funeral. Fran let him out the night I left, and he didn’t come back.” He frowned. “We had a hell of a row over that.”

            Mel remembered the row. Fran had come to their house sobbing that Larry had accused her of killing Earl. She said she’d made a terrible mistake, marrying a man who loved his cat more than he loved her. That was the year Larry had the first heart attack, and turned into a senior citizen overnight.             

Mel took a swig of his beer. “Where do you figure the old guy’s been so long?”

            “I dunno, but when I opened the door, he streaked for the fridge like he’d only been gone since breakfast.” He fondled Earl’s mutilated ears. “Didn’t think I’d ever fill him up. Don’t tell Lou, but Earl finished off that pot of chili.”

            Mel shuddered. Earl’s flatulence was legendary in Larry’s bachelorhood when the cat could clear a smoke-filled kitchen in the middle of a poker game. That Fran had agreed to live with a nasty, malodorous cat amazed Larry’s pals. Ten years ago, Earl had looked like the next back-alley brawl would be his last. Fran probably assumed he’d be gone from her immaculate house within months. And here he was, resurrected and resting sphinx-like on Larry’s knee.

The cat dropped to the floor and wove a crooked path to the hallway. This was another story for Louise’s repertoire of life’s bad jokes. Not only had Fran failed to outlive Larry, but she’d lost the race to Earl as well. Fortunately, Fran would never know. 

            There was a thunk from the kitchen. “He’s on the kitchen table. Jumps up there and knocks the phone off the hook. Used to drive Franny nuts.” Larry draped the afghan over his legs. “Cold in here.” He rubbed his arms. “You want me to turn up the heat?”

            Mel shook his head. “I’m good,” he said. Christ almighty, Larry looked like an old man. 

            “How’s Margie?”

            Mel had almost forgotten that Larry and Louise’s sister were once a hot item.  What a pair they’d be now. Larry with his clunker of a heart, and Marge crying all day because the words coming out of the twisted side of her mouth didn’t match the ones her brain was screaming. Larry didn’t need any more sad stories. “Pretty good. A couple of months and she’ll be dancing again.”

            “Good for her. Me, I’m going on a holiday.”

            Mel set the bottle down too quickly on the coffee table and winced at the crack of glass on glass. “You’re kidding.”

            Larry shrugged. “What’s to kid about?  We’ve gone to Vegas every February for ten years. I was going to take off last week, but then Earl showed up. I couldn’t walk out on him after he’s been sleeping rough for two years.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “I still think she did it, you know. The day before I left she said she was calling a fumigator to get rid of the smell of cat piss in the basement, and Earl was going to have to sleep in the garage. I told her we’d talk about it when I got back — hell, I was getting sick of the stench myself — but I figure she decided to take things into her own hands and locked him out.” He fished a sparerib out of one of the cardboard containers. “Poor old bugger probably thought I was gone for good and decided to hit the road.” He gnawed the length of the bone and added it to the pile on the table.

            “You’re going to Vegas?”

            Earl reappeared at the door to the living room and began the wobbly journey to Larry’s chair. He crouched there, shoulders and hips twitching, eyes fixed on the footrest, but couldn’t seem to gather the strength for the jump. Larry reached down and lifted the cat to his lap. “That’s the plan.”                        

“What about Earl?”

            “I was hoping you’d drop in once a day to feed him. Earl always liked you, Mel.” 

The only sound was the faint beep of the phone from the kitchen. Mel’s daughter

and son-in-law and the three kids were coming next weekend, and the prospect of a few quiet hours in front of Larry’s television wasn’t too bad at all. He imagined himself in Larry’s chair with the warm weight of the cat on his thighs.  

            “You think you’re up to the trip? Jeez, Larry, you haven’t been out in weeks.”

            “I’ve been swimming every day since you left, and I’m on a new therapy.”

            “What kind of therapy?”        

Larry wriggled a little against the pillow, and Earl rose up, his back arched. “You ever meet Marla, the massage therapist down in the basement at the centre?  She does this thing with energy channels.”

            Mel groaned. “You had major surgery to open your channels. Don’t tell me you’re paying someone for mumbo jumbo.”

            “What have I got to lose? And for your information, Marla says I’m a perfect candidate for this therapy.”

            “Of course she told you that. To a hammer everything looks like a nail.” He tilted his head and squinted at Larry. “Marla with the energy isn’t by any chance planning a holiday to Vegas, is she?”

            Larry glared at him. “Shame on you. That sounds like something Louise would say.” He stroked Earl’s lumpy back. “I just want one last trip, is all.”

            “Jeez, Larry! Don’t go morbid on me. Fran, and then Marge with her stroke, and your brother two years ago, and my brother before that. We gotta slow things down here.”

            A funny sad little smile played across Larry’s five o’clock shadow. “Can’t turn time around, pal. I know where I stand, and the ground’s been shaky for a long time. But hey.” He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair and Earl leapt up in protest, then circled twice and settled again. “Much as Fran’s friends, your dearly beloved included, are pissed off with the arrangement, I’m not the one who died. And even though I’d have traded places with Fran in the blink of an eye if I could, I can’t. So I’m gonna make the most of what I’ve got. And I’m pretty sure Fran would approve. Will you look in on Earl?”

            Mel chewed on his lip, nodded, shrugged. “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get moving.” 

Larry stood up with Earl in his arms. The cat squirmed, and walked his way up Larry’s chest until he was sprawled over his shoulder. 

At the door, when Mel bent to tie his shoes, his knees creaked in protest. He straightened slowly and zipped up his jacket. “So when are you off to Vegas?”

            Larry ran his hand through his hair. Looked like he’d just had a haircut. A little longer on the sides than usual — a hint of the sideburns he’d sported back in the sixties — definitely trimmed and styled.

            “Soon as I can get a good seat sale,” Larry said. “Want to meet me at the gym in the morning? Sounds like the knee could use oiling.”

            “I’ll pick you up at ten…” But then Mel stopped. “You don’t need me to ferry you around, do you?”

            Larry shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

             Mel clapped a hand on his buddy’s shoulder, gave a quick squeeze, and stepped into the cold. 

On the way home, he imagined Louise meeting him at the door. She’d ask how Larry was doing. And he’d tell her it was hard. Damned hard. Then he’d tell her about Earl, and how Larry needed to get away and how he’d be going over there every day to feed the cat. But he wouldn’t tell her about Earl chowing down on her chili, or about Larry’s energy channels. And he’d wait until Larry was back to tell her he wasn’t delivering any more hot meals.

            Mel pulled into the driveway, parked, and stepped down from the truck. Damn knees. Maybe a little massage therapy would be just the ticket. Marla, eh? When he looked up, Louise was standing in the open door.

–published in A Crack in the Wall (Oolichan Books 2008)