The Tiger Who Came for Tea

 In this version of the story, the Tiger calls herself Cashmere. She appears on the threshold of a house in despair. A not-quite elderly man is collapsing in on himself, having decided that it is too hard, this living business. He'd rather not keep waiting around to die.  A small boy, underweight, feral runs between two houses daily. He is happy by nature but has never encountered nurturing.  The mother is a wounded animal, worn down by poverty and trauma, she has become defined by her addiction and choices.  She is in a wheelchair.  

Cashmere comes and there is a moment when everything is lighter. Meals appear, rooms are cleaned. The little boy calls her Milk and himself Cereal because they can't both go by the diminutive of 'Cash.' It is beautiful to see.  Then the days begin to unravel.  Cashmere begins to argue with the mother. Minutes and hours get lost in a haze and fog different colors of smoke.  The man next door suddenly turns elderly, his hurt making him mean and snarling. He lays down on the floor and does not want to get up.  

There is a voice across an ocean.  Call for help, if he won't get up.  Don't leave him lying there. But Cashmere does not call for help. She begins to pack things carefully, strategically. Small things, seemingly insignificant. Jewelry, small electronics, tools, all things easily sold and not easily traced. Money goes missing.  The old man begins to refuse to eat, to answer his phone. The daughter, an ocean away, is calling Cashmere more often. What is going on?!!!  

One day, an blonde man appears, like an aged Thor. 'Jim! What in the hell??' More people arrive, an ambulance. There is a flurry, a flood. 

 The tiger turns domesticated. Retreats to the arm of the sofa. 'We've been so worried but he wouldn't let us call for help.'

This is true. The old man in question is stubborn. An ornery bastard, his daughter calls him, affectionately. She is ornery herself, so can almost respect it. Almost. But when she arrives, the mess he has left for her to tend to is enormous.  When she arrives, he is in ICU. The houses are in a state of confused despair, the child is playing with an ax in the back yard, Lizzie Borden style. 

Over the next few weeks, the Tiger moves slowly when requested to leave. 'It's just really hard to find a place right now.'   The daughter counts to 10, several times a day. 

'We should go out for drinks, you know...have fun.'  The daughter, loading up boxes to be donated, smiles tightly. 'Maybe.' She's wound tightly, the daughter. But she's feeling fragile. Something is off, her heart hurts in a way she had thought she had moved through. It confuses her, especially in the current situation.  

'Could you drive me to the gas station for smokes and some ice?' Cashmere asks one Saturday. It is a bridge too far. A month has gone by and there is no sign of moving out.  An argument will ensue and ultimately bags upon bags of things will be left in the garage that the daughter will go through.  Cashmere - unsurprisingly, perhaps - is not Cashmere.  The daughter is not surprised, not since the son's girlfriend used photos of the daughter to catfish people. Very strange, this world where people pretend to be what they are not. Dates who lie by omission, who use fake names. Why do that? Why are people so afraid of being who they are? 

She thinks of someone who once implied he was an actor but was not. It was not hard to uncover that this was not true but she had stopped digging before she learned more because ultimately, she didn't want to know what she didn't need to know. She wanted to trust the situation.  She wonders how he is and that confuses her. She shouldn't wonder after him. He's trouble. She isn't sure why, but she knows he's trouble. 'That guy,' her daughter had said last autumn. 'He looks like a villain trying to be nice. I don't trust him.'  She should have listened, did listen but still kept in touch because there was an afternoon where it didn't matter who he was, who she was, where time slowed and the moved in unison. She shakes her head fiercely. Not today, recency bias. Not today.

Cashmere's delaying tactics become more and more pronounced. There is a potentially life-threatening brain aneurysm ('Let's get you to the hospital, then shall we?' the daughter says coolly).  Then she can't find her driver's license.  A friend let's her down. The layers of delay are such that the daughter simply ceases to acknowledge her presence, childishly perhaps. She lays a protection circle around the house, burns sage to cleanse the space.  Cashmere doesn't return and the daughter goes through her things, separating out what can be donated. Reclaiming the items the other woman was looking to take. The family bible, dress uniforms, her father's jewelry, a purple heart from the 1st World War. The fact that there was potential theft does not surprise the daughter. What surprises her is the intense sadness she feels that there is an emotional logic to some of the items, that Cashmere must have been worried that the daughter didn't care. If only it were a different time, the daughter could have explained that she cared TOO much. 

The Tiger is silent this time for a month then slaps a paw at the screen door. Maybe it's really Cashmere's sister but by this time, the daughter is tired and traveling to bury the last grandparent in a landscape of Kudzu.  The world will keep turning, people will keep behaving strangely, even outside of Covid Times. The daughter will sigh and wonder what kind of stray will wander in next.