Free The Cat Sitter’s Cradle by Blaize, John Clement

face. I opened up the pantry and surveyed the rows and rows of cat food.
    I said, “Which do you prefer, wet or dry?”
    She swished her tail some more. Not in a friendly way.
    Since I approved of the dry food more than the canned, I put a couple of scoops in
     Charlotte’s bowl and set out a kitty treat for later. When I put the food bowl down
     on the floor, Charlotte waited a few seconds before she crept forward to sniff at
     it.
    I said, “Oh, were you thinking I would bring a taster for you to make sure your food
     isn’t poisoned? Sorry, Queen B. Eat up while I go check to see if you’ve committed
     any royal offenses.”
    I scurried through the house on the lookout for overturned wastebaskets or chewed
     paper, upchucked hairballs, or flowerpots used as litter boxes. Everything seemed
     okay. In a spare bathroom, I hurried to empty the litter box, wash it, spritz it with
     my ever-handy mix of hydrogen peroxide and water, then rinse the heck out of it with
     scalding hot water. Cats like their toilets to be as clean as their food dishes. I’m
     like that myself, so I understand.
    The big canopy bed in the master bedroom had indentations on the pillows suggesting
     Charlotte had slept there. I didn’t smooth them out or vacuum up the cat hair because
     I figured those spots gave Charlotte comfort while the Harwicks were gone. I could
     clean and straighten them later before they returned. Now it was time to feed the
     fish.
    Still looking side to side for signs of things to clean up, I loped down the short
     hallway lined with mahogany dressers and swung open the door to the master bathroom.
     I came to such a quick stop that my Keds squeaked on the marble tile.
    There on the floor, curled up in a ball, was the Harwicks’ daughter, Becca.
    I gasped as she jumped to her feet, wiping her hair away from her face with the back
     of her hand. Her eyes were puffy and red, and there were wet trails of mascara streaming
     down her cheeks.
    I said, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!”
    She said, “Hello? Ever heard of knocking?”
    I turned to leave. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I’ll come back later.”
    “Wait wait wait,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day. Please don’t
     go.”
    She was wearing the same clothes and big black boots she had on when I’d met her the
     day before. I wondered if she hadn’t spent the entire night on the floor in front
     of the fish tank crying.
    She said, “After my parents left, I had a huge fight with my boyfriend. Well, he’s
     not really my boyfriend but he kind of is, and now he’s not talking to me and … and…”
    She dropped down to her knees and started whimpering softly. I remembered what it
     was like to be her age, when hormones are raging through your body like flames through
     a fireworks stand and your brain can’t keep up with the tsunami of emotions that wash
     over you every minute. Every little thing feels like it’s the absolute end of the
     world.
    “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “I think you just need some food and a little rest.”
    “No,” she wailed. “You don’t understand. I’m pregnant!”
    She collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing hysterically. I don’t know why, but
     people are always telling me their deepest, darkest secrets. I can be minding my own
     business in a grocery store, picking out an avocado or reading the ingredients on
     a cracker box, and suddenly a perfect stranger will strike up a conversation. The
     next thing I know they’re blurting out things they wouldn’t tell a priest in a confession
     booth.
    I knelt down beside her and patted her shoulder while she cried. In this situation,
     there’s nothing to do but wait for the tears to work themselves out. Then all you
     can do is listen. When a man pours his problems out to you, he wants you to give him
     solutions. He wants you to fix it and make it all better. A woman already knows how
     to fix it. She just needs you to