Free Bone Song by Sherryl Clark

brush some more out before he starts licking.’
    ‘How do you know all this?’ I can feel the kitten shivering inside the towel.
    ‘My grandma had cats and one of them had two kittens once. I was there when the cat was giving birth. It was awesome.’ For a moment, her face lights up with that great smile, then she scowls and turns away. She’s like an early spring day, sometimes sunny and bright, and sometimes a storm arises out of nowhere.

CHAPTER 12
Dobie
    Why does thinking about Grandma still hurt so much? It’s more than three years since she died. Remembering her and me crouched next to the cat in its box, drinking hot chocolate and watching to make sure nothing went wrong because she was an old cat – it’s like a big hand has grabbed my guts and twisted hard. Grandma always knew about what was important, how a cat having kittens was about new life, how baking cookies was an art that needed lots of practice so we baked dozens, how dancing was an expression of the soul. That’s what she said, anyway, and she said it to Mother as well.
    Mother’s reply to that was, ‘Then ballet is the highest expression, one well worth striving for.’ She wouldn’t give in. Modern dance was ‘common’, experimental choreography was prancing around showing off half-nude bodies, and the music was just noise. I’d started off with ballet when I was seven, but by the time I was ten, my passion was modern dance: ballet was boring and restrictive.
    Goody sits on the futon couch, cuddling the black kitten, and starts brushing its fur with an old toothbrush, the only thing she could find. I fill the toothbrush cup with water and keep picking up fleas, dunking them in the water until they drown and float. Much simpler than squashing them. I don’t know what Goody’s on about with her mum. She seems OK to me. A bit paranoid maybe. She’s like a saint next to my mother.
    There’s a clatter in the kitchen and something smashes on the floor. ‘Shit.’ Goody’s face goes all tight and she hands me the kitten, heading for the kitchen. I try not to eavesdrop (that’d have to be a first for me) but this place is so small I can’t help it.
    ‘It was just a plate, Lissy. Look, I’ve cleaned it up.’
    ‘Mum, have you taken two pills again?’ Silence. ‘You were fine when you came home. Why did you take two?’ Goody sounds like she’s trying not to cry.
    ‘I just… it’s hard, you know. You brought someone, I didn’t expect it. She looks like a criminal. All those holes in her face. And the kitten.’ Her voice slurs a little. I make it my mission to extract every single flea off this kitten.
    ‘I told you, I’ll take it to the RSPCA tomorrow, I promise.’
    ‘But I don’t want you to! It’s not fair. Why shouldn’t you keep it? You have nothing, just your stupid mother who drags you around the country. God, I’m so sick of this!’ She’s crying but it sounds funny, like she’s doing it in slow motion. A chair scrapes across the linoleum.
    ‘Mum, sit down and drink your coffee.I’ll make you some dinner soon. Eat a muffin. It’s OK. Don’t cry, all right?’ There’s pouring, clinking spoons, muffled crying still, then Goody emerges carrying two mugs of coffee. ‘I’ll just fetch the muffins,’ she says, putting the mugs down on the side table without looking at me.
    ‘OK.’ The kitten is purring. ‘Hey, he likes this. I think I’ve got most of the fleas.’
    Goody checks the toothbrush cup. ‘Yuck. I’ll tip it out.’ The crying in the kitchen has died away; she comes back with four muffins on a plate. ‘Have one. They’re from the bakery down the street. Better than home-made.’
    I give the kitten back to Goody and take a muffin, munching slowly; I watch her brushing as I scan the room at the same time. Three of these lounge rooms would fit into our dining room. We’ve got cupboards bigger than the bathroom. There are no pictures anywhere; the walls are bare, the floors have no rugs, the