Lucky
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by Rob Sheely (buzz@boulderweekly.com)

Eleanor kept her sense of humor through almost all of that terrible year. She brought party hats for Frank's final chemo session and took a picture of him with the oncology nurses. It was on the coffin at the funeral, next to the faded portrait of a young Frank with Eleanor and little Benny.

A few months later Eleanor sold her beloved Chautauqua home to cover Frank's medical bills. She threw a big moving-out party in which she gave her friends back the ugliest gift each had given her and Frank over the years. Many laughs were shared over the tie-dyed place mats, the harvest gold fondue set, the Leroy Neiman print.

Once Eleanor and her beloved Persian Guinevere had settled into their bland new condo, she prepared herself for the next challenge: reestablishing a social life. "I've played more canasta, drank more tea and seen more matinees in the last month than the entire rest of my life," she told Ben at their weekly lunch together.

"You thinking about dating yet, Ma?" he said.

"Are you kidding me? It's a jungle out there. As Myra says, 'If they're younger than you, they're after your purse. If they're older than you, they're after a nurse.'"

The final blow came when Guinevere ran between Eleanor's legs and out under the wheels of a passing car. She rushed her to the animal hospital where the vet, a kindly, heavyset young man, told her there was nothing they could do. So Eleanor stroked Guinevere's head and whispered softly to her as the vet shaved the hair off a forearm, found a vein and slipped the needle in.

Eleanor signed the cremation form, drove herself home and fell to pieces. She didn't know how many days passed with the curtains drawn before Ben was banging at her door. Then he was sitting on the side of her bed, saying "Oh, Ma" and stroking her arm. A part of her mind thought, "Looking for a vein to slip the needle in?" But she didn't say it because it really wasn't funny. Actually, when she thought about it, nothing was funny.

Ben heated her a can of soup and made some tea. She watched him as if he were a stranger, this grown man whose bottom she used to wipe, now fussing over her, his mother, this sad little woman Eleanor didn't recognize at all.

He began coming by every day to look in on her. One day he brought a flyer. "I Need a Good Home," it read over a photo of a skinny cat missing half of one ear and named, according to the block-printed caption, "Lucky."

"What the hell is this?" said Eleanor.

"Easy, Ma," said Ben, taking it from her and tossing it in the trash. "I saw it in the lobby and thought you could use a laugh. Obviously I was mistaken."

Later that afternoon Myra stopped by. Eleanor listened politely as she kvetched about the Boulder senior social scene. "Honestly, Ellie, the way some women throw themselves at men! Cooking on the first date. Doing his laundry. Even vacuuming!" But all Eleanor could think about was that stupid cat. What was his name again?

As soon as Myra left, Eleanor fished the flyer out of the trash. "Lucky." Judging by the photo, he was anything but. Against her better judgement Eleanor picked up the phone. Before she knew it she was walking back from a neighboring unit with a cardboard box in her arms.

Once inside, she set the box on the floor. Lucky crept out and sniffed the air. He slunk around the perimeter of the living room, finally stopping behind the sofa. Eleanor crouched and called to him. He stared at her, his eyes wide. She reached out a hand. He hissed at her.

"Fine," she said, leaving him where he was. When it was time for bed, Eleanor put out some water and a saucer of milk, planning to take the poor thing back in the morning.

Sometime in the night Eleanor woke to find a pair of eyes staring at her from the foot of the bed. She sat up slowly and extended her hand. Lucky tensed. Eleanor froze. Eyes locked, each waited for the other to make a move.

Finally, Lucky leaned his head forward and nuzzled Eleanor's hand. Soon he was letting her pet him, and soon after that he was purring in her arms.

"You're not so tough, are you?" she whispered. "You're not so tough at all."

The next day when Ben came by, he spied the empty saucer on the floor. "What's going on, Ma?" he said. "Don't tell me you went and got Lucky last night."

"That's a rather personal question, don't you think?" she said, a small smile coming to her face.

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