“After the extinction of man, the Wars of Predation raged amongst the animals for untold centuries. Until Woolworth Ibuprofen, a wildebeest who dreamed of a world where his children could grow up to be something more than a predator’s midnight snack, invented artificial protein grown from stem cells. His scientific breakthrough, known as moralmeat, led to the Interspecies Truce, shattering the food chain and allowing the animal kingdom to live together in peace.” –from The History of Animalia by Buick Dyson
When I got home from school and caught a whiff of Mom’s boyfriend, an enormous gray and white feline, my whole afternoon went into a tailspin. I dropped to the ground and crawled on all fours, like an old-school bear, so I could peek around the corner of the house. Sure enough, the two of them were out back, lolling in the hammock. Wearing nothing but bathrobes, their tummies and tails and tufts of fur stuck out every which way.
The image swaying sickeningly back and forth in front of me was wrong on so many levels. For one thing, the ancient history books in Dad’s study told me housecats used to be so small, I should’ve been able to yank Sherwin up by the scruff of the neck and hurl him out of our yard. Unfortunately, the cat’s as big as I am, with teeth and claws every bit as sharp. But the main reason Mom snuggling under the crook of Sherwin’s arm got my hackles up is simple: she’s still married to my father.
How could she cuddle with this kitty when my dad Buick, a strong, brilliant grizzly, might come padding through the door at any time? Besides, as far as I can tell, the only thing Mom has in common with Sherwin is a deep and abiding love of napping.
Mom’s brown bear nose is as sensitive as mine, and before I could slip inside unnoticed, she called, “Cara! Come here a minute. Sherwin has a present for you.”
I froze. If the wind changed, maybe she wouldn’t realize I was prowling behind the hedges.
“Mascara Alegra Dyson! Don’t you ignore me.”
Uh oh. The full-name treatment. Mom wasn’t playing around.
I’d rather have gotten caught in the cross-fire of the llamas’ annual Spring Spitting Contest than talk to that tail-flicking creature. But I didn’t have much choice. I stood upright and forced myself to stroll over to them.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I lied. “I was just…pulling a sandspur out of my foot.”
Mom plastered on a fake, teddy-bear grin. Sherwin yawned. I wasn’t sure if he meant to display his glistening fangs as a threat or if this was a normal feline greeting.
“Whew,” he sighed. “I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been up for six hours!” The cat thrust a newspaper-wrapped present at me.
The gift felt like a trap. “What’s the occasion?”
“Sherwin stayed up all afternoon making you a present, Cara. Don’t be rude.”
While I ripped open the package, Sherwin purred, “I know it’s not your birthday or anything, but I wanted to give you this today.”
I pulled out a paw-knitted, Sherlock Holmes-inspired deerstalker hat and gasped. The button on top was made of ornate metal with a deep patina, probably a genuine human relic Sherwin dug up at work. I grinned in spite of myself and tried it on for size. I unbuttoned the ear flaps, and they brushed softly against the sides of my head.
“Perfect fit, Sherwin,” Mom gushed. She pawed the collar of her bathrobe. It was the same shade of dark green as my new cap. “I’m blown away by the things you can do with yarn. We’re so lucky your creative activity is knitting.”
Sherwin twirled his whiskers and gave Mom a slow blink. “I don’t know why, but I’ve always been fascinated by yarn.” He waved toward the seashell- and colored-glass-bedazzled exterior of our house. “I’m in awe of your creative activity, Amana. Your mosaics are stunning. That’s how your mother and I first met, you know. She came by the landfill looking for bits of plastic and glass and other ancient human debris to use in her artwork.”
“And you started saving me the prettiest pieces.” She giggled.
My stomach churned. Mom turned and gave me a mighty stink-eye, so I muttered, “Thank you, Sherwin. I like the hat.”
The cat shrugged. “Your mother sketched the design. Said it has something to do with some sort of obscure, human novels you enjoy. Myself, I stick to animal lit.”
“Well, my Dad’s a historian.” Sherwin squirmed at the reference to Buick Dyson, probably his least favorite topic of conversation. “He used to sneak me home rare, 20th century books from the Lair of Important Matters. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Ursula Le Guin, Madeleine L’Engle. I know reading stuff like that makes everybody think I’m some kind of freak. But I don’t care. I’ve tried to find animal authors like them, and there aren’t any. Human stories are so much more… exciting and interesting and heartbreaking than ours.”
Sherwin’s pupils shrank down to slits. “Human beings were the worst.”
That was the popular opinion on the matter, of course, but I had to push back. “If humans hadn’t come along with their science and technology—which animals happily copied—where would a bear like me be today? I’ll tell you where. Crawling around on all fours, eating termites out of a rotten tree trunk, and hibernating half my life away, only to die at age twenty. My Dad’s always pointing out stuff like that. I don’t know why most animals don’t want to give humans any credit for the comfortable lives we lead.”
“Cara, now’s…not a good time to talk about your father.” Mom chewed her claws. Something on her paw caught the light.
I sniffed the air between us and found it full of something unsaid. “Sherwin, why’d you skip both of your afternoon naps to knit my hat? Why was it so important to give it to me today?”
The cat froze as if I’d just pulled out a vacuum cleaner.
Mom scooched over and patted the hammock. “Sit down, honey. I have some good news.” The wrongness in the air felt more wrong. If it was good news, why did she want me to sit down? And why was her face twisted into that awkward grimace?
As I lowered myself between them, a ring on Mom’s claw sparkled at me viciously. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what was going on. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Mom might as well pick up the shards and stick them up on the wall along with the other hopelessly broken things she’d glued there.
I willed her not to say the words I knew were coming.
It didn’t work.
“Sherwin and I have been dating for a while now…”
No. No. NO! The roar inside my head drowned out whatever Homo sapiens-scat speech Mom was spewing about their stupid engagement.
“…we’ve set a date, but it’s a ways off. March 15th. I’ve always thought spring weddings are the prettiest. That gives Sherwin’s cousins ten months to get their migration permits so they can attend. Plus, it’ll give you…well, it’ll give you some time to get used to the idea.”
“What about Dad?” I growled.
Sherwin wriggled on the hammock, adding to my sense of nausea. “I…uh…I’m going to go inside. Check on the food.” He got up and slinked off, and I wasn’t sad about it.
“How long do you think it’ll take Dad to get used to the idea of his wife marrying some random tomcat?” I didn’t care how rude I was being. I didn’t care if I made Mom mad. Dad had gone missing two years ago. Or, as the official report put it, missing, presumed dead. Still, that’s not the same thing as dead.
When I searched my mother’s small, brown eyes, I found no anger. Not even surprise at my outburst. “Cara, a mama bear always tries to protect her cub. But you’re not really a cub anymore.” She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a worn square of folded-up paper. “And it’s time you knew the truth about your father’s disappearance.”