By the Willow Tree

The Boy sat in the soft green grass. His back was against the willow tree by the creek. This was where he came to escape his Father’s yelling. His cat, Ginger, perked up at the sound of a bird, but then lay back down in the Boy’s lap. The Boy loved cats, and he loved Ginger, but he couldn’t please his Father.

Before the Boy’s Father lost his sight, he was one of the world’s greatest cat trainers. There was a time when he could train nearly any feline to maneuver the most difficult obstacle course or take down the fastest gazelle, but those days were over. After losing his sight, the Father forced his passion onto his son, pushing the Boy to become a world-class cat trainer. The Boy had different plans, however.

The Boy sat by the creek with Ginger until sunset. He thought that his Father would have likely left the house for a drink so he decided it would be safe to return home. He quietly crept in the front door and scanned the entryway. The coast was clear. The Boy scurried to the stairs and began his ascent when he was stopped in his tracks.

“Hold it.” The Boy turned around to find his Father standing behind him.

“Oh, hey dad,” said the Boy nervously.

“Where are you going?” asked the Father.

“To my room,” said the Boy.

“Where were you?”

“By the creek with Ginger.”

“Training?”

“Sure, dad.” The Boy turned around to climb the stairs, but he was stopped once again.

“Well that’s good. I set up a meeting for you tomorrow, it’s with a friend of mine. She’s a great trainer and she’s offering her whole day to give you some pointers.”

“I can’t, dad,” said the Boy. “I have a game tomorrow.”

“Gosh dang it, I thought I told you to give up that basketball nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, dad. It’s really fun. And I’m pretty good.”

“For the last time, I don’t want you wasting your time on that game. Too many young men ruin their lives chasing silly dreams and I won’t let my son become a failure like that. Now get some rest so you can be fresh for your cat training lesson tomorrow.”

The Boy said nothing for a while. He picked Ginger up and his arms and glared into his Father’s sightless eyes. “I won’t live your dream,” said the Boy. Then he took off out the door. The Father tried to grab him, but whiffed mightily.

The Boy’s legs pumped like pistons and carried him across the moonlit fields. He felt Ginger’s breathing quicken as he held her against his chest. His feet carried him back to the familiar ground by the creek. He slowed to a halt, set Ginger down, and collapsed against the willow tree.

The Boy’s head dropped into his hands and he began to weep. He felt the soft tickle of Ginger’s tongue lapping against his nose. The Boy couldn’t help but smile. He pet Ginger’s soft coat and his troubles seemed to drain away with each stroke. But they would not vanish completely; a bit of melancholy remained.

The Boy picked Ginger up; it felt right. If only there were a way to bring this comfort closer to the pain I feel, thought the Boy. He looked down at the cat, marveling at the simple grace of the creature. The Boy took off his shirt, lay down against the furry body and resumed petting. The Boy felt his sense of comfort grow. He quickly looked around him and made sure that he was alone before unfastening his belt and removing his trousers. His underpants followed. The Boy took Ginger into his arms and pulled her close against his chest. The calm seemed to surge from the cat’s body into his own. He felt a world of peace crash down upon him. The Boy breathed this newfound serenity into his lungs over and over. The tears began to flow again, but this time they were joyful. The two remained that way the entire night: the Boy on the ground by the willow tree, holding his cat against his naked body.

***

Five years later, the Boy sat in a large auditorium. He had grown into a fine young man. He looked at his hands in his lap; they were trembling. He looked up and surveyed his surroundings. Even though every eye in the room was fixed on the stage, he couldn’t help but feel that he were being watched, as if just a moment ago there were a number of eyes on him but they quickly averted when he lifted his head. He turned to the stage.

A grey-haired man in an ink-blue suit made his way to the podium once again. The Boy felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Think of Ginger, thought the Boy. Think of Ginger.

The man in the suit looked down at the podium and began to speak. “With the thirteenth pick of the 1996 NBA draft, the Charlotte Hornets select…” The Boy felt a ball the size of a large meatball forming in his throat. “…Kobe Bryant of Lower Merion high School in Pennsylvania.”

The Boy felt all the tension drop from his body. He floated off of his chair, offered a series of hugs to family members, and made his way up to the stage.