ECHO’S LAW

Echo’s Law: Anyone and anything can vanish suddenly and entirely at any time for any reason or no reason at all.

            It was ten o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, not that it means anything. When you’re unemployed, dates, days of the week, hours of the clock all lose their meaning. Everything slides together, as if somebody has lifted one side of the table. Hodgepodge of time all spilling together into one unappetizing mess of consciousness.

            One scrap of time awareness that I did hang on to, though, was the position of the sun in the sky. I kept my windows open and spent as much time outside as possible. It gave me some kind of rhythm. When to sleep, when to eat, when to exercise and when to relax could all be gauged by the sun. And the unemployment checks kept rolling in, so I guess really, I was alright.

            I had been unemployed since March, when the pandemic had forced the music venue where I was bartender to close until further notice. I remember, though now it seems like a hazy dream, when the shut-down was supposed to only be two weeks. Now we were six months in, and it seemed like nobody had any clue when it would all be over.

            So, it was ten o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday in September of 2020. In my awareness, though, I only thought of the sun, rising higher and shining down through a light overcast. I was sitting at the small table in my kitchen, rammed up against the window that looked out on my backyard. I was thinking how lush and green the lawn looked with the grey sky and pale sunlight. It was a soft, quiet sort of morning. Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks played faintly over my stereo somewhere in the background. It felt like looking out on a Scottish moor at dawn, somber mist and mystical. Deliciously melancholy.

            I had been sitting at my window for some time, nursing my second cup of coffee, when I saw the cat. It was a little shape in the corner of my vision at first, a blink of motion that attracted my attention. When I focused, it turned out to be a grey cat, moving slowly through the taller grass along my back fence. The lithe body was low and tensed, stalking something or other. I sipped my coffee, leaned my chin in my palm and kept watching. The cat lowered itself further, came to a stop. For a moment there was no movement save the subtle twitching of the cat’s tail. Then it sprang. From somewhere in the grass, a large yellow butterfly fluttered up and away, unharmed. Better luck next time I thought to the cat. The cat, however, seemed unbothered by its failure. As soon as the butterfly was out of sight, the cat appeared to forget about it entirely. It got a sudden burst of frisky energy and went tearing up and down the length of the fence. It made pointless little jumps at nothing, hit the ground and kept going.

            I smiled. Watching this cat with the zoomies reminded me of being a kid. Endless energy, abstract kinetic expression of a boundless and formless joy. How long had it been since I had felt that way myself? I tried to think back. The last time I could really remember that specific feeling was in the fifth grade. I had tried out for the school play and landed the leading role. I remember going home to tell my parents. They were so proud of me. Their support and my excitement fed off each other and I went running about the house, jumping and turning summersaults, trying to recite my lines.

            Joy.

            I hadn’t felt that kind of energetic passionate joy for a long time. Not that it made me special. Most people don’t carry that feeling into adulthood. You don’t ever plan on losing it, but one day it’s just gone. Vanished. Poof. A fond memory brought back by a grey velvet cat in the yard.

            I finished my coffee, rinsed the mug at the sink, it on the rack to dry. I did a few chores around the house. I vacuumed the floors, cleaned the bathtub and toilet, checked my email for responses or leads about a job. I tried to stay on top of these things. I knew that if I let things slip, I’d get really depressed. If I couldn’t be gainfully employed, at least I could be clean.

            Around eleven thirty, I sat back down at the kitchen table with a glass of iced sweet tea. Blood on the Tracks had changed over to Rubber Soul while I was cleaning. I looked out my window as John Lennon sighed Girl. To my mild surprise, the cat was still in the yard. She—I could somehow tell that it was a female—had come a little closer. She was sitting prettily, hardly moving, and staring at the wooden stairs leading up to my porch and back door.

            I thought maybe the cat was a stray, but a closer look showed me a leather collar and a shining circle of metal that must have been a tag.

            Around noon, I went out back for a little fresh air and sunshine. Of course, because of the overcast, there wasn’t much real sunshine to be had. Still, the natural light felt good. The cat was still hanging around my porch when I came out. She backed off a little when I tried to approach but didn’t scamper away entirely. I shrugged and proceeded barefoot onto my lawn, enjoying the coolness of the grass between my toes. I stretched, did some pushups, some sit-ups, some star-jumps. Nothing too rigorous, just enough to get my heartrate up and keep my muscles active. When I was through, I laid on my back in the grass and stared upwards into the infinite grey expanse overhead. There was a slight breeze, the temperature around seventy-two. Very pleasant. I let my mind wander where it would. Time passed ever on, moment by moment.

            Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cat warily approaching me. I held very still. When it was close enough, I could read the metal tag. It said “Echo”. Nothing more. I laid still a while longer, allowing my presence and Echo’s presence to coexist in harmony.

            When I thought enough time had passed, I propped myself up on one elbow, intending maybe to pet the cat or turn over the tag or something. Echo backed away, ran a little distance, then settled herself down in the grass to stare at me with enormous, luminous eyes.

            “Alright,” I said out loud, “on your own time, then. I’ve got all day.” I hoisted myself off the ground, went inside and took a shower. Dressed, with damp hair and feeling clean, I went into the kitchen, looking for something to feed Echo and coax her a little closer, gain a little ground. Deep in the pantry, I found a can of sardines.

“I’m certainly never going to eat these.”  I didn’t even remember when or why I had bought them. I checked the expiration date on the back of the can, found they were still good, then took a can of beer from the fridge and went back to the porch. There was Echo, staring up at me from the lawn, head cocked ever so slightly to one side.

“For me,” I said, cracking the beer and taking a sip. Then, setting the beer aside, “and for you”, peeling back the lid of the sardines. Echo didn’t move. I lobbed one of the briny filets in her direction. It landed noiselessly a few feet away from her. I leaned back on the rail that ran along the tiny porch and down the wooden stairs. I waited, sipping cold beer. Echo’s nose twitched. She inched, still on her belly, towards the fish.

“Go on, then. It won’t hurt you.” I said, raising my beer to the cat. Echo continued her slow advance, eyes still trained on me. Finally, quickly, as if it might explode or suddenly get away, she ate the sardine.

“See? Not so bad, huh?” I said, “Here, want another?” I took a second sardine from the can and tossed it out past the stairs. It landed with a soft smack on the patio. This time Echo rose and walked coolly over to it. She didn’t run, keeping her composure. After all, there was her pride to consider. Again, she ate.

The next sardine landed on the stairs. The cat trotted over, ate, then looked up at me and mewed. I got down off the rail and sat on the floor of the porch, my back against one of the wooden beams. I placed two more sardines beside me. Echo came up the steps with grace, came right over and ate the fish. When they were gone, Echo curled herself into a ball, the way cats do. When I put my hand out to scratch behind her ears, she didn’t shy away. We sat there a long time, me sipping my beer and gently scratching behind her ears, her swishing her tail lazily, eyes drawing closer and closer to shut.

            Some indeterminate amount of time later, when the beer was gone and my mind had lulled itself almost into hibernation, I picked myself up off the porch. My movement excited a reaction out of Echo too. She stood up, circling my foot with her back rubbing up against my leg. I opened the door to go inside and Echo followed.

            “It isn’t much,” I said, “but it’s clean and it’s home.” I stood, leaning against the sink, watching Echo take tentative steps into my narrow kitchen. She nosed along the base of my refrigerator and, finding no food, moved on. Echo, I noticed, was a very small cat, although her proportions weren’t that of a kitten. Wondering what breed she was, I took out my phone and snapped a picture. Using the magic of image search technology, I discovered that she was a Korat. Her luminous green eyes confirmed, as I had suspected, that she was an adult.

            “Where did you come from?” I asked aloud. Echo looked back at me over her shoulder, mewed.

            I followed a distance behind as Echo continued through the empty doorway into my little living room. Pulling another beer from the fridge, I leaned in the doorway, watching her explore. She really took her time, going all about the room, springing with agile grace from one surface to another, investigating with nose and paws, leaving no stone unturned, mewing at particularly exciting discoveries.

            “Oh, come on,” I said, “it’s just a living room. It can’t be that interesting.” Echo ignored me. She’d hopped up onto my desk and carefully pushing things around on it. Then she laid down, curled up on one of my books. It was a collection of Murakami short stories I’d been reading.

            “That seems fitting, somehow.” I said. Echo offered a sleepy mew.

            Echo explored my house room by room. I found endless amusement in watching her go, laughing as she undertook her adventures. These things, sticks of furniture, long and hard trodden floors, blinds that needed dusting, second hand coffee table chipped and stained; all these things which to me were nothing more than minor details of existence, were new and thrilling landmarks of a foreign topography to her. When I went to bed, Echo hopped nimbly up after me and curled up, pressed hard against my shin. In the morning I woke up to find her laying on my pillow next to my head. It made me smile.

            This unexpected companionship went on for a few days. I found various things to feed her, canned tuna, cooked chicken, laughing as she wrinkled her nose at the leaf of spinach. She would follow me out when I went to backyard, sitting or playing in the grass while I laid on my back reading. It was nice to have her around, just to know she was there. The overcast broke and we had a couple days of truly glorious early autumn sunshine.

            It must have been a Saturday. I think that’s when the garbage trucks come, but I don’t really remember. I just take out my cans when I see them lining the street in front of other houses like so many plastic soldiers.

            I woke up to the sound of the garbage truck, huffing and shrieking of the great metal dragon. Echo wasn’t by my pillow.

            “Early riser, huh?” I said aloud as I sat up. No noise except the spilling of my garbage into the back of the truck, the hydraulic hiss of the arm and claw. I got up, shaved, showered, put on jeans and a clean t-shirt. I emerged from the cloud of steam that had been accumulating in my bathroom, thinking about breakfast. Eggs and toast, I thought, I wonder if Echo eats eggs.

            I didn’t see Echo in the living room or kitchen either. I shrugged it off. Probably she was holed away behind the sofa or under the desk on a new grand adventure. Anyway, it was far too pleasant a morning to worry about such things. The breeze carried the scent of a crisp autumn morning in through my open window along with the rustling leaves of Devil’s Ivy that grew along my wall. I had a mind full of eggs, and I had just decided that I was going to fry up some ham with it. I knew that Echo would like that even if she didn’t take to the eggs.

            When the ham and eggs were sizzling and popping in the skillet, I called her with a low whistle. No answer. I didn’t want to leave the stove and burn my breakfast, so I turned my head over my shoulder and called again.

            “Echo! Pspspspspsps!” Still nothing. I shoveled the ham and eggs from the skillet onto a plate with the spatula as the toast sprang up. Buttered and ready, I placed the two pieces along the edge of the plate and poured myself a cup of coffee. I sat down.

            “Suit yourself,” I called to Echo, “but you’re missing an excellent breakfast.”

            When I had finished eating and washed my dishes, I decided in earnest to find this cat who had suddenly become a recluse.

            “Alright, game’s over.” I said, “Where are you?”

            There was no sound from anywhere in the house. I looked behind the sofa, under the desk. I took the blankets off the bed and checked behind the rows of hanging shirts in the closet. I called and called. No Echo. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat and temples. She had to be around here somewhere. Eerie tingles in my spine, bones like TV static. She’d been here last night, curled up on the bed when I fell asleep. She had to be here. It wasn’t like she could have opened the door, left the key under the mat and been on her way.

            Then it struck me. The open window. A nimble cat like Echo; it would have been no problem to jump onto the table, the sill and then out, landing on soft grass. But why? Why? Why? I rushed outside, lunging clumsily down the stairs. I felt manic. I walked all around the yard, along the perimeter of the fence, even opened the little hatch door that let into the crawl space under the house and peered in. I called, clicked, whistled, pleaded. No Echo.

            Nothing.

            I took a deep breath, tried to collect my thoughts. Cats roam. It’s what they do. I took a long walk, the first one I’d been on in weeks, all through the neighborhood. There weren’t many people out. When the quarantine had first gone into place, everyday the sidewalks were filled with pedestrians. A way to get out of the house. Now, so many months in, most had given up. The veneer of long walks was scuffed, and the novelty gone. Like me, everyone else had settled into their microcosm existence. I did encounter a few walkers, and these I asked about Echo. Had anybody seen a small grey cat? Heads shook, feet kept on without pausing. The walkers, I noticed, were all wearing facemasks. Sheepishly, I realized I had forgotten mine. I continued my search, giving others a wide berth and an embarrassed nod, acknowledging my own faux paus.

            I must have walked about an hour or so when something brought me to a grinding halt. It was her. There she was. Echo, right in front of me, but not the real thing. Just a photo on a piece of paper stapled to a telephone pole. I stared, dumbfounded.

            “Missing Cat” the sign read, “Name: Echo. Grey Korat. Cash Reward. If found, please contact Anthony or Jasmine Skinner at…” and then a phone number. I couldn’t move. Of course, the thought that Echo had an original owner had crossed my mind days earlier. But, because there had been no contact information on Echo’s tag, the thought had been dismissed. Staring at the sign, I began to feel fire in my stomach. I had to find Echo before anyone else did. I’d keep her, no one would ever know. The couple on the flyer didn’t need her like I did. Anthony and Jasmine at least had each other. What did I have? Nothing. No job, no real friends, all my family living in another state, nobody I was sleeping with. I was twenty-seven years old, living on unemployment welfare. Even before the shutdowns, I’d been working a job but didn’t have anything like a career, or a life path or even a dream. I had nothing. Nothing. At the very least the universe could let me have Echo. I wasn’t a bad guy. I deserved at least that.

            And I took off running, eyes flashing over everything, everything, everything. Praying for a glimpse of grey velvet fur.

            Nothing.

            In a daze, I found myself back at home. Open mouth, feeling empty, as if I had just woken up on another planet, noxious atmosphere closing in on me every second. I stumbled inside, fumbled a beer out of the fridge, managed to get it open. It was the last of my energy. I sat on the floor of my kitchen, back against the cabinet doors, shut my eyes and focused only on swallowing beer. When the flow ran dry, I leaned forward and found a fresh can, leaving the empty on the floor next to me. I’d get it later.

            Time passed. I couldn’t see the sun from my place on the floor, so I marked time in the passing of beers. When the beer ran out, I lurched to my feet and broke into the high cabinet over the sink. There was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label in there, about three quarters full. I unscrewed the cap and knocked one back. Bottle in hand, I walked through into the living room, flopped onto the sofa, one leg over the arm rest. I took another plug from the bottle, scotch all smokey and peaty, making me feel warm all through, making me breathe fire. Why was I drinking? I didn’t know. It just seemed like the thing to do right then.

            Maybe Echo would come back. I got to my feet, thinking hard. Maybe if I set out more fish, Echo would come back, and everything would be the way it was before. In a haze, in a dream, I walked to the grocery store and bought ten cans of sardines. It was early evening, judging by the sun. I opened a can and set three fish in a neat row on the first step of my back porch. Then back to the kitchen table, back to the Johnnie Walker, to wait, to watch, to drink. One brush stroke at a time, the sky painted itself into night. I wasn’t playing any music, but there was dark, troubling, smokey jazz playing on a loop in my head, making it hard to put thoughts together. I got up, started pacing. I couldn’t just sit there and wait. I had to do something, had to move, to dance, to walk. Maybe I was Johnnie Walker, with all the walking I’d been doing.  Didn’t Murakami write something about a guy named Johnnie Walker who hunted cats? Didn’t he cut their heads off and skin them and all sorts of nasty things? And, wait a minute now. The other people that were looking for Echo; weren’t they the Skinners? Maybe it was me, Johnnie Walker, the skinner, looking for the cat. And maybe I was, had always been, the Skinners, Anthony and Jasmine.

            “No, slow down. That’s all nonsense.” I told myself aloud, “You’ve been drinking. Take it easy. Think things through and follow the steps.” I went out and put a few more sardines on the steps. Back inside, laying on the sofa, scotch almost gone, bottle in hand and resting on my stomach, sweating for no reason.

Fever dream.

I walked into an office, what looked like a waiting room in a giant corporate skyscraper. Large mahogany desk and behind it a young woman with glasses and shoulder length hair dyed silver. She looked at me, acknowledged my presence without expression, as if it was all a part of her humdrum daily routine.

“Good afternoon,” she said in a silky voice.

            “Is it afternoon already?” I asked.

            “Mmhmm,” she answered, looking down at something on her desk. She pulled a pen from behind her ear, clicked it open and began making notes on a large spiral bound calendar. I looked at her desk. The name plate read “Echo”.

            “You?” I gasped. She glanced up.

            I woke up, head spinning. Light cut through the blinds at insane angles. What was happening here? I felt sick. I finished the scotch, only about a shot left in the bottle anyway. Hair of the cat? It steadied me out a little.

            I went out back. No Echo. I called a few times, added a couple more sardines to my growing pile on the first step, looked up. The sun was out, but it looked wrong somehow. I was tired. Very tired. Years’ worth of exhaustion all at once. I went back inside, picking my way through the maze of empty beer cans on the kitchen floor, peered at the digital clock on the microwave. It said three fifteen. That made no sense. The sun was out, so it wasn’t three fifteen in the morning. How long had I been sleeping? What time had I passed out?

            “Is it afternoon already?” I asked the empty house, and suddenly I remembered Echo, the silver-haired secretary in the waiting room.

            “Echo?”

            Something funny was definitely happening here. I found another bottle, already open. When I had opened it? Had I blacked out last night? I picked up the bottle and studied the label. Wild Turkey Bourbon. When had I bought this? The gap in my memory sent a shiver of uneasiness through me. I needed another drink. It was already afternoon anyway, and we were in quarantine, so who cares? I took a drink of the bourbon.

            “Mmhmm” Echo said. Receptionist Echo. I was back in the waiting room. I looked at my hands. No bottle. Had I fallen asleep again? Off one drink?

            “Echo?” I asked.

            “Yes?”

            “My Echo?”

            “Decidedly not,” she answered coolly. Just the way Echo would have, too. Hmm.

            “So, you’re not the cat I’ve been hanging out with?” I felt stupid asking, but nothing made sense anymore. I needed answers.

            “Yes, that’s me. I’m not yours, though.”

            “Right.” I chewed on that. “But…”

            “Go ahead. Ask.” While still not friendly, Echo’s voice was not hostile either.

            “But you’re not a cat.” I said slowly. My confusion was tangible.

            “Aren’t I?”

            “You don’t look like a cat.” I said.

            “And you don’t look like a man,” she replied.

            “I don’t?”

            “Not from where I’m sitting.”

            “And where’s that? I mean, what is this place? Am I dreaming?”  I asked. Echo pensively chewed the end of her pen, as if deciding how to answer.

            “You could call it that, but it’s not quite right,” she said finally. I waited for more. “Just like I’m not quite a cat and you’re not quite a man. You could also say that you’ve tuned into a certain wavelength. That’s a little more accurate. Anyway, that’s where we are. It’s an in-between place. A waiting room. See?”  She gestured around.

            “So, this is real?” I asked, “Not a dream?”

            “Yes and no.” Echo answered. I shook my head.

            “Why do you have to be so damned mysterious? I’m looking for a straight answer. Is this real?”

            “Real is not an objective word.”

            “Goddammit. I mean, like, if I looked out that window, would I see a real place with real people living real lives?”

            “What do you mean by ‘real lives’?” Echo responded with another question.

            “Forget it. You’re useless.”

            “Then why are you trying so hard to find me?” Echo asked. I didn’t have an answer for that, so I just started towards the window, intending to open the blinds and look out.

            “I wouldn’t recommend doing that.” Echo said. I ignored her warning, pulled the cord and the blinds flew open.

            And there I was, sitting on the steps of my porch, carefully placing a sardine on top of a mountain which had apparently accumulated there. I looked around. It was dark. I didn’t know what time it was, but I could tell by the feeling of the air that it was the middle of the night, probably small hours of the morning. There was a smell around me, a smell that chilled me horribly. A putrid smell, rotten soul, the smell of hopelessness, the scent of raw, festering desperation. I looked down at the fish. Untouched. I looked away, feeling sick and drained. I was an eggshell, a genetic fluke, laid without yolk or white. A shell without substance, without purpose, without function. To my left, the pile of sardines made rancid by the sun. To my right, a glass with melting ice and some unknown liquid.  I picked it up, drank. Bourbon and sweet tea. I swallowed it, rose unsteadily to go inside. I wasn’t doing well. I knew that. What I needed was to get some real sleep. The first step brought up the stairs, like I had intended, but the next had me walking right back into the waiting room. Echo looked up, even gave me a thin smile this time.

            “Alright, Echo. What the fuck?” I was done. I was so tired. How long had it been since I’d slept? How long had it been since I’d felt joy?  The question popped into my mind. I tried to dismiss it, but it wouldn’t go. It hung around, buzzing like a fly at the windows.

            “Don’t throw it away.” Echo said. I looked up, and in doing so realized that I had put my head down and was clutching at my hair with both hands. I let go.

            “Is there somewhere I could sit down?” I asked, “I’m so tired.”

            “I know.” And now there was sympathy, maybe pity, in her voice. It felt good, like a hug. I suddenly was afraid I might burst into tears, something I hadn’t done in over ten years. “There’s a seat for a you.” Echo said, gesturing to an overstuffed armchair I was sure hadn’t been there a moment earlier. I was too drained to question it. I sank gratefully into the chair.

            “Drink.” Echo commanded.

            “All I’ve been doing is drinking.” I said, “It’s no good.”

            “Alcohol, maybe.” Echo said. I felt something cool in my hand, looked down. I was holding a glass of cold, clear water. It was beautiful in the light from wherever.

            “In vino veritas. In aqua sanitas.” Echo intoned.

            “What does that mean?”

            “From wine, truth. From water, health.” 

            “Oh.” I took a drink of the water, felt somewhat revived. Like a seed just starting to germinate. I took another deep draught.

            “Feel better?” Echo asked.

            “Yes, actually. Thank you.”

            “Good. Keep drinking that,” she said. I obeyed. When the glass was empty, it was also gone. I looked at both sides of my empty hand, curious but not fearful. The panic had ebbed away.

            “Alright,” I said, looking up to find Echo already staring at me, “What’s it all about? I’ve had my wine, let’s have some truth.”

            “You have to answer that for yourself.”

            “But I don’t know anything.”

            “You do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why there’s places like this. A place where you know what you want. A place where you find what you’ve lost.”

            “Is that why you’re here?”

            “That’s why I’m only sort of here.” Echo answered cryptically, “You lost something you never really had. That’s me. But there’s something else. Something you had and lost. Maybe something you didn’t recognize when you had it so didn’t realize when you lost it.”

            “What is it?” I was lost. I was here.

            “I don’t know, but you do. That’s why you’re here.” Echo said.

            “I thought this whole thing was about finding you. Finding Echo, I mean. Finding the cat, in the other place.”

            “Mmm…” Echo’s voice was almost a purr. Her eyes deepened behind the glasses. “Even in the other place, it was never about finding the cat.”

            And there it was. Just like that. The answer, like the glass of water, like the armchair, was right there. Had always been there. Click.

            “Oh.” I said, very soft. I held the answer like a precious bird’s egg. I was enraptured by it. I couldn’t stop saying it. “Oh.”

            “Mmhmm.” Echo smiled at me, a very sweet but professional smile. She clicked her pen shut and tucked it back neatly behind her ear. “Have a nice day, sir.”

            And I was in my kitchen, standing at the window, looking out at my backyard where a black and orange tabby cat was sniffing around the pile of rotting sardines. It took a moment to register. Then everything snapped neatly into place.

            “No!” I lunged for the door, “Don’t do it. Get away! They’re no good!” I almost fell out onto the porch, startling the tabby. I was too late. The cat had already scarfed down a few of the rancid fish. On the lawn, the tabby arched its back, gagged a few times, then finally vomited. It stared at me with wide eyes, betrayed.

            “Sorry. I was too late in figuring it out.” I told the tabby. The fur raised down the cat’s back and tail. It gave me one poisonous, well-deserved hiss, then turned tail and dashed across the yard. It bounded onto the fence, hopped over and was gone.

            I stood there a moment, then sighed and went back inside the house. It wasn’t about finding the cat, finding any cat.

            I got a plastic bag, cleaned the squalid pile of sardines off my steps, tied the bag shut and threw it in the garbage can. The smell would linger at least until Saturday when the garbage was collected, but that was my penance. I went around the house picking up beer cans and putting them into a paper bag to be recycled. I poured out the rest of the bourbon and put the bottle in the bag with the cans. I’d had enough truth for a while. I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and drank. Then, with my house put in order, I went out for a long walk with no destination. The sun was out. It felt nice on my face, and I smiled at every butterfly I saw. I even jumped up and clicked my heels together once, just for the hell of it.