MISTER GEORGE

Marta bends down to scrutinize the rubbish at her feet. From a distance, the Box Tops for Education look like an exploded piñata stuffed into a shoe box. Up close, each one is evenly cut with a faded yellow and blue boarder. Mister George asked her not to throw them away. He’s been saving them for the Forest Hill Elementary fundraiser and every cent counts. Oona, his oldest daughter, hasn’t gone to the school in decades and her own children go to Dwight-Englewood Academy, an expensive private school north of their grandfather’s house. Marta empties the shoebox into an extra large Ziplock bag and sets it aside.

“Mister George!”

Marta makes her way down a path to the kitchen, the first completed room in the house. Mister George sits with his breakfast at a clean table, reading a 36-year-old National Geographic magazine.

“I can’t believe you found this, Marta,” said George. The holographic cover undulates and changes shapes depending on where Marta stands. “We should keep this one.”

“If you love your magazines so much, you should store them in acid free boxes. Not piled all over the place.”

“Ok! I hear you! Any coffee left?”

“Are you ready to do what you promised last night?” Marta pours coffee into his mug and refreshes her own.

“Have you found Stanley yet? He’s been gone for a few days and I’m worried.”

“For the last time, Mister George, the cat ran away. It’s been over a week. Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m a grown man and don’t need to be reminded to clean my room.”

“And yet, here we are,” said Marta. Hands above her head, fingers wiggling to emphasize the work she’d done last week to restore the kitchen. “You now have a fully functioning kitchen stocked with fresh food, clean plates, and mugs because I reminded you about what needed to be done. So, no more barking from you, Mister George.”

“Thank you, Marta,” said George. He squeezed her shoulder and pushed his way through the path to his bedroom.

Marta adjusted her mask and put on fresh gloves. The bloody cat was somewhere in the house. Oona saw it dart back into the house when she visited last week and Marta heard it under the plastic milk crates stacked next to the front door. It was also where the fetid smell of cat shit was strongest.

Kneeling, her gloved hand pressed against her white mask, she pushed aside an empty milk crate, jiggling loose a clump of shit cemented to the surface of a plaque. She turned away to cough and breathe deeply to push down the wave of nausea. Brushing the turds to the side, she realized it was Mister George’s retirement gift from Forest Hill Elementary back in 1988. A round cherry wood plaque with a dull polished bronze bullseye plate with a bright red center. Inscription below:

George H. Feldman

1972 – 1988

Always a sure shot when educating the future!

“Maldito gato…”