the guest house

The couch, with its quilted pattern of hearts and stripes, came to us from the Salvation Army. This is not exactly accurate. It came to us be the Salvation Army cannot refuse donations, even if they are too horrible for the store. When I first moved into my collage rental home, my roommates and I couldn't refuse donations either. When my fiancé offered to donate the donation to us, we didn't know what we were getting into.

The couch, by some divine grace, couldn't fit in our home. It was taken to the garage, but its companion love seat was placed in the center of our living room--another story entirely.

Since moving the couch to the garage among the two portable grills, the broken desk chair next to the wooden shelf, the cabinet of old gardening supplies, we have wondered what Hemingway-esque homeless man takes refuge here. There have been instances, like the found bag of potting soil and VHS of The Rescuers, or the disappearance of my great grandmother's gardening shears, that have proved his existence.

After Christmas break this year, I returned to find the parking pad (read: lawn) behind my house a boggy pit. I decided, for the first time since moving in a year and a half ago, to use the garage. It is small, built before SUVS, and I could not close the door without crushing my trunk. I didn't consider this a problem, since the "normal" not-garage door had been missing since we moved in.

On my way to mass, in the rain and the early winter dark, I lifted the car door handle to turn on the interior lights, helping me find the keyhole. Something shifted in the cushions of the couch. For a moment, the scenes flashed before my eyes. Would I attack him while he slept? Would he charge at me in a stupor, carrying the bag of cans I often saw in our alley? Would he flee only to be run over as I backed the car out at full speed? My hand was trembling. The key was skidding across the red paint around the key hole, leaving an erratic path.

I hopped in and locked the door, turned the key, let the lights come on and waited. And then I saw him.

The large feral cat, who I had quick possibly caught taking a nap after eating the pugs that bark at the fence across the alley. I thought, Hell, I wouldn't blame him if he gobbled the barking, huffing pups. I thought, Yes, this is more frightening. I thought of rabies and how much force it would take to break a charging cat's neck. I thought maybe, until the mud dries up and the ground settles, I'll park along the street.