Grimaldi’s Thanksgiving

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Antoinette Carone

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Grimaldi knew something was afoot. His nap was disturbed by a noisy hustle and bustle
coming from downstairs. He pricked up his ears. Someone might be coming to chase him off the bed. Then he remembered that he now lived with Anna and Salvatore and was allowed to curl up on the pillow for a snooze. He relaxed and listened.

They were chattering in the strange language that Grimaldi was just beginning to
understand. Anna and Salvatore used strange words only to each other. To Grimaldi, they spoke in the familiar phrases Jon had used. Although he loved Anna and Salvatore, Grimaldi still grieved for Jon.

Jon had brought the Siamese kitten home one day, much to his wife Lucy’s dismay. The
kitten was important to his art, Jon insisted. The warm brown of its fur recalled the sand of the
Amalfi Coast. Its eyes were the blue of the Mediterranean. Jon could never quite capture their
luster in paint. They were defined by light, not pigment, and sp oke of a distance that no human
could ever transverse.

And so, despite Lucy’s protests, Grimaldi the cat had stayed.

His thoughts now drifted to his old home. Lucy had never liked him, and for his part,
Grimaldi did not like Lucy. She never shared tidbits from her plate. Jon did.

On the last day of his old life, Grimaldi had stretched out on the kitchen table, knowing
Lucy had gone out. He lolled about until he heard the key in the lock. Then he jumped down
from the table and stood in front of the door. As Lucy entered, he put his tail in the air and
slowly walked away from her up the stairs.

Grimaldi was very pleased with himself. He had gotten away with something. He
considered jumping up on the bed but then he’d better not push his luck. If Lucy figured out he’d been sunning himself on the kitchen table she would have it in for him. He meandered into Jon’s studio.

There was a cup of cold tea and a cheese sandwich on a side table. Grimaldi had jumped
on the table, lapped up some spilled milk and nosed the sandwich. He pushed the top piece of
bread off and ate the cheese.

He warbled, jumped down and, careful not to disturb Jon’s paints, wove himself around
Jon’s legs. He rubbed the easel with his upper lip to mark Jon’s place as his own. That was when he smelled it — not Jon’s scent but an odor that meant the end of life. Grimaldi’s instinct was to hiss and run away. He didn’t, however. He stayed with Jon. Grimaldi knew something was coming to an end.

Anna and Grimaldi had become friends shortly after Jon disappeared. Anna had come to
visit Lucy. While they sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating something that smelled sweet and cheesy, Grimaldi lurked under the table, hoping for a piece to drop. Anna noticed and lifted him onto her lap. She offered him a taste. Grimaldi could tell Anna liked him.

Lucy did not want him. She moved away and Grimaldi went to live with Anna and
Salvatore.

These events had happened a long time ago in the span of a cat’s life, yet melancholy
thoughts remained. Grimaldi’s recollections were soon sidetracked, however, by the hubbub
from below.

Curiosity propelled him into the kitchen. Enticing smells were floating all around. Anna
was standing at the table, rolling something into circles.

Grimaldi plopped himself down in the middle of the room and mewed to see what he
could procure to eat. Anna didn’t mind. She was glad of the company. In fact, she had often
wondered why she had never gotten a cat when she and Salvatore first moved to America. She
had always loved animals.

Now, she lived in a place that did not relegate cats to outdoors. In the village in the
mountains of Italy where she had grown up, animals were expected to be useful. A cat’s job was to hunt and devour rodents. They were thin because they were fed only once a day. At
dinnertime and then only table scraps.

Anna had always thought – no, knew – that animals has the same feelings as people. As a
child, she had gotten many smacks from her mother for sneaking the cat into the bedroom she
shared with her sisters. One of them always told. The poor cat did not even have a name. It was
just “the cat.”

So, on Thanksgiving morning in America, working around Grimaldi, Anna began her
American Thanksgiving preparations. She was making pumpkin pie.

She offered Grimaldi crumbs of buttery dough. She put a bit of condensed milk into his
bowl. He happily consumed all, but when Anna opened the can of pumpkin, he went mad with
delight. He mewed and rubbed her legs, nearly tripping her.

“Pumpkin is for cows and for people, not cats,” she told him.

When the pies were finished baking, Anna put them on the dining room table to cool. The
aroma was too much for Grimaldi. He jumped on the table and tried to lick one. Anna picked
him up and carried him out of the room. Then she closed the door.

Later, after Salvatore had gone out and while Anna was reading the Corriere della sera,
Grimaldi made his way to the dining room. The house was old. The knobs on the door to the
dining room were made of glass, with facets that a cat could grab.

Grimaldi leapt. He held the doorknob between his front paws. As he dropped, the knob
turned and the door opened a crack. Grimaldi pushed it open, jumped on the table. There he ate the center of one of the pumpkin pies, grateful that he had figured out a way to get in and
confident that Anna would not be angry.

For her part, Anna loved life too much to deny any creature a measure of enjoyment.

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Antoinette Carone‘s cat, Grimaulkin, who she loves and misses very much.

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Antoinette Carone’s newest novels include Hotel of the Siren (Scantic Books) and Ciao, Napoli, a Scrapbook of Living in Naples (Create Space). Her short stories have appeared in Ovunque Siamo, Foxglove Journal, Ellipsis ‘Zine, Fudoki Magazine, Real Women Write: Living on COVID Time (Story Circle Network) and The Thieving Magpie and The Wild Umbrella. She is a member of the Italian American Writers’ Association and of Women’s National Book Association. She is on the Board of the American Italian Cultural Roundtable. Along with her husband, she has lived in Naples, Italy.

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