George Ebey Author Page

Enough is Enough

by George Ebey

            Winton Weir decided that it was finally time.

            Mother Nature wasn’t getting the job done fast enough.  Guess I’ll have to do it myself.  For ten years now he’d let the old lady live with him - technically, he’d moved back home with her – and for ten years he’d been waiting around for the old bat to finally kick off.  He was tired of waiting.  Enough is enough.  Come tonight, her time’s up.  It wouldn’t be hard.  A pillow to her face while she’s lying in bed.  It would look like she died in her sleep.  Old people die in their sleep all the time.  No one would even think to question it. 

- - - -

            “You’d better be calling to tell me you got my money, Winton.”

            Winton hated hearing the sound of his own name.

            “Relax, Dewy.  You know I’m good for it.”

            “Don’t tell me to relax, punk.  The only thing I know you’re good for is being late on your payments.  I’m not in the business of lending money to deadbeats.  I am, on the other hand, perfectly happy to collect money from deadbeats.  Get me?”

            “Trust me.  After tonight, I’ll have all the money you want.”

            “You’d better.”

            A shrill voice floated in from the other room.  “Winton!  Orson needs to be fed!”

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing.  Just my mother.”

            “Okay.  You have until next week.  We clear?”

            “Clear.”

            Winton hung up, vowing to never borrow money from any crazy loan sharks from now on.  After tonight, he wouldn’t have to. 

            He made his way into the other room and found his mother sitting in her favorite chair.  On her lap was her pet cat, purring away while Mother gently stroked its thick coat of fur. 

            “Orson needs to be fed,” She repeated.

            “Fine.  Come on, Orson.”

            The cat looked up at him but didn’t move.

            “Orson, come on.  Food.”

            The cat made a whiny noise, jumped off of Mother’s lap, and ran past Winton into the kitchen.  Winton followed, annoyed that he had to play servant to a stupid cat.  He found Orson in the kitchen perched next to his food dish, waiting for his supper.  He took a can of Fancy Feast out of the cupboard and spent a few minutes routing around for a can opener, finally finding one in the back of the utensil drawer.  Once he got the can open, he dumped the smelly concoction into the Orson’s food dish.  The cat wasted no time diving into the mess, making Winton want to gag.

            God he hated that cat.

            Orson was a gray striped tiger cat, a fat one too, probably weighing close to twenty pounds.  And spoiled.  Mother doted over that fat blob of fur more than she ever did for him.  Day in and day out it was always something with that cat.  Orson needs fed.  Orson needs brushed.  Orson needs his litter box cleaned. 

            As soon as he was done eating, the cat ran back into the other room, jumped back up on Mother’s lap, and settled in for more petting.  Mother was quick to oblige, cooing softly to the plump animal in her lap.  “Yes, my little sweety.  My little sweety.”

            Winton watched from the doorway, disgusted by the whole scene.

            That’s when a thought came to him.  When I’m done with her, the cat’s next.

- - - -

            Winton decided to get it over with quickly.  Mother had gone to bed a few minutes before.  She usually fell asleep right away, he knew.  No sense in delaying things.  He did, however, decide to take a few minutes for reflection.  Was this the right thing to do?  Sure.  Why not?  It’s not like the old bat has much life left in her anyway.  Besides, he’d been waiting for years to get his hands on his share of his father’s money.  He couldn’t get anywhere near it as long as the old lady was still alive and kicking.  She should have just handed it over to him when the old man died instead of hoarding all control over it.  Stingy old broad.  That inheritance was rightfully his, and he couldn’t afford to wait around any longer for the old bat to die, not with Dewy breathing down his neck.  Besides, she’d been asking for it for a long time.  Having to put up with a name like Winton was all the justification he needed to kill her.   

            Satisfied that he was doing the right thing, he made his way up the stairs to her bedroom, walking slowly, careful not to make any noise that might wake her.  She always slept with her door wide open, so he wouldn’t have to worry about messing around with any rattling doorknobs or squeaking hinges.  He stopped at the doorway and peered inside.  There was enough light from the hallway to allow him to see into the bed.  He wanted to make sure that she was fully asleep before he made his way in.  There was about a half million pillows on her bed, so that wouldn’t be a problem.  Time to get this over with.

            But something stopped him.

            He noticed movement on the bed.  Is she still awake?  Maybe she’s just tossing in her sleep.  After taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, he saw clearly what was going on.  The cat, Orson, was crawling around on the bed. 

            Damn it.  If he made a move now, the cat was liable to hiss at him and wake the old lady up.  He didn’t think that he had the stomach to smother her while she was awake.  He’d have to get rid of the cat before he could take care of her.

            That’s when something strange happened.

            The cat moved stealthily alongside Mother, creeping slowly, taking gentle steps until it reached her chest.  Then, still moving with cunning ease, it climbed up on top of her.  Winton was sure that this would wake her up, but the old woman continued to sleep soundly, oblivious to the twenty pounds of cat flesh now straddling her torso.  After only a second or two of pause, Orson began to move upward.

            Winton could hardly believe what he saw next.

            The cat positioned itself over Mother’s head and quickly brought the brunt of its entire weight down on her face.  Winton stood in shock as he watched the scene.  Mother’s legs began to twitch.  He thought he could hear a few muffled moans.  But the cat didn’t budge as it used its fat furry body to smother the old woman to death. 

            Soon, Mother’s legs stopped twitching.  Her moans ceased, and Orson jumped off of her, scooting across the floor, out the door, and down the hall. 

            Winton needed a few minutes to process what he had just seen.  Finally, he composed himself enough to go inside and check for a pulse.  Nothing.  Then he started to laugh.  All this time, he’d been gearing himself up to kill the old broad.  Now he didn’t have to.  The frigging cat had done it for him.

- - - -

            “I am deeply saddened for your loss.”

            “Yeah, it’s a real shame.”

            After his mother’s death, Winton had decided to stick to the original plan and tell the authorities that she had died peacefully in her sleep.  After all, who was going to believe that the family cat had smothered her to death?  He still didn’t care much for the little fur ball, but he had to admit, he liked it a lot more now that it had saved him a load of angst and guilt.  Now all that was left was to settle the estate.  He hoped there wasn’t too much red tape to cut through.  He needed to get his hands on that money soon before Dewy sent a couple of guys over to rearrange his face.

            “So how’s this work?” Winton asked.  “Can I access the accounts now or is there some kind of legal mumbo jumbo we have to go through first?”

            The lawyer stiffened.  “Actually, that’s what I came here to talk to you about.  I went over your mother’s will and there’s a bit of a problem.”

            “Problem?  What problem?”

            The lawyer paused, looking as if he was unsure of how to proceed.  “The problem is you’re not in the will.”

            “What do you mean I’m not in the will?”

            “It seems that your mother left everything to Orson.”

            “Orson?  The cat?”

            The lawyer nodded.

            Winton started to laugh nervously.  “That’s crazy.  I mean…it can’t be legal, right?  You can’t leave all your money to a pet.”

            “Ordinarily I’d agree.  But your mother was shrewder than you think.  Have you ever heard of a place called Shady Oasis?”

            “No.”

            The lawyer dug into his briefcase and took out a brochure.  He handed it to Winton who looked it over anxiously.  On it were pictures of a bunch of pampered looking cats – cats sleeping on designer beds, cats with diamond studded collars around their necks, cats playing around on expensive looking play sets.

            “This place is a home for displaced pets,” the lawyer said.  “It specializes in caring for animals who’s wealthy owners have passed away.  Your mother left everything to them, with the stipulation that Orson be housed there and cared for for the rest of his life.”

            Winton couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “Let me get this straight.  You’re saying that my mother gave all my inheritance to a luxury retirement home for cats?  Are you frigging kidding me?”

            “I’m afraid not.”

            “Well, there’s got to be something we can do.  An appeal or something?”

            “We could try that.  But I’ll warn you, it can take awhile, and it’ll be expensive.  The administration at Shady Oasis will likely put up a fight over such a large amount of money.”

            “I can’t believe this!” Winton shouted.  His mind raced with thoughts of Dewy and the men he was sending over.  His voice started to race with panic.  “Larry, you have to stop this from happening.  That cat killed my mother.”

            The lawyer frowned.  “Come again?”

            “Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me.  The night my mother died, I saw that cat walk into her room and smother her to death.  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think anyone would take me seriously.  But you have to believe me.  That cat’s a murderer!”

            “Right.  Well I think I should be going now.”

            “No.”

            The lawyer headed for the door.

            “You have to help me.”

            “Don’t worry.  I’ll be in touch.”

            “Wait.”

            But the lawyer was already outside, heading down the sidewalk, moving swiftly toward his car. 

            Winton turned around, feeling as if he had just been slapped in the face. 

            Orson was sitting upright on the floor staring up at him.

            “You little son of a bitch.”

            Orson took off running up the nearby staircase to the second floor.

            Winton went into the kitchen to get a knife.

- - - -

            “Here kitty kitty.  Here kitty kitty.”

            Winton had an open can of Fancy Feast in one hand and a butcher knife in the other.  The little fur ball was up here somewhere. 

            “Dinner time, Orson.  Come on out.  You can’t spend all my money if you’re dead.”

            The smell from the can of cat food made him want to vomit.  He hoped it would be enough to bait the cat in.  He’d heard somewhere that cats could sense when they were in danger.  He hoped that wasn’t true.  He didn’t want to have to be all day about this. 

            Something scurried behind him.  Winton turned in time to see Orson scuttle into Mother’s bedroom.

            “Got you now.”

            Winton followed the cat into the room.  Stopping in the doorway, he paused to

look around, wondering where the little bastard was hiding.  Under the bed?  In the

closet?  On top of the dres….

            Orson jumped off the dresser, landing on Winton’s face, digging in with his claws, slashing and hissing.  Winton let out a howl of pain, dropping the Fancy Feast but keeping the knife. 

            He stumbled out into the hallway, slashing with the knife but was too shocked and panic stricken to hit anything but air.  Orson continued to hold on tight, slashing at Winton’s face, his eyes. 

            Winton screeched in pain as the cat’s claws continued to rip white hot shreds through his flesh.  In his panic he couldn’t help but dance around, moving in all directions, backwards and forwards, trying his best to dislodge the animal from his face.

            Suddenly, Orson jumped away on his own.

            For a split second, Winton felt victorious.  Then he felt himself falling and quickly realized why the cat had jumped away.  In his mania, Winton had stumbled over to the edge of the staircase, now he was falling down them, tumbling head over heals, stopping only when his body came to a crashing halt at the bottom of the stairs.

            Then everything went dark.

- - - -

            Winton awoke to a pounding sound coming from the front door.

            Realizing that he had passed out, his mind conjured up images of Orson standing over his head, smothering him to death with his big cat girth.  Groggily, Winton allowed himself to sit up, his body aching, his head throbbing.  At least nothing appeared to be broken.  The pounding at the front door wasn’t helping though.  Who could this be?
            He made his way to the door and opened it, only to find a policeman standing on his front porch.

            “Mr. Winton Weir?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Sir, you are under arrest.”

            The cop made Winton turn around, taking his hands behind his back and cuffing them.

            “Under arrest for what?”

            “For the murder of your mother, Grace Weir.”

            “What are you talking about?  I don’t understand.” 

            Then Winton saw, also standing on the porch was Larry, his mother’s estate lawyer.

            “Larry, what’s going on?”

            “I’ll tell you what’s going on.  After our little discussion earlier, I went straight to the police and told them what you said.  They asked the Medical Examiner to take another look at your mother’s remains.  He found evidence that she had been asphyxiated.  Your mother was a nice old woman.  I’m going to see that you get exactly what you deserve for this.”

            “But it wasn’t me!” Winton shouted.  “It was the cat!  The cat!”

            Winton was still ranting and raving this as the officer shoved him into the squad car and drove off.

            The lawyer stood on the porch, watching them go, shaking his head in disgust. 

What a shame.

            Inside the house, Orson sat on the bottom step of the staircase, licking his paws clean.  The lawyer went over to him and picked him up.  Orson nestled comfortably in the man’s arms, purring contently.

            “It’s okay, little guy.  That mean man won’t bother you anymore.  You can come along with me.  I have some place special to take you.”  As they left the house behind, the lawyer took a moment to look the cat over.  “My, my.  You sure are a handsome little fellow.”

            And he was sure to look even better with a brand new diamond studded collar.         

Copyright 2010 to George Ebey