Skinny Matilda's Arc

Chapter 10 of 10

Wednesday she stood at her stove with a pot of tomato stew and no way to know if it was any good. Sunday was three days off. She had picked the recipe from a bound guide the cooking school teacher pressed on her after Monday's class, a book of dishes cooked in one pot. She had followed every line. But the last time she served Mr. Grumpypants something new without tasting twice, she had oversalted the dumplings and watched his mouth pinch shut over the first bite. She would not do that again. She needed a taster. She had no one. She would not knock on the old man's door to sample the meal he was about to eat. Margaret was at the chapel and would say something kind whether the stew was good or not. Kind was not useful. A meow cut across the kitchen. A fat orange tabby sat on her sill, tail curled over its paws, watching the pot. She did not know the cat. The cat clearly knew the smell. "You're not mine," she said. The cat blinked at her. She opened the window. The cat walked in like it had done so a hundred times and sat on the floor by her ankle. She spooned a small bite of stew onto a saucer, blew on it, and set it down. The cat sniffed. The cat ate. The cat licked the saucer and looked up for more. She tasted her own spoon. Too flat. She added salt and a crack of pepper. She spooned another test onto the saucer. The cat ate faster this time and pressed its head against her calf. She stirred in a spoon of honey from the jar the church shop had thrown in with the bowls. She tasted. Better. She offered the saucer. The cat cleaned it and sat waiting for a fourth round. "That's enough," she said. "You'll be sick." The cat stretched and lay down under her table like it had chosen the spot months ago. Sunday at six she set the pot between them and ladled. Mr. Grumpypants sniffed once and took a full spoonful without pausing to complain. He ate half the bowl before he spoke. "What's the sweet in it?" "Honey. A spoon." He nodded. "Keep doing that." He held the bowl out for more. She filled it. The cat walked out from under the table, sat by his boot, and stared up at him. He looked down. "Since when do you have a cat?" "Since Wednesday." "Feed it something." She set a saucer on the floor. The cat ate. Mr. Grumpypants watched it a moment, then went back to his stew. Matilda sat across from him and ate her own bowl. She had not counted a look in nine days. She had counted spoonfuls instead, and the cat's small quick tongue, and that was a better math.