September...
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 "Leona" (Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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The Cat in the Empty Chair"...
"A Cat Named 'September'" (Image and Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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My name is Sam. I’m the woodworker in our little Bean & Birch coffee gang—and, according to Martha, the quiet one. That is not entirely true. I talk when I have something worth saying. Martha simply believes every silence longer than seven seconds is a medical emergency.
By the time September arrived in Lone Pine, our Friday morning table at Bean & Birch had developed rules.
No one had written them down. No one had voted on them. Nevertheless, they were as firmly established as the laws of gravity.
Erica and Tom sat beside each other, although Erica claimed this was only because Tom could not be trusted alone with the sugar bowl. Martha sat where the morning sun could illuminate her fuchsia hair to its fullest advantage. Toby chose the chair nearest the pastry case, maintaining that proximity had no influence whatsoever upon his decision.
I sat with my back against the wall. A woodworker learns to pay attention to chairs, and I prefer to keep an eye on what the furniture is doing.
There was also an empty chair between Toby and Martha.
It did not belong to anyone. No absent friend was expected to arrive. We had simply grown accustomed to leaving it open. Sometimes a coat was draped over its back. Sometimes a stack of newspapers occupied it. More often, it waited among us as though Bean & Birch itself had decided our group was not yet complete.
That was the chair the cat chose.
She arrived on the first Friday of September, a morning balanced delicately between two seasons. Summer still lingered in the sunlight upon Stillwater Gleam, but the breeze coming off the water had begun to carry autumn around its edges.
The door to Bean & Birch stood open to welcome the cool air. From where we sat, we could see mist loosening itself from the lake and drifting among the pines. Goldenrod brightened the roadside, a few red leaves had appeared among the maples, and somewhere outside an acorn struck the wooden awning with a sharp little knock.
The cat entered immediately afterward, as if the acorn had announced her.
She was a small tortoiseshell, brushed with black, amber, rust, and cream. One front paw was pale gold, giving her the appearance of wearing a single elegant glove. She paused just inside the doorway and surveyed the café.
Lucy, who was carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls, stopped.
“Maren,” she called, “we have a customer without pockets.”
The cat walked past her.
She did not sniff beneath the tables, beg for food, or express the slightest uncertainty about her destination. She crossed the café with the confidence of someone who had made a reservation, reached our table, leapt onto the empty chair, turned around exactly three times, and sat down.
Then she looked at us.
“Well,” Martha said, “you’re late.”
The cat blinked.
“Does anyone know her?” Erica asked.
We studied the animal. She wore a narrow green collar, but there was no tag attached to it.
Toby leaned away from her. “For the record, I am not a cat person.”
The cat stepped from the chair directly into his lap.
Martha grinned. “Apparently, she isn’t a Toby person either. She thinks you’re furniture.”
“I am not furniture.”
“You’re sitting very still for a man who isn’t furniture.”
“I don’t want to provoke it.”
The cat began to purr.
Lucy set down the cinnamon rolls and placed both hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry,” she told our visitor, “but Bean & Birch has rules.”
The cat closed her eyes.
“I don’t believe she’s listening,” I said.
“She heard me.”
“Of course she heard you,” said Martha. “She’s ignoring you. That is how cats acknowledge authority.”
Lucy lifted the tortoiseshell from Toby’s lap and carried her outside. She set her gently on the porch, pointed toward the village, and returned.
Before Lucy had reached the counter, the cat was back in the empty chair.
The following Friday, she returned.
At precisely nine o’clock, she entered Bean & Birch, crossed the room, and climbed onto the same chair.
This time Lucy was waiting.
“No.”
The cat sat.
“Absolutely not.”
The cat began washing her golden paw.
“You cannot live here.”
The cat continued washing.
Maren emerged from the kitchen carrying a saucer of water.
Lucy looked at her.
“What?” Maren said. “She might be thirsty.”
“We are not encouraging this.”
“I’m not encouraging her. I’m hydrating her.”
By the third Friday, the cat had become a regular.
Martha named her September.
“She arrived in September,” Martha explained, “she has autumn colors, and she possesses the serene confidence of a month that knows summer is almost over.”
“She probably already has a name,” Erica said.
“Then she may tell us whenever she feels ready.”
Toby continued to insist he did not like cats. He demonstrated this by bringing a small folded blanket from home and placing it on September’s chair.
“The wood is hard,” he said defensively. “It’s a practical consideration.”
September ignored the blanket and sat in his lap.
Every Friday morning followed the same pattern. September arrived at nine, joined our gathering, accepted admiration as her natural due, and departed at precisely ten.
We began watching the clock.
At one minute before ten, she would be curled contentedly in Toby’s lap. At ten o’clock, her eyes opened. She stretched, jumped to the floor, and walked out the door.
“Where does she go?” Erica wondered.
“Away,” said Tom.
“Thank you, Daniel Boone.”
“I’m just reporting what I’ve observed.”
The question became increasingly troublesome. September appeared healthy and well cared for. Her coat was glossy, her collar was new, and she showed no signs of hunger—although she did once steal the top half of Toby’s blueberry muffin.
I suspect this was a moral lesson concerning the dangers of leaving baked goods unattended.
Lucy asked around the village. No one recognized the cat. Maren posted a photograph on the bulletin board beneath the words:
DOES THIS CAT BELONG TO YOU?
Someone—almost certainly Martha—added:
SHE BELONGS TO HERSELF. WE ARE ASKING WHERE SHE LIVES.
Another week passed without an answer.
On the last Friday before the equinox, September rose from Toby’s lap at precisely ten and headed for the door.
Martha stood.
“We’re following her.”
“You cannot simply follow people home,” Toby said.
“She isn’t people.”
“Try telling her that.”
Nevertheless, we followed.
September crossed the café porch and headed down Birch Street, her tail raised like a small, crooked flag. Seven adults trailed behind her, attempting to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly.
At the edge of the village, she turned onto the path beside Stillwater Gleam.
It was one of those luminous September mornings that seemed made of gold and blue. Sunlight scattered across the lake. A few leaves sailed upon the surface near shore, and the breeze carried the scents of pine, damp earth, and distant woodsmoke. Somewhere overhead, geese called to one another as they crossed the bright sky.
September led us beneath the old pines, past a weathered dock, and toward a small gray cottage that had stood empty throughout the summer.
There were signs of new life now. Curtains hung in the windows. A stack of split firewood stood beside the porch. Two unopened boxes rested near the door, and a blue bicycle leaned against the railing.
September bounded up the steps and scratched at the screen.
A woman opened the door.
She was perhaps in her late sixties, with silver hair tied loosely at the back of her neck. She looked down at September and then beyond her at the seven strangers gathered rather awkwardly in the yard.
“Oh,” she said.
There are moments when even Martha has nothing prepared.
This was one of them.
Since everyone else appeared to have temporarily misplaced the power of speech, I stepped forward.
“We’re from Bean & Birch,” I said. “Your cat has been joining us for coffee.”
The woman glanced at September.
“I see she has been introducing herself.”
“Repeatedly,” said Toby.
September rubbed against the woman’s ankles.
“I’m Clara,” she said. “And her name is Maisie.”
Martha looked mildly disappointed. “September suits her.”
“It does,” Clara admitted. “Maisie is her everyday name. September sounds more like the name she would choose for herself.”
Clara invited us onto the porch. There were not enough chairs, but Maren and Lucy brought two more from Bean & Birch, while Tom and I sat on the steps. September—or Maisie—settled in Toby’s lap as though this entire gathering had been arranged for her convenience.
Clara explained that she had moved to Lone Pine six weeks earlier.
“My wife, Anne, died last winter,” she said quietly. “We lived in Madison for almost forty years. The house felt too large afterward. Too full and too empty at the same time.”
No one rushed to fill the silence that followed. The lake moved gently beyond the trees.
Clara rested one hand upon Maisie’s back.
“Anne had coffee every Wednesday morning at a little café near our home. She always walked there, and whenever the weather allowed, Maisie followed her. The café had a patio. Anne sat with the same group of friends in the same chair, and Maisie sat beside her.”
Maisie’s purring grew louder.
“After Anne died, she continued walking to the café,” Clara said. “She would sit outside and wait. One of Anne’s friends usually brought her home.”
Clara smiled, although her eyes had filled with tears.
“I suppose she has been looking for another coffee shop.”
“And another group,” Erica said.
Clara nodded.
Martha reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Well,” she said, “she found one.”
The following Friday, Maisie arrived at Bean & Birch at nine o’clock.
This time, Clara followed.
She paused just inside the doorway, uncertain in the way people sometimes are when entering a room where everyone else appears to belong.
Maisie had no such hesitation. She crossed the café, leapt onto the empty chair, and looked back at Clara.
Toby stood and lifted her.
“I believe,” he said, gesturing toward the chair, “this seat belongs to one of you.”
Clara sat down.
Maisie settled comfortably into Toby’s lap.
Martha laughed. “It appears you chose incorrectly.”
“I had no part in the choosing,” Toby said.
Maisie tucked her golden paw beneath herself and began to purr.
Lucy brought Clara a cup of coffee. Maren added a warm cinnamon roll. Erica asked about the gray cottage. Tom told her which chimney sweep to avoid. Martha announced that anyone living beside Stillwater Gleam required at least one good pair of boots and several strong opinions about tourists.
Clara began to laugh.
It was not a polite laugh or a cautious one. It came from somewhere deep within her, somewhere that perhaps had been quiet for a very long time.
Maisie opened her eyes, looked around the table, and closed them again.
That was how Clara joined us.
The empty chair had never been reserved. We had not been waiting for anyone—or at least we had not known we were waiting. Yet every Friday morning after that, Clara sat between Toby and Martha, while Maisie divided her time between Toby’s lap and the patch of sunlight near the window.
Toby still maintained that he was not a cat person.
Maisie continued to regard this as irrelevant.
People often say that we rescue animals. We take them into our homes, feed them, protect them, and offer them a place to belong. This is true, of course.
But it is not the whole truth.
Sometimes an animal sees an emptiness we have learned not to notice. Sometimes she walks through an open door, claims an unused chair, and patiently waits for us to understand.
And sometimes, on a golden September morning, a small tortoiseshell cat leads a lonely heart through the changing woods to a table where coffee is warm, laughter comes easily, and an empty chair has been waiting all along.
~Wylddane
By the time September arrived in Lone Pine, our Friday morning table at Bean & Birch had developed rules.
No one had written them down. No one had voted on them. Nevertheless, they were as firmly established as the laws of gravity.
Erica and Tom sat beside each other, although Erica claimed this was only because Tom could not be trusted alone with the sugar bowl. Martha sat where the morning sun could illuminate her fuchsia hair to its fullest advantage. Toby chose the chair nearest the pastry case, maintaining that proximity had no influence whatsoever upon his decision.
I sat with my back against the wall. A woodworker learns to pay attention to chairs, and I prefer to keep an eye on what the furniture is doing.
There was also an empty chair between Toby and Martha.
It did not belong to anyone. No absent friend was expected to arrive. We had simply grown accustomed to leaving it open. Sometimes a coat was draped over its back. Sometimes a stack of newspapers occupied it. More often, it waited among us as though Bean & Birch itself had decided our group was not yet complete.
That was the chair the cat chose.
She arrived on the first Friday of September, a morning balanced delicately between two seasons. Summer still lingered in the sunlight upon Stillwater Gleam, but the breeze coming off the water had begun to carry autumn around its edges.
The door to Bean & Birch stood open to welcome the cool air. From where we sat, we could see mist loosening itself from the lake and drifting among the pines. Goldenrod brightened the roadside, a few red leaves had appeared among the maples, and somewhere outside an acorn struck the wooden awning with a sharp little knock.
The cat entered immediately afterward, as if the acorn had announced her.
She was a small tortoiseshell, brushed with black, amber, rust, and cream. One front paw was pale gold, giving her the appearance of wearing a single elegant glove. She paused just inside the doorway and surveyed the café.
Lucy, who was carrying a tray of cinnamon rolls, stopped.
“Maren,” she called, “we have a customer without pockets.”
The cat walked past her.
She did not sniff beneath the tables, beg for food, or express the slightest uncertainty about her destination. She crossed the café with the confidence of someone who had made a reservation, reached our table, leapt onto the empty chair, turned around exactly three times, and sat down.
Then she looked at us.
“Well,” Martha said, “you’re late.”
The cat blinked.
“Does anyone know her?” Erica asked.
We studied the animal. She wore a narrow green collar, but there was no tag attached to it.
Toby leaned away from her. “For the record, I am not a cat person.”
The cat stepped from the chair directly into his lap.
Martha grinned. “Apparently, she isn’t a Toby person either. She thinks you’re furniture.”
“I am not furniture.”
“You’re sitting very still for a man who isn’t furniture.”
“I don’t want to provoke it.”
The cat began to purr.
Lucy set down the cinnamon rolls and placed both hands on her hips.
“I’m sorry,” she told our visitor, “but Bean & Birch has rules.”
The cat closed her eyes.
“I don’t believe she’s listening,” I said.
“She heard me.”
“Of course she heard you,” said Martha. “She’s ignoring you. That is how cats acknowledge authority.”
Lucy lifted the tortoiseshell from Toby’s lap and carried her outside. She set her gently on the porch, pointed toward the village, and returned.
Before Lucy had reached the counter, the cat was back in the empty chair.
The following Friday, she returned.
At precisely nine o’clock, she entered Bean & Birch, crossed the room, and climbed onto the same chair.
This time Lucy was waiting.
“No.”
The cat sat.
“Absolutely not.”
The cat began washing her golden paw.
“You cannot live here.”
The cat continued washing.
Maren emerged from the kitchen carrying a saucer of water.
Lucy looked at her.
“What?” Maren said. “She might be thirsty.”
“We are not encouraging this.”
“I’m not encouraging her. I’m hydrating her.”
By the third Friday, the cat had become a regular.
Martha named her September.
“She arrived in September,” Martha explained, “she has autumn colors, and she possesses the serene confidence of a month that knows summer is almost over.”
“She probably already has a name,” Erica said.
“Then she may tell us whenever she feels ready.”
Toby continued to insist he did not like cats. He demonstrated this by bringing a small folded blanket from home and placing it on September’s chair.
“The wood is hard,” he said defensively. “It’s a practical consideration.”
September ignored the blanket and sat in his lap.
Every Friday morning followed the same pattern. September arrived at nine, joined our gathering, accepted admiration as her natural due, and departed at precisely ten.
We began watching the clock.
At one minute before ten, she would be curled contentedly in Toby’s lap. At ten o’clock, her eyes opened. She stretched, jumped to the floor, and walked out the door.
“Where does she go?” Erica wondered.
“Away,” said Tom.
“Thank you, Daniel Boone.”
“I’m just reporting what I’ve observed.”
The question became increasingly troublesome. September appeared healthy and well cared for. Her coat was glossy, her collar was new, and she showed no signs of hunger—although she did once steal the top half of Toby’s blueberry muffin.
I suspect this was a moral lesson concerning the dangers of leaving baked goods unattended.
Lucy asked around the village. No one recognized the cat. Maren posted a photograph on the bulletin board beneath the words:
DOES THIS CAT BELONG TO YOU?
Someone—almost certainly Martha—added:
SHE BELONGS TO HERSELF. WE ARE ASKING WHERE SHE LIVES.
Another week passed without an answer.
On the last Friday before the equinox, September rose from Toby’s lap at precisely ten and headed for the door.
Martha stood.
“We’re following her.”
“You cannot simply follow people home,” Toby said.
“She isn’t people.”
“Try telling her that.”
Nevertheless, we followed.
September crossed the café porch and headed down Birch Street, her tail raised like a small, crooked flag. Seven adults trailed behind her, attempting to look inconspicuous and failing spectacularly.
At the edge of the village, she turned onto the path beside Stillwater Gleam.
It was one of those luminous September mornings that seemed made of gold and blue. Sunlight scattered across the lake. A few leaves sailed upon the surface near shore, and the breeze carried the scents of pine, damp earth, and distant woodsmoke. Somewhere overhead, geese called to one another as they crossed the bright sky.
September led us beneath the old pines, past a weathered dock, and toward a small gray cottage that had stood empty throughout the summer.
There were signs of new life now. Curtains hung in the windows. A stack of split firewood stood beside the porch. Two unopened boxes rested near the door, and a blue bicycle leaned against the railing.
September bounded up the steps and scratched at the screen.
A woman opened the door.
She was perhaps in her late sixties, with silver hair tied loosely at the back of her neck. She looked down at September and then beyond her at the seven strangers gathered rather awkwardly in the yard.
“Oh,” she said.
There are moments when even Martha has nothing prepared.
This was one of them.
Since everyone else appeared to have temporarily misplaced the power of speech, I stepped forward.
“We’re from Bean & Birch,” I said. “Your cat has been joining us for coffee.”
The woman glanced at September.
“I see she has been introducing herself.”
“Repeatedly,” said Toby.
September rubbed against the woman’s ankles.
“I’m Clara,” she said. “And her name is Maisie.”
Martha looked mildly disappointed. “September suits her.”
“It does,” Clara admitted. “Maisie is her everyday name. September sounds more like the name she would choose for herself.”
Clara invited us onto the porch. There were not enough chairs, but Maren and Lucy brought two more from Bean & Birch, while Tom and I sat on the steps. September—or Maisie—settled in Toby’s lap as though this entire gathering had been arranged for her convenience.
Clara explained that she had moved to Lone Pine six weeks earlier.
“My wife, Anne, died last winter,” she said quietly. “We lived in Madison for almost forty years. The house felt too large afterward. Too full and too empty at the same time.”
No one rushed to fill the silence that followed. The lake moved gently beyond the trees.
Clara rested one hand upon Maisie’s back.
“Anne had coffee every Wednesday morning at a little café near our home. She always walked there, and whenever the weather allowed, Maisie followed her. The café had a patio. Anne sat with the same group of friends in the same chair, and Maisie sat beside her.”
Maisie’s purring grew louder.
“After Anne died, she continued walking to the café,” Clara said. “She would sit outside and wait. One of Anne’s friends usually brought her home.”
Clara smiled, although her eyes had filled with tears.
“I suppose she has been looking for another coffee shop.”
“And another group,” Erica said.
Clara nodded.
Martha reached over and squeezed her hand.
“Well,” she said, “she found one.”
The following Friday, Maisie arrived at Bean & Birch at nine o’clock.
This time, Clara followed.
She paused just inside the doorway, uncertain in the way people sometimes are when entering a room where everyone else appears to belong.
Maisie had no such hesitation. She crossed the café, leapt onto the empty chair, and looked back at Clara.
Toby stood and lifted her.
“I believe,” he said, gesturing toward the chair, “this seat belongs to one of you.”
Clara sat down.
Maisie settled comfortably into Toby’s lap.
Martha laughed. “It appears you chose incorrectly.”
“I had no part in the choosing,” Toby said.
Maisie tucked her golden paw beneath herself and began to purr.
Lucy brought Clara a cup of coffee. Maren added a warm cinnamon roll. Erica asked about the gray cottage. Tom told her which chimney sweep to avoid. Martha announced that anyone living beside Stillwater Gleam required at least one good pair of boots and several strong opinions about tourists.
Clara began to laugh.
It was not a polite laugh or a cautious one. It came from somewhere deep within her, somewhere that perhaps had been quiet for a very long time.
Maisie opened her eyes, looked around the table, and closed them again.
That was how Clara joined us.
The empty chair had never been reserved. We had not been waiting for anyone—or at least we had not known we were waiting. Yet every Friday morning after that, Clara sat between Toby and Martha, while Maisie divided her time between Toby’s lap and the patch of sunlight near the window.
Toby still maintained that he was not a cat person.
Maisie continued to regard this as irrelevant.
People often say that we rescue animals. We take them into our homes, feed them, protect them, and offer them a place to belong. This is true, of course.
But it is not the whole truth.
Sometimes an animal sees an emptiness we have learned not to notice. Sometimes she walks through an open door, claims an unused chair, and patiently waits for us to understand.
And sometimes, on a golden September morning, a small tortoiseshell cat leads a lonely heart through the changing woods to a table where coffee is warm, laughter comes easily, and an empty chair has been waiting all along.
~Wylddane