schroedinger's cat jonathan bitz I. I opened my door today, slow and with the hallway wind. Looking down at the threshold and there was a box sitting just beyond it. Any smaller and I would have surely tripped over it. But, no, it was large. Like a buxom genie came out of it, to begin with. The lid was closed. Folded over in quarters. There was a note, on top. Taped. It said, "Cat inside. Fragile." The brain behind my eyes rattled like all those tea kettles steaming. Locomotives hauling. There was no knock, no nothing. Somebody just left a cat. In a box. At my door. Or, wait, was there even a cat in there? II. Ms. Dunhill doesn't live upstairs anymore. I think she moved out. She didn't say anything. I thought she would. Ms. Dunhill and I, talked. We brushed hands when we left. Smiled over our shoulders. Had each other's phone numbers. Its been awhile since I've seen Ms. Dunhill. Three months, maybe. But I've heard things up there. Up stairs. Where she lives. I heard things up until a couple of weeks ago. Surely, she would have said something. She wouldn't have just left… III. I'm allergic to cat dander. On top of that, I don't even like cats. Small cats. Domesticated cats. I like big cats. That sprint, pounce and kill on the African Savannah. Whichever kind of cat, I've never thought it a good idea to own any more than zero. I can usually feel when they're in a room. Or have been in a room. Cats. The back of my nose tells me so. The corners of my eyes. My throat. Like I need to drown my entire head under the big bathtub raging faucet. That being said, I didn't feel anything. This time. Standing over that box at my door. Looking down at it and I heard nothing. Even in my quiet morning air, where I barely even breathe - I heard nothing inside that box. IV. Ms. Dunhill lived up above me, on the third floor. At night, I stared at the bottom of her bed. Sometimes it creaked. Like she was old. But she's not. She's my age. Cute. Tiny. Affectionate. A yoga teacher. We met, while passing. We introduced ourselves, while conversing. The exchange was easy and we seemed to like some of the same things. Ms. Dunhill touched me on the shoulder when she left. But not when she moved. She didn't say anything about that. Moving. I had a crush on her. Still do, probably. But sometimes I forget what she looks like. Did I mention that she's a yoga teacher? V. I wasn't sure if I should pick-up the box. As though our neighbor was watching out her peephole, for this exact moment. Like it was the whole "adolescent-bag-of-shit-on-fire" trick again. Which I've never fallen for. Okay, once, I did. But it wasn't a bag of shit. It was a Mountain Dew bottle filled with warm urine. And yeah, I drank it. Then. It was only that once. I swear. So, I leaned down to pick up the box. Because I couldn't just leave it sitting there. At the knees, I thought about my bad back. And an excuse. I stood back up. I had a phone. I could make calls. VI. I gave Ms. Dunhill flowers once. Okay, twice. First time, I arranged this tree-sized vase of lilies and set it at her door. So she would get them when she came home from a long day of stretching into and out of, impossible body poses. This is after we went to the symphony once. That was after she said she used to be a ballerina. But it was all before she told me that she was still seeing her "ex" boyfriend. I didn't know this. That her ex-boyfriend was still lingering around. Close, like a cat. But, he was. Around. Because the next morning, I walked out my front door and found my flowering tree scattered all around our building's courtyard. From side to side. Lilies torn apart like a rejection letter. Stems on the steps. Like they were protesting their detachment. Petals heaped-up as a giant reminder of all those nights that didn't spell a path to bed. And a lover. Ms. Dunhill called and explained. He is. Still. Around. She said. VII. Bending down, I stick my ear close to the box. I don't see any air holes. Guess it could breathe well enough from the space in the top. How it's folded over and not taped. I think of how, once, my roommate and I had a Nile Monitor. It ate mice. I thought of how, one day, I went to feed the Nile Monitor. And how I picked up the bag, which had the mouse in it. And how, when I picked up the bag, the mouse flailed back and forth, inside. Like it had these genes already developed. Like cattle. In line for the slaughter bin. My roommate came home later that day. He said, "you didn't feed the Monitor…" I said, "no fucking way…" I left the bag of mouse on the counter. Right where it was last squirming. Kneeling next to the box, I thought about that mouse. And its scamper of death. The I-don't-care-which-walls-I'm-crashing-into-with-my-skull-get-the-walls-outta-my-way bashing. What was I going to do? Pick up the box, have the cat flurry about, crashing around? Pissed-off at these large creatures that put it in the box in the first place? Then, was I going to let it out, in my apartment - like it was a bag of shit on fire? Probably with urine and feces all over it by this time. I wrapped my arms around the box… VIII. Since the flower disaster in the courtyard, I haven't seen Ms. Dunhill. And after her phone call, I haven't talked to her. Because of the ex-boyfriend. I assume. He stayed around. He rode a bike. And worked in people's gardens for a living. I think that Ms. Dunhill knew I had seen him. She never said anything. But she knew that I, like all of our other neighbors, have a peephole too. It's on the way in and out of Ms. Dunhill's apartment. One floor and some steps, down. So, we haven't talked. And she hasn't seen me. And it has been three months. Then I get a box at my door. Says there's a cat inside. And, fragile. Like there should be air holes, or something to let it breathe louder than me in the morning. IX. So, okay, I pick-up the box, because I can't just leave it there. Sure, I neglect my mail for weeks on end. It falls out of my box, onto the table below where everybody else gets their mail. Somebody even put my two-week stack at my front door once. So I can't just leave this impeding box-size-box in the hallway. Surely then, they'll think me dumb. In my rise from my knees, up - I feel something inside. There's definitely something in the box. Weight only on one side. And not that heavy, my back says. The box is definitely not full. Like there really is a cat in there. But the something inside still doesn't move. Or slide. Or purr. Or breathe. Like there really is a dead cat in there. X. Ms. Dunhill leaves for work early in the morning. Before I get up. So I usually didn't ever hear this. When she lived here, that is. But I did hear her coming home well after the sun had gone down. Did I mention that I think Ms. Dunhill has just disappeared? Anyway. She slams things. The front door. Her apartment door. Her bag on the ground. Her toilet seat. Even her television on the floor once. I think it actually fell. At 3 a.m. or so. But Ms. Dunhill always takes her shoes off at the door. She prances around like a ballerina above me. On her toes. Floating. From below, even in my quiet mornings in the evening, I can barely hear her. Like she's suspended from my ceiling. Ms. Dunhill wears this herbal oil on her body. I'm not sure, exactly where she puts it on her body. But, after a hug once, I went home and, two hours later, smelled her. Vividly. Like she was sitting on my face. Or at my front door. Listening to me, inside. In a yoga pose, with her feet tucked in. Like she did. At the restaurant where we ate after the symphony. She smells like a Chinese apothecary. Like: Green. And leaves. And cedar floors without shoes. You could find out what I'm talking about if you stood at her door. When she lived there. When it was open and you could see a yoga mat on the floor, inside. The giant plants standing up towards the ceiling. Her ethnic figurines and images leaning against the floor and the wall. At an angle. Like Ms. Dunhill projected everything, up and out the skylight in her kitchen. And I, on the second floor. Laying in my bed at night and staring at the underside of hers. For hours of pain-in-the-back nights. Over my pillow, on those sleepless nights, I put together all the stories of my life. And the life around me. XI. If there's something in the box, I don't think it's coming out. Into my apartment. Cats have claws. And don't typically like me anyway. I mean, I only touch them with the back of my shirtsleeve. I shut my door. And turn around to the box. Ms. Dunhill isn't home yet. If she's coming back to this home at all. I can't hear the boards creaking. Above me. Where are you Ms. Dunhill? XII. For awhile, I heard loud feet in Ms. Dunhill's apartment. Like my flowers torn apart in the courtyard bonded them forever more. Like the boyfriend never left after he saw lilies from another man. Afterall, he did work in gardens. He knew what lilies from another man meant. For awhile, I could hear him, mulling around. Up there. In Ms. Dunhill's apartment. He hadn't the same Japanese customs as she. Apparently he needed to wear his shoes indoors for some reason. Even when he was in Ms. Dunhill's bed. Because on some nights, I'd forget. About him. And her. And then he'd bound out of the bed, with a long attacking gait, like he was charging something. What, I never was sure. But I did believe it was charging. He didn't look like the type of guy to do much dancing. XIII. So there it is. A box, on my apartment floor. I have yet to walk out my door. There's things to be done today. Things I haven't done before. But there's this box sitting on my floor. XIV. Six weeks ago, there was somebody pacing back and forth. Back and forth. In Ms. Dunhill's apartment. All hours of the day. All hours of the night. Here, there was no discrimination. There was pacing, like there was heavy deliberation. Like decisions were being made. Like the boyfriend knew I could hear. Like he was rubbing it in. Wish you were up here. Don't you? Is what the patterns said. But the patterns were so intermittent and so capricious. I'd never heard anything like that up there before. That's when I began to wonder if Ms. Dunhill even lived there anymore. It had been awhile since I had heard her toilet seat slam. Her front door rattle. Her bed, creak. Albeit, there was that one night, when her bed creaked at regular intervals. For over an hour. Sure, Ms. Dunhill exercised. But she did yoga. Yoga doesn't involve bouncing. Jumping-jacks. Trampoline stunts. No, I said to myself. The bed was creaking because her green garden boyfriend was plowing her field. XV. My back began to ache and creak and pop. The tension of possibly having a dead cat on my floor was making me sore. Where was Ms. Dunhill? My phone rang. I leapt at it. But it wasn't her. So I didn't answer. The caller left a message, but I was certain that it wasn't a clue. Night fell. And I didn't move. Nor did anything in the box. Maybe Ms. Dunhill and the boyfriend found a bungalow, high up out of the winter snow. Looking down over a garden in the morning light. I had her cell phone number. I could call that. XVI. For weeks and weeks, the patterns were irregular. After the pacing. Like somebody else had moved in to Ms. Dunhill's apartment, and needed time to get used to it. Right above me. Things were different. I even heard furniture move. And then, the sounds altogether, stopped. No goodbye. No nothing. XVII. So I was sitting on my couch. Leaning over and looking at the box every then and again. Making sure nothing crawled out. Hissing. At the head of the couch. Inches from my face. No overhead. No television blue light. Just the flood of lights streaming in through my blinds. Then, I heard somebody walk in the building door. Slam. Came up the stairs. Onto my landing. I held my breath. Knock. Knock. Knock. Said a fist at my door. I bounded up, silent but skillful. Like a preying cat. I looked through the peephole. It was somebody I hadn't ever seen before. A girl. I looked down at the box. It didn't move. Or breathe. The door creaked as I pulled it back. Light from the hallway made me squint. "Hello?" I spoke. Clearing my throat. I hadn't spoken yet today. "Yes, this is kinda strange, but… but, somebody may have left something, accidentally…" "Yes?" I waited. "Somebody left me a box…" "Yeah. I have one of those. It's new. Today." "I'm so sorry. They addressed it to Number 9. I'm in 19." I pointed at the box. She stepped inside and scooped it up. Haphazardly. The floorboards below, creaked. Like she had arthritis. Like she was the genie that came out of the box to begin with. A long time ago. She turned and walked past me. She looked over her shoulder, "I'm so sorry… Thanks for keeping it…" She began over the landing, down the stairs. "Hey, wait…" I lunged forward, "what's in there?" "A gift, from a friend…" I stepped out, onto the landing. Down the stairs, I projected, "Is there a cat in there?" I heard the front door open. And she said something… But I didn't catch it. XVIII. Over an hour later and my impression into the couch was only growing deeper. I laid where I landed, after the box, the cat and the girl, left. Like the mouse in the bag I was. Still no light. Still, I hadn't left my apartment. I was beginning to wonder about the weather outside. Was it a nice day, as they say? XIX. Then, I resolved on this much: I needed to go knock on Number 19's door. I had to know. Was there a cat inside the box? Was it alive, or dead? Stuffed? I heard somebody come in the front of the building. Slam went the door. Footsteps up and onto my landing. And they didn't pass. The only person that lived higher than me, was Ms. Dunhill. XX. My mind, at this point, had ceased to send any more signals. My hands, cold. Like they needed light. Then, feet shuttled up on the outside and there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peephole. Somebody had their finger on it. That meant only one thing… I opened the door. "Ms. Dunhill…" "Hello…" her cloyingly sweet voice came. Gentle. Like a breath. Her eyes were as I had remembered them: Bright. Wide. I inhaled. Catching her breath in mine. Ms. Dunhill herbs and scents swam around me. And I hadn't forgotten what she looked like. "Where have you been?" I asked. Head tilted to the side where the delivery was much better. She tipped her head to her shoulder. Mimicking. Smiling. "I thought you moved…" I said. She just smiled. "No…" Her words. I wanted. To eat them. "How are you?" She asked just like I thought she would never ask again. We were crossing boundaries. Slowly. I knew it. I opened my arms and welcomed her inside. Like she was the cat in the box. Alive. Sweet. Jonathan Bitz Fiction Jonathan Bitz Poetry Jonathan Bitz Editor Jon Bitz Essays Jonathan Bitz Fiction Jonathan Bitz Poetry Jonathan Bitz Editor Jon Bitz Essays Jonathan Bitz Fiction Jonathan Bitz Poetry Jonathan Bitz Editor Jon Bitz Essays Jonathan Bitz Fiction Jonathan Bitz Poetry Jonathan Bitz Editor Jon Bitz Essays Jonathan Bitz Fiction Jonathan Bitz Poetry Jonathan Bitz Editor Jon Bitz Essays