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diff --git a/24921.txt b/24921.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c767df8 --- /dev/null +++ b/24921.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4745 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of It's like this, cat by Emily Neville + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: It's like this, cat + +Author: Emily Neville + +Release Date: March 27, 2008 [Ebook #24921] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IT'S LIKE THIS, CAT*** + + + + + + + + It's like this, cat + + by Emily Neville + ILLUSTRATED BY EMIL WEISS + + + + [Cover: Dave standing on top step looking across street; + Cat curled up below. Tall apartment building in background.] + + + + + + + + IT'S LIKE THIS, CAT + + BY EMILY NEVILLE + PICTURES BY EMIL WEISS + + + + [Title Page: City scene of park entrance and busy street: + tall apartment building on left; car driving by; + bike-riding boy behind running boy and dog; + mailman handing mail to woman on sidewalk.] + + + + + +IT'S LIKE THIS, CAT +Copyright (C) 1963 by Emily Neville + + + + + +Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of +this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without +written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in +critical articles and reviews. For information address Harper & Row, +Publishers, Incorporated, 49 East 33rd Street, New York 16, N.Y. + + + + + +TO +MIDNIGHT, +"MAYOR" OF GRAMERCY PARK +1954-1962 + + + + + +CONTENTS + + + 1. Cat and Kate + 2. Cat and the Underworld + 3. Cat and Coney + 4. Fight + 5. Around Manhattan + 6. And Brooklyn + 7. Survival + 8. West Side Story + 9. Fathers +10. Cat and the Parkway +11. Rosh Hashanah at the Fulton Fish Market +12. The Red Eft +13. The Left Bank of Coney Island +14. Expedition by Ferry +15. Dollars and Cats +16. Fortune +17. Telephone Numbers +18. "Here's to Cat!" + + + + + + + *IT'S LIKE THIS, CAT* + + + + + + 1 + + + [Illustration: Dave holding Cat while Dad looks up + from reading his newspaper.] + + + + CAT AND KATE + + + +My father is always talking about how a dog can be very educational for a +boy. This is one reason I got a cat. + +My father talks a lot anyway. Maybe being a lawyer he gets in the habit. +Also, he's a small guy with very little gray curly hair, so maybe he +thinks he's got to roar a lot to make up for not being a big hairy tough +guy. Mom is thin and quiet, and when anything upsets her, she gets asthma. +In the apartment--we live right in the middle of New York City--we don't +have any heavy drapes or rugs, and Mom never fries any food because the +doctors figure dust and smoke make her asthma worse. I don't think it's +dust; I think it's Pop's roaring. + +The big hassle that led to me getting Cat came when I earned some extra +money baby-sitting for a little boy around the corner on Gramercy Park. I +spent the money on a Belafonte record. This record has one piece about a +father telling his son about the birds and the bees. I think it's funny. +Pop blows his stack. + +"You're not going to play that stuff in this house!" he roars. "Why aren't +you outdoors, anyway? Baby-sitting! Baby-talk records! When I was your +age, I made money on a newspaper-delivery route, and my dog Jeff and I +used to go ten miles chasing rabbits on a good Saturday." + +"Pop," I say patiently, "there are no rabbits out on Third Avenue. Honest, +there aren't." + +"Don't get fresh!" Pop jerks the plug out of the record player so hard the +needle skips, which probably wrecks my record. So I get mad and start +yelling too. Between rounds we both hear Mom in the kitchen starting to +wheeze. + +Pop hisses, "Now, see--you've gone and upset your mother!" + +I slam the record player shut, grab a stick and ball, and run down the +three flights of stairs to the street. + +This isn't the first time Pop and I have played this scene, and there gets +to be a pattern: When I slam out of our house mad, I go along over to my +Aunt Kate's. She's not really my aunt. The kids around here call her Crazy +Kate the Cat Woman because she walks along the street in funny old clothes +and sneakers talking to herself, and she sometimes has half a dozen or +more stray cats living with her. I guess she does sound a little looney, +but it's just because she does things her own way, and she doesn't give a +hoot what people think. She's sane, all right. In fact she makes a lot +better sense than my pop. + +It was three or four years ago, when I was a little kid, and I came +tearing down our stairs crying mad after some fight with Pop, that I first +met Kate. I plunged out of our door and into the street without looking. +At the same moment I heard brakes scream and felt someone yank me back by +the scruff of my neck. I got dropped in a heap on the sidewalk. + +I looked up, and there was a shiny black car with M.D. plates and Kate +waving her umbrella at the driver and shouting: "Listen, Dr. Big Shot, +whose life are you saving? Can't you even watch out for a sniveling little +kid crossing the street?" + +The doctor looked pretty sheepish, and so did I. A few people on the +sidewalk stopped to watch and snicker at us. Our janitor Butch was there, +shaking his finger at me. Kate nodded to him and told him she was taking +me home to mop me up. + +"Yas'm," said Butch. He says "Yas'm" to all ladies. + +Kate dragged me along by the hand to her apartment. She didn't say +anything when we got there, just dumped me in a chair with a couple of +kittens. Then she got me a cup of tea and a bowl of cottage cheese. + +That stopped me snuffling to ask, "What do I put the cottage cheese on?" + +"Don't put it on anything. Just eat it. Eat a bowl of it every day. Here, +have an orange, too. But no cookies or candy, none of that sweet, starchy +stuff. And no string beans. They're not good for you." + +My eyes must have popped, but I guess I knew right that first day that you +don't argue with Kate. I ate the cottage cheese--it doesn't really have any +taste anyway--and I sure have always agreed with her about the string +beans. + +Off and on since then I've seen quite a lot of Kate. I'd pass her on the +street, chirruping to some mangy old stray cat hiding under a car, and +he'd always come out to be stroked. Sometimes there'd be a bunch of little +kids dancing around jeering at her and calling her a witch. It made me +feel real good and important to run them off. + +Quite often I went with her to the A & P and helped her carry home the cat +food and cottage cheese and fruit. She talks to herself all the time in +the store, and if she thinks the peaches or melons don't look good that +day, she shouts clear across the store to the manager. He comes across and +picks her out an extra good one, just to keep the peace. + +I introduced Kate to Mom, and they got along real well. Kate's leery of +most people, afraid they'll make fun of her, I guess; my mom's not leery +of people, but she's shy, and what with asthma and worrying about keeping +me and Pop calmed down, she doesn't go out much or make dates with people. +She and Kate would chat together in the stores or sitting on the stoop on +a sunny day. Kate shook her head over Mom's asthma and said she'd get over +it if she ate cottage cheese every day. Mom ate it for a while, but she +put mayonnaise on it, which Kate says is just like poison. + +The day of the fight with Pop about the Belafonte record it's cold and +windy out and there are no kids in sight. I slam my ball back and forth +against the wall where it says "No Ball Playing," just to limber up and +let off a little spite, and then I go over to see Kate. + +Kate has a permanent cat named Susan and however many kittens Susan +happens to have just had. It varies. Usually there are a few other +temporary stray kittens in the apartment, but I never saw any father cat +there before. Today Susan and her kittens are under the stove, and Susan +keeps hissing at a big tiger-striped tomcat crouching under the sofa. He +turns his head away from her and looks like he never intended to get mixed +up with family life. For a stray cat he's sleek and healthy-looking. Every +time he moves a whisker, Susan hisses again, warningly. She believes in no +visiting rights for fathers. + +Kate pours me some tea and asks what's doing. + +"My pop is full of hot air, as usual," I say. + +"Takes one to know one," Kate says, catching me off base. I change the +subject. + +"How come the kittens' pop is around the house? I never saw a full-grown +tom here before." + +"He saw me buying some cans of cat food, so he followed me home. Susan +isn't admitting she ever knew him or ever wants to. I'll give him another +feed and send him on his way, I guess. He's a handsome young fellow." Kate +strokes him between the ears, and he rotates his head. Susan hisses. + +He starts to pull back farther under the sofa. Without stopping to think +myself, or giving him time to, I pick him up. Susan arches up and spits. I +can feel the muscles in his body tense up as he gets ready to spring out +of my lap. Then he changes his mind and decides to take advantage of the +lap. He narrows his eyes and gives Susan a bored look and turns his head +to take me in. After he's sized me up, he pretends he only turned around +to lick his back. + +"Cat," I say to him, "how about coming home with me?" + +"Hah!" Kate laughs. "Your pop will throw him out faster than you can say +'good old Jeff.'" + +"Yeah-h?" I say it slowly and do some thinking. Taking Cat home had been +just a passing thought, but right now I decide I'll really go to the mat +with Pop about this. He can have his memories of good old Jeff and rabbit +hunts, but I'm going to have me a tiger. + +Aunt Kate gives me a can of cat food and a box of litter, so Cat can stay +in my room, because I remember Mom probably gets asthma from animals, too. +Cat and I go home. + +Pop does a lot of shouting and sputtering when we get home, but I just put +Cat down in my room, and I try not to argue with him, so I won't lose my +temper. I promise I'll keep him in my room and sweep up the cat hairs so +Mom won't have to. + +As a final blast Pop says, "I suppose you'll get your exercise mouse +hunting now. What are you going to name the noble animal?" + +"Look, Pop," I explain, "I know he's a cat, he knows he's a cat, and his +name is Cat. And even if you call him Honorable John Fitzgerald Kennedy, +he won't come when you call, and he won't lick your hand, see?" + +"He'd better not! And it's not my hand that's going to get licked around +here in a minute," Pop snaps. + +"All right, all right." + +Actually, my pop sometimes jaws so long it'd be a relief if he did haul +off and hit me, but he never does. + +We call it a draw for that day, and I have Cat. + + + + + + 2 + + + [Illustration: Dave looking at Cat locked in cage.] + + + + CAT AND THE UNDERWORLD + + + +Cat makes himself at home in my room pretty easily. Mostly he likes to be +up on top of something, so I put an old sweater on the bureau beside my +bed, and he sleeps up there. When he wants me to wake up in the morning, +he jumps and lands in the middle of my stomach. Believe me, cats don't +always land lightly--only when they want to. Anything a cat does, he does +only when he wants to. I like that. + +When I'm combing my hair in the morning, sometimes he sits up there and +looks down his nose at my reflection in the mirror. He appears to be +taking inventory: "Hmm, buckteeth; sandy hair, smooth in front, cowlick in +back; brown eyes, can't see in the dark worth a nickel; hickeys on the +chin. Too bad." + +I look back at him in the mirror and say, "O.K., black face, yellow eyes, +and one white whisker. Where'd you get that one white whisker?" + +He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and his tail twitches +momentarily. He seems to know it's not really another cat, but his claws +come out and he taps the mirror softly, just to make sure. + +When I'm lying on the bed reading, sometimes he will curl up between my +knees and the book. But after a few days I can see he's getting more and +more restless. It gets so I can't listen to a record, for the noise of him +scratching on the rug. I can't let him loose in the apartment, at least +until we make sure Mom doesn't get asthma, so I figure I better +reintroduce him to the great outdoors in the city. One nice Sunday morning +in April we go down and sit on the stoop. + +Cat sits down, very tall and neat and pear-shaped, and closes his eyes +about halfway. He glances at the street like it isn't good enough for him. +After a while, condescending, he eases down the steps and lies on a sunny, +dusty spot in the middle of the sidewalk. People walking have to step +around him, and he squints at them. + +Then he gets up, quick, looks over his shoulder at nothing, and shoots +down the stairs to the cellar. I take a look to see where he's going, and +he is pacing slowly toward the backyard, head down, a tiger on the prowl. +I figure I'll sit in the sun and finish my science-fiction magazine before +I go after him. + +When I do, he's not in sight, and the janitor tells me he jumped up on the +wall and probably down into one of the other yards. I look around a while +and call, but he's not in sight, and I go up to lunch. Along toward +evening Cat scratches at the door and comes in, as if he'd done it all his +life. + +This gets to be a routine. Sometimes he doesn't even come home at night, +and he's sitting on the doormat when I get the milk in the morning, +looking offended. + +"Is it my fault you stayed out all night?" I ask him. + +He sticks his tail straight up and marches down the hall to the kitchen, +where he waits for me to open the milk and dish out the cat food. Then he +goes to bed. + +One morning he's not there when I open the door, and he still hasn't +showed up when I get back from school. I get worried and go down to talk +to Butch. + +"Wa-a-l," says Butch, "sometimes that cat sit and talk to me a little, but +most times he go on over to Twenty-first Street, where he sit and talk to +his lady friend. Turned cold last night, lot of buildings put on heat and +closed up their basements. Maybe he got locked in somewheres." + +"Which building's his friend live in?" I ask. + +"Forty-six, the big one. His friend's a little black-and-white cat, sort +of belongs to the night man over there. He feeds her." + +I go around to Twenty-first Street and case Forty-six, which is a pretty +fair-looking building with a striped awning and a doorman who saunters out +front and looks around every few minutes. + +While I'm watching, a grocery boy comes along pushing his cart and goes +down some stairs into the basement with his carton of groceries. This +gives me an idea. I'll give the boy time to get started up in the +elevator, and then I'll go down in the basement and hunt for Cat. If +someone comes along and gets sore, I can always play dumb. + +I go down, and the coast is clear. The elevator's gone up, and I walk +softly past and through a big room where the tenants leave their baby +carriages and bicycles. After this the cellar stretches off into several +corridors, lit by twenty-watt bulbs dangling from the ceiling. You can +hardly see anything. The corridors go between wire storage cages, where +the tenants keep stuff like trunks and old cribs and parakeet cages. +They're all locked. + +"Me-ow, meow, me-ow!" Unmistakably Cat, and angry. + +The sound comes from the end of one corridor, and I fumble along, peering +into each cage to try to see a tiger cat in a shadowy hole. Fortunately +his eyes glow and he opens his mouth for another meow, and I see him +locked inside one of the cages before I come to the end of the corridor. I +don't know how he got in or how I'm going to get him out. + +While I'm thinking, Cat's eyes flick away from me to the right, then back +to me. Cat's not making any noise, and neither am I, but something is. +It's just a tiny rustle, or a breath, but I have a creepy feeling someone +is standing near us. Way down at the end of the cellar a shadow moves a +little, and I can see it has a white splotch--a face. It's a man, and he +comes toward me. + +I don't know why any of the building men would be way back there, but +that's who I figure it is, so I start explaining. + +"I was just hunting for my cat ... I mean, he's got locked in one of these +cages. I just want to get him out." + +The guy lets his breath out, slow, as if he's been holding it quite a +while. I realize he doesn't belong in that cellar either, and he's been +scared of me. + +He moves forward, saying "Sh-h-h" very quietly. He's taller than I am, and +I can't see what he really looks like, but I'm sure he's sort of a kid, +maybe eighteen or so. + +He looks at the padlock on the cage and says, "Huh, cheap!" He takes a +paper clip out of his pocket and opens it out, and I think maybe he has a +penknife, too, and next thing I know the padlock is open. + +"Gee, how'd you do that?" + +"Sh-h-h. A guy showed me how. You better get your cat and scram." + +Golly, I wonder, maybe the guy is a burglar, and that gives me another +creepy feeling. But would a burglar be taking time out to get a kid's cat +free? + +"Well, thanks for the cat. See you around," I say. + +"Sh-h-h. I don't live around here. Hurry up, before we both get caught." + +Maybe he's a real burglar with a gun, even, I think, and by the time I +dodge past the elevators and get out in the cold April wind, the sweat +down my back is freezing. I give Cat a long lecture on staying out of +basements. After all, I can't count on having a burglar handy to get him +out every time. + +Back home we put some nice jailhouse blues on the record player, and we +both stretch out on the bed to think. The guy didn't really _look_ like a +burglar. And he didn't talk "dese and dose." Maybe real burglars don't all +talk that way--only the ones on TV. Still, he sure picked that lock fast, +and he was sure down in that cellar for some reason of his own. + +Maybe I ought to let someone know. I figure I'll test Pop out, just casual +like. "Some queer-looking types hanging around this neighborhood," I say +at dinner. "I saw a tough-looking guy hanging around Number Forty-six this +afternoon. Might have been a burglar, even." + +I figure Pop'll at least ask me what he was doing, and maybe I'll tell him +the whole thing--about Cat and the cage. But Pop says, "In case you didn't +know it, burglars do not all look like Humphrey Bogart, and they don't +wear signs." + +"Thanks for the news," I say and go on eating my dinner. Even if Pop does +make me sore, I'm not going to pass up steak and onions, which we don't +have very often. + +However, the next day I'm walking along Twenty-first Street and I see the +super of Forty-six standing by the back entrance, so I figure I'll try +again. I say to him, "Us kids were playing ball here yesterday, and we saw +a strange-looking guy sneak into your cellar. It wasn't a delivery boy." + +"Yeah? You sure it wasn't you or one of your juvenile pals trying to swipe +a bike? How come you have to play ball right here?" + +"I don't swipe bikes. I got one of my own. New. A Raleigh. Better than any +junk you got in there." + +"What d'you know about what I got in there, wise guy?" + +"Aw, forget it." I realize he's just getting suspicious of me. That's what +comes of trying to be a big public-spirited citizen. I decide my burglar, +whoever he is, is a lot nicer than the super, and I hope he got a fat +haul. + +Next day it looks like maybe he did just that. The local paper, _Town and +Village_, has a headline: "Gramercy Park Cellar Robbed." I read down the +article: + +"The superintendent, Fred Snood, checked the cellar storage cages, after a +passing youth hinted to him that there had been a robbery. He found one +cage open and a suitcase missing. Police theorize that the youth may have +been the burglar, or an accomplice with a guilty conscience or a grudge, +and they are hunting him for questioning. Mr. Snood described him as about +sixteen years of age, medium height, with a long 'ducktail' haircut, and +wearing a heavy black sweater. They are also checking second-hand stores +for the stolen suitcase." + +The burglar stole a suitcase with valuable papers and some silver and +jewelry in it. But the guy they were hunting for--I read the paragraph over +and feel green. That's me. I get up and look in the mirror. In other +circumstances I'd like being taken for sixteen instead of fourteen, which +I am. I smooth my hair and squint at the back of it. The ducktail is fine. + +Slowly I peel off my black sweater, which I wear practically all the time, +and stuff it in my bottom drawer, under my bathing suit. But if I want to +walk around the street without worrying about every cop, I'll have to do +more than that. I put on a shirt and necktie and suit jacket and stick a +cap on my head. I head uptown on the subway. At Sixty-eighth Street I get +off and find a barbershop. + +"Butch cut," I tell the guy. + +"That's right. I'll trim you nice and neat. Get rid of all this stuff." + +And while he chatters on like an idiot, I have to watch three months' work +go snip, snip on the floor. Then I have to pay for it. At home I get the +same routine. Pop looks at my Ivy-League disguise and says, "Why, you may +look positively human some day!" + +Two days later I find out I could've kept my hair. _Town and Village_ has +a new story: "Nab Cellar Thief Returning Loot. 'Just A Bet,' He Says." + +The story is pretty interesting. The guy I met in the cellar is named Tom +Ransom, and he is nineteen and just sort of floating around in the city. +He doesn't seem to have any family. The police kept a detective watching +Number Forty-six, and pretty soon they see Tom walking along with the +stolen suitcase. He drops it inside the delivery entrance and walks on, +but the cop collars him. I suppose if it hadn't been for me shooting my +big mouth off to the super, the police wouldn't have been watching the +neighborhood. I feel sort of responsible. + +The story in the paper goes on to say this guy was broke and hunting for a +job, and some other guy dares him to snatch something out of a cellar and +finally bets him ten dollars, so he does it. He gets out and finds the +suitcase has a lot of stocks and legal papers and table silver in it, and +he's scared stiff. So he figures to drop it back where it came from. The +paper says he's held over to appear before some magistrate in Adolescent +Court. + +I wonder, would they send a guy to jail for that? Or if they turn him +loose, what does he do? It must be lousy to be in this city without any +family or friends. + +At that point I get the idea I'll write him a letter. After all, Cat and I +sort of got him into the soup. So I look up the name of the magistrate and +spend about half an hour poring through the phone book, under "New York, +City of," to get an address. I wonder whether to address him as "Tom" or +"Mr. Ransom." Finally I write: + + +_Dear Tom Ransom:_ + +_I am the kid you met in the cellar at Number Forty-six Gramercy, and I +certainly thank you for unlocking that cage and getting my cat out. Cat is +fine. I am sorry you got in trouble with the police. It sounds to me like +you were only trying to return the stuff and do right. My father is a +lawyer, if you would like one. I guess he's pretty good. Or if you would +like to write me anyway, here is my address: 150 East 22 St. I read in the +paper that your family don't live in New York, which is why I thought you +might like someone to write to._ + + _Yours sincerely,_ + _Dave Mitchell_ + + +Now that I'm a free citizen again, I dig out my black sweater, look +disgustedly at the butch haircut, and go out to mail my letter. + +Later on I get into a stickball game again on Twenty-first Street. Cat +comes along and sits up high on a stoop across the street, where he can +watch the ball game and the tame dogs being led by on their leashes. That +big brain, the super of Forty-six, is standing by the delivery entrance, +looking sour as usual. + +"Got any burglars in your basement these days?" I yell to him while I'm +jogging around the bases on a long hit. + +He looks at me and my short haircut and scratches his own bald egg. +"Where'd I see you?" he asks suspiciously. + +"Oh--Cat and I, we get around," I say. + + + + + + 3 + + + [Illustration: Dave, Cat, and Nick running on the beach.] + + + + CAT AND CONEY + + + +Nick and I have been friends pretty much since I can remember. Our mothers +used to trade turns fetching us from kindergarten. Nick lives around the +corner on Third Avenue, upstairs over the grocery store his old man runs. +If anyone asked me _how come_ we're friends, I couldn't exactly say. We're +just together most of the time. + +Neither of us is a real whiz at sports, but we used to roller-skate and +play a little king and stickball and ride our bikes around exploring. One +time when we were about ten, we rode way over to Twelfth Avenue at the +Hudson River, where the _Queen Mary_ docks. This is about the only time I +remember my mom getting really angry. She said Pop ought to take my bike +away from me, and he did, but only for about a week. Nick and I still ride +bikes a lot. Otherwise we sit and do our homework or play chess and listen +to records. + +Another reason we're friends is because of this creepy little kid who +lived down toward the corner, between me and Nick. He always tagged along, +wanting to play with us, and of course in the end he always fouled up the +game or fell down and started to cry. Then his big brother came rushing +out, usually with another big guy along, and they figured they were +entitled to beat us up for hurting little Joey. + +After a while it looked to me as if Joey just worked as a lookout, and the +minute me or Nick showed up on the block, one of the big guys came to run +us off. They did little things like throwing sticks into our bike spokes +and pretending it was just a joke. Nick and I used to plot all kinds of +ways to get even with them, but in the end we mostly decided it was easier +to walk around the block the long way to get to each other's houses. I'm +not much on fighting, and neither is Nick--'specially not with guys bigger +than us. + +Summers, up in the country, the kids seem to be all the time wrestling and +punching, half for fun and half not. If I walk past some strange kid my +age up there, he almost always tries to get me into a fight. I don't get +it. Maybe it's because sidewalks are uncomfortable for fighting, but we +just don't do much scrapping for fun. The only couple of fights I ever +had, I was real mad. + +Come spring, Nick and I got restless hanging around the street, with +nothing to do but stickball and baiting the super at Forty-six. It was so +easy to get him sore, it wasn't even fun. Cat stayed out of that basement, +but I wanted to get him really out in the open, where he could chase +squirrels or something. + +One day we rode our bikes up to Central Park. I put Cat in a wicker hamper +and tied it on the back of my bike. He meowed a lot, and people on the +street would look at me and then do a double take when they heard him. + +We got up to Central Park and into a place they call The Horseshoe, +because the parking area is that shape. I opened the lid a crack to look +at Cat. He hissed at me, the first time he ever did. I looked around and +thought, Gee, if I let him loose, he could go anywhere, even over into the +woods, and I might never catch him. There were a lot of hoody looking kids +around, and I could see if I ever left my bike a second to chase Cat, +they'd snatch the bike. So I didn't let Cat out, and I wolfed my sandwich +and we went home. Nick was pretty disgusted. + +Then we hit a hot Saturday, the first one in May, and I get an idea. I +find Nick and say, "Let's put Cat and some sandwiches in the basket and +hop the subway out to Coney." + +Nick says, "Why bring Cat? He wrecked the last expedition." + +"I like to take him places, and this won't be like Central Park. No one's +at Coney this time of year. He can chase around on the beach and hunt sand +crabs." + +"Why do I have to have a nut for a friend?" Nick moans. "Well, anyway, I'm +keeping my sandwich in my pocket, not in any old cat basket." + +"Who cares where you keep your crumby sandwich?" + +So we went. Lots of people might think Coney Island is ugly, with all the +junky-looking booths and billboards. But when you turn your back on them +and look out at the ocean, it's the same ocean as on a deserted beach. I +kick off my shoes and stand with my feet in the ice water and the sun hot +on my chest. Looking out at the horizon with its few ships and some sea +gulls and planes overhead, I think: It's mine, all mine. I could go +anywhere in the world, I could. Maybe I will. + +Nick throws water down my neck. He only understands infinity on math +papers. I let Cat out of the basket and strip off my splashed shirt and +chase Nick along the edge of the water. No need to worry about Cat. He +chases right along with us, and every time a wave catches his feet he +hisses and hightails it up the beach. Then he rolls himself in the hot, +dry sand and gets up and shakes. There are a few other groups of people +dotted along the beach. A big mutt dog comes and sniffs Cat and gets a +right and a left scratch to the nose. He yelps and runs for home. Cat +discovers sand crabs. Nick and I roll around in the sand and wrestle, and +after a while we get hungry, so we go back where we left the basket. Cat +is content to let me carry him. + +Three girls are having a picnic right near our basket. One yells to the +others, "Hey, look! The guy went swimming with his cat!" + +Cat jumps down, turns his back on them, and humps himself around on my +sweater until he is settled for a nap. I turn my back on the girls, too, +and look out at the ocean. + +Still, it's not the same as it would have been a year ago. Then Nick and I +would either have moved away from the girls or thrown sand at them. + +We just sit and eat our sandwiches. Nick looks over at them pretty often +and whispers to me how old do I think they are. I can't tell about girls. +Some of the ones in our class at school look about twenty-five, but then +you see mothers pushing baby carriages on the street who look about +fifteen. + +One of the girls catches Nick's eye and giggles. "Hi, there, whatcha +watching?" + +"I'm a bird watcher," says Nick. "Seen any birds?" + +The girls drift over our way. The one that spoke first is a redhead. The +one who seems to be the leader is a big blonde in a real short skirt and +hair piled up high in a bird's nest. Maybe that's what started Nick +bird-watching. The third girl is sort of quiet-looking, with brown hair, I +guess. + +"You want a couple of cupcakes? You can have mine. I'm going on a diet," +says the blonde. + +"Thanks," says Nick. "I was thinking of going after some cokes." + +"Why waste time thinking? You might hurt your head," says the redhead. + +The third girl bends down and strokes Cat between the ears very gently. +She says, "What's his name?" + +I explain to her about why Cat is Cat. She sits down and picks up a piece +of seaweed to dangle over his nose. Cat makes a couple of sleepy swipes at +it and then stretches luxuriously while she strokes him. The other kids +get to talking, and we tell each other our names and where we go to school +and all that stuff. + +Then Nick gets back on the subject of going for cokes. I don't really want +to stay there alone with the girls, so I say I'll go. I tell Nick to watch +Cat, and the girl who is petting him says, "Don't worry, I won't let him +run away." + +It's a good thing she's there, because by the time I get back with the +cokes, which no one offers to pay me back for, Nick and the other two +girls are halfway down the beach. Mary--that's her name--says, "I never saw +a cat at the beach before, but he seems to like it. Where'd you get him?" + +"He's a stray. I got him from an old lady who's sort of a nut about cats. +Come on, I'll see if I can get him to chase waves for you. He was doing it +earlier." + +We are running along in the waves when the other kids come back. The big +blonde kicks up water at me and yells, "Race you!" + +So I chase, and just as I'm going to catch up, she stops short so I crash +into her and we both fall down. This seems to be what she had in mind, but +I bet the other kids are watching and I feel silly. I roll away and get up +and go back to Cat. + +While we drink cokes the blonde and the redhead say they want to go to the +movies. + +"What's on?" Nick asks. + +"There's a Sinatra thing at the neighborhood," the blonde tells him, and +he looks interested. + +"I can't," I say. "I've got Cat. Besides, it's too late. Mom'd think I'd +fallen into the subway." + +"I told you that cat was a mistake," says Nick. + +"Put him in the basket and call your mother and tell her your watch +stopped," says the redhead. She comes over and trickles sand down my neck. +"Come on, it'd be fun. We don't have to sit in the kids' section. We all +look sixteen." + +"Nah, I can't." I get up and shake the sand out. + +Nick looks disgusted, but he doesn't want to stay alone. He says to the +blonde, "Write me down your phone number, and we'll do it another day when +this nut hasn't got his cat along." + +She writes down the phone number, and the redhead pouts because I'm not +asking for hers. The girls get ready to leave, and Mary pats Cat good-bye +and waves to me. She says, "Bring him again. He's nice." + +We get on the subway and Cat meows crossly at being shut in his basket. +Nick pokes the basket with his toes. + +"Shut up, nuisance," he says. + + + + + + 4 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Nick fighting on the ground.] + + + + FIGHT + + + +I actually get a letter back from Tom Ransom. It says: "Thanks for your +letter. The Youth Board got me a room in the Y on Twenty-third Street. +Maybe I'll come say Hello some day. They're going to help me get a job +this summer, so I don't need a lawyer. Thanks anyway. Meow to Cat. Best, +Tom." + +I go over to Nick's house to show him the letter. I'd told him about Tom +getting Cat out of the cellar and getting arrested, but Nick always acted +like he didn't really believe it. So when he sees the letter, he has to +admit Cat and I really got into something. Not everyone gets letters from +guys who have been arrested. + +One thing about Nick sort of gripes me. He has to think up all the plans. +Anything I've done that he doesn't know about, he downgrades. Also, I +always have to go to _his_ house. He never comes to mine, except once in a +coon's age when I have a new record I won't bring to his house because his +machine stinks and he never buys a new needle. + +It's not that I don't like his house. His mom is pretty nice, and boy, can +she cook! Just an ordinary Saturday for lunch she makes pizza or real good +spaghetti, and she has homemade cookies and nut cake sitting around after +school. She also talks and waves her arms and shouts orders at us kids, +but all good-natured-like, so we just kid her along and go on with what +we're doing. + +She's about the opposite of my mom. Pop does the shouting in our house, +and except for the one hassle about bike-riding on Twelfth Avenue, Mom +doesn't even tell me what to do much. She's quiet, and pretty often she +doesn't feel good, so maybe I think more than most kids that I ought to do +things her way without being told. + +Also, my mom is always home and always ready to listen if you got +something griping you, like when a teacher blames you for something you +didn't do. Some kids I know, they have to phone a string of places to find +their mother, and then she scolds them for interrupting her. + +Mom likes to cook, and she gets up some good meals for holidays, but she +doesn't go at it all the time, the way Nick's mother does. So maybe Nick +doesn't come to my house because we haven't got all that good stuff +sitting around. I don't think that's it, really, though. He just likes to +be boss. + +One day, a couple of weeks after we went to Coney, he does come along with +me. We pick up a couple of cokes and pears at his pop's store. + +Cat is sitting on my front stoop, and he jumps down and rubs between my +legs and goes up the stairs ahead of us. + +"See? He knows when school gets out then it's time to eat. That's why I +like to come home," I tell Nick. + +We say "Hi" to Mom, and I get out the cat food while Nick opens his coke. +"You know those girls we ran into over on Coney Island?" he says. + +"Yeah." + +"Well, I got the blonde's phone number, so Sunday when I was hacking +around with nothing to do, I called her up." + +"Yeah? What for?" + +"You stupid or something? To talk. So she yacked away a good while, and +finally I asked her why didn't she come over next Saturday, we could go to +a movie or something." + +"Yeah." I was working on my pear, a very juicy one. + +"That all you can say? So she says, well, she might, if she can get her +girl friend to come too, but she doesn't want to come alone, and her +mother wouldn't let her anyway." + +"Which one?" + +"Which one what?" + +"Which girl friend?" + +"Oh. You remember, the other one we were kidding around with at the beach, +the redhead. So I said, O.K., I'd see if I could get you to come too. I +said I'd call her back." + +"Hmp. I don't know." + +"What d'you mean, you don't know?" + +"How do I know if I like that girl? I hardly even _talked_ to her. Anyway, +it sounds like a date. I don't want a date. If they just happen to come +over, I guess it's all right." + +"So shall I tell them it's O.K. for Saturday?" + +"Hmm." + +"It's nice you learned a new word." + +"Do I have to pay for the girl at the movies?" + +"Cheapskate. Maybe if you just stand around saying 'Hmm,' she'll buy her +own. O.K.?" + +"O.K. But this whole thing is your idea, and if it stinks it's going to be +your fault." + +"Boy, what an enthusiast! Come on, let's play a record and do the math." + +Nick is better at math than I am, so I agree. + +Saturday morning at ten o'clock Nick turns up at my house in a white shirt +and slicked-down hair. Pop whistles. "On Saturday, yet! You got a girl or +something?" + +"Yessir!" says Nick, and he gives my T-shirt a dirty look. I go put a +sweater over it and run a comb through my hair, but I'm hanged if I'll go +out looking like this is a big deal. + +"We're going to a movie down at the Academy," I tell my family. + +"What's there?" Pop asks. + +"A new horror show," says Nick. "And an old Disney." + +"Is it really a new horror show?" I ask Nick, because I think I've seen +every one that's been in town. + +"Yup. Just opened. _The Gold Bug._ Some guy wrote it--I mean in a book +once--but it's supposed to be great. Make the girls squeal anyway. I love +that." + +"Hmm." I just like horror shows anyway, whether girls squeal or not. + +"You'll be the life of the party with that 'Hmm' routine." + +"It's _your_ party." I shrug. + +"Well, you could at least _try_." + +We hang around the subway kiosk on Fourteenth Street, where Nick said he'd +meet them. After half an hour they finally show up. + +It's nice and sunny, and we see a crowd bunched up over in Union Square, +so we wander over. A shaggy-haired, bearded character is making a speech +all about "They," the bad guys. A lot of sleepy bums are sitting around +letting the speech roll off their ears. + +"What is he, a nut or something?" the blonde asks. + +"A Commie, maybe," I say. "They're always giving speeches down here. +Willie Sutton, the bank robber, used to sit down here and listen, too. +That's where somebody put the finger on him." + +The girls look at each other and laugh like crazy, as if I'd said +something real funny. I catch Nick's eye and glare. O.K., I _tried_. After +this I'll stick to "Hmm." + +A beard who is listening to the speech turns and glares at us and says, +"Shush!" + +"Aw, go shave yourself!" says Nick, and the girls go off in more hoots. +Nick starts herding them toward Fourteenth Street, and I follow along. + +At the Academy Nick goes up to the ticket window, and the girls +immediately fade out to go read the posters and snicker together. I can +see they're not figuring to pay for any tickets, so I cough up for two. + +Nick and I try to saunter up to the balcony the way we always do, but the +girls are giggling and dropping their popcorn, so the matron spots us and +motions. "Down here!" She flashes her light in our eyes, and I feel like a +convict while we get packed in with all the kids in the under-sixteen +section. + +Nick goes in first, then the blonde, then the redhead and me. The minute +things start getting scary, she tries to grab me, but I stick my hands in +my pockets and say, "Aw, it's just a picture." She looks disgusted. + +The next scary bit, she tries to hang onto her girl friend, but the blonde +is already glued onto Nick. Redhead lets out a loud sigh, and I wish I +hadn't ever got into this deal. I can't even enjoy the picture. + +We suffer through the two pictures. The little kids make such a racket you +can hardly hear, and the matron keeps shining the light in your eyes so +you can't see. She shines it on the blonde, who is practically sitting in +Nick's lap, and hisses at her to get back. I'm not going to do this again, +ever. + +We go out and Nick says, "Let's have a coke." He's walking along with the +blonde, and instead of walking beside me the redhead tries to catch hold +of his other arm. This sort of burns me up. I mean, I don't really _like_ +her, but I paid for her and everything. + +Nick shakes her off and calls over his shoulder to me, "Come on, chicken, +pull your own weight!" + +The girls laugh, on cue as usual, and I begin getting really sore. Nick +got me into this. The least he can do is shut up. + +We walk into a soda bar, and I slap down thirty cents and say, "Two cokes, +please." + +"Hey, hey! The last of the big spenders!" says Nick. More laughter. I'd +just as soon sock him right now, but I pick up my money and say, "O.K., +wise guy, treat's on you." Nick shrugs and tosses down a buck as if he had +hundreds of them. + +The two girls drink their cokes and talk across Nick. I finish mine in two +or three gulps, and finally we can walk them to the subway. Nick is +gabbing away about how he'll come out to Coney one weekend, and I'm +standing there with my hands in my pockets. + +"Goo'bye, Bashful!" coos the redhead to me, and the two of them disappear, +cackling, down the steps. I start across Fourteenth Street as soon as the +light changes, without bothering to look if Nick is coming. He can go rot. + +Along Union Square he's beside me, acting as if everything is peachy fine +dandy. "That was a great show. Pretty good fun, huh?" + +I just keep walking. + +"You sore or something?" he asks, as if he didn't know. + +I keep on walking. + +"O.K., be sore!" he snaps. Then he breaks into a falsetto: "Goo'bye, +Bashful!" + +I let him have it before he's hardly got his mouth closed. He hits me back +in the stomach and hooks one of his ankles around mine so we both fall +down. It goes from bad to worse. He gets me by the hair and bangs my head +on the sidewalk, so I twist and bite his hand. We're gouging and +scratching and biting and kicking, because we're both so mad we can hardly +see, and anyway no one ever taught us those Queensberry rules. There's no +point in going into all the gory details. Finally two guys haul us apart. +I have hold of Nick's shirt and it rips. Good. He's half crying, and he +twists away from the guy that grabbed him and screams some things at me +before darting across the avenue. + +I'm standing panting and sobbing, and the guy holding me says, "You oughta +be ashamed. Now go on home." + +"Aw, you and your big mouth," I say, still mad enough to feel reckless. He +throws a fake punch, but he's not really interested. He goes his way, and +I go mine. + +I must look pretty bad because a lot of people on the street shake their +heads at me. I walk in the door at home, expecting the worst, but +fortunately Mom is out. Pop just whistles through his teeth. + +"That must have been quite a horror picture!" he says. + + + + + + 5 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Tom lunching in meadow above river.] + + + + AROUND MANHATTAN + + + +By the next weekend I no longer look like a fugitive from a riot. All week +in school Nick and I get asked whether we got hit by a swinging door; then +the fellows notice the two of us aren't speaking to each other, and they +sort of sheer off the subject. Come Saturday, I sit on the stoop and +wonder, what now? There are plenty of other kids in school I like, but +they mostly live over in the project--Stuyvesant Town, that is. I've never +bothered to hunt them up weekends because Nick's so much nearer. + +Summer is coming on, though, and I've got to have someone to hang around +with. This is the last Saturday before Memorial Day. Getting time for +beaches and stuff. I suppose Nick and I might get together again, but not +if he's going to be nuts about girls all the time. + +A guy stops in front of the stoop, and Cat half opens his eyes in the sun +and squints at him. The guy says, "You Dave Mitchell?" + +"Huh? Yeah." I look up, surprised. I don't exactly recognize the guy, +never having seen him in a clear light before. But from the voice I know +it's Tom. + +"Oh, hi!" I say. "Here's Cat. He's pretty handsome in daylight." + +"Yeah, he looks all right, but what happened to you?" + +"Me and a friend of mine got in a fight." + +"With some other guys or what?" + +"Nah. We had a fight with each other." + +"Um, that's bad." Tom sits down and has sense enough to see there isn't +anymore to say on that subject. "I start work Memorial Day, when the +beaches open. Working in a filling station on the Belt Parkway in +Brooklyn." + +"Gee, that's a long way off. You going to live over there?" + +"Yeah, they're going to get me a room in a Y in Brooklyn." Tom stretches +restlessly and goes on: "I suppose you get sick of school and all, but +it's rotten having nothing to do. I'd be ready to go nuts if I didn't get +a job. I can't wait to start." + +I think of asking him doesn't he have a home or something to go back to, +but somehow I don't like to. + +"Like today," Tom says. "I'd like to go somewhere. Do something. Got any +ideas?" + +"Um. I was sort of trying to think up something myself. Movies?" + +Tom shakes himself. "No. I want to walk, or run, or throw something." + +"There's a big park--sort of a woods--up near the Bronx. A kid told me about +it. He said he found an Indian arrowhead there, but I bet he didn't. +Inwood Park, it's called." + +"How do you get there?" + +"Subway, I guess." + +"Let's go!" Tom stands up and wriggles his shoulders like he's Superman +ready to take off. + +"O.K. Wait a minute. I'll go tell Mom. Should I get some sandwiches?" + +Tom looks surprised. "Sure, fine, if she doesn't mind." + +I'm not worried about getting Mom to make sandwiches because she always +likes to fix a little food for me. The thing is, ever since my fight with +Nick, she's been clucking around me like the mother hen. Maybe she figures +I got in some gang fight, so she keeps asking me where I'm going and who +with. Also, I guess she noticed I don't go to Nick's after school anymore. +I come right home. So she asks me do I feel all right. You can't win. +Right now, I can see she's going to begin asking who is Tom and where did +I meet him. It occurs to me there's an easy way to take care of this. + +I turn around to Tom again. "Say, how about you come up and I'll introduce +you to Mom? Then she won't start asking me a lot of questions." + +"You mean I _look_ respectable, at least?" + +"Sure." + +We go up to the apartment, and Mom asks if we'd like some cold drinks or +something. I tell her I ran into Tom when he helped me hunt for Cat around +Gramercy Park, which is almost true, and that he sometimes plays stickball +with us, which isn't really true but it could be. Mom gets us some +orangeade. She usually keeps something like that in the icebox in summer, +because she thinks cokes are bad for you. + +"Do you live around here?" she asks Tom. + +"No, ma'am," says Tom firmly. "I live at the Y. I've got a summer job in a +filling station over in Brooklyn, starting right after Memorial Day." + +"That's fine," Mom says. "I wish Davey could get a job. He gets so +restless with nothing to do in the summer." + +"Aw, Mom, forget it! You got to fill in about six-hundred working papers +if you're under sixteen. + +"Listen, Mom, what I came up for--we thought we'd make some sandwiches and +go up to Inwood Park." + +"Inwood? Where's that?" So I explain to her about the Indian arrowheads, +and we get out the classified phone book and look at the subway map, which +shows there's an IND train that goes right to it. + +"I get sort of restless myself, with nothing to do," says Tom. "We just +figured we'd do a little exploring around in the woods and get some +exercise." + +"Why, yes, that seems like a good idea." Mom looks at him and nods. She +seems to have decided he's reliable, as well as respectable. + +I see there's some leftover cold spaghetti in the icebox, and I ask Mom to +put it in sandwiches. She thinks I'm cracked, but I did this once before, +and it's good, 'specially if there's plenty of meat and sauce on the +spaghetti. We take along a bag of cherries, too. + +"Thanks, Mom. Bye. I'll be back before supper." + +"Take care," she says. "No fights." + +"Don't worry. We'll stay out of fights," says Tom quite seriously. + +We go down the stairs, and Tom says, "Your mother is really nice." + +I'm sort of surprised--kids don't usually say much about each other's +parents. "Yeah, Mom's O.K. I guess she worries about me and Pop a lot." + +"It must be pretty nice to have your mother at home," he says. + +That kind of jolts me, too. I wonder where his mother and father are, +whether they're dead or something; but again, I don't quite want to ask. +Tom isn't an easy guy to ask questions. He's sort of like an island, by +himself in the ocean. + +We walk down to Fourteenth Street and over to Eighth Avenue, about twelve +blocks; after all, exercise is what we want. The IND trains are fast, and +it only takes about half an hour to get up to Inwood, at 206th Street. The +park is right close, and it is real woods, although there are paved walks +around through it. We push uphill and get in a grassy meadow, where you +can see out over the Hudson River to the Palisades in Jersey. It's good +and hot, and we flop in the sun. There aren't many other people around, +which is rare in New York. + +"Let's eat lunch," says Tom. "Then we can go hunting arrowheads and not +have to carry it." + +He agrees the spaghetti sandwich is a great invention. + +I wish the weather would stay like this more of the year--good and sweaty +hot in the middle of the day, so you feel like going swimming, but cool +enough to sleep at night. We lie in the sun awhile after lunch and agree +that it's too bad there isn't an ocean within jumping-in distance. But +there isn't, and flies are biting the backs of our necks, so we get up and +start exploring. + +We find a few places that you might conceivably call caves, but they've +been well picked over for arrowheads, if there ever were any. That's the +trouble in the city: anytime you have an idea, you find out a million +other people had the same idea first. Along in mid-afternoon, we drift +down toward the subway and get cokes and ice cream before we start back. + +I don't really feel like going home yet, so I think a minute and study the +subway map inside the car. "Hey, as long as we're on the subway anyway, we +could go on down to Cortlandt Street to the Army-Navy surplus store. I got +to get a knapsack before summer." + +"O.K." Tom shrugs. He's staring out the window and doesn't seem to care +where he goes. + +"I got a great first-aid survival kit there. Disinfectant and burn +ointment and bug dope and bandages, in a khaki metal box that's +waterproof, and it was only sixty-five cents." + +"Hmm. Just what I need for survival on the sidewalks of New York," says +Tom. I guess he's kidding, in a sour sort of way. If you haven't got a +family around, though, survival must take more than a sixty-five-cent kit. + +The store is a little way from the nearest subway stop, and we walk along +not saying much. Tom looks alive when he gets into the store, though, +because it really is a great place. They've got arctic explorers' suits +and old hand grenades and shells and all kinds of rifles, as well as some +really cheap, useful clothing. They don't mind how long you mosey around. +In the end I buy a belt pack and canteen, and Tom picks up some skivvy +shirts and socks that are only ten cents each. They're secondhand, I +guess, but they look all right. + +We walk over to the East Side subway, which is only a few blocks away down +here because the island gets so narrow. Tom says he's never seen Wall +Street, where all the tycoons grind their money machines. The place is +practically deserted now, being late Saturday afternoon, and it's like +walking through an empty cathedral. You can make echoes. + +We take the subway, and Tom walks along home with me. It seems too bad the +day's over. It was a pretty good day, after all. + +"So long, kid," Tom says. "I'll send you a card from Beautiful Brooklyn!" + +"So long." I wave, and he starts off. I wish he didn't have to go live in +Brooklyn. + + + + + + 6 + + + [Illustration: Dave wheeling his bike across Belt Parkway.] + + + + AND BROOKLYN + + + +You can't really stay sore at a guy you've known all your life, especially +if he lives right around the corner and goes to the same school. Anyhow, +one hot Saturday morning Nick turns up at my house as if nothing had ever +happened and says do I want to go swimming, because the Twenty-third +Street pool's open weekends now. + +After that we go back to playing ball on the street in the evenings and +swimming sometimes on weekends. One Saturday his mother tells me he went +to Coney Island. He didn't ask me to go along, which is just as well, +because I wouldn't have. I don't hang around his house after school much +anymore, either. School lets out, and there's the Fourth of July weekend, +when we go up to Connecticut, and pretty soon after that Nick goes off to +a camp his church runs. Pop asks me if I want to go to a camp a few weeks, +but I don't. Life is pretty slow at home, but I don't feel like all that +organization. + +I think Tom must have forgotten about me and found a gang his own age when +I get a postcard from him: "Dear Dave, The guy I work for is a creep, and +all the guys who buy gas from him are creeps, so it's great to be alive in +Beautiful Brooklyn! Wish you were here, but you're lucky you're not. Best, +Tom." + +It's hard to figure what he means when he says a thing. However, I got +nothing to do, so I might as well go see. He said he was going to work in +a filling station on the Belt Parkway, and there can't be a million of +them. + +I don't say anything too exact to Mom about where I'm going, because she +gets worried about me going too far, and besides I don't really know where +I'm going. + +Brooklyn, what a layout. It's not like Manhattan, which runs pretty +regularly north and south, with decent square blocks. You could lose a +million friends in Brooklyn, with the streets all running in circles and +angles, and the people all giving you cockeyed directions. What with no +bikes allowed on parkways, and skirting around crumby looking +neighborhoods, it takes me at least a week of expeditions to find the +right part of the Belt Parkway to start checking the filling stations. + +I wheel my bike across the parkway, but even so some cop yells at me. +You'd think a cop could find a crime to get busy with. + +On a real sticky day in July I wheel across to a station at Thirty-fourth +Street, and nobody yells at me, and I go over to the air pump and fiddle +with my tires. A car pulls out after it gets gas, and there's Tom. + +"Hi!" I say. + +Tom half frowns and quick looks over his shoulder to see if his boss is +around, I guess, and then comes over to the air pump. + +"How'd you get way out here?" he says. + +"On the bike. I got your postcard, and I figured I could find the filling +station." + +He relaxes and grins. I feel better. He says, "You're a crazy kid. How's +Cat?" + +But just then the boss has to come steaming up. "What d'ya want, kid? No +bikes allowed on the parkway." + +I start to say I'm just getting air, but Tom speaks up. "It's all right. I +know him." + +"Yeah? I told you, keep kids out of here!" The guy manages to suggest that +kids Tom knows are probably worse than any other kind. He motions me off +like a stray dog. I don't want to get Tom in any trouble, so I get going. +At the edge of the parkway I wave. "So long. Write me another postcard." + +Tom raises a hand briefly, but his face looks closed, like nothing was +going to get in or out. + +I pedal slowly and hotly back through the tangle of Brooklyn and figure, +well, that's a week's research wasted. I still don't know where Tom lives, +so I don't know how I can get a hold of him again. Anyway, how do I know +he wants to be bothered with me? He looked pretty fed up with everything. + +So long as I got nothing else to do, the next week I figure I'll get +public-spirited at home: I paint the kitchen for Mom, which isn't so bad, +but moving all those silly dishes and pots and scrumy little spice cans +can drive you wild. I only break one good vase and a bottle of salad oil. +Salad oil and broken glass are great. In the afternoons I go to the +swimming pool and learn to do a jackknife and a backflip, so Pop will +think I am growing up to be a Real American Boy. Also, you practically +have to learn to dive so you can use the diving pool, because the swimming +pool is so jam-packed with screaming sardines you can't move in it. + +Evenings Cat and I play records, or we go to see Aunt Kate and drink iced +tea. One weekend my real aunt comes to visit and sleeps in my room, so I +go to stay with Aunt Kate, and I pretty near turn into cottage cheese. + +I've about settled into this dull routine when Mom surprises me by handing +me a postcard one morning. It's from Tom: "Day off next Tuesday. If you +feel like it, meet me near the aquarium at Coney Island about nine in the +morning, before it's crowded." + +So that week drags by till Tuesday, and there I am at Coney Island bright +and early. Tom is easy enough to find, pacing up and down the boardwalk +like a tiger. We say "Hi" and so forth, and I'm all ready to take a run +for the water, but he keeps snapping his fingers and looking up and down +the boardwalk. + +Finally he says, "There's a girl I used to know pretty well. I didn't see +her for a while till last week, and we got in an argument, and I guess +she's mad. I wrote and asked her to come swimming today, but maybe she's +not coming." + +I figure it out that I'm there as insurance against the girl not showing +up, but I don't mind. Anyhow, she does show up. It can't have been too +much of an argument they had, because she acts pretty friendly. + +Tom introduces us. Her name is Hilda and a last name that'd be hard to +spell--Swedish maybe--and she's got a wide, laughing kind of mouth and a big +coil of yellow hair in a bun on top of her head, and a mighty good figure. +She asks me where I ran into Tom, and we tell her all about Cat and the +cellar at Number Forty-six, and I tell them both about my Ivy-League +haircut, which I had never explained to anyone before. They get a laugh +out of that, and then she asks him about the filling-station job, and he +says it stinks. + +I figure they could get along without me for a while, so I go for a swim +and wander down the beach a ways and eat a hot dog and swim some more. +When I come back, I see Tom and Hilda just coming out of the water, so I +join them. Hilda says, "Come have a coke. Tom says he's got to try +swimming to France just once more." + +I don't know just what she means, but we go get cokes and come back and +stretch out in the sun. She asks me do I want a smoke, and I say No. It's +nice to be asked, though. We watch Tom, who is swimming out past all the +other people. I wish I'd gone with him. I say, "Lifeguard's going to +whistle him in pretty soon. He's out past all the others." + +Hilda lets out a breath and snorts, "He'll always go till they blow the +whistle. Always got to go farther than anyone else." + +I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. + +Hilda goes on: "I used to wait tables in a restaurant down near Washington +Square. Tom and a lot of the boys from NYU came in there. Sometimes the +day before an exam he'd be sitting around for hours, buying people cokes +and acting as if he hadn't a care in the world. Some other times, for no +reason anyone could tell, he'd sit in a corner and stir his coffee like he +was going to make a hole in the cup." + +"Tom was at NYU?" I ask. I don't know where I thought he'd been before he +turned up in the cellar. I guess I never thought. + +"Sure," Hilda says. "He was in the Washington Square College for about a +year and a half. He lived in a dormitory uptown, but I used to see him in +the restaurant, and then fairly often we had dates after I got off work. +He has people out in the Midwest somewhere--a father and a stepmother. He +was always sour and close-mouthed about them, even before he got thrown +out of NYU. Now he won't even write them." + +This is a lot of information to take in all at once and leaves a lot of +questions unanswered. The first one that comes into my head is this: "How +come he got thrown out of NYU?" + +"Well, it makes Tom so sore, he's never really told me a plain, straight +story. It's all mixed up with his father. I think his father wrote him not +to come home at Christmas vacation, for some reason. Tom and a couple of +other boys who were left in the dormitory over the holidays got horsing +around and had a water fight. The college got huffy and wrote the parents, +telling them to pay up for damages. The other parents were pretty angry, +but they stuck behind their kids and paid up. Tom just never heard from +his father. Not a line. + +"That was when Tom began coming into the restaurant looking like thunder. +The college began needling him for the water-fight damages, as well as +second-semester tuition. He took his first exam, physics, and got an A on +it. He's pretty smart. + +"He still didn't hear anything from home. He took the second exam, French, +and thought he flunked it. That same afternoon he went into the office and +told the dean he was quitting, and he packed his stuff and left. I didn't +see him again till a week ago. I didn't know if he'd got sick of me, or +left town, or what. + +"He says he wrote his father that he had a good job, and they could forget +about him. Then he broke into that cellar on a dare or for kicks. + +"So here we are. What do we do next?" + +Hilda looks at me--me, age fourteen--as if I might actually know, and it's +kind of unnerving. Everyone I know, their life goes along in set periods: +grade school, junior high, high school, college, and maybe getting +married. They don't really have to think what comes next. + +I say cautiously, "My pop says a kid's got to go to college now to get +anywhere. Maybe he ought to go back to school." + +"You're so right, Grandpa," she says, and I would have felt silly, but she +has a nice friendly laugh. "I wish I could persuade him to go back. But +it's not so easy. I guess he's got to get a job and go to night school, if +they'll accept him. He won't ask his father for money." + +"You two got my life figured out?" Tom has come up behind us while we were +lying in the sand on our stomachs. "I just hope that sour grape at the +filling station gives me a good recommendation so I can get another job. +The way he watches his cash register, you'd think I was Al Capone." + +We talk a bit, and then Hilda gets up and says she's going to the ladies' +room. She doesn't act coy about it, the way most girls do when they're +sitting with guys. She just leaves. + +"How do you like Hilda?" Tom asks, and again I'm sort of surprised, +because he acts like he really wants my opinion. + +"She's nice," I say. + +"Yeah." Tom suddenly glowers, as if I'd said I _didn't_ like her. "I don't +know why she wastes her time on me. I'll never be any use to her. When her +family hears about me, I'll get the boot." + +"I could ask my pop. You know, I told you he's a lawyer. Maybe he'd know +how you go about getting back into college or getting a job or something." + +Tom laughs, an unamused bark. "Maybe he'll tell you to quit hanging around +with jerks that get in trouble with the cops." + +This is a point, all right. Come to think, I don't know why I said I'd ask +Pop anyway. I usually make a point of not letting his nose into my +personal affairs, because I figure he'll just start bossing me around. +However, I certainly can't do anything for Tom on my own. + +I say, "I'll chance it. The worst he ever does is talk. One time he made a +federal case out of me buying a Belafonte record he didn't like. Another +time playing ball I cracked a window in a guy's Cadillac, and Pop acted +like he was going to sue the guy for owning a Cadillac. You just never +know." + +Tom says, "With my dad, you _know_: I'm wrong." + +Hilda comes back just then. She snaps, "If he's such a drug on the market, +why don't you shut up and forget about him?" + +"O.K., O.K.," says Tom. + +The beach is getting filled up by now, so we pull on our clothes and head +for the subway. Tom and Hilda get off in Brooklyn, and I go on to Union +Square. + +After dinner that night Mom is washing the dishes and Pop is reading the +paper, and I figure I might as well dive in. + +"Pop," I say, "there's this guy I met at the beach. Well, really I mean I +met him this spring when I was hunting for Cat, and this guy was in the +cellar at Forty-six Gramercy, and he got caught and...." + +"Wha-a-a-t?" Pop puts down his paper and takes off his glasses. "Begin +again." + +So I give it to him again, slow, and with explanations. I go through the +whole business about the filling station and Hilda and NYU, and I'll say +one thing for Pop, when he finally settles down to listen, he listens. I +get through, and he puts on his reading glasses and goes to look out the +window. + +"Do you have this young man's name and address, or is he just Tom from The +Cellar?" + +I'd just got it from Tom when we were at the beach. He's at a Y in +Brooklyn, so I tell Pop this. + +Pop says, "Tell him to call my office and come in to see me on his next +day off. Meanwhile, I'll bone up on City educational policies in regard to +juvenile delinquents." + +He says this perfectly straight, as if there'd be a book on the subject. +Then he goes back to his newspaper, so I guess that closes the subject for +now. + +"Thanks, Pop," I say and start to go out. + +"Entirely welcome," says Pop. As I get to the door, he adds, "If that cat +of yours makes a practice of introducing you to the underworld in other +people's cellars, we can do without him. We probably can anyway." + + + + + + 7 + + + [Illustration: Dave talking with veterinarian while holding Cat.] + + + + SURVIVAL + + + +Cat hadn't got me into anymore cellars, but I can't honestly say he'd been +sitting home tending his knitting--not him. + +One hot morning I went to pick up the milk outside our door, and Cat was +sleeping there on the mat. He didn't even look up at me. After I scratched +his ears and talked to him some, he got up and hobbled into the house. + +I put him up on my bed, under the light, for inspection. One front claw +was torn off, which is why he was limping, his left ear was ripped, and +there was quite a bit of fur missing here and there. He curled up on my +bed and didn't move all day. + +I came and looked at him every few hours and wondered if I ought to take +him to a vet. But he seemed to be breathing all right, so I went away and +thought about it some more. Come night, I pushed him gently to one side, +wondering what I better do in the morning. + +Well, in the morning Cat wakes up, stretches, yawns, and drops easily down +off the bed and walks away. He still limps a little, but otherwise he acts +like nothing had happened. He just wants to know what's for breakfast. + +"You better watch out. One day you'll run into a cat that's bigger and +meaner than you," I tell him. + +Cat continues to wait for breakfast. He is not impressed. + +But I'm worried. Suppose some big old cat chews him up and he's hurt too +bad to get home? After breakfast I take him out in the backyard for a bit, +and then I shut him in my room and go over to consult Aunt Kate. + +She sets me up with the usual iced tea and dish of cottage cheese. + +"I had breakfast already. What do I need with cottage cheese?" + +"Eat it. It's good for you." + +So I eat it, and then I start telling her about Cat. "He came home all +chewed up night before last. I'm afraid some night he's not going to make +it." + +"Right," says Kate. She's not very talky, but I'm sort of surprised. I +expected she'd tell me to quit worrying, Cat can take care of himself. She +starts pulling Susan's latest kittens out from under the sofa and sorting +them out as if they were ribbons: one gray, two tiger, one yellow, one +calico. + +"So what you going to do?" she shoots at me, shoveling the kittens back to +Susan. + +"I--uh--I dunno. I thought maybe I ought to try to keep him in nights." + +"Huh. Don't know much, do you?" she says. "Well, so I'll tell you. Your +Cat has probably fathered a few dozen kittens by now, and once a cat's +been out and mated, you can't keep him in. You got to get him altered. +Then he won't want to go out so much." + +"Altered?" + +"Fixed. Castrated is the technical word. It's a two-minute operation. Cost +you three dollars. Take him to Speyer Hospital--big new building up on +First Avenue." + +"You mean get him fixed so he's not a real tomcat any more? The heck with +that! I don't want him turned into a fat old cushion cat!" + +"He won't be," she says. "But if it makes you happier, let him get killed +in a cat fight. He's tough. He'll last a year or two. Suit yourself." + +"Ah, you're screwy! You and your cottage cheese!" Even as I say it I feel +a little guilty. But I feel mad and mixed up, and I fling out the door. +It's the first time I ever left Kate's mad. Usually I leave _our_ house +mad and go to Kate. + +Now I got nowhere to go. I walk along, cussing and fuming and kicking +pebbles. I come to an air-conditioned movie and go up to the window. + +The phony blonde in the booth looks at me and sneers, "You're not sixteen. +We don't have a children's section in this theater." She doesn't even ask. +She just says it. It's a great world. I go home. There's no one there but +Cat, so I turn the record player up full blast. + +Pop comes home in one of his unexpected fits of generosity that night and +takes us to the movies. Cat behaves himself and stays around home and our +cellar for a while, so I stop worrying. But it doesn't last long. + +As soon as his claw heals, he starts sashaying off again. One night I hear +cats yowling out back and I go out with a bucket of water and douse them +and bring Cat in. There's a pretty little tiger cat, hardly more than a +kitten, sitting on the fence licking herself, dry and unconcerned. Cat +doesn't speak to me for a couple of days. + +One morning Butch, the janitor, comes up and knocks on our door. "You +better come down and look at your cat. He got himself mighty chewed up. +Most near dead." + +I hurry down, and there is Cat sprawled in a corner on the cool cement +floor. His mouth is half open, and his breath comes in wheezes, like he +has asthma. I don't know whether to pick him up or not. + +Butch says, "Best let him lie." + +I sit down beside him. After a bit his breath comes easier and he puts his +head down. Then I see he's got a long, deep claw gouge going from his +shoulder down one leg. It's half an inch open, and anyone can see it won't +heal by itself. + +Butch shakes his head. "You gotta take him to the veteran, sure. That's +the cat doctor." + +"Yeah," I say, not correcting him. It's not just the gash that's worrying +me. I remember what Aunt Kate said, and it gives me a cold feeling in the +stomach: In the back-alley jungle he'd last a year, maybe two. + +Looking at Cat, right now, I know she's right. But Cat's such a--well, such +a _cat_. How can I take him to be whittled down? + +I tell Butch I'll be back down in a few minutes, and I go upstairs. Mom's +humming and cleaning in the kitchen. I wander around and stare out the +window awhile. Finally I go in the kitchen and stare into the icebox, and +then I tell Mom about the gash in Cat's leg. + +She asks if I know a vet to take him to. + +"Yeah, there's Speyer. It's a big, new hospital--good enough for people, +even--with a view of the East River. The thing is, Mom, Cat keeps going off +and fighting and getting hurt, and people tell me I ought to get him +altered." + +Mom wets the sponge and squeezes it out and polishes at the sink, and I +wonder if she knows what I'm talking about because I don't really know how +to explain it any better. + +She wrings the sponge out, finally, and sits down at the kitchen table. + +She says, "Cat's not a free wild animal now, and he wouldn't be even if +you turned him loose. He belongs to _you_, so you have to do whatever is +best for _him_, whether it's what you'd like or not. Ask the doctor and do +what he says." + +Mom puts it on the line, all right. It doesn't make me feel any better +about Cat. She takes five dollars out of her pocketbook and gives it to +me. + +I get out the wicker hamper and go down to the cellar and load Cat in. He +meows, a low resentful rumble, but he doesn't try to get away. + +Cat in the hamper is no powder puff, and I get pretty hot walking to the +bus, and then from the bus stop to the animal hospital. I get there and +wait, and dogs sniff at me, and I fill in forms. The lady asks me if I can +afford to pay, and with Mom's five bucks and four of my own, I say Yes. + +The doctor is a youngish guy, but bald, in a white shirt like a dentist's. +I put Cat on the table in front of him. He says, "So why don't you stay +out of fights, like your mommy told you?" + +I relax a bit and smile, and he says, "That's better. Don't worry. We'll +take care of tomcat. I suppose he got this gash in a fight?" + +"Yeah." + +"He been altered?" + +"No." + +"How old is he?" + +"I don't know. He was a stray. I've had him almost a year." + +All the time he's talking, the doctor is soothing Cat and looking him +over. He goes on stroking him and looks up at me. "Well, son, one of these +days he's going to get in one fight too many. Shall we alter him the same +time we sew up his leg?" + +So there it is. I can't seem to answer right away. If the doctor had +argued with me, I might have said No. But he just goes on humming and +stroking. Finally he says, "It's tough, I know. Maybe he's got a right to +be a tiger. But you can't keep a tiger for a pet." + +I say, "O.K." + +An attendant takes Cat away, and I go sit in the waiting room, feeling +sweaty and cold all over. They tell me it'll be a couple of hours, so I go +out and wander around a lot of blocks I never saw before and drink some +cokes and sit and look up at the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge to Queens. + +When I go back for him, Cat looks the same as ever, except for a bandage +all up his right front leg. The doctor tells me to come back Friday and +he'll take out the stitches. + +Mom sees me come in the door, and I guess I look pretty grim, because she +says, "Cat will be all right, won't he, dear?" + +"Yes." I go past her and down into my room and let Cat out of the basket +and then bury my head under the pillow. I'm not exactly ashamed of crying, +but I don't want Mom to hear. + +After a while I pull my head out. Cat is lying there beside me, his eyes +half open, the tip end of his tail twitching very slowly. I rub my eyes on +the back of his neck and whisper to him, "I'm sorry. Be tough, Cat, +anyway, will you?" + +Cat stretches and hops off the bed on his three good legs. + + + + + + 8 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Mary buying tickets to West Side Story.] + + + + WEST SIDE STORY + + + +The regular park man got sunstroke or something, so I earned fourteen +dollars raking and mowing in Gramercy Park in the middle of August. +Gramercy Park is a private park. You have to own a key to get in, so the +city doesn't take care of it. + +Real paper money, at this time of year especially, is very cheering. I +head up to Sam Goody's to see what records he's got on sale and what +characters are buying them. Maybe I'll buy something, maybe not, but as +long as I've got money in my pocket, I don't feel like the guy is glaring +at me for taking up floor space. + +Along the way I walk through the library, the big one at Forty-second +Street. You go in by the lions on Fifth Avenue, and there's all kinds of +pictures and books on exhibit in the halls, and you walk through to the +back, where you can take out books. It's nice and cool, and nobody glares +at you unless you either make a lot of noise or go to sleep. I can take +books out of here and return them at the Twenty-third Street branch, which +is handy. + +Sam Goody's is air-conditioned, so it's cool too. There are always several +things playing on different machines you can listen to. Almost the most +fun is watching the people: little, fat, bald guys buying long-haired +classical music, and thin, shaggy beatniks listening to the jazz. + +I go to check if there are any bargains in the Kingston or Belafonte +division. There's a girl standing there reading the backs of records, but +I don't really catch a look at more than her shoes--little red flats they +are. After a bit she reaches for a record over my head and says, "Excuse +me." + +"Sure." Then we catch each other's eye and both say, "Oh. Gee, hello." + +Well, we're both pretty surprised, because this is the girl I met out at +Coney Island that day with Nick when I had Cat with me, and now we're both +a long way from Coney Island. This girl isn't one of the two giggly ones. +It's the third, the one that liked Cat. + +We've both forgotten each other's names, so we begin over with that. I ask +her what she's been doing, and she's been at Girl Scout camp a few weeks, +and then she earned some money baby-sitting. So she came to think about +records, like me. I tell her I've been at Coney once this summer, and I +looked around for her, which is true, because I did. + +"It's a big place," she says, smiling. + +"Say, you live out there, don't you? How come you get all the way in here +by yourself? Doesn't your mom get in a flap? Mine would, if she knew I was +going to Coney alone." + +Mary says, "I came in with Mom. Some friend of hers has a small art +exhibition opening. She said I could go home alone. After all, she knows +I'm not going to get lost." + +I say, "Gee, it'd be great to have a mother that didn't worry about you +all the time." + +"Oh, Mom worries." Mary giggles. "You should have heard her when I said I +liked _Gone With the Wind_ and I didn't like _Anna Karenina_. I pretty +nearly got disowned." + +"What does she think about science fiction?" I ask, and Mary makes a face, +and we both laugh. + +I go on. "Well, my mom doesn't care what I read. She worries about what I +eat and whether my feet are wet, and she always seems to think I'm about +to kill myself. It's a nuisance, really." + +Mary looks solemn all of a sudden. She says slowly, "I think maybe it'd be +nice. I mean to have someone worrying about whether you're comfortable and +all. Instead of just picking your brains all the time." + +This seems to exhaust the subject of our respective mothers, and Mary +picks up the record of _West Side Story_ and says, "Gee, I'd like to see +that. Did you?" + +I say No, and to tell the truth I hadn't hardly heard of it. + +"I read a book about him. It was wonderful," she says. + +"Who?" + +"Bernstein. The man who wrote it." + +"What's _West Side Story_ about, him?" I ask cautiously. + +"No, no--he wrote the music. It's about some kids in two gangs, and there's +a lot of dancing, and then there's a fight and this kid gets--well, it +isn't a thing you can tell the story of very well. You have to see it." + +This gives me a very simple idea. + +"Why don't we?" I say. + +"Huh?" + +"Go see it. Why not? We got money." + +"So we do," she says slowly. "You think they'll let us in, I mean being +under sixteen?" + +You know, this is the first girl I really ever talked to that talks like a +person, not trying to be cute or something. + +We walk around to the theater, and being it's Wednesday, there's a matinee +about to start. The man doesn't seem to be one bit worried about taking +our money. No wonder. It's two dollars and ninety cents each. So we're +inside with our tickets before we've hardly stopped to think. + +Suddenly Mary says, "Oops! I better call Mom! Let's find out what time the +show is over." + +We do, and Mary phones. She says to me, "I just told her I was walking +past _West Side Story_ and found I could get a ticket. I didn't say +anything about you." + +"Why, would she mind?" + +Mary squints and looks puzzled. "I don't know. I just really don't know. +It never happened before." + +We go in to the show, and she is right, it's terrific. I hardly ever went +to a live show before, except a couple of children's things and something +by Shakespeare Pop took me to that was very confusing. But this _West Side +Story_ is clear as a bell. + +We have an orangeade during intermission, and I make the big gesture and +pay for both of them. Mary says, "Isn't it wonderful! I just happened to +meet you at the beach, and then I meet you at Goody's, and we get to see +this show that I've wanted to go to for ages. None of my friends at school +want to spend this much money on a show." + +"It's wonderful," I say. "After it's over, I'm going back to buy the +record." + +So after the show we buy it, and then we walk along together to the +subway. I'll have to get off at the first stop, Fourteenth Street, and +she'll go on to Coney, the end of the line. + +It's hard to talk on the subway. There's so much noise you have to shout, +which is hard if you don't know what to say. Anyway, you can't ask a girl +for her phone number shouting on the subway. At least I can't. + +I'm not so sure about the phone-number business either. I sort of can't +imagine calling up and saying, "Oh, uh, Mary, this is Dave. You want to go +to a movie or something, huh?" It sounds stupid, and I'd be embarrassed. +What she said, it's true--it's sort of wonderful the way we just ran into +each other twice and had so much fun. + +So I'm wondering how I can happen to run into her again. Maybe the beach, +in the fall. Let's see, a school holiday--Columbus Day. + +The train is pulling into Fourteenth Street. I shout, "Hey, how about we +go to the beach again this fall? Maybe Columbus Day?" + +"O.K.!" she shouts. "Columbus Day in the morning." + +"Columbus Day in the morning" sounds loud and clear because by then the +subway has stopped. People snicker, and Mary blushes. + +"So long," I say, and we both wave, and the train goes. + + + + + + 9 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Tom sitting on front steps with Cat.] + + + + FATHERS + + + +That operation didn't make as much difference to Cat as you might think. I +took him back to the clinic to get the stitches out of his leg and the +bandages off. A few nights later I heard yowls coming up from the +backyard. I went down and pulled him out of a fight. He wasn't hurt yet, +but he sure was right back in there pitching. He seems to have a standing +feud with the cat next door. + +However, he's been coming home nights regularly, and sometimes in the cool +part of the morning he'll sit out on the front stoop with me. He sits on a +pillar about six feet above the sidewalk, and I sit on the steps and play +my transistor and read. + +Every time a dog gets walked down the street under Cat's perch, he gathers +himself up in a ball, as if he were going to spring. Of course, the poor +dog never knows it was about to be pounced on and wags on down the street. +Cat lets his tail go to sleep then and sneers. + +Between weathercasts I hear him purring, loud rumbly purrs, and I look up +and see Tom there, stroking Cat's fur up backward toward his ears. Tom is +looking out into the street and sort of whistling without making any +sound. + +"Gee, hi!" I say. + +"Hi, too," he says. He strokes Cat back down the right way, gives him a +pat, and sits down. "I just been down to see your dad. He's quite a guy." + +"Huh-h-h? You got sunstroke or something? Didn't he read you about ten +lectures on Healthy Living, Honest Effort, Baseball, and Long Walks with a +Dog?" + +"No-o-o." Tom grins, but then he sits and stares out at the street again, +so I wait. + +"You know," he says, "you give me an idea. _You_ talk like _your_ dad is a +real pain, and that's the way _I_ always have felt about _mine_. But your +dad looks like a great guy to me, so--well, maybe mine could be too, if I +gave him a chance. Your dad was saying I should." + +"Should what? You should go home?" + +"No. Your dad said I ought to write him a long letter and face up to all +the things I've goofed on. Quitting NYU, the cellar trouble, all that. +Then tell him I'm going to get a job and go to night school. Your dad +figures probably he'd help me. He said he'd write him, too. No reason he +should. I'm nothing in his life. It's pretty nice of him." + +I try to digest all this, and it sure is puzzling. The time I ran down +that crumb of a doorman on my bike, accidental on purpose, I didn't get +any long understanding talks. I just got kept in for a month. + +Tom slaps me in the middle of the back and stands up. "Hilda's gone back +to work at the coffee shop. I guess I'll go down and see her before the +lunch rush, and then go home and write my letter." + +"Say 'Hi' for me." + +"O.K. So long." + + * * * * * + +The weather cools off some, and Pop starts to talk about vacation. He's +taking two weeks, last of August and first of September, so I start +shopping around for various bits of fishing tackle and picnic gear we +might need. We're going to this lake up in Connecticut, where we get a +sort of motel cottage. It has a little hot plate for making coffee in the +morning, but most of the rest of the time we eat out, which is neat. + +We're sitting around the living room one evening, sorting stuff out, when +the doorbell rings. I go answer it, and Tom walks in. He nods at me like +he hardly sees me and comes into the living room. He shakes hands like a +wooden Indian. His face looks shut up again, the way it did that day I +left him in the filling station. + +He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a letter. I can see a post-office +stamp in red ink with a pointing hand by the address. He throws it down on +Dad's table. + +"I got my answer all right." + +Pop looks at the letter and I see his foot start to twitch the way it does +when he's about to blow. But he looks at Tom, and instead of blowing he +just says, "Your father left town? No forwarding address?" + +"I guess so. He just left. Him and that woman he married." Tom's voice +trails off and he walks over to the window. We all sit quiet a minute. + +Finally Pop says gently, "Well, don't waste too much breath on her. She's +nothing to do with you." + +Tom turns around angrily. "She's no good. She loafs around and drinks all +the time. She talked him into going." + +"And he went." There's another short silence, and Pop goes on. "Where was +this you lived?" + +"House. It was a pretty nice little house, too. Dark red with white trim, +and enough of a yard to play a little ball, and I grew a few lettuces +every spring. I even got one ear of corn once. We moved there when I was +in second grade because my mom said it was near a good local school. I +lived there till I went to college. I suppose he sold it, or got a loan, +and they lit off to drink it up. Soon's they'd got _me_ off their hands." + +Tom bites off the last word. Suddenly I can see the picture pretty clear: +the nice house, the father Tom always talked down and hoped would measure +up. Now it's like somebody has taken his whole childhood and crumpled it +up like a wad of tissue paper and thrown it away. + +Mom gets up and goes into the kitchen. Pop's foot keeps on twitching. +Finally he says, "Well, I steered you wrong. I'm sorry. But maybe it's +just as well to have it settled." + +"It's settled, all right," Tom says. + +Mom brings out a tray of ginger-ale glasses. It seems sort of inadequate +at a moment like this, but when Tom takes a glass from her he looks like +he's going to bust out crying. + +He drinks some and blows his nose, and Dad says, "When are you supposed to +check in with the Youth Board again?" + +"Tuesday. My day off. And I wind up the filling-station job the next week, +right after Labor Day." + +"Labor Day. Hm-m. We've got to get moving. If you like, I'll come down to +the Youth Board with you, and we'll see what we can all cook up. Don't +worry too much. I have a feeling you're just beginning to fight--really +fight, not just throw a few stones." + +"I don't know why you bother." Tom starts to stand up. But while we've +been talking, Cat has been creeping up under the side table, playing the +ambush game, and he launches himself at Tom just as he starts to stand. It +throws him off balance and he sits back in the chair, holding Cat. + +"You've got nothing to worry about," Pop says. "Cat's on your side." + + + + + + 10 + + + [Illustration: Cat jumping out of car on parkway.] + + + + CAT AND THE PARKWAY + + + +Cat may be on Tom's side, but whether Pop is on Cat's side is something +else again. I worry about this all the time we're planning the vacation. +Suppose the motel won't take cats? Or suppose he runs away in the country? +If he messes up the vacation in any way, I know Pop'll say to get rid of +him. + +I practice putting Cat back in the wicker hamper to see if I can keep him +in that sometimes, but he meows like crazy. That'd drive Pop nuts in the +car, and it certainly wouldn't hide him from any motel-keeper. So I just +sit back and hope for the best, but I got a nasty feeling in the bottom of +my stomach that something's going to go haywire. + +Pop's pretty snappish anyway. He's working late nearly every night, +getting stuff cleared up before vacation. He doesn't want any extra +problems, especially not Cat problems. Mom's been having asthma a good +deal lately, and we're all pretty jumpy. It's always like this at the end +of the summer. + +Tuesday night when he gets home, I ask Pop what's happened about Tom. + +"We'll work something out," he says, which isn't what you'd call a big +explanation. + +"You think he can get back into college?" + +"I don't know. The Youth Board is going to work on it. They're arranging +for him to make up the midyear exams he missed, so he can get credit for +that semester. Then he can probably start making up the second semester at +night school if he has a job. + +"Apparently the Youth Board knew his father had skipped--they've been +trying to trace him. I don't think it'll do any good if they find him. Tom +had better just cross him off and figure his own life for himself." + +You know, I see "bad guys" in television and stuff, but with the people I +really know I always lump the parents on one team and the kids on the +other. Now here's my pop calmly figuring a kid better chalk off his father +as a bad lot and go it alone. If your father died, I suppose you could +face up to it eventually, but having him just fade out on you, not care +what you did--that'd be worse. + +While I'm doing all this hard thinking, Pop has gone back to reading the +paper. I notice the column of want ads on the back, and all of a sudden my +mind clicks on Tom and jobs. + +"Hey, Pop! You know the florist on the corner, Palumbo, where you always +get Mom the plant on Mother's Day? I went in there a couple of weeks ago, +because he had a sign up, 'Helper Wanted.' I thought maybe it was +deliveries and stuff that I could do after school. But he said he needed a +full-time man. I'm pretty sure the sign's still up." + +"Palumbo, huhn?" Pop takes off his glasses and scratches his head with +them. He looks at his watch and sighs. "They still open?" + +They are, and Pop goes right down to see the guy. He knows him fairly well +anyway--there's Mother's Day, and Easter, and also the shop is the polling +place for our district, so Pop's in there every Election Day. He always +buys some little bunch of flowers Election Day because he figures the guy +ought to get some business having his shop all messed up for the day. + +Dad comes back and goes over to the desk and scratches off a fast note. He +says, "Here. Address it to Tom and go mail it right away. Palumbo says +he'll try him out at least. Tom can come over Thursday night and I'll take +him in." + +Tom comes home with Pop Thursday about nine o'clock. They both look pretty +good. Mom has cold supper waiting, finishing off the icebox before we go +away, so we all sit down to eat. + +"Tom's all set, at least for a start," Dad says. "He's going to start +Tuesday, right after Labor Day. Palumbo can use him on odd jobs and +deliveries, especially over the Jewish holidays, and then if he can learn +the business, he'll keep him on." + +"Never thought I'd go in for flower-arranging." Tom grins. "But it might +be fun. I'm pretty fair at any kind of handiwork." + +Remembering how quick he unlocked the padlock to get Cat out in the +cellar, I agree. + +He starts for his room after supper, and we all say "good luck," "have a +good time," and stuff. Things are really looking up. + +I get up early the next morning and help Mom button up around the house +and get the car loaded before Pop gets home in the afternoon. He hoped to +get off early, and I've been pacing around snapping my fingers for a +couple of hours when he finally arrives about six o'clock. It's a hot day +again. + +I don't say anything about Cat. I just dive in the back seat and put him +behind a suitcase and hope he'll behave. Pop doesn't seem to notice him. +Anyway he doesn't say anything. + +It's mighty hot, and traffic is thick, with everyone pouring out of the +city. But at least we're moving along, until we get out on the Hutchinson +River Parkway, where some dope has to run out of gas. + +All three lanes of traffic are stopped. We sit in the sun. Pop looks +around, hunting for something to get sore about, and sees the back windows +are closed. He roars, "Crying out loud, can't we get some air, at least? +Open those windows!" + +I open them and try to keep my hand over Cat, but if you try to hold him +really, it makes him restless. For the moment he's sitting quiet, looking +disgusted. + +We sit for about ten minutes, and Pop turns off the motor. You can +practically hear us sweating in the silence. Engines turn on ahead of us, +and there seems to be some sign of hope. I stick my head out the window to +see if things are moving. Something furry tickles my ear, and it takes me +a second to register. + +Then I grab, but too late. There is Cat, out on the parkway between the +lanes of cars, trying to figure which way to run. + +"Pop!" I yell. "Hold it! Cat's got out!" + +You know what my pop does? He laughs. + +"Hold it, my eyeball!" he says. "I've been holding it for half an hour. +I'd get murdered if I tried to stop now. Besides, I don't want to chase +that cat every day of my vacation." + +I don't even stop to think. I just open the car door and jump. The car's +only barely moving. I can see Cat on the grass at the edge of the parkway. +The cars in the next lane blast their horns, but I slip through and grab +Cat. + +I hear Mom scream, "Davey!" + +Our car is twenty feet ahead, now, in the center lane, and there's no way +Pop can turn off. The cars are picking up speed. I holler to Mom as loud +as I can, "I'll go back and stay with Kate! Don't worry!" + +I hear Pop shout about something, but I can't hear what. Pretty soon the +car is out of sight. I look down at Cat and say, "There goes our +vacation." I wonder if I'll be able to catch a bus out to Connecticut +later. Meanwhile, there's the little problem of getting back into the +city. I'm standing alongside the parkway, with railroad tracks and the +Pelham golf course on the other side of me, and a good long walk to the +subway. + +A cat isn't handy to walk with. He keeps trying to get down. If you +squeeze him to hang on, he just tries harder. You have to keep juggling +him, like, gently. I sweat along back, with the sun in my eyes, and people +in cars on the parkway pointing me out to their children as a local +curiosity. + +One place the bulrushes and marsh grass beside the road grow up higher +than your head. What a place for a kids' hideout, I think. Almost the next +step, I hear kids' voices, whispering and shushing each other. + +Their voices follow along beside me, but inside the curtain of rushes, +where I can't see them. I hear one say, "Lookit the sissy with the pussy!" +Another answers, "Let's dump 'em in the river!" + +I try to walk faster, but I figure if I run they'll chase me for sure. I +walk along, juggling Cat, trying to pretend I don't notice them. I see a +drawbridge up ahead, and I sure hope there's a cop or watchman on it. + +The kids break out of the rushes behind me, and there's no use pretending +anymore. I flash a look over my shoulder. They all yell, "Ya-n-h-h-h!" +like a bunch of wild Indians, but they're about fifty feet back. + +I grab Cat hard about the only place you can grab a cat, around one upper +forearm, and I really run. The kids let out another war whoop. It's uphill +to the bridge. Cat gets his free forepaw into action, raking my chest and +arm, with his claws out. Then he hisses and bites, and I nearly drop him. +I'm panting so hard I can't hardly breathe anyway. + +A cop saunters out on my approach to the bridge, his billy dangling from +his wrist. Whew--am I glad! I flop on the grass and ease up on Cat and +start soothing him down. The kids fade off into the tall grass as soon as +they see the cop. A stone arches up toward me, but it falls short. That's +the last I see of them. + +As I cross the bridge, the cop squints at me. "What you doing, kid? Not +supposed to be walking here." + +"I'll be right off. I'm going home," I tell him, and he saunters away, +twirling his stick. + +It's dark by the time I get to the subway, and most of another hour before +I'm back in Manhattan and reach Kate's. I can hear the television going, +which is unusual, and I walk in. No one is watching television. Mom and +Pop are sitting at the table with Kate. + +Mom lets loose the tears she has apparently been holding onto for two +hours, and Pop starts bellowing: "You fool! You might have got killed +jumping out on that parkway!" + +Cat drops to the floor with a thud. I kiss Mom and go to the sink for a +long glass of water and drink it all and wipe my mouth. Over my shoulder, +I answer Pop: "Yeah, but if Cat gets killed on the parkway, that's just a +big joke, isn't it? You laugh your head off!" + +Pop takes off his glasses and scratches his head with them, like he always +does when he's thinking. He looks me in the eye and says, "I'm sorry. I +shouldn't have laughed." + +Then, of all things, he picks up Cat himself. "Come on. You're one of the +family. Let's get on this vacation." + +At last we're off. + + + + + + 11 + + +[Illustration: Dave picking out fish while Ben and garbage-sweeper watch.] + + + + ROSH HASHANAH AT THE FULTON FISH MARKET + + + +We came back to the city Labor Day Monday--us and a couple million +others--traffic crawling, a hot day, the windows practically closed up +tight to keep Cat in. I sweated, and then cat hairs stuck to me and got up +my nose. Considering everything, Pop acted quite mild. + +I met a kid up at the lake in Connecticut who had skin-diving equipment. +He let me use it one day when Mom and Pop were off sight-seeing. Boy, this +has fishing beat hollow! I found out there's a skin-diving course at the +Y, and I'm going to begin saving up for the fins and mask and stuff. Pop +won't mind forking out for the Y membership, because he'll figure it's +character-building. + +Meanwhile, I'm wondering if I can get back up to Connecticut again one +weekend while the weather's still warm, and I see that Rosh Hashanah falls +on a Monday and Tuesday this year, the week after school opens. Great. So +I ask this kid--Kenny Wright--if I can maybe come visit him that weekend so +I can do some more skin diving. + +"Rosh Hashanah? What's that?" he says. + +So I explain to him. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year. About half the +kids in my school are Jewish, so they all stay out for it, and I always do +too. Last year the school board gave up and made it an official school +holiday for everyone, Jewish or not. Same with Yom Kippur, the week after. + +Kenny whistles. "You sure are lucky. I don't think we got any holidays +coming till Thanksgiving." + +I always thought the kids in the country were lucky having outdoor yards +for sports and recess, but I guess we have it over them on +holidays--'specially in the fall: three Jewish holidays in September, +Columbus Day in October, Election Day and Veterans' Day in November, and +then Thanksgiving. It drives the mothers wild. + +I don't figure it'd be worth train fare to Connecticut for just two days, +so I say good-bye to Kenny and see you next year and stuff. + +Back home I'm pretty busy right away, on account of starting in a new +school, Charles Evans Hughes High. It's different from the junior high, +where I knew half the kids, and also my whole homeroom there went from one +classroom to another together. At Hughes everyone has to get his own +schedule and find the right classroom in this immense building, which is +about the size of Penn Station. There are about a million kids in +it--actually about two thousand--most of whom I never saw before. Hardly any +of the Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village kids come here because it +isn't their district. However, walking back across Fifth Avenue one day, I +see one kid I know from Peter Cooper. His name is Ben Alstein. I ask him +how come he is at Hughes. + +"My dad wanted me to get into Peter Stuyvesant High School--you know, the +genius factory, city-wide competitive exam to get in. Of course I didn't +make it. Biggest Failure of the Year, that's me." + +"Heck, I never even tried for that. But how come you're here?" + +"There's a special science course you can qualify for by taking a math +test. Then you don't have to live in the district. My dad figures as long +as I'm in something special, there's hope. I'm not really very interested +in science, but that doesn't bother him." + +So after that Ben and I walk back and forth to school together, and it +turns out we have three classes together, too--biology and algebra and +English. We're both relieved to have at least one familiar face to look +for in the crowd. My old friend Nick, aside from not really being my best +friend anymore, has gone to a Catholic high school somewhere uptown. + +On the way home from school one Friday in September, I ask Ben what he's +doing Monday and Tuesday, the Jewish holidays. + +"Tuesday I got to get into my bar mitzvah suit and go to synagogue and +over to Brooklyn to my grandmother's. Monday I don't have to do anything +special. Come on over with your roller skates and we'll get in the hockey +game." + +"I skate on my tail," I say, because it's true, and it would be doubly +true in a hockey game. I try quick to think up something else. We're +walking down the block to my house, and there's Cat sitting out front, so +I say, "Let's cruise around and get down to Fulton Fish Market and pick up +some fish heads for my cat." + +"You're a real nut, aren't you?" Ben says. He doesn't say it as if he +minds--just mentioning the fact. He's an easygoing kind of guy, and I think +most of the time he likes to let someone else make the plans. So he shrugs +and says, "O.K." + +I introduce him to Cat. Ben looks him in the eye, and Cat looks away and +licks his back. Ben says, "So I got to get you fresh fish for Rosh +Hashanah, huh?" + +Cat jumps down and rubs from back to front against Ben's right leg and +from front to back against his left leg and goes to lie down in the middle +of the sidewalk. + +"See? He likes you," I say. "He won't have anything to do with most guys, +except Tom." + +"Who's Tom?" + +So I tell Ben all about Tom and the cellar and his father disappearing on +him. + +"Gee," says Ben, "I thought I had trouble, with my father practically +telling me how to breathe better every minute, but at least he doesn't +disappear. What does Tom do now?" + +"Works at the flower shop, right down there at the corner." + +Ben feels around in his pockets a minute. "Hey, I got two bucks I was +supposed to spend on a textbook. Come on and I'll buy Mom a plant for the +holidays, and you can introduce me to Tom." + +We go down to the flower shop, and at first Tom frowns because he thinks +we've just come to kid around. Ben tells him he wants a plant, so then he +makes a big thing out of showing him all the plants, from the ten-dollar +ones on down, so Mr. Palumbo will see he's doing a good job. Ben finally +settles on a funny-looking cactus that Tom says is going to bloom pretty +soon. + +Ben goes along home and I arrange to pick him up on Monday. I wait around +outside until I see Tom go out on a delivery and ask him how he likes the +job. He says he doesn't really know yet, but at least the guy is decent to +work for, not like the filling-station man. + + * * * * * + +I sleep late Monday and go over to Peter Cooper about eleven. A lot of +kids are out in the playgrounds, and some fathers are there tossing +footballs with them and shouting "Happy New Year" to each other. It sounds +odd to hear people saying that on a warm day in September. + +Ben and I wander out of the project and he says, "How do we get to this +Fulton Street?" + +I see a bus that says "Avenue C" on it stopping on Twenty-third Street. +Avenue C is way east, and so is Fulton Street, so I figure it'll probably +work out. We get on. The bus rockets along under the East Side Drive for a +few blocks and then heads down Avenue C, which is narrow and crowded. It's +a Spanish and Puerto Rican neighborhood to begin with, then farther +downtown it's mostly Jewish. Lots of people are out on the street shaking +hands and clapping each other on the back, and the stores are all closed. + +Every time the bus stops, the driver shouts to some of the people on the +sidewalk, and he seems to know a good many of the passengers who get on. +He asks them about their jobs, or their babies, or their aunt who's sick +in Bellevue. This is pretty unusual in New York, where bus drivers usually +act like they hate people in general and their passengers in particular. +Suddenly the bus turns off Avenue C and heads west. + +Ben looks out the window and says, "Hey, this is Houston Street. I been +down here to a big delicatessen. But we're not heading downtown anymore." + +"Probably it'll turn again," I say. + +It doesn't, though, not till clear over at Sixth Avenue. By then everyone +else has got off and the bus driver turns around and says, "Where you two +headed for?" + +It's funny, a bus driver asking you that, so I ask him, "Where does this +bus go?" + +"It goes from Bellevue Hospital down to Hudson Street, down by the Holland +Tunnel." + +"Holy crow!" says Ben. "We're liable to wind up in New Jersey." + +"Relax. I don't go that far. I just go back up to Bellevue," says the +driver. + +"You think we'd be far from Fulton Fish Market?" I say. + +The driver gestures vaguely. "Just across the island." + +So Ben and I decide we'll get off at the end of the line and walk from +there. The bus driver says, "Have a nice hike." + +"I think there's something fishy about this," says Ben. + +"That's what we're going to get, fish," I say, and we walk. We walk quite +a ways. + +Ben sees a little Italian restaurant down a couple of steps, and we stop +to look at the menu in the window. The special for the day is lasagna, and +Ben says, "Boy, that's for me!" + +We go inside, while I finger the dollar in my pocket and do some fast +mental arithmetic. Lasagna is a dollar, so that's out, but I see spaghetti +and meat balls is seventy-five cents, so that will still leave me bus fare +home. + +A waiter rushes up, wearing a white napkin over his arm like a banner, and +takes our order. He returns in a moment with a shiny clean white linen +tablecloth and a basket of fresh Italian bread and rolls. On a third trip +he brings enough chilled butter for a family and asks if we want coffee +with lunch or later. Later, we say. + +"Man, this is living!" says Ben as he moves in on the bread. + +"He treats us just like people." + +Pretty soon the waiter is back with our lasagna and spaghetti, and he +swirls around the table as if he were dancing. "Anything else now? Mind +the hot plates, very hot! Have a good lunch now. I bring the coffee +later." + +He swirls away, the napkin over his arm making a little breeze, and +circles another table. It's a small room, and there are only four tables +eating, but he seems to enjoy acting like he was serving royalty at the +Waldorf. When we're just finished eating, he comes back with a pot of +steaming coffee and a pitcher of real cream. + +I'm dolloping the cream in, and it floats, when a thought hits me: We got +to leave a tip for this waiter. + +I whisper to Ben, "Hey, how much money you got?" + +He reaches in his pocket and fishes out a buck, a dime, and a quarter. We +study them. Figure coffees for a dime each, and the total check ought to +be $1.95. We've got $2.35 between us. We can still squeak through with bus +fare if we only leave the waiter a dime, which is pretty cheap. + +At that moment he comes back and refills our coffee cups and asks what we +will have for dessert. + +"Uh, nothing, nothing at all," I say. + +"Couldn't eat another thing," says Ben. + +So the waiter brings the check and along with it a plate of homemade +cookies. He says, "My wife make. On the house." + +We both thank him, and I look at Ben and he looks at me. I put down my +dollar and he puts down a dollar and a quarter. + +"Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. Come again," says the waiter. + +We walk into the street, and Ben spins the lone remaining dime in the sun. +I say, "Heads or tails?" + +"Huh? Heads." + +It comes up heads, so Ben keeps his own dime. He says, "We could have hung +onto enough for _one_ bus fare, but that's no use." + +"No use at all. 'Specially if it was yours." + +"Are we still heading for Fulton Street?" + +"Sure. We got to get fish for Cat." + +"It better be for free." + +We walk, threading across Manhattan and downtown. I guess it's thirty or +forty blocks, but after a good lunch it doesn't seem too far. + +You can smell the fish market when you're still quite a ways off. It runs +for a half a dozen blocks alongside the East River, with long rows of +sheds divided into stores for the different wholesalers. Around on the +side streets there are bars and fish restaurants. It's too bad we don't +have Cat with us because he'd love sniffing at all the fish heads and guts +and stuff on the street. Fish market business is done mostly in the +morning, I guess, and now men are hosing down the streets and sweeping +fish garbage up into piles. I get a guy to give me a bag and select a +couple of the choicer--and cleaner--looking bits. I get a nice red snapper +head and a small whole fish, looks like a mackerel. Ben acts as if fish +guts make him sick, and as soon as I've got a couple he starts saying +"Come on, come on, let's go." + +I realize when we're leaving that I don't even notice the fish smell +anymore. You just get used to it. We walk uptown, quite a hike, along East +Broadway and across Grand and Delancey. There's all kinds of intriguing +smells wafting around here: hot breads and pickles and fish cooking. This +is a real Jewish neighborhood, and you can sure tell it's a holiday from +the smell of all the dinners cooking. And lots of people are out in their +best clothes gabbing together. Some of the men wear black skullcaps, and +some of them have big black felt hats and long white beards. We go past a +crowd gathering outside a movie house. + +"They're not going to the movies," Ben says. "On holidays sometimes they +rent a movie theater for services. It must be getting near time. Come on, +I got to hurry." + +We trot along the next twenty blocks or so, up First Avenue and to Peter +Cooper. + +"So long," Ben says. "I'll come by Wednesday on the way to school." + +He goes off spinning his dime, and too late I think to myself that we +could have had a candy bar. + + + + + + 12 + + + [Illustration: Dave holding up lizard for Ben by pond in woods.] + + + + THE RED EFT + + + +Ben and I both take biology, and the first weekend assignment we get, +right after Rosh Hashanah, is to find and identify an animal native to New +York City and look up its family and species and life cycle. + +"What's a species?" says Ben. + +"I don't know. What's a life cycle?" + +We both scratch our heads, and he says, "What animals do we know?" + +I say, "Cat. And dogs and pigeons and squirrels." + +"That's dull. I want to get some animal no one else knows about." + +"Hey, how about a praying mantis? I saw one once in Gramercy Park." + +Ben doesn't even know what it is, so I tell him about this one I saw. For +an insect, it looks almost like a dragon, about four or five inches long +and pale green. When it flies, it looks like a baby helicopter in the sky. +We go into Gramercy Park to see if we can find another, but we can't. + +Ben says, "Let's go up to the Bronx Zoo Saturday and see what we can +find." + +"Stupid, they don't mean you to do lions and tigers. They're not native." + +"Stupid, yourself. They got other animals that are. Besides, there's lots +of woods and ponds. I might find something." + +Well, it's as good an idea for Saturday as any, so I say O.K. On account +of both being pretty broke, we take lunch along in my old school lunchbox. +Also six subway tokens--two extras for emergencies. Even I would be against +walking home from the Bronx. + +Of course there are plenty of native New York City animals in the +zoo--raccoons and woodchucks and moles and lots of birds--and I figure we +better start home not too late to get out the encyclopedias for species +and life cycles. Ben still wants to catch something wild and wonderful. +Like lots of city kids who haven't been in the country much, he's crazy +about nature. + +We head back to the subway, walking through the woods so he can hunt. We +go down alongside the pond and kick up rocks and dead trees to see if +anything is under them. + +It pays off. All of a sudden we see a tiny red tail disappearing under a +rotten log. I push the log again and Ben grabs. It's a tiny lizard, not +more than two or three inches long and brick red all over. Ben cups it in +both hands, and its throat pulses in and out, but it doesn't really try to +get away. + +"Hey, I love this one!" Ben cries. "I'm going to take him home and keep +him for a pet, as well as do a report on him. You can't keep cats and dogs +in Peter Cooper, but there's nothing in the rules about lizards." + +"How are you going to get him home?" + +"Dump the lunch. I mean--we'll eat it, but I can stab a hole in the top of +the box and keep Redskin in it. Come on, hurry! He's getting tired in my +hand I think!" + +Ben is one of those guys who is very placid most of the time, but he gets +excitable all of a sudden when he runs into something brand-new to him, +and I guess he never caught an animal to keep before. Some people's +parents are very stuffy about it. + +I dump the lunch out, and he puts the lizard in and selects some +particular leaves and bits of dead log to put in with him to make him feel +at home. Without even asking me, he takes out his knife and makes holes in +the top of my lunchbox. I sit down and open up a sandwich, but Ben is +still dancing around. + +"What do you suppose he is? He might be something very rare! How'm I going +to find out? You think we ought to go back and ask one of the zoo men?" + +"Umm, nah," I say, chewing. "Probably find him in the encyclopedia." + +Ben squats on a log, and the log rolls. As he falls over backward I see +two more lizards scuttle away. I grab one. "Hey, look! I got another. This +one's bigger and browner." + +Ben is up and dancing again. "Oh, boy, oh, boy! Now I got two! Now they'll +be happy! Maybe they'll have babies, huh?" + +He overlooks the fact that _I_ caught this one. Oh, well, I don't want a +lizard, anyway. Cat'd probably eat it. + +Ben takes it from me and slips it in the lunchbox. "I'm going to call this +one Big Brownie." + +Finally he calms down enough to eat lunch, taking peeks at his catch +between mouthfuls. As soon as he's finished eating, he starts hustling to +get home so he can make a house for them. He really acts like a kid. + +We get on the subway. It's aboveground--elevated--up here in the Bronx. +After a while I see Yankee Stadium off to one side, which is funny because +I don't remember seeing it when we were coming up. Pretty soon the train +goes underground. I remember then. Coming up, we changed trains once. Ben +has his eye glued to the edge of the lunchbox and he's talking to Redskin, +so I figure there's no use consulting him. I'll just wait and see where +this train seems to come out. It's got to go downtown. We go past +something called Lenox Avenue, which I think is in Harlem, then +Ninety-sixth Street, and then we're at Columbus Circle. + +"Hey, Ben, we're on the West Side subway," I say. + +"Yeah?" He takes a bored look out the window. + +"We can just walk across town from Fourteenth Street." + +"With you I always end up walking. Hey, what about those extra tokens?" + +"Aw, it's only a few blocks. Let's walk." + +Ben grunts, and he goes along with me. As we get near Union Square, there +seem to be an awful lot of people around. In fact they're jamming the +sidewalk and we can hardly move. Ben frowns at them and says, "Hey, what +goes?" + +I ask a man, and he says, "Where you been, sonny? Don'tcha know there's a +parade for General Sparks?" + +I remember reading about it now, so I poke Ben. "Hey, push along! We can +see Sparks go by!" + +"Quit pushing and don't try to be funny." + +"Stupid, he's a general. Test pilot, war hero, and stuff. Come on, push." + +"QUIT PUSHING! I got to watch out for these lizards!" + +So I go first and edge us through the crowd to the middle of the block, +where there aren't so many people and we can get up next to the police +barrier. Cops on horseback are going back and forth, keeping the street +clear. No sign of any parade coming yet, but people are throwing rolls of +paper tape and handfuls of confetti out of upper-story windows. The wind +catches the paper tape and carries it up and around in all kinds of +fantastic snakes. Little kids keep scuttling under the barrier to grab +handfuls of ticker tape that blow to the ground. Ben keeps one eye on the +street and one on Redskin and Brownie. + +"How soon you think they're coming?" he asks fretfully. + +People have packed in behind us, and we couldn't leave now if we wanted +to. Pretty soon we can see a helicopter flying low just a little ways +downtown, and people all start yelling, "That's where they are! They're +coming!" + +Suddenly a bunch of motorcycle cops zoom past, and then a cop backing up a +police car at about thirty miles an hour, which is a very +surprising-looking thing. Before I've hardly got my eyes off that, the +open cars come by. This guy Sparks is sitting up on the back of the car, +waving with both hands. By the time I see him, he's almost past. +Nice-looking, though. Everyone yells like crazy and throws any kind of +paper they've got. Two little nuts beside us have a box of Wheaties, so +they're busy throwing Breakfast of Champions. As soon as the motorcade is +past, people push through the barriers and run in the street. + +Ben hunches over to protect his precious animals and yells, "Come on! +Let's get out of this!" + +We go into my house first because I'm pretty sure we've got a wooden box. +We find it and take it down to my room, and Ben gets extra leaves and +grass and turns the lizards into it. He's sure they need lots of fresh air +and exercise. Redskin scoots out of sight into a corner right away. Big +Brownie sits by a leaf and looks around. + +"Let's go look up what they are," I say. + +The smallest lizard they show in the encyclopedia is about six inches +long, and it says lizards are reptiles and have scales and claws and +should not be confused with salamanders, which are amphibians and have +thin moist skin and no claws. So we look up salamanders. + +This is it, all right. The first picture on the page looks just like +Redskin, and it says he's a Red Eft. The Latin name for his species is +_Triturus viridescens_, or in English just a common newt. + +"Hey, talk about life cycles, listen to this," says Ben, reading. "'It +hatches from an egg in the water and stays there during its first summer +as a dull-green larva. Then its skin becomes a bright orange, it absorbs +its gills, develops lungs and legs, and crawls out to live for about three +years in the woods. When fully mature, its back turns dull again, and it +returns to the water to breed.'" + +Ben drops the book. "Brownie must be getting ready to breed! What'd I tell +you? We got to put him near water!" He rushes down to my room. + +We come to the door and stop short. There's Cat, poised on the edge of the +box. + +I grab, but no kid is as fast as a cat. Hearing me coming, he makes his +grab for the salamander. Then he's out of the box and away, with Big +Brownie's tail hanging out of his mouth. He goes under the bed. + +Ben screams, "Get him! Kill him! He's got my Brownie!" He's in a frenzy, +and I don't blame him. It does make you mad to see your pet get hurt. I +run for a broom to try to poke Cat out, but it isn't any use. Meanwhile, +Ben finds Redskin safe in the box, and he scoops him back into the +lunchbox. + +Finally, we move the bed, and there is Cat poking daintily with his paw at +Brownie. The salamander is dead. Ben grabs the broom and bashes Cat. Cat +hisses and skids down the hall. "That rotten cat! I wish I could kill him! +What'd you ever have him for?" + +I tell Ben I'm sorry, and I get him a little box so he can bury Brownie. +You can't really blame Cat too much--that's just the way a cat is made, to +chase anything that wiggles and runs. Ben calms down after a while, and we +go back to the encyclopedia to finish looking up about the Red Eft. + +"I don't think Brownie was really ready to lay eggs, or he would have been +in the pond already," I say. "Tell you what. We could go back some day +with a jar and try to catch one in the water." + +That cheers Ben up some. He finishes taking notes for his report and +tracing a picture, and then he goes home with Redskin in the lunchbox. I +pull out the volume for C. + +Cat. Family, _Felidae_, including lions and tigers. Species, _Felis +domesticus_. I start taking notes: "'The first civilized people to keep +cats were the Egyptians, thirteen centuries before Christ.... Fifty +million years earlier the ancestor of the cat family roamed the earth, and +he is the ancestor of all present-day carnivores. The Oligocene cats, +thirty million years ago, were already highly specialized, and the habits +and physical characteristics of cats have been fixed since then. This may +explain why house cats remain the most independent of pets, with many of +the instincts of their wild ancestors.'" + +I call Ben up to read him this, and he says, "You and your lousy +carnivore! _My_ salamander is an amphibian, and amphibians are the +ancestors of _all_ the animals on earth, even you and your Cat, you sons +of toads!" + + + + + + 13 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Mary in wind on boardwalk at beach.] + + + + THE LEFT BANK OF CONEY ISLAND + + + +Columbus Day comes up as cold as Christmas. I listen to the weather +forecast the night before, to see how it'll be for the beach. "High winds, +unseasonably low temperatures," the guy says. He would. + +I get up at eight-thirty the next morning, though, figuring he'd be wrong +and it would be a nice sunny day. I slip on my pants and shirt and go +downstairs with Cat to have a look out. Cat slides out and is halfway down +the stoop when a blast of cold wind hits him. His tail goes up and he +spooks back in between my legs. I push the door shut against the icy wind. + +Mom is sitting in the kitchen drinking her tea and she says, "My goodness, +why are you up so early on a holiday? Do you feel sick?" + +"Nah, I'm all right." I pour out a cup of coffee to warm my hands on and +dump in three or four spoons of sugar. + +"Davey, have you got a chill? You don't look to me as if you felt quite +right." + +"Mom, for Pete's sake, it's COLD out! I feel fine." + +"Well, you don't have to go out. Why don't you just go back to bed and +snooze and read a bit, and I'll bring you some breakfast." + +I see it's got to be faced, so while I'm getting down the cereal and a +bowl, I say, "Well, as a matter of fact, I'm going over to Coney Island +today." + +"Coney ISLAND!" Mom sounds like it was Siberia. "What in the world are you +going to do there in the middle of winter?" + +"Mom, it's only Columbus Day. We figured we'd go to the aquarium and +then--uh--well, fool around. Some of the pitches are still open, and we'll +get hot dogs and stuff." + +"Who's going? Nick?" + +"Nick wasn't sure--I'll stop by his house and see." I'd just as soon steer +clear of this "who's going" business, so I start into a long spiel about +how we're studying marine life in biology, and we have to take some notes +at the aquarium. Mom is swallowing this pretty well, but Pop comes into +the kitchen just then and gives me the fishy eye. + +"First time I ever heard of you spending a holiday on homework. I bet they +got a new twist palace going out there." + +I slam down my coffee cup. "Holy cats! Can't I walk out of here on a +holiday without going through the third degree? What am I, some kind of a +nut or a convict?" + +"Just a growing boy," says Pop. "And don't talk so sassy to your mother." + +"I'm talking to you!" + +Pop draws in a breath to start bellowing, but Mom beats him to it by +starting to wheeze, which she can do without drawing breath. + +Pop pats her on the shoulder and gives me a dirty look. "Now, Agnes, +that's all right. I'm not sore. I was just trying to kid him a little bit, +and he flies off the handle." + +_I_ fly off the handle! How do you like that? + +I give Mom a kiss. "Cheer up, Mom. I won't ride on the roller coaster. +It's not even running." + +I grab a sweater and gloves and money and get out before they can start +anymore questions. On the subway I start wondering if Mary will show up. +It's almost two months since we made this sort of crazy date, and the +weather sure isn't helping any. + +Coney Island is made to be crowded and noisy. All the billboards scream at +you, as if they had to get your attention. So when the place is empty, it +looks like the whole thing was a freak or an accident. + +It's sure empty today. There's practically no one on the street in the +five or six blocks from the subway station to the aquarium. But it's not +quiet. There are a few places open--merry-go-rounds and hot-dog shops--and +tinny little trickles of music come out of them, but the big noise is the +wind. All the signs are swinging and screeching. Rubbish cans blow over +and their tops clang and bang rolling down the street. The wind makes a +whistling noise all by itself. + +I lean into the wind and walk up the empty street. My sweater is about as +warm as a sieve. I wonder if I'm crazy to have come. No girl would get out +on a boardwalk on a day like this. It must be practically a hurricane. + +She's there, though. As soon as I turn the corner to the beach, I can see +one figure, with its back to the ocean, scarf and hair blowing inland +toward me. I can't see her face, but it's Mary, all right. There isn't +another soul in sight. I wave and she hunches her shoulders up and down to +semaphore, not wishing to take her hands out of her pockets. + +I come up beside her on the boardwalk and turn my back to the ocean, too. +I'd like to go on looking at it--it's all black and white and thundery--but +the wind blows your breath right back down into your stomach. I freeze. + +"I was afraid you wouldn't come on a day like this," I say. + +"Me too. I mean I was afraid _you_ wouldn't." + +"Mom and Pop thought I was crazy. I spent about an hour arguing with them. +What'd your mother say?" + +"Nothing. She thinks I'm walking alone with the wind in my hair, thinking +poetic thoughts." + +"Huh? What for?" + +Mary shrugs. "Mom's like that. You'll see. Come on, let's go home and make +cocoa or something to warm up, and then we'll think up something to do. We +can't just stand here." + +She's right about that, so I don't argue. Her house is a few blocks away, +a two-family type with a sloped driveway going down into a cellar garage. +Neat. My pop is always going nuts hunting for a place to park. + +Mary goes in and shouts, "Hi, Nina! I brought a friend home. We're going +to make some cocoa. We're freezing." + +I wonder who Nina is. I don't hear her mother come into the kitchen. Then +I turn around and there she is. Holy crow! We got some pretty beat-looking +types at school, but this is the first time I've ever seen a beatnik +mother. + +She's got on a black T-shirt and blue jeans and old sneakers, and her hair +is in a long braid, with uneven bangs in front. + +Mary waves a saucepan vaguely at us both and says, "Nina--Davey--this is my +mother." + +So Nina is her mother. I stick out my hand. "Uh--how do you do?" + +"Hel-looo." Her voice is low and musical. "I think there is coffee on the +stove." + +"I thought I'd make cocoa for a change," says Mary. + +"All right." Nina puts a cigarette in her mouth and offers one to me. + +I say, "No, thank you." + +"Tell me...." She talks in this low, intense kind of voice. "Are you in +school with Mary?" + +So I tell her I live in Manhattan, and how I ran into Mary when I had Cat +on the beach, because that makes it sound sort of respectable, not like a +pickup. But she doesn't seem to be interested in Cat and the beach. + +"What do you _read_? In your school?" she asks, launching each question +like a torpedo. + +I remember Mary saying something about her mother and poetry, so I say, +"Well, uh--last week we read 'The Highwayman' and 'The Wreck of the +Hesperus.' They're about--I mean, we were studying metaphors and similes. +Looking at the ocean today, I sure can see what Longfellow meant about the +icy...." + +I thought I was doing pretty well, but she cut me off again. + +"Don't you read any _real_ poetry? Donne? Auden? Baudelaire?" + +Three more torpedoes. "We didn't get to them yet." + +Nina blows out a great angry cloud of smoke and explodes, "Schools!" Then +she sails out of the kitchen. + +I guess I look a little shook up. Mary laughs and shoves a mug of cocoa +and a plate of cinnamon toast in front of me. "Don't mind Mother. She just +can't get used to New York schools. Or Coney Island. Or hardly anything +around here. + +"She grew up on the Left Bank in Paris. Her father was an artist and her +mother was a writer, and they taught her to read at home, starting with +Chaucer, probably. She never read a kids' book in her life. + +"Anything I ever tell her about school pretty much sounds either childish +or stupid to her. What I really love is science--experiments and stuff--and +she can't see that for beans." + +"Our science teacher is a dope," I say, because she is, "so I really never +got very interested in science. But I told Mom and Dad I was coming to the +aquarium to take notes today, so they wouldn't kick up such a fuss." + +Mary shakes her head. "We ought to get our mothers together. Mine thinks +I'm wasting time if I even _go_ to the aquarium. I do, though, all the +time. I love the walrus." + +"What does your pop do?" + +"Father? He teaches philosophy at Brooklyn College. So I get it from both +sides. Just think, think, think. Father and Nina aren't hardly even +interested in _food_. Once in a while Nina spends all day cooking some +great fish soup or a chicken in wine, but the rest of the time I'm the +only one who takes time off from thinking to cook a hamburger. They live +on rolls and coffee and sardines." + +Mary puts our cups in the sink and then opens a low cupboard. Instead of +pots and pans it has stacks of records in it. She pulls out _West Side +Story_ and then I see there's a record player on a side table. What d'you +know? A record player in the kitchen! This Left Bank style of living has +its advantages. + +"I sit down here and eat and play records while I do my homework," says +Mary, which sounds pretty nice. + +I ask her if she has any Belafonte, and she says, "Yes, a couple," but she +puts on something else. It's slow, but sort of powerful, and it makes you +feel kind of powerful yourself, as if you could do anything. + +"What's that?" I ask. + +"It's called 'The Moldau'--that's a river in Europe. It's by a Czech named +Smetana." + +I wander around the kitchen and look out the window. The wind's still +howling, but not so hard. I remember the ocean, all gray and powerful, +spotted with whitecaps. I'd like to be out on it. + +"You know what'd be fun?" I say out loud. "To be out in a boat on the +harbor today. If you didn't sink." + +"We could take the Staten Island ferry," Mary says. + +"Huh?" I hadn't even thought there was really any boat we could get on. +"Really? Where do you get it?" + +"Down at Sixty-ninth Street and Fourth Avenue. It's quite a ways. I've +always gone there in a car. But maybe we could do it on bikes, if we don't +freeze." + +"We won't freeze. But what about bikes?" + +"You can use my brother's. He's away at college. Maybe I can find a +windbreaker of his, too." + +She finds the things and we get ready and go into the living room, where +Nina is sitting reading and sipping a glass of wine. + +"We're going on our bikes to the ferry and over to Staten Island," Mary +says. She doesn't even ask. + +"Oh-h-h." It's a long, low note, faintly questioning. + +"We thought with the wind blowing and all, it'd be exciting," Mary +explains, and I think, Uh-o, that's going to cook it. _My_ mother would +have kittens if I said I was going out on a ferry in a storm. + +But Nina just says, "I see," and goes back to reading her book. I say +good-bye and she looks up again and smiles, and that's all. + +It's another funny thing--Nina doesn't seem to pay any attention to who +Mary brings home, like most mothers are always snooping if their daughter +brings home a guy. Without stopping to think, I say, "Do you bring home a +lot of guys?" + +Mary laughs. "Not a lot. Sometimes one of the boys at school comes home +when we're studying for a science test." + +I laugh, too, but what I'm thinking of is how Pop would look if I brought +a girl home and said we were studying for a test! + + + + + + 14 + + + [Illustration: Dave and Mary on ferry with other people.] + + + + EXPEDITION BY FERRY + + + +As we ride through Brooklyn the wind belts us around from both sides and +right in the teeth. But the sun's beginning to break through, and it's +easy riding, no hills. + +This part of Brooklyn is mostly rows of houses joined together, or low +apartment buildings, with little patches of lawn in front of them. There's +lots of trees along the streets. It doesn't look anything like Manhattan, +but not anything like the country, either. It's just Brooklyn. + +All of a sudden we're circling a golf course. What d'you know? Right in +New York City! + +"Ever play golf?" The wind snatches the words out of my mouth and carries +them back to Mary. I see her mouth shaping like a "No," but no sound comes +my way. I drop back beside her and say, "I'll show you sometime. My pop's +got a set of clubs I used a couple of times." + +"Probably I better carry the clubs and you play. I can play tennis, +though." + +We pass the golf course and head down into a sort of main street. Anyway +there's lots of banks and dime stores and traffic. Mary leads the way. We +make a couple of turns and zigzags and then go under the parkway, and +there's the ferry. It's taken us most of an hour to get from Mary's house. + +I'm hoping the ferry isn't too expensive, so I'll have plenty of money +left for a good lunch. But while I'm mooning, Mary has wheeled her bike +right up and paid her own fare. Well, I guess that's one of the things I +like about her. She's independent. Still, I'm going to buy lunch. + +The ferry is terrific. I'm going to come ride ferries every day it's +windy. The boat doesn't roll any, but we stand right up in front and the +wind blows clouds of spray in our faces. You can pretend you're on a +full-rigged schooner running before a hurricane. But you look down at that +choppy gray water, and you know you'd be done if you got blown overboard, +even if it is just an old ferryboat in New York harbor. + +The ferry ride is fast, only about fifteen minutes. We ride off in Staten +Island and start thinking where to go. I know what's first with me. + +I ask Mary, "What do you like, hamburgers or sandwiches?" + +"Both. I mean either," she says. + +The first place we see is a delicatessen, which is about my favorite kind +of place to eat anyway. I order a hot pastrami, and Mary says she never +had one, but she'll try the same. + +"Where could we go on Staten Island?" I say. "I never was here before." + +"About the only place I've been is the zoo. I've been there lots of times. +The vet let me watch her operate on a snake once." + +This is a pretty surprising thing for a girl to tell you in the middle of +a mouthful of hot pastrami. The pastrami is great, and they put it on a +roll with a lot of olives and onions and relish. Mary likes it too. + +"Is the vet a woman? Aren't you scared of snakes?" + +"Uh-un, I never was really. But when you're watching an operation, you get +so interested you don't think about it being icky or scary. The vet is a +woman. She's been there quite a while." + +I digest this along with the rest of my sandwich. Then we both have a +piece of apple pie. You can tell from the way the crust looks--browned and +a little uneven--that they make it right here. + +"So shall we go to the zoo?" Mary asks. + +"O.K." I get up to get her coat and mine. When I turn around, there she is +up by the cashier, getting ready to pay her check. + +"Hey, I'm buying lunch," I say, steaming up with the other check. + +"Oh, that's all right." She smiles. "I've got it." + +I don't care if she's _got_ it. I want to _pay_ it. I suppose it's a silly +thing to get sore about, but it sort of annoys me. Anyway, how do you +maneuver around to do something for a girl when she doesn't even know you +want to? + +The man in the deli gives us directions to get to the zoo, which isn't +far. It's a low brick building in a nice park. In the lobby there are some +fish tanks, then there's a wing for birds on one side, animals on the +other, and snakes straight ahead. + +We go for snakes. Mary really seems to like them. + +She says, "The vet here likes them, and I guess she got me interested. You +know, they don't really understand how a snake moves? Mechanically, I +mean. She's trying to find out." + +We look at them all, little ones and big ones, and then we go watch the +birds. The keeper is just feeding them. The parrot shouts at him, and the +pelican and the eagles gobble up their fish and raw meat, but the vulture +just sits on his perch looking bored. Probably needs a desert and a dying +Legionnaire to whet his appetite. + +In the animal wing a strange-looking dame is down at the end, talking to a +sleepy tiger. + +"Come on, darling, just a little roar. Couldn't you give me just a soft +one today?" she's cooing at him. The tiger blinks and looks away. + +The lady notices us standing there and says, "He's my baby. I've been +coming to see him for fourteen years. Some days he roars for me +beautifully." + +She has a short conversation with the lion, then moves along with us +toward the small cats, a puma and a jaguar. She looks in the next cage, +which is empty, and shakes her head mournfully. + +"I had the sweetest little leopard. He died last week. Would you believe +it? The zoo never let me know he was sick. I could have come and helped +take care of him. I might have saved his life." + +She goes on talking, sometimes to herself, sometimes to the puma, and we +cross over to look at two otters chasing each other up an underwater +tunnel. + +"What is she, some kind of nut?" Mary says. "Does she think this is her +private zoo?" + +I shrug. "I suppose she's a little off. But so's my Aunt Kate, the one who +gave me Cat. They just happen to like cats better than people. Kate thinks +all the stray cats in the world are her children, and I guess this one +feels the same way about the big cats here." + +We mosey around a little bit more and then head back to the ferry. I make +good and sure I'm ahead, and I get to the ticket office and buy two +tickets. + +"Would you care for a ride across the harbor in my yacht?" I say. + +"Why, of course. I'd be delighted," says Mary. + +A small thing, but it makes me feel good. + +Over in Brooklyn I see a clock on a bank, and it says five o'clock. I do +some fast calculating and say, "Uh-oh, I better phone. I'll never make it +home by dinnertime." + +I phone and get Pop. He's home early from work. Just my luck. + +"I got to get this bike back to this kid in Coney," I tell him. "Then I'll +be right home. About seven." + +"What do you mean _this_ bike and _this_ kid? Who? Anyway, I thought you +were already at Coney Island." + +I suppose lawyers just get in the habit of asking questions. I start +explaining. "Well, it was awfully cold over in Coney, and we thought we'd +go over to Staten Island on the ferry and go to the zoo. So now we just +got back to Brooklyn, and I'm downtown and I got to take the bike back." + +"So who's 'we'? You got a rat in your pocket?" + +I can distract Mom but not Pop. "Well, actually, it's a girl named Mary. +It's her brother's bike. He's away in college." + +All I can hear now is Pop at the other end of the line, laughing his head +off. + +"So what's so funny about that?" + +"Nothing," he says. "Nothing. Only now I can see what all the shouting was +about at breakfast." + +"Oh." + +"O.K. Now mind you get that girl, as _well_ as the bicycle of the brother +who goes to college, home safe. Hear? I'll tell your mother you narrowly +escaped drowning, and she'll probably save you a bone for dinner. O.K.?" + +"O.K. Bye." + +Him and his jokes. Ha, ha, ha. Funny, though, him worrying about me +getting Mary home safe, when her own mother doesn't worry any. + +We start along toward her house slowly, as there's a good deal of traffic +now. I'm wondering how to see Mary again without having to ask for her +number and phoning and making a date. Something about telephoning I don't +like. Besides, I'd probably go out to a pay phone so the family wouldn't +listen, and that'd make me feel stupid to begin with. + +Just then we start rounding the golf course, and I whack the handle bar of +my bike and say, "Hey, that's it!" + +"What's it?" + +"Golf. Let's play golf. Not now, I don't mean. Next holiday. We've got +Election Day coming up. I'll borrow Pop's clubs and take the subway and +meet you here. How about ten o'clock?" + +"Hunh?" Mary looks startled. "Well, I suppose I could try, or anyway I +could walk around." + +"It's easy. I'll show you." The two times I played, I only hit the ball +decently about four or five times. But the times I _did_ hit it, it seemed +easy. + +We get to Mary's house and I put the bikes away and give her back her +brother's jacket. "I guess I'll go right along. It's getting late. See you +Election Day." + +"O.K., bye. Say--thanks for the ferry ride!" + + + + + + 15 + + + [Illustration: Cat eating turkey neck from bowl on floor.] + + + + DOLLARS AND CATS + + + +Wednesday night before Thanksgiving I go down to the delicatessen to buy +some coke, so I can really enjoy myself watching TV. Tom is just finishing +work at the flower shop, and I ask him if he wants to come along home. + +"Nah. Thanks. I got to be at work early tomorrow." He doesn't sound too +cheery. + +"How's the job going?" + +"O.K., I guess." We walk along a little ways. "The job's not bad, but I +don't want to be a florist all my life, and I can't see this job will +train me for anything else." + +That seems pretty true. It must be tough not getting regular holidays off, +too. "You have to work all day tomorrow?" I ask. + +"I open the store up at seven and start working on orders we've already +got. I'll get through around three or four." + +"Hey, you want to come for dinner? We're not eating till evening." + +Tom grins. "You cooking the dinner? Maybe you better ask your mother." + +"It'll be all right with Mom. Look, I'll ask her and come let you know in +the store tomorrow, O.K.?" + +"Hmm. Well, sure. Thanks. I've got a date with Hilda later in the evening, +but she's got to eat with her folks first." + +"O.K. See you tomorrow." + +"Right." + +Mom says it's all right about Tom coming, so I go down and tell him in the +morning. Turns out Mom has asked Kate to have dinner with us, too, which +is quite a step. For Kate, I mean. I think she would have turned the +invitation down, except no one can bear to hurt Mom's feelings. Kate's +been in our house before, of course, but then she just came in to chat or +have tea or something. It wasn't like an invitation. + +She comes, and she looks like someone from another world. I've never seen +her in anything but her old skirts and sneakers, so the "good clothes" +she's wearing now must have been hanging in a closet twenty years. The +dress and shoes are way out of style, and she's carrying a real old black +patent-leather pocketbook. Usually she just lugs her old cloth shopping +bag, mostly full of cat goodies. Come to think of it, that's it: Kate +lives in a world that is just her own and the cats'. I never saw her +trying to fit into the ordinary world before. + +Cat knows her right away, though. Clothes don't fool him. He rubs her leg +and curls up on the sofa beside her, still keeping a half-open eye on the +oven door in the kitchen, where the turkey is roasting. + +Tom comes in, also in city clothes--a white shirt and tie and jacket--the +first time I ever saw him in them. He sits down on the other side of Cat, +who stretches one paw out toward him negligently. + +Looking at Kate and Tom sitting there on the sofa, both looking a little +ill at ease, I get a funny idea. My family is starting to collect people +the way Kate collects homeless cats. Of course, Kate and Tom aren't +homeless. They're people-less--not part of any family. I think Mom always +wanted more people to take care of, so she's glad to have them. + +Kidding, I ask Kate, "How many cats at your home for Thanksgiving dinner?" + +She stops stroking Cat a minute and thinks. "Hmm, Susan's got four new +kittens, just got their eyes open. A beautiful little orange one and three +tigers. Then there's two big kittens, strays, and one old stray tom. Makes +eight, that's all. Sometimes I've had lots more than that." + +"Doesn't the landlord ever object?" Pop asks. + +Kate snorts. "Him! Huh! I pay my rent. And I have my own padlock on the +door, so he can't come snooping around." + +We all sit down to dinner. Pop gives Cat the turkey neck to crunch up in +the kitchen. He finishes that and crouches and stares at us eating. Kate +gives him tidbits, which I'm not supposed to do. I don't think she really +wants to eat the turkey herself. She's pretty strictly a fruit and yogurt +type. + +After dinner Tom leaves to meet Hilda, and I walk home with Kate, carrying +a bag of scraps and giblets for her cats. While she's fiddling with the +two sets of keys to open her door, the man next door sticks his head out. +"Messenger was here a little while ago with a telegram for you. Wouldn't +give it to me." + +"A telegram?" Kate gapes. + +"Yeah. He'll be back." The man looks pleased, like he's been able to +deliver some bad news, and pulls his head in and shuts his door. + +We go into Kate's apartment, and cats come meowing and rubbing against her +legs, and they jump up on the sink and rub and nudge the bag of scraps +when she puts it down. Kate is muttering rapidly to herself and fidgeting +with her coat and bag and not really paying much attention to the cats, +which is odd. + +"Lots of people send telegrams on holidays. It's probably just greetings," +I say. + +"Not to me, they don't!" Kate snaps, also sounding as if they better +hadn't. + +I go over to play with the little kittens. The marmalade-colored one is +the strongest of the litter, and he's learned to climb out of the box. He +chases my fingers. Kate finishes feeding the big cats, and she strides +over and scoops him back into the box. "You stay in there. You'll get +stepped on." She drops Susan back in with her babies to take care of them. + +The doorbell rings, and Kate yanks open the door, practically bowling over +an ancient little messenger leaning sleepily against the side of the door. + +"Take it easy, lady, take it easy. Just sign here," he says. + +She signs, hands him the pencil, and slams the door. The orange kitten has +got out again, and Kate does come close to stepping on him as she walks +across the room tearing open the telegram. He doesn't know enough to dodge +feet yet. I scoop him back in this time. + +Kate reads the telegram and sits down. She looks quite calm now. She says, +"Well, he died." + +"Huh? Who?" + +"My brother. He's the only person in the world I know who would send me a +telegram. So he's dead now." + +She repeats it, and I can't figure whether to say I'm sorry or what. I +always thought when someone heard of a death in the family, there'd be a +lot of crying and commotion. Kate looks perfectly calm, but strange +somehow. + +"Has he been sick?" + +Kate shakes her head. "I don't know. I haven't seen him in twenty years." + +There is silence a moment, and then Kate goes on, talking half to herself +and half to me. "Mean old coot. He never talked to anyone, except about +his money. That's all he cared about. Once he tried to get me to give him +money to invest. That's the last time I saw him. He has an old house way +up in the Bronx. But we never did get along, even when we were kids." + +"Did he have a wife or anything? Who sent the telegram?" + +"He's had a housekeeper. Just as mean as him. She'd buy him day-old bread +and dented cans of soup because they were cheaper. She suited him +fine--saved him money and never talked to him. Well, she'll get his money +now, if he left any. That's what she's been waiting for. She sent me the +wire." + +Twenty years, I think. That's a long time not to be speaking to your own +brother, and him living just a ten-cent phone call away. I wonder. She +couldn't just not give a hoot about him. They must have been real mad at +each other. And mad at the whole world, too. Makes you wonder what kind of +parents _they_ had, with one of them growing up loving only cats and the +other only money. + +Kate is staring out the window and stroking the old stray tomcat between +the ears, and it hits me: there isn't a person in the world she loves or +even hates. I like cats fine, too, but if I didn't have people that +mattered, it wouldn't be so good. I say "So long" quietly and go out. + + + + + + 16 + + + [Illustration: Reporters and photographers crowding in on Kate.] + + + + FORTUNE + + + +"I always wondered if the poor soul had any relatives." That's what Mom +says when I tell her about Kate's telegram. "And now she's lost her only +brother. That's sad." + +"I think it's sad she never talked to him for twenty years. All these +years I've wished I had a brother," I say. + +"If it's her only brother, she's going to have to do something about his +estate," says Pop. That legal mind, it never rests. I guess he's got a +point about this, though. How is Kate going to deal with lawyers, or +undertakers, or anyone? She can't hardly stand to _talk_ to people like +that. + +"What'll she have to do?" + +"Maybe I better go see her tomorrow," says Pop. "There can be lots of +things--see if he left a will, if he owes any taxes, if he has property +that has to be taken care of or sold. You can't tell." + +"Kate said he was a miser. Maybe he left her a million. Say, that'd be +great!" + +"Don't be a dope!" Pop snaps, and he really sounds angry, so I pipe down. + +The next morning Pop tells me to go over and see how Kate is. "The way she +feels about people, I don't like to just barge in. I'll come by in ten +minutes, like I was picking you up to go to a movie or something." + +I saunter round the corner onto Third Avenue and stop short. There are two +newspaper cars pulled up in front of Kate's building, one red and one +black, and a sizable knot of people gathered on the sidewalk. I move in +among them. + +"That crazy cat lady ... he musta been a nut too ... left her about a +million ... a lotta rich cats, how d'ya like that...." + +So I guess he did leave her money, and all of a sudden I see it isn't +"great." It's going to be trouble. I push through the people and go +upstairs without anyone stopping me. When I open Kate's door, old stray +tomcat shoots out. He's leaving, and I can see why. + +Kate's room is tiny, and it looks like it's filled with a mob. Maybe it's +only half a dozen guys, but the photographers are pushing around trying to +get shots and the reporters are jabbering. + +Orange kitten sticks his head out of the box. Then out he comes, into the +sea of feet. I drop him back in and try to get across to Kate. She's +pretty well backed into a corner and looking ready to jump out the window. +She has her arms folded in front of her, each hand clenching the other +elbow, as if to hold herself together. A reporter with a bunch of scratch +paper in his hand is crowding her. + +"Miss Carmichael"--funny, I never even knew her last name before--"I just +want to ask one or two questions. Could you tell us when you last saw your +brother?" + +"No, I couldn't," she snaps, drawing her head down between her shoulders +and trying to melt into the wall. + +"Watcha going to do with the money?" a photographer asks. He picks up a +cat, one of the big stray kittens, and dumps it on Kate. The cat clings to +her and the photographer says, "Hold it now. Just let me snap a picture." + +He takes two steps back. + +At the first step the room is silent. At the second step a shattering +caterwaul goes up. He has stepped on the adventurous orange kitten. + +The scream freezes us all, except Kate. She shoots out of her corner, +knowing instantly what has happened. The kitten is jerking slightly now, +and bright, bright blood is coming out of its mouth. With one violent, +merciful stroke Kate finishes it. She picks the limp body up and wraps it +neatly in a paper towel and places it in the wastebasket. + +The room is still silent for one congealed instant. Kate seems almost to +have forgotten the crowd of men. Then two of them make hastily for the +door. The photographer shuffles his feet and says, "Gee, m'am, I didn't +mean ... I wouldn't for the world...." + +Kate whirls and screams at him: "Get out! Get out, all of you! Leave me +and my cats alone! I never asked you in here!" + +At that moment my pop comes in the door. Of course he doesn't know +anything about the kitten, but he takes in the general situation and herds +the two remaining newspapermen to the door. He gives them his card and +home address and tells them to look him up a little later. + +My knees suddenly feel weak and I slump onto the sofa, and my eyes swivel +round to the little package in the wastebasket. It would be the strongest +one. I really never saw anything get killed right in front of me before. +It hits you. + +Pop is trying to calm Kate down. She's facing him, grabbing each sleeve of +his coat. "What am I going to do? What can I do? I don't want his money. I +don't want anything from anyone. I just want to be let alone!" + +"Take it easy, Kate, take it easy. You don't have to let anyone into your +apartment. About the inheritance, well, I'll have to look into that." Over +his shoulder Pop signals to me to go home and get Mom. + +I go home and explain the situation to Mom, and she comes back with me. +One photographer and a couple of reporters are still hanging around, and +the guy snaps a picture of me and Mom at the door. Mom scoots on up. Bad +as I feel, I still get a charge out of getting my picture taken for a +paper. + +"Hey, kid," one of the reporters shoves in front of me, "about this Miss +Carmichael. Does she act pretty strange, like talking to herself on the +street and stuff?" + +I see the story he's trying to build up. While it's true in a way, if you +really know Kate it's not. Anyway, I'm against it. I say, "Nah. She's all +right. She's just sort of scared of people, and she likes cats." + +"How many cats she got?" + +There have been up to a dozen on a busy day, but again I play it down. +"She's got a mother cat with kittens. Sometimes a stray or two. Don't get +sucked in by all that jazz these dumb kids around here'll give you." + +"She gets all that money, you think she'll buy a big house, set up a home +for stray cats?" + +I shrug. "I don't know. She doesn't want the money anyway. She just wants +to be let alone." + +"Doesn't want the money!" the photographer chips in. "Boy, she must be +_really_ nuts! I'm going back to the office." + +The reporter says he's going to wait and talk to my pop, and I go on +upstairs to see what's doing. + +Kate is sitting on the sofa, sniffing and wiping her eyes and muttering, +but looking calmer. Mom is making tea. Pop is looking out the window, +scratching his head. + +Kate gulps and draws a big breath. "Tell them I don't want his old money. +Tell them to give it to someone else. Tell them to leave me alone. I just +want my own place and my cats. They can't make me move, can they? I've +lived here thirty years. I couldn't go anyplace else." + +She gulps and sniffs some more, and Mom brings her a cup of tea. The stray +kittens jump up to see if it's anything good and nuzzle into her lap. Kate +takes a sip of tea and asks Pop again, "They can't make me move, can +they?" This seems to be what worries her most. + +"No-o," says Pop, "it's only...." + +He's interrupted by a knock on the door, and I go open it a crack. A guy +says he's the landlord. As soon as Kate hears his voice, she yelps at him, +"I paid my rent, first of the month like always. Don't you come bothering +me!" + +"It's about the cats," he says. "People outside saying you got a dozen +cats in here. There's a law, you know." + +He's a seedy-looking, whining kind of a man, and he looks real pleased +with himself when he says there's a law about cats. + +Kate jumps right at him. "I'm not breaking any laws. I know you. You just +want to get me out of here and rent the place for more money. You leave me +alone!" + +The man whines, "There's a law, that's all. I don't want no violation +slapped on my building." + +Pop comes over and tells the man there's just a mother cat with kittens. +"There's a couple of strays here, too, right now, but I'll take them home +with me." + +"There's a law, that's all. Also, I got a right to inspect the premises." +Pop shows no signs of letting him in, and he shuffles and grumbles and +goes away. + +"Lock the door," Kate snaps. "I keep it locked all the time." + +Pop says he's going home to make some phone calls and try to figure out +what's going on. He takes down the name and address of Kate's brother and +asks her if she's sure there are no other relatives. She says she never +heard of any. Pop goes, and Kate insists that I lock the door after him. + +She gets up and starts stirring around getting food out for the cats. She +buys fish and chicken livers for them, even though she hardly eats any +meat herself. She listens at the back door a moment to make sure no one's +out there, then opens the door and puts out the garbage and wastebasket. +There goes the adventurous kitten. You got to hand it to Kate. She has no +sniffling sentimentality about her cats. Kitten's dead, it's dead, that's +all. She doesn't mope over the limp mite of fur. In fact, anything to do +with cats she's got sense and guts. They're her family. I don't know that +I could have put that kitten out of its misery. + +Just as long as the world doesn't throw any stray fortunes at her, Kate +does fine. But when people get in her way, she needs someone like Pop. + +Mom says she'll stick around a while and tells me to take the two stray +kittens home, just in case the landlord comes back trying to make trouble. + +"O.K., great--Cat'll have some company!" + +Kate sniffs. "He'll hate it. Cats don't like other cats pushing into their +house." + +She's right, of course. I put the kittens down at home, and Cat hisses at +them and then runs them under the radiator in the kitchen. Then he sits +down in the doorway and glowers at them, on guard. + +Things simmer down gradually. Mom and I and sometimes Tom, who's right at +the flower shop on the corner, take turns checking on Kate and doing +shopping for her, or going with her so she doesn't get badgered by people. +But pretty soon everyone in the neighborhood forgets all about her and her +inheritance. They see her buying just the same old cat food and cottage +cheese and fruit, and they probably figure the whole thing was a phony. + +It wasn't though. Pop finds out her brother did leave a will. He lined up +his funeral, left something to his housekeeper, something to a little +restaurant owner way downtown--apparently that was his one big luxury, a +decent meal twice a year when he went down to buy more stocks--and the rest +to Kate. + +Pop says it may take months or years to clear up the estate, but he says +Kate can get her share all put in trust for her with some bank, and +they'll take care of all the legalities and taxes and just pay her as much +or little as she wants out of the income. And she can leave the whole kit +and caboodle to a cat home in her will if she wants to, which will +probably make her tightwad brother spin in his grave. I asked her once, +and she said maybe she'd leave some to the Children's Aid, because there +are a lot of stray children in New York City that need looking after, as +well as cats. She's getting to think about people some. + + + + + + 17 + + + [Illustration: Mary calling from phone booth at Macy's.] + + + + TELEPHONE NUMBERS + + + +There are some disadvantages to not getting a girl's phone number. This +sort of date I had with Mary for golf on Election Day fell through. In the +first place, I was sick in bed with the flu, and Mom wouldn't have let me +out for anything, and secondly, it was pouring rain. Without the phone +number, there wasn't any way I could let her know, and I didn't even know +a street address to write to later. + +By the time I got finished with the flu, we were into Thanksgiving and +then all the trouble with Kate. Time passed and I felt rottener about +standing her up without a word, and I couldn't get up my nerve to go out +to Coney and just appear on her doorstep. I could have found the house all +right, once I was out there. + +The first week of Christmas vacation the phone rings late one afternoon +and Pop answers it. He says, "Just one minute, please," and I know right +away from his voice it isn't someone he knows. + +"Young lady on the phone for you, Dave," he says, and he enjoys watching +me gulp. + +"Hullo?" a rather tight, flat little voice asks. "Is this Dave--uh, +Mitchell--uh, I mean, with Cat?" + +I recognize it's Mary, all right, even if she does sound strange and +scared. + +"Oh, hi!" I say. "Sure, it's me! I'm awfully sorry about that day we were +going to play golf. I was in bed with the flu, and then I didn't know your +phone number or...." + +"Oh, that's all right," she says. "I wondered what happened." + +There's a slight pause, and I see Pop grinning and pretending to read his +paper. I turn around so I won't see him. + +"Where are you now, out in Coney?" I ask Mary. + +"No, as a matter of fact, I'm in Macy's." Her voice trails off a little, +but then she starts in again. "As a matter of fact, that's why I called. +You see, I was supposed to meet Mom here at five, and she hasn't come, and +I bought all these Christmas presents, and I forgot about the tax or +something, and this is my last dime." + +She stops. I see now why she sounds scared, and I get a curdled feeling in +my stomach, too, because what if the dime runs out in the phone and she's +cut off? I'll never find her in Macy's. It's too big. + +"Pop!" I yelp. "There's this girl I know is in a phone booth in Macy's and +her dime is going to run out and she hasn't anymore money. What'll I do?" + +"Get the phone number of the booth and call her back. Here--" He gives me a +pencil. + +What a relief. Funny I never thought of that. You just somehow don't think +of a phone booth having a number. + +Mary sounds pretty relieved, too. I get the number and call her back, and +with Pop making suggestions here and there we settle that I'll go over to +Macy's and meet her on the ground floor near Thirty-fourth Street and +Broadway at the counter where they're selling umbrellas for $2.89, which +Mary says she can see from the phone booth. + +"O.K." I say, and then I sort of don't want to hang up. It's fun talking. +So I go on. "Look, just in case we miss each other at Macy's, what's your +phone number at home, so I could call you sometime?" + +"COney 7-1218." + +"O.K. Well, good-bye. I'll be right over. To Macy's, I mean." + +I grab my coat and check to see if I've got money. Pop asks if I'm going +to bring her home for dinner. + +"Gee, I don't know." I hadn't given a thought to what we'd do. "I guess +so, maybe, if her mother hasn't come by then. I'll call you if we do +anything else." + +"O.K.," Pop says. + +I go out and hustle through the evening rush-hour crowds to the subway. +The stores are all open evenings now, for Christmas, so the crowds are +going both ways. + +I get to the right corner of Macy's, and I see Mary right away. Everyone +else is rushing about and muttering to themselves, and she's standing +there looking lost. In fact she looks so much like a waif that the first +thing I say is, "Hi! Shall we go get something to eat?" + +"Yes, I'm starved. I was just going to get a doughnut when I found I'd run +out of money." + +"Let's go home and you can have dinner with us then. But what about your +mother? Won't she be looking for you?" + +Mary shifts her feet and looks tired. "I don't know. Probably if she came +and I wasn't here, she'd figure I'd gone home." + +I try to think a minute, which is hard to do with all these people shoving +around you. Mary starts to pick up her two enormous shopping bags, and I +take them from her, still trying to think. At the subway entrance I see +the phone booth. + +"That's the thing," I say. "Why don't you call your house and see if your +mother left a message or something?" + +"Well...." Mary stands by the phone looking confused and in fact about +ready to cry. I suddenly decide the best thing we can do is get home and +sit down where it's quiet. Waiting fifteen minutes or so to phone can't +make much difference. + +We get home pretty fast and I introduce Mary to Mom and Pop. She sinks +into the nearest chair and takes off her shoes. + +"Excuse me," she says. "I just bought these heels, and it's awful wearing +them!" + +She wiggles her toes and begins to look better. Mom offers her a pair of +slippers and Pop passes some potato chips. + +Mom says, "Poor child, did you try to do all your Christmas shopping at +once?" + +"Well, actually, I was having fun just looking for a long while. I have +two little cousins that I don't really have to get much for, but I love +looking at all the toys. I spent quite a while there. Then I did the rest +of my shopping in a rush, and everything is so crowded, and I got mixed up +on my money or the sales tax and only had a dime left, and I missed my +mother or she forgot." + +She stretches out her toes to touch Cat, who is sitting in front of her. +"I couldn't think what to do. It's so hard to think when your feet hurt." + +"It certainly is," agrees Mom. She goes out to the kitchen to finish +fixing dinner, and Pop suggests Mary better phone her home. She gets her +father, and her mother has left a message that she was delayed and figured +Mary would go home alone. Mary gives her father our address and tells him +she'll be home by nine. + +We must have hit a lucky day because we have a real good dinner: slices of +good whole meat, not mushed up stuff, and potatoes cooked with cheese in +them, and salad, and a lemon meringue pie from the bakery, even. + +After dinner we sit around a little while, and Pop says I better take Mary +home, and he gives me money for a cab at the end of the subway. When Mary +gives the driver her home address, I say it over to myself a few times so +I'll remember. + +Suddenly I wonder about something. "Say, how'd you know _my_ phone +number?" + +"I looked it up," she says simply. "There's about twenty-eleven Mitchells +in the Manhattan phone book, but only one in the East Twenties, so I +figured that must be you." + +"Gee, that's true. You must have had an awful time, though, standing in +the phone booth with your feet hurting, going through all those +Mitchells." + +Says Mary, "Oh, no. I did it one rainy afternoon at home, weeks ago." + +Well, what do you know. + + + + + + 18 + + + [Illustration: Raised champagne glasses toasting Cat.] + + + + "HERE'S TO CAT!" + + + +The two stray kittens gradually make themselves at home. Somehow or other +Cat has taught them that he's in charge here, and he just chases them for +fun now and again, when he's not busy sleeping. + +As for keeping cats in my room, that's pretty well forgotten. For one +thing, Mom really likes them. She sneaks the kittens saucers of cream and +bits of real hamburger when no one's looking, and she likes talking to +them in the kitchen. She doesn't pick them up, but just having them in the +room sure doesn't give her asthma. + +The only time we have any trouble from the cats is one evening when Pop +comes home and the two kittens skid down the hall between his legs, with +Cat after them. He scales his hat at the lot of them and roars down the +hall to me, "Hey, Davey! When are you getting rid of these cats? I'm not +fixing to start an annex to Kate's cat home!" + +"I'm sure Davey will find homes for them," Mom says soothingly, but +getting a little short of breath, the way she does any time she's afraid +one of us is losing his temper. + +In fact, one thing this cat business seems to have established is that me +and Pop fighting is the main cause of Mom's asthma. So we both try to do a +little better, and a lot of things we used to argue and fight about, like +my jazz records, we just kid each other about now. But now and then we +still work up to a real hassle. + +I've been taking a history course the first semester at school. It's a +real lemon--just a lot of preaching about government and citizenship. The +second semester I switch to a music course. This is O.K. with the +school--but not with Pop. Right away when I bring home my new program, he +says, "How come you're taking one less course this half?" + +I explain that I'm taking music, and also biology, algebra, English, and +French. + +"Music!" he snorts. "That's recreation, not a course. Do it on your own +time!" + +"Pop, it's a course. You think the school signs me up for an hour of home +record playing?" + +"They might," he grunts. "You're not going to loaf your way through school +if I have anything to say about it." + +"Loaf!" I yelp. "Four major academic subjects is more than lots of the +guys take." + +Mom comes and suggests that Pop better go over to school with me and talk +it over at the school office. He does, and for once I win a round--I keep +music for this semester. But he makes sure that next year I'm signed up +all year for five majors: English, French, math, chemistry, and European +history. I'll be lucky if I have time to breathe. + +I go down to the flower shop to grouse to Tom. It's after Valentine's Day, +and business is slack and the boss is out. + +"Why does Pop have to come butting into my business at school? Doesn't he +even think the school knows what it's doing?" + +"Aw, heck," says Tom, "your father's the one has to see you get into +college or get a job. Sometimes schools do let kids take a lot of soft +courses, and then they're out on a limb later." + +"Huh. He just likes to boss everything I do." + +"So--he cares." + +"Huh." I'm not very ready to buy this, but then I remember Tom's father, +who _doesn't_ care. It makes me think. + +"Besides," says Tom, "half the reason you and your father are always +bickering is that you're so much alike." + +"Me? Like _him_?" + +"Sure. You're both impatient and curious, got to poke into everything. As +long as there's a bone on the floor, the two of you worry it." + +Mr. Palumbo comes back to the shop then, and Tom gets busy with the +plants. I go home, wondering if I really am at all like Pop. I never +thought of it before. + +It's funny about fights. Pop and I can go along real smooth and easy for a +while, and I think: Well, he really isn't a bad guy, and I'm growing up, +we can see eye to eye--all that stuff. Then, whoosh! I hardly know what +starts it, but a fight boils up, and we're both breathing fire like +dragons on the loose. + +We get a holiday Washington's Birthday, which is good because there's a TV +program on Tuesday, the night before the holiday, that I hardly ever get +to watch. It's called _Out Beyond_, and the people in it are very real, +not just good guys and bad guys. There's always one character moving +around, keeping you on the edge of your chair, and by the time it all +winds up in a surprise ending, you find this character is not a real +person, he's supernatural. The program goes on till eleven o'clock, and +Mom won't let me watch it on school nights. + +I get the pillows comfortably arranged on the floor, with a big bottle of +soda and a bag of popcorn within easy reach. The story starts off with +some nature shots of a farm and mountains in the background and this +little kid playing with his grandfather. There's a lot of people in it, +but gradually you get more and more suspicious of dear old grandpa. He's +taking the kid for a walk when a thunderstorm blows up. + +Right then, of course, we have to have the alternate sponsor. He signs +off, finally, and up comes Pop. + +"Here, Davey old boy, we can do better than that tonight. The Governor and +the Mayor are on a TV debate about New York City school reorganization." + +At first I figure he's kidding, so I just growl, "Who cares?" + +He switches the channel. + +I jump up, tipping over the bottle of soda on the way. "Pop, that's not +fair! I'm right in the middle of a program, and I been waiting weeks to +watch it because Mom won't let me on school nights!" + +Pop goes right on tuning his channel. "Do you good to listen to a real +program for a change. There'll be another western on tomorrow night." + +That's the last straw. I shout, "See? You don't even know what you're +talking about! It's not a western." + +Pop looks at me prissily. "You're getting altogether too upset about these +programs. Stop it and behave yourself. Go get a sponge to mop up the +soda." + +"It's your fault! Mop it up yourself!" I'm too mad now to care what I say. +I charge down the hall to my room and slam the door. + +I hear the TV going for a few minutes, then Pop turns it off and goes in +the kitchen to talk to Mom. In a little while he comes down and knocks on +my door. Knocks--that's something. Usually he just barges in. + +"Look here now, Dave, we've got to straighten a few things out quietly. +Your mother says she told you you could watch that program, whatever it +was. So O.K., go ahead, you can finish it." + +"Yeah, it's about over by now." I'm still sore, and besides Pop's still +standing in my door, so I figure there's a hitch in this somewhere. + +"But anyway, you shouldn't get so sore about an old television program +that you shout 'Mop it up yourself' at me." + +"Hmm." + +"Hmm, nothing." + +"Well, I don't think you should turn a guy's TV program off in the middle +without even finding out about it." + +Pop says "Hmm" this time, and we both stand and simmer down. + +I look at my watch. It's a quarter to eleven. I say, "Well, O.K. I might +as well see the end. Sorry I got sore." + +Pop moves out of the doorway. He says, "Hereafter I will only turn off +your TV programs before they start, not in the middle." + +Just as I get the TV on and settle down, the doorbell rings. + +"Goodness, who could that be so late?" says Mom. + +Pop goes to the door. It's Tom, and Hilda is with him. I turn off the +television set--I've lost track of what's happening, and it doesn't seem to +be the grandfather who's the spook after all. It's the first time Hilda +has been to our house, and Tom introduces her around. Then there's one of +those moments of complete silence, with everyone looking embarrassed, +before we all start to speak at once. + +"Hilda came to the beach with us," I say. + +"I told Tom we shouldn't come so late," says Hilda. + +Pop says, "Not late at all. Come in and sit down." + +Hilda sits on the sofa, where Cat is curled up. He looks at her, puts his +head back and goes on sleeping. + +Mom brings coffee and cookies in from the kitchen, and I pour the rest of +the popcorn into a bowl and pass it around. Tom stirs his coffee +vigorously and takes one sip and puts the cup down. + +"Reason we came so late," he says, "Hilda and I have been talking all +evening. We want to get married." + +Pop doesn't look as surprised as I do. "Congratulations!" he says. + +Tom says, "Thanks" and looks at Hilda, and she blushes. Really. Tom drinks +a little more coffee and then he goes on: "The trouble is, I can't get +married on this flower-shop job." + +"Doesn't pay enough?" Pop asks. + +"Well, it's not just the pay. The job isn't getting me anywhere I want to +go. So that's what we've been talking about all evening. Finally we went +up to Times Square and talked to the guys in the Army and Navy and Air +Force recruiting office. You know, I'd get drafted in a year or two, +anyway. I've decided to enlist in the Army." + +"Goodness, you may get sent way out West for years and years!" says Mom. + +"No, not if I enlist in the Army. That's for three years. But I can choose +what specialist school I want to go into, and there's this Air Defense +Command--it's something to do with missiles. In that I can also choose what +metropolitan area I want to be stationed in. I can choose New York, and we +could get married, and I might even be able to go on taking college course +at night school, with the Army paying for most of it." + +Pop says, "You sound like the recruiting officer himself. You sure of all +this?" + +"I'll have to check some more," says Tom. "The recruiting officer, as a +matter of fact, tried to persuade me to shoot for officers' training and +go into the Army as a career. But then I would be sent all over, and +anyway, I don't think Army life would be any good for Hilda." + +"I can see you have put in a busy evening," says Pop. "Well, shove back +the coffee cups, and I'll break out that bottle of champagne that's been +sitting in the icebox since Christmas." + +I go and retrieve my spilled bottle of soda. There's still enough left for +one big glass. Pop brings out the champagne, and the cork blows and hits +the ceiling. Cat jumps off the sofa and stands, half crouched and tail +twitching, ready to take cover. + +Pop fills little glasses for them and raises his to Tom and Hilda. "Here's +to you--a long, happy life!" + +We drink, and then I raise my glass of soda. "Here's to Cat! Tom wouldn't +even be standing here if it wasn't for Cat." + +That's true, and we all drink to Cat. He sits down and licks his right +front paw. + + + + + +_Format by Jean Krulis_ +_Set in Linotype Baskerville_ +_Composed and bound by American Book-Stratford Press_ +_Printed by The Murray Printing Co._ +*HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS, INCORPORATED* + + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IT'S LIKE THIS, CAT*** + + + +CREDITS + + +March 27, 2008 + + Project Gutenberg TEI edition 1 + Produced by Adam Buchbinder, Rene Anderson Benitz, and the + Online Distributed Proofreading Team at + <http://www.pgdp.net/c>. 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