 Chapter 1 of It's Like This Cat This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chance Irvin. It's Like This Cat by Emily Cheney Neville. Chapter 1. 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 me to getting cat came when I earned some extra money babysitting 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? Babysitting? Baby talk records? When I was your age I made money on a newspaper delivery route. My dog Jeff and I used to go 10 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 sometimes she has half a dozen or more stray cats living with her. I guess she does sound a little loony 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 break 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 MD plates and Kate waving her umbrella at the driver and shouting listen Dr. Bigshot who's 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. Yes, him said Butch. He says yes to all the 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. Often on since then, I've seen quite a lot of Kate. I'd pass her on the street, chirping 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. I'm afraid they'll make fun of her, I guess. My mom's not leery of people, but she's shy. And what with Asma and worrying about keeping me and Pop calm 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 Asma 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 a 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 Tom cat 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 ask what's doing. My Pop is full of hot air as usual I say. Takes one to no one Kate says catching me off base. I change the subject. How come the kitten's 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 in between the ears and he rotates his head. Susan hisses. He starts to pull back farther under the sofa. Without stopping to think for himself 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 sighs me up he pretends he only turned around to lick his back. Cat I say to him. How about coming home with me? Ha! Kate laughs. Your Pop will throw him out faster than you can say good ol' Jeff. Yeah? I say it slowly and do some thinking. Taking Cat home had been just a passing thought but right now I decide I'd really go to the mat with Pop about this. He can have his memories of good ol' Jeff and rabbit hunts but I'm gonna 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 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 if you ever call him Honorable John Fitzgerald Kennedy, he won't come when you call. And he won't lick your hand, see? He 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 draws 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. End of chapter one. Chapter two of It's Like This Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Aaron Deward. It's Like This Cat. By Emily Cheney Neville. Chapter two. 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. Hm. Buck teeth. Sandy hair. Smooth in front, cowlick in back. Brown eyes. Can't see in the dark with a nickel. Hickeys on the chin. Too bad. I look back at him in the mirror and say, OK, black face, yellow eyes, and one white whisker. Where do 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. Wow, says Butch. Sometimes that cat sit and talk to me a little. But most times he go on over to 21st 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? 46. 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 21st Street and Case 46, 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 through a big room where the tenants leave their baby carriages and bicycles. After this, the seller stretches off into several corridors, lit by 20 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. 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, shh, 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 18 or so. He looks at the padlock on the cage and says, ha, cheap. He takes a paperclip out of his pocket and opens it out. And I think maybe he has a pen knife, too. And next thing I know, the padlock is open. Gee, how'd you do that? Shhh. A guy showed me how. You'd 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. Shhh. 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 loooong 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 D's and Do's. 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 will 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 soar, 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. No. A Raleigh. Better than any junk you got in there. What do 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. Grammarcy Park Cellar Robbed. I read down the article. The superintendent, Fred Snude, 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. Snude described him as about sixteen years of age, medium height, with a long duck-tail 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 duck-tail 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, a 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 barber shop. 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 someday. Two days later I found out I could have kept my hair. Town and Village has a news story. Nab's 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's 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 tablesilver 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, Kat 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 over 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 Kat out. Kat is fine. I'm sorry you got in trouble with the police. It sounds to me like you are only trying to return this 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's my address. 150 East 22nd Street. 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 21st Street. Kat 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 on their leashes. That big brain, the super of 46, 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 in my short haircut, scratches his own bald egg. Where'd I see you? he asks suspiciously. Oh, Kat and I? We get around, I say. Kat by Emily Cheney Neville. Chapter 3. Kat 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 3rd Avenue, upstairs from 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 stick ball and ride our bikes around exploring. One time, when we were about 10, we rode way over to 12th 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 up 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 bikes, folks, 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, especially 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 have ever had, I was real mad. Come spring, Nick and I got wrestlers hanging around the street with nothing to do but stickball and baiting the super at 46. It was so easy to get them 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 hoodie-looking kids around, and I could see if I ever left my bike a second to chase Cat they'd snatched 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 at the first one in May, and I get an idea. I find Nick and say, let's put Cat in some sandwiches in the basket and hop on 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 crummy 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 seagulls 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 splash 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 hithails 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 rustle, 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 other, 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 25, but then you see mothers pushing baby carriages on the street who look about 15. One of the girls catches Nick's eye and giggles, hi there, whatcha watchin'? I'm a bird-watcher, says Nick. Seein' 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 goin' after some coax. Why waste time thinkin'? 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 coax. 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 other 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 coax, 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 astray. I got him from an old lady who's sort of a night 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 coax, the blonde and the redhead say they want to go to the movies. What's on? Nick asks. There's a synodra 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 had to 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 16. 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 goodbye, and waves to me. She says, bring him again. He's nice. We get on the subway, and Cat meows crossily at being shut in his basket. Nick pokes the basket with his toes. Shut up, nuisance, he says. End of CHAPTER 4 FIGHT I actually got a letter back from Tom Ransom. It says, thanks for your letter. The youth board got me a room in the Y on the 23rd street. Maybe I'll come say hello someday. They're going to help me get a job this summer, so I don't need a lawyer. Thanks anyway. Mu 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 grips me. He has to think up all the plans, and I think I've done that he doesn't know about. He downgrades. Also, I always have to go in 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 he makes pizza or real good spaghetti, and she has homemade cookies and nutcakes 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 are 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 12th 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 gripping 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 store. Cat is sitting on my front stoop, and he jumps down and drops 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 run into over on Coney Island, he says. Yeah. Well, I've 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. She has 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 pair, a very juicy one. That's all you can say. So she says, well, she might, if she can get her girlfriend 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 girlfriend? Oh, you remember, the other one we were kidding around with at the beach, the red hat. So I said, okay, I'd see if I could get you to come too. I said I'd call her back. Hmm, I don't know. What do you mean you don't know? How do I know if I like that girl? I hardly even talk 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 okay 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. Okay? Okay, 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 10 o'clock Nick turns up at my house in a white shirt and slick down hair. Pop whistles. On Saturday yet, you got a girl or something? Yes, sir, says Nick, and 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 a big deal. We are going to the 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 everyone that's been in town. Yep, just opened. The gold bug. Some guy wrote it, I mean in the book ones, but it's supposed to be great. Make the girl squeal anyway, I loved that. I just like horror shows anyway, whether girl squeal or not. You'll be the life of the party with that hmmm routine. It's your party, I shrug. Well, you could at least try. We hang around the subway kiosks on 14th 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 went there over. A shaggy-haired bearded character is making a speech all about day, the bad guys. A lot of sleepy bumps are sitting around, letting the speech roll off their ears. What is he, another something? The blonde dusts. A commie, maybe, I say. They're always giving speeches down here. Well, he's sudden, 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. Okay, I tried. After this, I'll stick to hmmm. A beard, who is listening to the speech, turns and glares at us and says, shush. Oh, go shave yourself, says Nick, and the girls go off in more hoots. Nick starts hurting them toward 14th 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 sneaker 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 mattress spots us in 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-16 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, oh, it's just a picture. She looks disgusted. The next scary bit, she tries to hang on to her girlfriend, but the blonde is already glued to Nick. Redhead lets out a loud sigh, and I wish I hadn't gotten to this deal. I can't even enjoy the picture. We suffer through 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, 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 pay it 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 goaks, please. Hey, hey, the last of the big spenders, says Nick, more laughter. I just as soon sock him right now, but I pick my money and say, OK, wise guy, treats on you. Nick shrugs and tosses down a buck, as if he had hundreds of them. The two girls drink their coaks and talk across Nick. I finish mine in two or three gobs, 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 sending there with my hands in my pockets. Goodbye, bashful, cooze the redhead to me, and the two of them disappear, cackling down the steps. I start across fourteen street as soon as the light changes, without bothering to look if Nick is coming. He can go wrought. A long 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. OK, be sore, he snaps. Then he breaks into a falsetto. Goodbye, bashful. I let him have it before he's hardly got his mouth closed. He hits me back in the stomach, and hooks one in 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 are gurgling and stretching and biting and kicking, because we're both so mad we can hardly see. And anyway, no one ever taught us those Queensbury rules. There's no point in going into all the gory details. Finally two guys hold us apart. I have hold of Nick's shirt and the trips. 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 ought to be ashamed. Now go on home. Ah, you and your big mouth, I said, 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. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of It's Like This, Cat This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jersey City Frankie. It's Like This, Cat, by Emily Cheney Neville. Chapter 5 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 shear 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. Stives in town, that is. I've never bothered to hunt them up weekends, because Nick's so much nearer. Summer's 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. Was some other guys, or what? Nah, we had a fight with each other. Oh, that's bad. Tom sits down and has sense enough to see there isn't any more to say on that subject. I start work Memorial Day when the beach is open, working in a filling station on the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn. Gee, that's a long way off. You gonna live over there? Yeah, they're gonna 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. Nah, I want to walk or run or throw something. As a big park, sort of 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. Okay, wait a minute. I'll go tell mom. Should I get some sandwiches? Tom looks surprised. Sure, fine. 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 be 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 Grammarcy 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 ice box in summer, because she thinks cakes 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. Oh, mom, forget it. You got to fill in about 600 working papers if you're under 16. 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 ice box, and I asked mom to put it in sandwiches. She thinks I'm cracked, but I did this once before, and it's good, especially 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 okay, I guess. She worries about me and Papa 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 14th Street and over to 8th Avenue, about 12th 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's real woods, although there are paved walks around through it. We push up hill 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. We flop in the sun. There aren't many other people around, which is rare in New York. Let's each 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 a while 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 this city. Any time 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 coaxed in 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 Courtland Street to the Army Navy Surplus Store. I got to get a knapsack before summer. Okay, 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 65 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 gotten a family around those, survival must take more than a 65 cent kit. The store is a little away 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 Explorer's 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 skibby shirts and socks that are only 10 cents each. Their second hand, 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 land 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 is 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. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Denny Sayers It's Like This Cat By Emily Cheney Neville Chapter 6 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 23rd Street Pools 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, school lets out, and there's the 4th 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 best 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 circles and angles, and all the people giving you cock-eyed directions, but with no bikes allowed on parkways, and skirting around crummy-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 34th 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 are crazy kid. House cat. But just then the boss has to come steaming up. What do you 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 looks 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 scrummy 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, Kat 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. He says, 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. I guess she's mad. I wrote and asked for 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 the 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 and a bun on the 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 seller at number 46, 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 aways 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 coax 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 coax 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 asked. 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 closed mouth about then, 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 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, age 14, 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 the kids 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 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 to go about getting back into college or getting a job or something. Tom laughs and 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 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. 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? Okay, okay, says Tom. The beach is getting filled up by now and 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 46 Gramercy and he got caught and, what? 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 just got it from Tom when we were at the beach. He's at Hawaii 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 and regard to juvenile delinquents. He says this perfectly straight, as if there'd be a book on the subject. And 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 says if that cat of yours makes a practice of introducing you to the underworld and other people's cellars, we can do without him. We probably can, anyway. End of Chapter 6, read by Dennis Sayers in Modesto, California, for LibriVox. Chapter 7 of It's Like This Cat This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. It's Like This Cat, by Emily Cheney-Nelville. Chapter 7 Survival Cat hadn't gotten me into any more cellars, but I can't honestly say he'd been sitting home tending his nitin. 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 actually 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 am worried. Suppose some big ol' 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 at 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 gonna do? She shoots at me, shoveling the kittens back to Susan. I, uh, I don't know. 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 made it, 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 Spire Hospital. Big new building up on First Avenue. You mean get him fixed so he's not a real Tomcat anymore? The heck with that? I don't want him turned into a faddle cushion cat. He won't be, she says, but if it makes you happier, let him get killed in the 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 16. 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 Kate, 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. Kate 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 a while. Finally I go in the kitchen and stare into the ice box, and then I tell mom about the gash and cat's leg. She asks if I know a vet to take him to. Yeah, there's Spire. 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 rings the sponge out, finally, and sits down at the kitchen table. She says, Cat's not a free 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 $5 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 $5 and four of my own, I say yes. The doctor is a youngish guy, but bald, in a white shirt like a dentist. 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 gonna 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, Okay. 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 coax, and sit and look up at the 59th 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. End of Chapter 7 It's Like This Cat by Emily Neville Chapter 8 West Side Story The regular park man got some stroke or something, so I earned $14 raking and mowing the Grand Mercy Park in the middle of August. Grand Mercy 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 42nd Street. You go in by the lions on 5th Avenue, and there's all kinds of pictures and books and exhibits in the halls, and you can walk through 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. You can take books out of here, and return them at 23rd 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 beaconics listening to the jazz. I go to check if there are any bargains in the Kingston on Bella Fonda 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 are 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 I were 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 have 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's couch camp a few weeks, and then she earns some money babysitting. 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 would be great to have a mother that didn't worry about you all the time. Oh, mom worries, Mary giggles. You should have heard when I said I liked going with the wind, and I didn't like Anna Karenina. I pretty nearly got disowned. How 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 red, 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 would 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 a record of Westside's 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 Westside's 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 the 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 will 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 are inside with our tickets before we hardly stop 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 of his 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 into the show, and she is right, it's terrific. I hardly ever went to a live show before, except a couple of children's thing 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 R&J during intermission, and I make the big gesture and pay for both of them. Mary says, isn't it wonderful? I just happen to meet you at the beach, and then I meet you at Goodies, and we get to see this show I 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, 14th 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 and saying, oh, um, Mary, this is Dave. You want to go to the movie or something, eh? It sounds stupid, and I'll 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 14th Street. I shout, hey, how about we go to the beach again this fall, maybe Columbus Day? Okay, she shouts, Columbus Day in the morning. Columbus Day in the morning sounds loud and clear because by then the subway had stopped, people snicker, and Mary blushes. So long, I say, and we both wave, and the train goes. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of It's Like This, Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It's Like This, Cat, by Emily Chenne Neville. Chapter 9. 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 whether costs I hear him purring. Loud, rumbly purrs, and I look up and see Tom there, stroking Cat's fur up backwards 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've just been down to see your dad, he's quite a guy. Huh? You got some stroke or something? Didn't he read you about some lectures on healthy living, honest effort, baseball, and long walks with the dog? No, 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 seller trouble, all that. Then tell him I'm going to get a job and go to night school. Your dad figure is probably he'd helped me. He said he had to 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 think I'll go down and see her before the lunch rush, and then go home and write my letter. Say hi for me. Okay, 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 are going to this lake up in Connecticut, where we get a sort of mortal cottage. It was 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 are 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. This 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 and 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 for 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 loaves 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 year 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 as 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 stocked 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. 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. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of It's Like This, Cat. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. It's Like This, Cat by Emily Cheney-Neville. Chapter 10. 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 Cat's, or suppose he runs away in the country. If he messes up the vacation in any way, I know Pop will 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 mid-year 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 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 out 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 noticed the column of wanads 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, huh? Pop takes off his glasses and scratches his head with them. He looks at his watch and size. 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 in 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 a 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, adjust 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 a flower arranging, Tom grins, but it might be fun. I'm pretty fair at any kind of handiwork. Remembering how quick he unlocked the pet lock to get Cat out of 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 of 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're trying 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 try to stop now. Besides, I don't want to have 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 is 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, DEE-DEE! 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 Cat. 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 in the parkway pointing me out to their children, as a local curiosity. One place, the bull rushes and marsh grass beside the road, grow up higher than your head. What a place for a kid's 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, Look at the city with the pussy! I know the answers. Let's dump him 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 washman 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, Nyeh, 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-woop. It's uphill to the bridge. Cat gets his free forepaw into action, raking my chest and arm, with his claws out. Then he kisses 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. I am eye-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. Whatcha doin', kid? Not supposed to be walkin' 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 Cat'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 Cat. Mom lets loose the tears she has apparently been holding on to 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 at 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. End of Chapter 10 It's Like This Cat by Emily Neville