It’s like this, cat by Emily Neville (iphone ebook reader .txt) 📕
"Gee, how'd you do that?"
"Sh-h-h. A guy showed me how. You better get your cat and scram."
Golly, I wonder, maybe the guy is a burglar, and that gives me another creepy feeling. But would a burglar be taking time out to get a kid's cat free?
"Well, thanks for the cat. See you around," I say.
"Sh-h-h. I don't live around here. Hurry up, before we both get caught."
Maybe he's a real burglar with a gun, even, I think, and by the time I dodge past the elevators and get out in the cold April wind, the sweat down my back is freezing. I give Cat a long lecture on staying out of basements. After all, I can't count on having a burglar handy to get him out every time.
Back home we put some nice jailhouse blues on the record player, and we both stretch out on the bed to think. The guy didn't really look like a burglar. And he didn't
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A beard who is listening to the speech turns and glares at us and says, “Shush!”
“Aw, go shave yourself!” says Nick, and the girls go off in more hoots. Nick starts herding them toward Fourteenth Street, and I follow along.
At the Academy Nick goes up to the ticket window, and the girls immediately fade out to go read the posters and snicker together. I can see they’re not figuring to pay for any tickets, so I cough up for two.
Nick and I try to saunter up to the balcony the way we always do, but the girls are giggling and dropping their popcorn, so the matron spots us and motions. “Down here!” She flashes her light in our eyes, and I feel like a convict while we get packed in with all the kids in the under-sixteen section.
Nick goes in first, then the blonde, then the redhead and me. The minute things start getting scary, she tries to grab me, but I stick my hands in my pockets and say, “Aw, it’s just a picture.” She looks disgusted.
The next scary bit, she tries to hang onto her girl friend, but the blonde is already glued onto Nick. Redhead lets out a loud sigh, and I wish I hadn’t ever got into this deal. I can’t even enjoy the picture.
We suffer through the two pictures. The little kids make such a racket you can hardly hear, and the matron keeps shining the light in your eyes so you can’t see. She shines it on the blonde, who is practically sitting in Nick’s lap, and hisses at her to get back. I’m not going to do this again, ever.
We go out and Nick says, “Let’s have a coke.” He’s walking along with the blonde, and instead of walking beside me the redhead tries to catch hold of his other arm. This sort of burns me up. I mean, I don’t really like her, but I paid for her and everything.
Nick shakes her off and calls over his shoulder to me, “Come on, chicken, pull your own weight!”
The girls laugh, on cue as usual, and I begin getting really sore. Nick got me into this. The least he can do is shut up.
We walk into a soda bar, and I slap down thirty cents and say, “Two cokes, please.”
“Hey, hey! The last of the big spenders!” says Nick. More laughter. I’d just as soon sock him right now, but I pick up my money and say, “O.K., wise guy, treat’s on you.” Nick shrugs and tosses down a buck as if he had hundreds of them.
The two girls drink their cokes and talk across Nick. I finish mine in two or three gulps, and finally we can walk them to the subway. Nick is gabbing away about how he’ll come out to Coney one weekend, and I’m standing there with my hands in my pockets.
“Goo’bye, Bashful!” coos the redhead to me, and the two of them disappear, cackling, down the steps. I start across Fourteenth Street as soon as the light changes, without bothering to look if Nick is coming. He can go rot.
Along Union Square he’s beside me, acting as if everything is peachy fine dandy. “That was a great show. Pretty good fun, huh?”
I just keep walking.
“You sore or something?” he asks, as if he didn’t know.
I keep on walking.
“O.K., be sore!” he snaps. Then he breaks into a falsetto: “Goo’bye, Bashful!”
I let him have it before he’s hardly got his mouth closed. He hits me back in the stomach and hooks one of his ankles around mine so we both fall down. It goes from bad to worse. He gets me by the hair and bangs my head on the sidewalk, so I twist and bite his hand. We’re gouging and scratching and biting and kicking, because we’re both so mad we can hardly see, and anyway no one ever taught us those Queensberry rules. There’s no point in going into all the gory details. Finally two guys haul us apart. I have hold of Nick’s shirt and it rips. Good. He’s half crying, and he twists away from the guy that grabbed him and screams some things at me before darting across the avenue.
I’m standing panting and sobbing, and the guy holding me says, “You oughta be ashamed. Now go on home.”
“Aw, you and your big mouth,” I say, still mad enough to feel reckless. He throws a fake punch, but he’s not really interested. He goes his way, and I go mine.
I must look pretty bad because a lot of people on the street shake their heads at me. I walk in the door at home, expecting the worst, but fortunately Mom is out. Pop just whistles through his teeth.
“That must have been quite a horror picture!” he says.
By the next weekend I no longer look like a fugitive from a riot. All week in school Nick and I get asked whether we got hit by a swinging door; then the fellows notice the two of us aren’t speaking to each other, and they sort of sheer off the subject. Come Saturday, I sit on the stoop and wonder, what now? There are plenty of other kids in school I like, but they mostly live over in the project—Stuyvesant Town, that is. I’ve never bothered to hunt them up weekends because Nick’s so much nearer.
Summer is coming on, though, and I’ve got to have someone to hang around with. This is the last Saturday before Memorial Day. Getting time for beaches and stuff. I suppose Nick and I might get together again, but not if he’s going to be nuts about girls all the time.
A guy stops in front of the stoop, and Cat half opens his eyes in the sun and squints at him. The guy says, “You Dave Mitchell?”
“Huh? Yeah.” I look up, surprised. I don’t exactly recognize the guy, never having seen him in a clear light before. But from the voice I know it’s Tom.
“Oh, hi!” I say. “Here’s Cat. He’s pretty handsome in daylight.”
“Yeah, he looks all right, but what happened to you?”
“Me and a friend of mine got in a fight.”
“With some other guys or what?”
“Nah. We had a fight with each other.”
“Um, that’s bad.” Tom sits down and has sense enough to see there isn’t anymore to say on that subject. “I start work Memorial Day, when the beaches open. Working in a filling station on the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn.”
“Gee, that’s a long way off. You going to live over there?”
“Yeah, they’re going to get me a room in a Y in Brooklyn.” Tom stretches restlessly and goes on: “I suppose you get sick of school and all, but it’s rotten having nothing to do. I’d be ready to go nuts if I didn’t get a job. I can’t wait to start.”
I think of asking him doesn’t he have a home or something to go back to, but somehow I don’t like to.
“Like today,” Tom says. “I’d like to go somewhere. Do something. Got any ideas?”
“Um. I was sort of trying to think up something myself. Movies?”
Tom shakes himself. “No. I want to walk, or run, or throw something.”
“There’s a big park—sort of a woods—up near the Bronx. A kid told me about it. He said he found an Indian arrowhead there, but I bet he didn’t. Inwood Park, it’s called.”
“How do you get there?”
“Subway, I guess.”
“Let’s go!” Tom stands up and wriggles his shoulders like he’s Superman ready to take off.
“O.K. Wait a minute. I’ll go tell Mom. Should I get some sandwiches?”
Tom looks surprised. “Sure, fine, if she doesn’t mind.”
I’m not worried about getting Mom to make sandwiches because she always likes to fix a little food for me. The thing is, ever since my fight with Nick, she’s been clucking around me like the mother hen. Maybe she figures I got in some gang fight, so she keeps asking me where I’m going and who with. Also, I guess she noticed I don’t go to Nick’s after school anymore. I come right home. So she asks me do I feel all right. You can’t win. Right now, I can see she’s going to begin asking who is Tom and where did I meet him. It occurs to me there’s an easy way to take care of this.
I turn around to Tom again. “Say, how about you come up and I’ll introduce you to Mom? Then she won’t start asking me a lot of questions.”
“You mean I look respectable, at least?”
“Sure.”
We go up to the apartment, and Mom asks if we’d like some cold drinks or something. I tell her I ran into Tom when he helped me hunt for Cat around Gramercy Park, which is almost true, and that he sometimes plays stickball with us, which isn’t really true but it could be. Mom gets us some orangeade. She usually keeps something like that in the icebox in summer, because she thinks cokes are bad for you.
“Do you live around here?” she asks Tom.
“No, ma’am,” says Tom firmly. “I live at the Y. I’ve got a summer job in a filling station over in Brooklyn, starting right after Memorial Day.”
“That’s fine,” Mom says. “I wish Davey could get a job. He gets so restless with nothing to do in the summer.”
“Aw, Mom, forget it! You got to fill in about six-hundred working papers if you’re under sixteen.
“Listen, Mom, what I came up for—we thought we’d make some sandwiches and go up to Inwood Park.”
“Inwood? Where’s that?” So I explain to her about the Indian arrowheads, and we get out the classified phone book and look at the subway map, which shows there’s an IND train that goes right to it.
“I get sort of restless myself, with nothing to do,” says Tom. “We just figured we’d do a little exploring around in the woods and get some exercise.”
“Why, yes, that seems like a good idea.” Mom looks at him and nods. She seems to have decided he’s reliable, as well as respectable.
I see there’s some leftover cold spaghetti in the icebox, and I ask Mom to put it in sandwiches. She thinks I’m cracked, but I did this once before, and it’s good, ’specially if there’s plenty of meat and sauce on the spaghetti. We take along a bag of cherries, too.
“Thanks, Mom. Bye. I’ll be back before supper.”
“Take care,” she says. “No fights.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll stay out of fights,” says Tom quite seriously.
We go down the stairs, and Tom says, “Your mother is really nice.”
I’m sort of surprised—kids don’t usually say much about each other’s parents. “Yeah, Mom’s O.K. I guess she worries about me and Pop a lot.”
“It must be pretty nice to have your mother at home,” he says.
That kind of jolts me, too. I wonder where his mother and father are, whether
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