That operation didn't make as much difference to Cat as you might think. Itook him back to the clinic to get the stitches out of his leg and thebandages off. A few nights later I heard yowls coming up from thebackyard. 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 standingfeud with the cat next door.
However, he's been coming home nights regularly, and sometimes in the coolpart of the morning he'll sit out on the front stoop with me. He sits on apillar about six feet above the sidewalk, and I sit on the steps and playmy transistor and read.
Every time a dog gets walked down the street under Cat's perch, he gathershimself up in a ball, as if he were going to spring. Of course, the poordog never knows it was about to be pounced on and wags on down the street.Cat lets his tail go to sleep then and sneers.
Between weathercasts I hear him purring, loud rumbly purrs, and I look upand see Tom there, stroking Cat's fur up backward toward his ears. Tom islooking out into the street and sort of whistling without making anysound.
"Gee, hi!" I say.
"Hi, too," he says. He strokes Cat back down the right way, gives him apat, and sits down. "I just been down to see your dad. He's quite a guy."
"Huh-h-h? You got sunstroke or something? Didn't he read you about tenlectures on Healthy Living, Honest Effort, Baseball, and Long Walks with aDog?"
"No-o-o." Tom grins, but then he sits and stares out at the street again,so I wait.
"You know," he says, "you give me an idea. _You_ talk like _your_ dad is areal pain, and that's the way _I_ always have felt about _mine_. But yourdad looks like a great guy to me, so--well, maybe mine could be too, if Igave 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 allthe things I've goofed on. Quitting NYU, the cellar trouble, all that.Then tell him I'm going to get a job and go to night school. Your dadfigures probably he'd help me. He said he'd write him, too. No reason heshould. 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 downthat crumb of a doorman on my bike, accidental on purpose, I didn't getany 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 backto work at the coffee shop. I guess I'll go down and see her before thelunch rush, and then go home and write my letter."
"Say 'Hi' for me."
"O.K. So long."
* * * * *
The weather cools off some, and Pop starts to talk about vacation. He'staking two weeks, last of August and first of September, so I startshopping around for various bits of fishing tackle and picnic gear wemight need. We're going to this lake up in Connecticut, where we get asort of motel cottage. It has a little hot plate for making coffee in themorning, but most of the rest of the time we eat out, which is neat.
We're sitting around the living room one evening, sorting stuff out, whenthe doorbell rings. I go answer it, and Tom walks in. He nods at me likehe hardly sees me and comes into the living room. He shakes hands like awooden Indian. His face looks shut up again, the way it did that day Ileft him in the filling station.
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a letter. I can see a post-officestamp in red ink with a pointing hand by the address. He throws it down onDad's table.
"I got my answer all right."
Pop looks at the letter and I see his foot start to twitch the way it doeswhen he's about to blow. But he looks at Tom, and instead of blowing hejust says, "Your father left town? No forwarding address?"
"I guess so. He just left. Him and that woman he married." Tom's voicetrails off and he walks over to the window. We all sit quiet a minute.
Finally Pop says gently, "Well, don't waste too much breath on her. She'snothing to do with you."
Tom turns around angrily. "She's no good. She loafs around and drinks allthe time. She talked him into going."
"And he went." There's another short silence, and Pop goes on. "Where wasthis 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 lettucesevery spring. I even got one ear of corn once. We moved there when I wasin second grade because my mom said it was near a good local school. Ilived there till I went to college. I suppose he sold it, or got a loan,and they lit off to drink it up. Soon's they'd got _me_ off their hands."
Tom bites off the last word. Suddenly I can see the picture pretty clear:the nice house, the father Tom always talked down and hoped would measureup. Now it's like somebody has taken his whole childhood and crumpled itup 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'sjust 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 inadequateat a moment like this, but when Tom takes a glass from her he looks likehe's going to bust out crying.
He drinks some and blows his nose, and Dad says, "When are you supposed tocheck in with the Youth Board again?"
"Tuesday. My day off. And I wind up the filling-station job the next week,right after Labor Day."
"Labor Day. Hm-m. We've got to get moving. If you like, I'll come down tothe Youth Board with you, and we'll see what we can all cook up. Don'tworry too much. I have a feeling you're just beginning to fight--reallyfight, not just throw a few stones."
"I don't know why you bother." Tom starts to stand up. But while we'vebeen talking, Cat has been creeping up under the side table, playing theambush game, and he launches himself at Tom just as he starts to stand. Itthrows him off balance and he sits back in the chair, holding Cat.
"You've got nothing to worry about," Pop says. "Cat's on your side."
10
Cat jumping out of car on parkway.]
CAT AND THE PARKWAY