When you light a cat's tail, it screams even worse than they do at night when they're fighting and making babies, only there's no purring or cat baby-crying mixed in, it's all just yowling and screaming. Most times the cat dies and somebody will find it in the back corner of a garage or under a porch when it starts to stink. But I've seen a few live. Gradually the black burnt bones that are left fall off a piece at a time until there's only a tiny stump of a tail left. Usually fur grows over this part so those cats look like a cross between a cat and a rabbit.
That Sunday, I go off as if I'm going to church. I'd been awake practically all night, trying to get up nerve to tell my folks I've been thrown off the altar boys. But I couldn't do it. So instead I go over to Mr. Harding's garage. They'd moved all his furniture from his house and his wife drove his car away but they didn't clean out the garage. There are boxes filled with old clothes and old blankets. Burlap bags, moldy cloths, and clothes are strewn around. I don't know why I went back. I'd only been back once since I found him; that was when Zigenfus told me the car had been taken out by Mrs. Harding, and I wanted to check for sure.
When I walk into the garage, the first thing besides car-grease smell is the smell of molding rags. One of the garage windows has been broken already. Unless somebody else moves into the house soon, it won't be long before they'll all be broken. Kids, even some grownups, like breaking windows. There are some houses on our block with more broken windows than ones with glass in them. That's one reason Mr. Marsden let us stay in our house even when we couldn't pay the rent; at least we keep it clean and painted; the windows aren't all broken out.
Once I threw a stone and broke one of Mr. Coughlin's windows. He caught me and dragged me home. I was only about seven then. My dad told Mr. Coughlin we'd get it fixed. He was mad but he didn't holler or anything. But that Saturday he made me go over with a folding measure and write down the measurements of Mr. Coughlin's window. Then we walked to the hardware store, where they cut a piece of glass just that size. The glass and putty and some little nails cost thirty-two cents. Then we went over to Mr. Coughlin's house and fitted in that piece of glass. Dad didn't say anything all this time but showed me how to do it, and after he nailed in the little nails, he made me put in all the putty. It's really hard to do right. It took me two hours, doing it over and over again until I got it all smooth and even. When I was finished I was crying. Dad put the tools away, and took me by the hand and led me home.
“Dickie, I just wanted you to know something. Any fool can break a window but very few people can put one back in.”
The second thing I smell is the smell of that gas Mr. Harding killed himself with. That's a smell that doesn't go away fast. The door's open so I let myself just inside. I'm afraid to go all the way into this garage. I don't believe in ghosts, but Father Lanshee might be right about devils.
I'm standing there, thinking how Mr. Harding looked and trying not to think about Mom and Dad looking for me on the altar, when I see something move in the back corner of the garage in the middle of a bunch of old clothes. I step sideways to get a better view and lean forward a few steps. There's a green-eyed cat, eyes almost green as my mom's, and shining there in that back corner.
She's hunched the way cats get when they're about ready to run. Her eyes stay on me without blinking and I'm looking to see if she's hurt or anything. Lots of times cats get hit by cars then crawl into these garages to die. But she looks healthy, healthy that is for an alley cat.
I'm starting to back out the door when she dashes past me and scrambles up the inside of that garage door and out the broken window. I'd left the door open so there was no reason for her to go out that way.
She moves so fast she scares me and I push myself against the garage door that isn't open. These garages have two doors that swing like regular doors; they don't swing up the way they do in the movies.
I'm about ready to go out the door when I hear some sounds coming from where that cat was. I know right away what it is and I want to see them. I tiptoe back carefully and there, tucked in the cloth, are five baby kittens. They're so small their eyes are still closed; they can't stand up. I reach in and lift them one at a time. The mother was a striped tiger cat, standard alley-cat color, sort of greenish gray and black stripes. Two of these kittens look like that. Another is black and white, one is black, and the other is a brownish color with dim blackish stripes. This last one is strange because it doesn't have a tail and it's too young for anybody to have burnt it off. I'm not sure if the mother had a tail but I think she did. Maybe the father was one of those cats who got his tail burnt off and this kitten inherited it. It
is
dark brown as if it's already been burnt. Maybe this one is a devil cat, come straight out from H-E-L-L.
After playing with the kittens for a while and listening to them, I decide to see if I can help them stay alive. Most of the kittens in these alleys get killed by dogs, boys, or other cats. A lot of times there just isn't enough to eat.
So, before everybody comes home, I go in, open the icebox, and take two pinches out of the hamburger in its brown paper. Mom is going to make meat loaf with it. I pat the meat back into shape so it looks the same. To make up, I'll eat a little less myself; I don't particularly like meat loaf much anyway. I pour milk into a cup without any handle I had in the cellar for my turtle before he disappeared. I take both these, a piece of broken broomstick, and some wire back to Mr. Harding's garage. I put the milk and the hamburger beside the kittens.
The mother cat isn't there. I figure she's out looking for something to eat.
I don't have much time before everybody comes home, so I go out and push the broom handle through the latches on the door and wire it shut. This will keep other kids out, and so long as the only way to get in is through that window, no dog or anything can get at them. When I finish, I feel better; I feel almost as if I have a little family of my own. I'm ready to tell Mom and Dad about being thrown out of the altar boys.
It isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Mom gets all excited at first but then settles down. Dad asks me to explain and I tell about the eraser and Mr. Harding and the taste of the crucifix and my spitting, the exercising; the whole thing. It sounds even crazier when I'm saying it than it did when it was all happening. While I'm talking, my scrambled eggs and bacon are getting cold. We always have scrambled eggs and bacon on Sunday morning. It's the only time we have bacon because it's so expensive. We each get two slices.
“And after that Father Lanshee threw you out of the altar boys, is that right?”
“That's right. I think he doesn't want to take a chance of letting someone who might have a devil inside him get on the altar.”
That's when Dad starts laughing and I know it's going to be all right.
“Don't you worry, Dickie; you don't have any devils in you. Don't you worry about it.
“You know, your grandfather, my father, has the same trouble with nails in his mouth. They'd get so wet they'd almost be rusty before he could drive them into the wood, and there would be a little puddle of spit around the top of each nail when it was pounded in.”
I stare at him, hoping he'll go on. I love to hear stories about my grandfather.
“You eat your egg and bacon now, Dickie. I guess there isn't much chance of your going to communion anyhow. But you'd better get to that eleven-o'clock mass. It's going to be a high mass and could last almost two hours. I guess that'll pay off to God for you missing the nine-o'clock today.”
He pushes the last of his egg into his mouth, takes the final crust of his bread and scoops out his plate; pushes the bread into the side of his mouth.
“One thing, Dickie. Don't ever let anyone, I don't care who it is, throw any erasers or anything at you again. You just walk out of there and when I come home, you tell
me
. I'll take care of it. In fact I'm half tempted to go in and talk to that Sister Anastasia and Father Lanshee myself right now, but I've already got enough trouble to think about.”
Over the next week I go every day to see the kittens. I never see the mother again. The third day I go, there are only four kittens; the black-and-white one is gone. All that's left is one ear, the little paws with tiny claws and most of the tail.
I figure a tomcat came in and ate it. Or maybe it could even be the mother. Jimmy Malony told me once how when cats are born in May the mother will eat them sometimes, but this is September. I can't think of a way to keep tomcats out without keeping the mother away too.
I start sitting across the alley in the areaway to see if I can catch the mother going in or out so I'll know she's feeding them, but she must only go in at night or during the day, when I'm at school. Or maybe she sees me hiding across the way and won't go in while I'm there.
Two days later, one of the striped cats is gone, all except two paws. The other kittens are starting to get their eyes open. This is the day Dad came home beaten up by goons the second time.
He'd had to work overtime and they were waiting for him. Luckily he had his monkey wrench because he broke away, ran, got on a trolley car, where they couldn't get to him.
This time my mom is really crying. She wants Dad to stop being shop steward, to just do his job.
Dad's white and his hands shake while he's reading the newspaper. He keeps making knots in his jaw, tight, the way he does when he chews, but he isn't eating.
I want to ask about the kittens disappearing and what I can do, but I'm afraid. He looks so strange. I don't think of my father as somebody who gets scared, and it scares
me
seeing him this way.
It's Thursday of the second week after I found my kittens, when I go in and there's only one left, the little brown one without a tail. I watch all the weekend, even eating lunch out there in the alley, but I never do see the mother cat go through that broken window; no other cat climbs through either.
When I go in the garage he's nuzzling in the mess at the bottom of the nest. By now, all the cloths are blood-soaked and there are pieces of kitten smashed into the cloth. As soon as that kitten sees me, he rears up on his hind legs and backs into the corner of the garage behind the nest. He's standing up there with his claws out and his eyes fastened on me like a lion or a bear. I sit down on the garage floor in a part where there isn't any grease and watch him. I also get to really
look
at him.
He's definitely like a burnt tiger except for not having a tail. There are darker stripes coming down between his ears, across his forehead, and between his eyes. There are also stripes going out from each of his eyes, almost like a raccoon, and there are dark drips coming down from the inside of his eyes right next to his nose. I can't tell for sure if these are real marks or only something like sleep that gets caught in the corner of your eyes.
His nose is pink on the end mostly but with some black parts on the top and outside. The bottom of his nose has a little slit in it to match his mouth and he has no lips. Whenever I move too fast, he opens his jaws wide and makes a hissing sound.
I keep calling this cat “him” but I don't really know. The kids in the neighborhood say it's hard to tell a boy cat from a girl cat till they're grown up; then it's easy. The tomcats have big nuts and the females a round pink hole under the tail.
This one has little sharp, white teeth and the inside of his mouth is pink in the front, the way you would expect, then it gets darker, almost blue or purple at the back of his tongue. When he opens his mouth to snarl, he tucks his tongue back away from his teeth; I never noticed that about cats before. But then I never really noticed much about cats; I don't think I even really like cats. I know they eat rats and mice but they also catch all the pigeons and sparrows. There are practically no birds in the alleys, only at the front, and then it's mostly starlings.
But I'm beginning to like this cat and I'm becoming more and more convinced he
ate
his brothers and sisters. I figure he'd wait till they were all asleep then kill one by biting it on the neck or something and draining the blood. Probably the other kittens, when they were still alive, helped him eat them, too. Four would eat one, then three ate one, then two ate one, then this one ate the last other kitten, the black one that's only one paw and a tail now. It must have been awful to see. I wonder if they ate the meat and milk I brought or some other cat came in and ate it. I don't know for sure whether it's true he ate his brothers and sisters but I decide to name him Cannibal.
I sit there a long time, watching, not thinking much, and then he begins to fall down. He isn't coming down on his four feet, he's falling over sideways. He does this twice, then just lies there on his side, his thin stomach going in and out. His eyes are closed so I can sneak up on him. I wonder if I could pick him up now without getting bitten. Actually I've been too afraid to put my hand near him the last week, even though he isn't much bigger than a mouse. He's really like a miniature wildcat, not like a kitten at all, except he's so tiny. I don't think he's actually grown much since the first time I saw him. Only he's opened his eyes, learned to growl and stand up. I haven't ever seen him walk. He just huddles in that bloody, messy nest or rears up in the corner behind it.