Socks (4 page)

“Socks!” shouted Mrs. Bricker, who heard the thump and knew its meaning.

Socks ran in a guilty crouch through the laundry and down the hall to his refuge under the bed. Mr. Bricker was after him with the broom. “We can't let you get away
with that,” he said on his hands and knees, as he lifted the Indian bedspread and poked at his cat. “Come on out of there.”

Socks carried his prey to the farthest corner against the wall and, growling, faced Mr. Bricker. This was his wiener, and he was willing to fight for it. Mr. Bricker pushed the broom at him, but Socks did not budge. He growled more fiercely and his fur rose along his spine. Let his owner yell and poke. He was hungry, and he was going to have that wiener.

The broom jabbed again. Socks dropped his wiener in the dust and, with every hair standing on end, hissed.

Mr. Bricker laughed. “Okay, you win this time, but next time, look out!” He rose to his knees and left Socks to his prey.

Socks settled down to gnaw the wiener as fiercely as if he had stalked and killed it. If his owners did not care enough about him to feed him properly, he would live by his wits.

M
r. Bricker sang while he changed Charles William's diaper. “Feed the baby garlic, so we'll find him in the dark. Oh, a boy's best friend is his mother.”

“There's a little wheel a-turning in my heart,” sang Mrs. Bricker, as she folded diapers. Life was easier for the young parents. Charles William, who now ate egg yolk, vegetables, and strained meat, could sleep
through the night without a bottle at two o'clock in the morning.

Socks, not so fortunate, still woke up at two o'clock expecting formula to be poured into his bowl. He felt cheated by the diet meals that his owners served him. After his small nutritious breakfast, he was allowed to sit beside the refrigerator all day without an offer of a bite to eat. He waited for food to be left on the counter so he could steal it, but his owners were too smart for him. Socks was reduced to catching and eating moths.

The Brickers not only refused to give Socks all he wanted to eat, they insisted that he exercise. Mr. Bricker tied a wad of cellophane to the end of a string and dragged it around the carpet for Socks to chase. “Come on, cat,” he said. “You still have some fat to work off.” After a few turns around the room, Socks, breathing heavily, found lying
down easier than playing.

The empty feeling in his middle sharpened Socks's hunting instincts. He stalked Mrs. Bricker's furry bedroom slippers until she caught him and shut them away in the closet. He crouched, waggled his rump, and pounced on the brown corduroy bear when Charles William shoved it out of his crib. He carried it around in his mouth until Charles William set up such a howl that Mrs. Bricker rescued the bear and returned it to its owner.

“Bad Socks,” she scolded. “You leave Brown Bear alone.”

Socks gave her a cold look. Couldn't she see he was not bad? He was hungry.

Late afternoons were hardest for Socks, for then Mrs. Bricker sat on the couch holding Charles William, draped in a diaper to catch spills, and spooned cereal, strained meat, vegetables, and applesauce from custard
cups into his messy mouth. “See the kitty,” she said, as Socks watched hungrily. “See the fat kitty.”

The fat kitty did not care about cereal, vegetables, and applesauce, but he resented the baby's getting that meat. However, he knew how to get even. He walked to the front door and meowed.

Socks now had Mrs. Bricker at a disadvantage. Both her hands and her lap were occupied, and she did not know whether her cat merely
wanted
to go out or whether he
needed
to. Socks meowed a second time.

“Oh, Socks,” said Mrs. Bricker with a sigh. “Do you have to?”

Socks meowed a third time, and as he knew she would, Mrs. Bricker set the custard cup she was holding on the coffee table, carried Charles William, who fussed at the interruption, across the room, and opened the door. “Socks, we love you,” she said, “but
you are getting to be a nuisance. A big fat nuisance.” When Socks took his time walking through the door, she gave his tail a little push with her toe and shut the door behind him.

Socks was determined to satisfy the empty feeling in his middle. He leaped the fence and meowed pitifully at the neighbor's back door, because the back door was closest to the refrigerator. When the elderly woman who lived there opened the door, Socks lifted his nose and breathed in the fragrance of stew simmering on the stove. Mrs. Bricker had not cooked anything that smelled this good since Charles William had arrived.

“Now Socks, you old fraud, don't you come begging around here.” The neighbor was kind, but she meant what she said. “You can't tell me you haven't had anything to eat, because I know better.” As she spoke she
tossed a handful of peanuts onto the grass for the blue jays that came swooping down from the television aerial.

Socks hated jays, noisy yammering birds that dived at him every chance they got. While the jays were busy picking up peanuts and storing them under the shingles of the Brickers' roof, Socks sneaked across his own yard to the house on the other side.

Unfortunately, Tiffy opened the door to his meow, but Socks took a chance and rubbed against her legs. Charm was often helpful.

“Mommy, Socks likes me!” shrieked Tiffy.

“Lucky you,” answered her mother from another room.

Socks tactfully led the way to the refrigerator. “Mommy, Socks is hungry!” Tiffy called out.

“Don't let that cat kid you,” her mother called back.

“Can I feed him?”

“Sure. Go ahead,” said Tiffy's mother.

Juices ran in Socks's mouth as Tiffy pulled open the white door. She took out a plastic
pitcher, poured something in a cup, and set it on the floor. “There you are, Socksie,” she said tenderly. “Nice Hawaiian punch.”

One whiff was enough. Socks gave Tiffy a look of reproach. How could she disappoint him like this?

Tiffy squatted beside him. “Try it, Socksie. You'll like it,” she coaxed. “How do you know you won't like it if you don't try it?”

Socks's answer was a long look at the refrigerator. Tiffy got the idea. This time she offered him leftover chocolate pudding, which he also disdained. Obviously this household had nothing fit for a cat to eat. He walked to the back door and asked to go out. These people were not worth bothering with. Tiffy, eager to do something to please the cat, opened the door. “Bye, Socksie,” she said in a voice sad with disappointment. Socks walked out with his tail erect and quirked at the tip like a question mark.

Where could Socks beg next? Cars and dogs made the territory in front of the house dangerous. The evil jays, having hidden their peanuts, were now finding them and rapping them on the roof to crack them. The sight of the jowly black cat sunning himself on the back fence was discouraging.

Socks slunk home and let himself in through an open window. As his paws hit the floor there came a sound he had not heard since the arrival of Charles William, the sound of Mrs. Bricker tapping down the hall in her going-out-for-the-evening shoes. Instantly he was alert for the answers to two important questions. Would he be fed before his owners left, and would he be shut inside or outside the house?

“Prreow.”
Socks half purred and half meowed as he rubbed against the legs of Mr. Bricker, who was sitting on the bed
tying his shoes. Mr. Bricker responded by rubbing his cat's head roughly and affectionately, but he made no move in the direction of the refrigerator.

Mrs. Bricker tapped down the hall into the bedroom with Charles William in her arms. “Is our big boy going to miss his mommy and daddy?” she asked.

“Prreow,”
begged Socks at his most charming.
“Prreow.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bricker. “The kitty's talking to the baby.” She was wrong. Socks was not talking to the baby. He never talked to the baby.

“Do you think Charles William will mind our going out?” the young mother asked anxiously, as Charles William grabbed a handful of her long hair. “He's beginning to understand so many things.”

“If he does mind, he'll have to get used to the idea,” said Mr. Bricker. “Mom said we
were to spend the check she sent on a babysitter and an evening out. You need to get out once in a while, and the world is full of babies who have survived an evening with a sitter.”

“Prreow.”
A cat needed attention, too.

“All right, Socks, you old beggar,” said Mr. Bricker. “Let's feed you and get you out of the way.”

Socks's victory was small—four pieces of meat—and while he was gulping them, the doorbell rang. The sound always unsettled him, but curiosity forced him to investigate.

Mrs. Bricker opened the front door to a plump elderly woman, who was carrying a paper shopping bag and who introduced herself. “I am Mrs. Risley from the Sitters' Service Agency.” She entered and leaned her shopping bag against the chair with the loopy upholstery. “Hello there, young man,” she said to Charles William, as she removed
her coat and, without waiting to be asked, hung it in the closet beside the front door.

Socks sniffed at the shopping bag, which had a tantalizing smell. He stood on his hind legs with his front paws against the chair and peered into the bag, but all he could see were some yarn and knitting needles. He dropped to all fours and sniffed again. Interesting!

“Well, hello, you old Skeezix!” All cats were Skeezix to Mrs. Risley, who stooped to rub Socks behind his ears. “My, aren't you a big handsome boy with a nice thick coat!”

Socks sat down and looked up at Mrs. Risley with love in his eyes. Here at last was a true admirer, his first since the baby had arrived.

“Charles William has had his supper,” said Mrs. Bricker, who had not trusted a stranger to feed her baby, “but he will want a bottle when he goes down for the night. He's big enough to hold his own bottle now, and he doesn't need to be burped anymore.”

“And what about Skeezix?” asked Mrs. Risley. “What do I feed him?”

“He's been fed,” answered Mrs. Bricker with her eyes on her son. “And don't let him
tell you he hasn't. He's quite a beggar, but for a while he was getting too fat. For your supper there is—”

“Oh, don't worry about me,” said Mrs. Risley. “I always bring a meat patty with me. On these jobs you never know what you're going to find to eat. Some places all you get is a can of soup or a waffle.” She reached for Charles William, who looked surprised and uncertain. He turned to his mother for some explanation and whimpered.

“He's going to be all right.” Mr. Bricker firmly guided his wife to the door.

Charles William began to cry, and Socks stopped his investigation of the shopping bag. He looked anxiously at the three adults, wanting them to attend to the baby.

“Don't you worry about a thing,” said Mrs. Risley. “He'll stop crying as soon as you leave. They always do.”

Mrs. Risley was right. As soon as his par
ents disappeared, Charles William discovered the scarf below Mrs. Risley's double chin and stopped crying. He had never seen a scarf like hers before and found it interesting. “Eh-yeh-yeh,” he said.

“That's better,” said Mrs. Risley, and sat Charles William in his playpen. She began to rummage in her shopping bag. “I call this my survival kit,” she said to Socks, who was peering into the bag to see if she had something for him. From the jumble of knitting, crayons, scissors, colored paper, magazines, and bedroom slippers, Mrs. Risley produced a roll of Scotch tape and, tearing off a piece, stuck it firmly to the big toe of Charles William's bare left foot. “There,” she said. “That will keep you busy.” Once again she was right.

Charles William stared at his toe in astonishment. Never before had he experienced Scotch tape on his toe. He lay back and
waved his foot. The tape stuck fast. Fascinating! “Ah-gah-gah,” he said.

Mrs. Risley was now able to devote her entire attention to Socks. This remarkable woman, who knew where to find things in a strange house, found Socks's brush in the laundry and went to work brushing him with long, hard strokes. Socks stood with his back braced and his chin raised, luxuriating in the tingle the brush brought to his skin. All the time Mrs. Risley brushed, she talked. “Poor Skeezix,” she said tenderly. “With a baby in the house he feels nobody loves him. Well, Mrs. Risley loves him.” With a tip of her finger, she rubbed his nose where the hair grew short and flat. How good it felt! “Yes, he is a handsome boy.” Socks agreed.

When Mrs. Risley cooked and ate her meat patty, she served Socks a morsel. “Just enough so you won't feel left out,” she
explained. “We can't let such a handsome boy get fat, can we? No, that wouldn't do at all.” Somehow Socks did not mind receiving only one small bite of meat.

By this time Charles William had exhausted the possibilities of Scotch tape and was beginning to be cross with it. He had pulled it from his toe, stuck it to his right hand and then his left, back and forth, and finally succeeded in sticking it to Brown Bear. He did not want Scotch tape stuck to Brown Bear. Charles William fussed, and Socks looked anxiously to Mrs. Risley.