Tiffy squatted beside Socks. “Do you want to come and live at my house?” she asked.
Socks, who had finished rolling in the dirt, sat up and, after considering Tiffy a moment, allowed her to pet him. Since he had become an outdoor cat, he was grateful for attention from anyone, even Tiffy, and the two had formed a cautious friendship.
“See!” said Tiffy to Mr. Bricker. “Socks likes me. He wants to live at my house.” She made the mistake of patting his head, and Socks moved away. Petting and patting were not the same. He was disappointed in her.
“A cat’s heart is where his dish is,” said Mr. Bricker.
Mr. Bricker was wrong. Socks’s dish and water bowl had been moved to the back step, and his bed had been moved to the garage, where a window was left open so he could come and go. Still, his heart remained in the house with his family. Loneliness and curiosity drove Socks to spend more and more time sitting on the windowsill watching all that went on inside. He watched Mr. Bricker shadowbox in front of the playpen and listened to Charles William laugh. He watched Charles William grab Brown Bear by one leg and beat him against the playpen pad, and he heard him shout, “Id-did-did!” He was curious for a closer look at the plastic ball filled with water and sloshing plastic fish. He saw Charles William support himself on his hands and knees and crawl across the pen. He watched him grab the bars and pull himself unsteadily to his feet.
“See the kitty,” said Mrs. Bricker many times a day, as she looked up from her typewriter. “The kitty is looking at you.” Charles William paused in throwing his toys outside his playpen or pounding on a pie tin to stare at Socks. Sometimes he watched Socks without his mother telling him to.
Loneliness was not the only trouble in Socks’s new life. Jays scattered his dry food and swooped at him whenever they came to steal. He felt threatened on Tuesday mornings when the garbage men came, and he was afraid of the milkman. But his biggest worry was Old Taylor, the black cat with the torn ear and bulging jowls, who lived across the back fence and belonged to a family named Taylor.
Although the fence was the property of the house rented by the Brickers and should have been part of Socks’s territory, Old Taylor made it his own by sleeping on it whenever the sun was out. This habit annoyed Socks, who sometimes wanted to sit on the fence out of Tiffy’s reach when he grew bored with her attention. However, the two cats had come to an understanding. Old Taylor would beat up Socks if Socks tried to sit on the fence while Old Taylor was using it.
One morning Socks, who had fallen asleep on the warm hood of the old station wagon, was awakened by the sound of a late spring rain driving against the garage. The car hood had grown cold and hard. After a bow, a stretch, and a brief wash, Socks sprang to the windowsill, where he saw that the neighborhood was still dark. There was no hope of breakfast, but he might find dry food left in his dish from the night before. The grass was cold and wet to his paws as he ran through the downpour in the direction of the back step.
In the dim light Socks saw a sinister black shape crouched at his dish in the dry spot below the eaves. Old Taylor! Through the sound of rainwater gurgling in the drainpipe, Socks heard the crunch of teeth crushing dry cat food. This intrusion would not do at all. Old Taylor had his side of the fence, and Socks had his. Socks would not quibble about the fence itself, but his food was a different matter. He crouched, flattened his ears and hissed, hoping to frighten the other cat, but prepared to defend his dish if he must.
Old Taylor merely glanced in his direction and went on gnashing and crunching. Socks’s honor as a cat could not excuse such rudeness. He advanced, still hissing, through the rain. Old Taylor stopped gnawing and grinding. He flattened his ears and hissed back from the dry spot on the step.
By now Socks was not only angry, he was soaking wet. He ignored the rain and continued to crouch, changing his hiss to a light singsong wail intended to warn Old Taylor that he meant what he said. His tune did not frighten Old Taylor. The black cat returned the sound louder and meaner. No young upstart was going to tell him anything. The fur of the two cats rose along their spines. They wailed and howled and caterwauled, and all during the eerie duet they were moving closer to one another with their fangs bared and their ears laid back.
Nose to nose, Socks found Old Taylor a terrifying sight with his ear torn and his fur standing out on his great black jowls. But Socks did not back down. Finally, with a terrible scream, the cats were on one another, a growling, snarling, yowling tangle. They clawed and bit and tumbled down the steps into a puddle. They rolled across the soaking grass and into freshly spaded earth. They floundered and wallowed in the mud. Old Taylor was on his back, thrashing at Socks with punishing blows of his strong hind feet. Socks felt claws and teeth through his fur. He hurt, he was bleeding, and Old Taylor had sprayed him. The black cat was too much for him.
Socks no longer cared about his dry food. Let the old tomcat have it. Socks wanted to get away, to untangle himself from the snarling, biting mass of muddy black fur. Somehow he did get away and ran for the garage while Old Taylor sent singsong warnings after him through the downpour. When Socks tried to leap to the windowsill, the weight of the mud on his fur made him fall. When he tried to lick his bleeding forepaw, the rasps on his tongue scraped up a mouthful of mud. Cold, wet, stiff with mud and in pain, Socks needed help.
Lights were coming on in the bedrooms, bathrooms, and kitchens of the neighborhood. Old Taylor had disappeared. Slowly and painfully Socks made his way through the rain, through the scattered cat food, now soggy and unappetizing, to his own back door where he cried a small, desperate meow for help.
Mrs. Bricker, who was in the kitchen, heard and must have understood, for she immediately opened the back door. “Socks!” she cried, shocked.
Socks looked up at her with sad, defeated eyes.
“Oh, poor Socks!” Mrs. Bricker opened the door wider, and Socks stepped painfully into the laundry. “Bill! Come and look at Socks. He’s been in a fight!”
Mr. Bricker came down the hall with his bathrobe flying. “Why you poor old fellow,” he said, when he saw his cat.
Socks waited helplessly.
“And he’s bleeding!” cried Mrs. Bricker. “What’ll we do? He can’t lick all that mud.”
Mr. Bricker agreed. “And if we tried to give him a bath, he’d climb the wall.”
“We can’t let the mud dry,” said Mrs. Bricker. “Adobe bricks are made out of mud like this. If it dries, he’ll turn into an adobe cat.”
“Try wet bath towels.” Mr. Bricker snatched a clean towel from the tangle on top of the dryer and dampened it under the kitchen faucet. Mrs. Bricker did the same. They knelt and began to rub Socks. How good the warm towels and gentle hands felt. Charles William awoke and fussed in his crib, but this time Socks got the attention, which made him feel better.
“Poor Socks,” grieved Mrs. Bricker, as she swabbed with a second towel and then a third. “It’s all our fault for shutting you out.” She dropped the towel into the washing machine and reached for a clean diaper.
“Socks should learn to roll over on his back and kick with his hind feet when he gets in a fight,” said Mr. Bricker, who was interested in all sports. “His strength is in his hind legs. He should hang on with his front paws and give Old Taylor everything he’s got with his hind legs.”
“Bill, you can’t coach a cat.” Mrs. Bricker laughed affectionately as she held another diaper under the kitchen faucet.
Charles William increased the volume of his fussing and began to rock his crib.
“Socks needs us,” his mother called to him. “You’ll have to wait.” Then she said to her husband, “Bill, can’t we let Socks live in the house again? I know he didn’t mean to bite so hard that time, and I always watch him when he’s in the room with Charles William.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Mr. Bricker, scrubbing the matted fur with a clean diaper. “He’s older and wiser now, but we’ll still have to keep an eye on him.”
Charles Willia
m began to bump his crib against the wall.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Mrs. Bricker rinsed her hands in the kitchen and, without bothering to change him, carried Charles William to his high chair, which she turned so that he could watch from the kitchen. She handed him a spoon to bang and went back to swabbing Socks.
Charles William enthusiastically whacked the spoon on the tray of his high chair until Socks caught his interest. He stopped whacking to stare. He had never seen a mud-covered cat before, and he had to give the matter some thought. “Ticky?” he said at last. “Ticky?”
Socks understood that Charles Williams was talking to him, and beneath his misery he felt the beginning of a new interest in the baby.
Both parents stopped scrubbing the cat to look at their son and then at one another. “Did you hear that?” cried the mother. “He’s talking! He’s trying to say kitty!”
“Smart boy!” said the proud father.
Socks was forgotten. Charles William had spoken a word—well, almost. Ticky! Imagine that. Charles William had called Socks Ticky. His mother would write his first word in his baby book. His father would write the news to Nana, maybe even phone collect. Charles William, overwhelmed with his own cleverness, heaved the spoon across the kitchen.
Then the Brickers noticed the clock. If they did not hurry, Mr. Bricker would be late for class. He rushed off to dress while Mrs. Bricker dashed about the kitchen, trying to prepare one breakfast for the parents and another for the baby.
“Ticky?” said Charles William, pleased with himself and eager to rekindle the excitement that he had caused.
“That’s right,” answered his proud mother. “We can’t forget Ticky.” She returned to the laundry, where Socks was licking his wound, and offered him a piece of meat with her fingers. He was sorry that he had no appetite.
Mrs. Bricker turned on the clothes dryer to warm the laundry and closed the door. This time Socks did not object to being shut in. He crouched on aching joints and, allowing for the weight of mud on his fur, leaped to the top of the dryer, where he settled himself to lick his bleeding leg in the tangle of clean diapers waiting to be folded.
In the kitchen Charles William demanded admiration. “Ticky?” he said, slapping his palms on the tray of his high chair. “Ticky?”
“Kit-tee,” said Mrs. Bricker.
“Ticky,” said Charles William, and laughed. He had invented a game.
Socks was soothed by the hum of the dryer and by the heat rising through the diapers. His throat began to vibrate with a hoarse and rusty-sounding purr, as if he had not purred for a long, long time. “Kit-tee.” “Ticky.” Mrs. Bricker and the baby were talking about him.
7
Socks and Charles William
Socks soon discovered, once his bed and dish had been returned to their old place in the laundry, that being inside the house with Charles William was quite different from watching him through the window. Charles William had outgrown his morning nap, and whenever Socks was in the room, he no longer was content to stay in his pen playing with Brown Bear or with his plastic ball filled with sloshing plastic fish. The minute his mother set him down inside the pen he began to fuss. If his mother ignored his fussing, he clung to the bars and howled. His playpen bored him, and he wanted out. If the cat was out, he should be out, too.
All this howling and shaking of wooden bars worried Socks, who sat beside the playpen like the Sphinx, with his paws flat in front, staring at the only human being he knew who was anywhere near his own size. The louder Charles William cried, the more uneasy Socks became until finally he ran meowing to Mrs. Bricker to tell her that she must do something to stop the crying.
Mrs. Bricker always relented. “All right, you two,” she said, as she lifted her son out of the pen and set him on the carpet. “You win.” She was careful never to have Socks and the baby alone when Charles William was outside his playpen.
Charles William was into everything. He tried to chew the lamp cord until his mother came running to pry it out of his fingers and to unplug the lamp. He crawled into the laundry and threw Socks’s dry food all over the floor. Mrs. Bricker started serving Socks’s meals on top of the clothes dryer.
Charles William pulled magazines off the coffee table with a slam that woke Socks with a start. He cried when his mother would not let him taste the dead moths he found. He sat in his high chair yelling “oy-doy-doy” into his cup, because he could make more noise that way. He stuffed his mouth with cottage cheese and blew it all over the kitchen for his mother to wipe up. He pulled pans out of the cupboards and banged them on the floor, a sound most disturbing to a cat’s sensitive ears. When given an educational toy, three wooden rings to fit on a peg, he threw away the rings, grabbed the peg as if it were a tomahawk, and pounded the floor with its base.
Most of all Charles William delighted in crawling after Socks. “Ticky?” he said hopefully. “Ticky?”
Socks came to accept his new name from the baby. Let the Brickers call him Ticky, and all they earned was a look of contempt.
“Pet the kitty gently,” said Mrs. Bricker, when Charles William reached for Socks’s tail.
Socks learned to put up with Charles William and, when necessary, to escape under the dining room table where he was fenced in by chair legs.
“See, the kitty’s tired,” said Mrs. Bricker to Charles William, when Socks had fled to safety. Actually Mrs. Bricker was the one who was tired.
Charles William was not only an active baby, he was growing heavier, and lifting him in and out of his high chair or onto the table in his room, where his diapers were changed, was tiring to his mother. In the afternoon, after she put Charles William down in his crib with his bottle and Brown Bear for his nap, Mrs. Bricker kicked off her sandals and fell asleep on the couch in the living room.
There was nothing Socks enjoyed so much as a warm body to lean against while he washed, but as soon as he settled himself against Mrs. Bricker and was grooming himself with long, hard licks, pausing to chew the rough spots, she pushed him to the floor. “Socks, please,” she said. “Be a good cat.”
In a moment Socks was back against the exhausted mother, licking, chewing, and occasionally scratching until his fur was sleek and his paws snowy. Mrs. Bricker, who knew when she was defeated and was too tired to protest, slept, and after a few minutes of vibrant purring so did Socks.
One afternoon, when Mrs. Bricker had put Charles William in his crib for his nap, Socks jumped down from the top of the clothes dryer, where he had been crunching dry cat food. He was passing the baby’s room on his way to join Mrs. Bricker on the couch as Charles William heaved his bottle out of his crib. The top, which he had managed to twist, came off, and the sight of all the milk spilling across the floor caught Socks’s attention.
Socks went to investigate, and although the milk was ordinary milk instead of the formula he once had enjoyed, he crouched and lapped while Charles William watched. When Socks had finished and was tidying his whiskers, Charles William got on his hands and knees and began to rock his crib as if he wanted to show what he could do. The crib began to move. Charles William rocked harder. The crib slid across the bare floor to the door, which Charles William was able to reach out to and push shut, an accomplishment that pleased him. He rocked some more, past the door, until the crib touched the wall and barred the door.
Socks looked up at Charles William and meowed. How was he going to get out with the door shut?
Charles William was delighted to have the cat speak to him personally. This was something new. Socks meowed again. He did not want to be shut in the bedroom when he was supposed to be napping in the living room.
Charles William wanted to amuse the cat. He worked at a crack in his plastic-covered crib bumper, tearing at it until he pulled out a tuft of cotton, which he threw out between the bars of his crib.
With alert eyes Socks watched the fluff floating toward the floor. A second fluff followed, and a third. Socks leaped to clap it between his paws as if
it were a butterfly. The baby chortled and tossed out a bigger piece of cotton. Socks leaped for that one, too, dropped it, and batted it across the floor. Now the crack in the plastic was big enough so that Charles William could get both his small hands into it. He pulled out gob after gob of cotton for the cat’s amusement.
Socks leaped and pounced and raced in a wild ballet, skidding through what was left of the milk, rolling over with cotton in his paws, while Charles William laughed and pulled out more cotton. Socks leaped for that, too, pleased to play with the fluffy stuff, pleased to entertain an admiring audience. Faster and faster Socks raced and leaped. Charles William screamed with laughter. Socks heard the padding sound of Mrs. Bricker hurrying down the hall in her bare feet, but he paid no attention.
Charles William was silent when he heard the doorknob turn, and Socks paused to pant. Mrs. Bricker tried to open the door, but she could not because of the crib wedged in the corner. “Oh!” she cried, and rattled the door. “Charles William, are you all right?” she asked, as if she expected him to answer. Then, after a pause, she added, “Socks! Are you in there?”
Charles William’s attention returned to the torn crib bumper. On with the game! Handfuls of cotton snowed down from the crib for Socks, and Charles William laughed harder than he had ever laughed in all his ten months.
The door rattled again. “Charles William, what are you doing?” Mrs. Bricker’s voice was frightened.
His mother could not get in! Charles William found this development so funny that he laughed even harder. He stuck out his tongue and blew. Thith-puth-putt. He found his new noise hilarious.
“What am I going to do?” Mrs. Bricker asked herself, and ran down the hall in her bare feet. In a moment Socks heard her running out the back door, and in another moment he saw her anxious face above the windowsill.
Charles William pulled out the last handful of cotton and threw it to Socks. His mother was outside, and he and the cat were inside. Charles William thought this situation was a huge joke.
Socks Page 5
