The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Damien Broderick

  Blackie hit Tommy’s bedside lamp and knocked it to the floor. Immediately the light bulb broke and the room went dark except for the strange reflection of the running rain drops on the window and on the wall behind Bill.

  “Damn it!” Bill yelled.

  Footsteps coming loudly up the stairs and into the hallway, and the door opened.

  Mary.

  She flicked on the ceiling light.

  “Bill, what on earth?”

  “Damn it!” he said again, very strongly.

  Blackie was on the window sill again, curled up, staring at Bill as intently and angrily as it could, all yellow eyes and fierce teeth, fierce hiss.

  “Sssssssss!”

  Tommy yelled, “Blackie, don’t!”

  The cat glanced at him, then jumped out into the rain.

  “That is it!” Bill yelled, and pushed his wife away as he went out the door.

  Mary asked Tommy, “Did that cat attack your father?”

  “Yes!”

  “Tommy, his face is bleeding!”

  “I don’t care!” He ran past her, too, and hurried down the steps in his bare feet.

  Following the sounds of his father through the house, Tommy moved as fast as he could through the front room and the kitchen and out the back door.

  The screen door banged behind him as he ran into the wet gravel in his bare feet, racing toward the barn. He saw his father there already. He had the big barn doors open, and he had turned on every available light out here, the back porch lights, the other flood lights on poles around the gravel parking area in front of the barn, and the tall lights inside the barn.

  Tommy yelled, “Don’t you hurt him!”

  But he saw that Bill already had grabbed a hoe and was chasing Blackie into a corner of the barn.

  “Dad, don’t!” Tommy yelled.

  “You stay back!” Bill ordered him as Tommy started to come into the barn.

  Just that fast, as Bill turned toward his son, Blackie bounded onto the crowded work bench Bill had against that side of the barn. Old paint cans, a few hand tools, sandpaper, drill bits—whatever was there was knocked over or scattered loudly as Blackie bumped into them, then continued, not slowing at all, in a perfect leap that brought the cat again toward Bill’s face.

  Bill, turning away from Tommy, saw the cat out of the corner of his eye and backed away, avoiding the claws and teeth that had caught him in the bedroom.

  And as Blackie landed on the packed earth floor of the barn, Bill followed him with the hoe, swinging it down as though aiming at weeds or flowers he meant to cut free—

  Tommy screamed, “No!”

  —and caught Blackie in the animal’s side just as Blackie tried to scamper free.

  “No!”

  The force of the hoe blade hitting it caused the cat to roll several feet toward the open doors of the barn. There it lay, panting, yellow eyes blazing, with its left side sliced open and muscles showing and organs, the heart or lungs or whatever they were. Tommy didn’t know.

  The boy shrieked at his father, “You killed Blackie!” and knelt beside the animal.

  Tommy tried to lift Blackie, but doing so threatened to pull the cat in half. So Tommy stretched out beside it on his belly and sobbed and sobbed, cried mightily, and pressed his wet cheek to Blackie’s face.

  The cat closed it eyes, then opened them.

  Looked past Tommy and watched Bill with those fierce yellow eyes.

  “Bill!” It was Mary, her hair and dress all wet, doing her best to keep the rain off her with a small umbrella she’d opened. She stood just inside the barn and said sadly, “Oh, Bill.…”

  Bill shook his head. He was still holding the hoe by its handle.

  “Blackie, Blackie, don’t die,” Tommy sobbed. “Please don’t die, please don’t die.”

  The cat’s head fell back. The yellow eyes moved from Bill to Tommy, looking at the boy, looking into him—

  Bill dropped the hoe. The end of the handle clanged emptily on the hard-packed earth floor of the barn. He said in a thick voice, “Tommy,” almost as though trying to apologize.

  But Tommy continued to cry. “Blackie, Blackie, don’t die, don’t die.”

  The yellow eyes…the brilliant yellow eyes, fading…going out.…

  Tommy coughed and didn’t try to talk anymore.

  He was looking at Blackie, staring at Blackie as the cat’s head dropped completely loose against the ground.

  Tommy made a sound in his throat.

  Bill tried again. He said quietly, “Tommy, please, son.”

  Tommy lifted himself up onto his hands and knees and turned around that way to stare at his father.

  “Tommy!” Bill yelled at him, staring at his son. “Tommy, you stop it!”

  The boy’s eyes were yellow, brilliant yellow, and as he crouched on all fours, Tommy bared his teeth and hissed at his father.

  “Tommy!”

  “Mreee-owwwrrr! Ssssssss.…”

  3.

  The following afternoon, Saturday, the sun was just beginning to lengthen the deep shadows all around the farmhouse and the barn when Tommy showed up at the back door.

  Mary was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. All afternoon, at every sound she heard outside, she started, turned to look, and hoped that it would be her son.

  Tommy, upright, opened the screen door, came in, and sat across from her at the table.

  His mother asked him, “Where have you been?”

  “Out where we buried Blackie.” He sounded heartbroken and forlorn.

  “Your father is extremely angry with you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Tommy.” Softness entered her tone. “It’s been long enough, now. You have to accept this.”

  “I hate him.”

  “You don’t hate him. He did a bad thing, but it’s over. I’m sorry. He is, too. But you have to let this go. You want me to take you to the doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then we have to deal with this as a family.”

  They both looked up, alert, at the sound of footsteps on the back porch. The screen door was flung open powerfully, and Bill came in, limping on his left leg and wiping his hands on an oily rag. He had Band-Aids on his face.

  Crossing the kitchen, he thrust the dirty rag into a back pocket and went to the sink to get himself a glass of water. He slurped it down, then confronted Tommy.

  “Where you been all day?”

  “You don’t have to know.”

  “Answer me!”

  “Go to hell!”

  “What did you say?”

  Mary yelled, “Tommy, that is enough! Apologize right now!”

  “No!” He scooted back in his chair and knocked it over. He stood and kept his eyes on his father. He was quivering with tension.

  Bill stared at him, disbelieving, then looked at Mary. “You hear this?”

  “There’s something wrong with him.”

  Tommy told his mother, “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Bill sneered. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with him.”

  “I want to know what’s wrong with you!” Tommy yelled back and, as quickly as he could, ran around the kitchen table, past his mother, and out the screen door.

  It banged slowly several times, throbbing like a headache.

  Mary told Bill, “I want to take him to the doctor.”

  “And who’s paying for that?” Bill growled and rubbed his forehead.

  “I should take you, too. Why isn’t that going away?”

  “Why?” Bill laughed and tilted his chin, indicating the back door and the yard outside. “Because of him, that’s why, and what I got to put up with.”

  “I am getting concerned, Bill.”

  “Yeah, well, me, too.”

  Through the screen door came the sounds of a cat mewing—Tommy, their son, outside, mewing like a cat. Bill went to the door, looked out—and undid his belt buckle, began pulling his belt out of the pant
loops.

  “This is enough!” he said, pushing the door open.

  Mary got to her feet—“Bill, no!”—and ran out the door after him.

  In the gravel in front of the barn, Tommy was crouched on hands and knees, huddled between the outside wall and an old stack of hundreds of bricks, weathered and just sitting there.

  Bill lifted the belt with his right hand and yelled at Tommy, “You come here now! You stand up now!”

  Tommy bared his teeth and hissed, leaned back as far as he could on his legs, and lifted his hands. His eyes were yellow.

  “Now!” Bill yelled.

  Mary, running to him from behind, grabbed his right arm. “Bill, please!”

  He spun around, ripping his arm from her hands, and pulled back as though he were going to hit Mary with the belt.

  “He is sick!” Mary said.

  “He ain’t sick!” Bill yelled in her face.

  Tommy leaped to one side and, on all fours, scuttled into the barn.

  “Go inside,” Mary told Bill. “I will handle this.”

  “The hell.”

  “Bill, please!”

  He stood there, not moving, thinking, panting as though out of breath. He said, “Jesus Christ,” very quietly, then turned his back on Mary and stalked back to the house, flicking the belt as he did, holding it by the buckle and slapping the other end of it in the gravel, sending stones into the air.

  Mary went to the open barn and peered in. “Tommy?” she called. “It’s all right, come on. He’s gone.”

  She heard a faint purring sound from low in the throat—her son, her boy.

  “Tommy? Come on now,” Mary said softly, walking carefully into the barn, looking into the shadows where Tommy might be hiding.

  He was there, in a dark corner, his yellow eyes very bright. The voice that was with the yellow eyes was a little boy’s voice. “Mom? I’m really scared, Mom.”

  “I know. I know.”

  When she and Tommy walked into the house a few minutes later, the boy was holding Mary’s left hand with both of his as though trying to keep his balance. His eyes were no longer yellow, and he was breathing hard.

  But he went inside with his mom and followed her into the kitchen and stood with her at the entrance to the front room.

  Bill was lying in his recliner with his feet up and his head back. His eyes were closed, but now he opened them and looked at his wife and son. He said softly, “Damn it,” but did not move.

  Tommy hissed at him.

  Mary prodded him on the shoulder. “Upstairs, now.”

  Tommy went—through the front room to the stairs to go up to his room.

  “My God, Mary,” Bill said.

  “We are all going to go see the doctor,” she said. “He’ll figure it out.”

  Bill laughed as if she had told a joke and closed his eyes again.

  Mary went through the front room and up the stairs. She tapped lightly on Tommy’s bedroom door, which was ajar, and looked in.

  “Mom?” He was sitting on his bed.

  She came in and sat by him, reached for one of his hands and held it.

  “I’m so worried about you. What on earth is going on, Tommy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “It just feels like this is how I am now.”

  “Is it because you’re mad at your dad because he killed Blackie?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that makes you want to act like Blackie?”

  “I don’t want to, but I have to. I can hear him.”

  “Hear him how?”

  “In my head. He purrs like he misses me.”

  Mary scooted closer to her son and put both arms around him to hold him. “We have to fix this.”

  “I know.”

  “Will you try talking to your father? For me?”

  “Blackie won’t let me.”

  “He won’t?”

  “He wants to hurt dad because dad killed him. Dad likes to hurt people.”

  “Tommy, he does not, and you know that.”

  “From before. In the army. Blackie told me. I’m scared, Mom.”

  “Tommy, I want to take you to the doctor. Okay?”

  “If you have to. I guess I better.”

  “Whatever you need to talk about, you can talk to Dr. Neil. Will you try?”

  “Will he hurt Blackie?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because he’s already mad that I told you.”

  “Blackie is?”

  “I don’t think he’s really a cat.”

  “What is he?”

  “I don’t know. But he’s mad.”

  “Tommy, look at me.”

  They looked each other in the eyes—full love for each other, and concern.

  “I’m scared, Mom.”

  “I know. I’m going to try calling Dr. Neil right now, okay?”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Stay here.”

  Mary went downstairs and into the kitchen, pulled open a cabinet drawer, took out the phone book, and set it on the counter.

  Bill came in from the front room.

  Mary told him, “I’m calling Dr. Neil.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I want to see how soon they can take him. Bill, damn it, this is serious.” She reached for the phone but then waited as she heard someone pull in the driveway—loud engine, grinding gears. “Is that Jim again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell him not to park behind me. Park in the yard.”

  Bill said nothing, simply walked out onto the porch, and Mary heard him calling to Jim. She took the handset down from the phone on the wall and carefully dialed the doctor’s number.

  As she did, Mary looked over to see Tommy, very pale and shaking, coming through the front room.

  She said into the phone, “This is Mary Toland. No, I know the office probably isn’t open, but I have to talk to Dr. Neil. I understand. You can page him?” She covered the handset for a moment and told Tommy, “Maybe I can talk to him.”

  “I’m really starting not to feel so good.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re— Yes. Toland,” she said into the phone. “All right. A few minutes? I’ll be here.” She hung up, left the phone book where it lay on the counter, and knelt to look Tommy right in the eyes. “He’s going to call us back. You’re eyes are funny again.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m cold, Mom.”

  She felt his forehead. “You have some kind of bug. You’re hot. Come on.” She walked him to the kitchen table and eased him into a chair.

  The screen opened and Jim came in carrying a large plastic Tupperware container. He told Mary, “Cindy says thanks.”

  “Oh. The pie.”

  “She put some cookies in there for Tommy.” Jim smiled as he set the container on the kitchen table but then got a good look at the boy. “What’s the matter, son?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “Your eyes is yellow.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m waiting for Dr. Neil to call back,” Mary said.

  “Sounds smart,” Jim told her, then moved closer to Mary and asked her in a low voice, “Did Bill do anything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To Tommy.”

  “He killed the cat.”

  “I know that.”

  “Jim, what’re you getting at?”

  Jim raised both hands, palms out, in a precautionary gesture. “He’s just out there cursing about it, that’s all.”

  “Damn it,” Mary said.

  Tommy, still at the table, said, “He did bad things, Mr. Peck.”

  Jim faced the boy. “Your dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “We all did, Tommy.”

  “Not like him. He liked it.”

  The screen door crashed open then, banging against
the outside wall, and Bill came in, saying loudly to Tommy, “That is enough from you about the cat!”

  Tommy slid off the chair and backed away as far as he could, bumping into the refrigerator. “You know what you did!”

  “Shut up!” Bill yelled at him.

  Mary said, “Bill, stop it right now.”

  But he moved past Jim Peck, trying to get to Tommy—

  Who raced around the other side of the table, hissing at his father, and pushed the screen door open to jump outside.

  Jump and land, not on the porch, but in the gravel at the bottom of the steps—an athletic distance.

  Jim Peck saw Tommy do it and said, “Damn.”

  Bill went out onto the porch. “Tommy, come here right now!” He hurried down the steps and tried to grab his son by the shirt.

  Tommy hissed at him and ran away, then stopped in the gravel, looked back with those yellow eyes, and bared his teeth. “Mreee-owwwrrr!”

  “Tommy, you are sick!”

  Tommy dropped onto his hands and feet and—awkwardly, but doing it—scampered toward the barn. He went around the south corner, into the tall grass and weeds that were there.

  “Tommy!” Bill ran after him but stopped at the tall grass. “Tommy, come out now!”

  Mary was on the porch, watching, with Jim beside her.

  Jim said, “Dear God, Mary.”

  “Call the sheriff, please, please.”

  “Right now.” Jim went back into the kitchen.

  Mary stepped down into the gravel and yelled at her husband, “Bill, leave him alone!”

  “Tommy!” Bill called.

  Silence. No movement. Silence.

  “Tommy, you come out here right now! I want you on two legs!”

  Mary heard Jim in the kitchen talking on the phone, asking for the sheriff, and then she saw the weeds move. They trembled along the side of the barn, breaking up the sunlight that rested on the wood, sending tiny flakes and florets like dust into the air.

  “Tommy! Now!

  The weeds parted, and Mary saw that her son was crawling on his hands and knees and that he had a dead snake in his mouth, drooping down both sides like a piece of wet rope.

  Mary screamed, “Tommy, no!”

  Bill made a sound and pushed ahead with one foot, stamping it on the gravel the way he might try to scare off an animal.

  Tommy dropped the snake, backed up on his legs, and hissed at his father. The yellow eyes burned brightly.