The Cats in the Doll Shop

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “She is tamer! And it’s because of Tania, Papa. She just has a way with Ginger Cat. With all animals, I guess.”

  And at just that moment, Mama comes back into the room with her arm around Tania. I look over at my cousin. The awful blinking has slowed a little. I guess Mama knew what to say.

  “Well, we can give it a try. But she’ll have to earn her keep,” says Papa.

  “Hurray!” cries Trudie, jumping off of the bed to do what she calls her “happy dance,” which consists of prancing in place, shaking her head from side to side, and making a circling motion with her hands. Even Sophie looks pleased, in her big-girl sort of way.

  “What about Plucky?” I ask. “He could help with the mice, too.”

  “Not with that bad back leg,” Papa says. “He won’t be fast enough.”

  “Couldn’t we keep him anyway, Papa? Please?” I beg. “He’s gotten thin and his fur is all matted. What will happen when winter comes?” My eyes fill with tears.

  “I know you care about him, tochter,” says Papa. “It shows what a kind heart you have. But two cats are too many.” He puts an arm around me. “You and Tania can toss scraps over the fence,” he adds. “Plucky’s a sturdy kitten. He’ll be all right.”

  “What if he’s not?” But Papa is gone. I turn to Mama. “Can you talk to him?” I ask. “Get him to change his mind?”

  “Two cats are too many,” Mama repeats. She gathers all the food that was under the pillow and leaves the room.

  I look around to see my sisters still sitting on their beds, but Tania is no longer there. I didn’t even see her go.

  “Did you have to be so mean?” I ask Sophie

  “I wasn’t mean,” Sophie says. “We have mice. Someone had to do something about it. And I could see it wasn’t going to be you.”

  “But she went hungry, Sophie! When have we ever had to go hungry?”

  “I told you before,” Sophie says. “I feel very sorry for her. She’s had a hard time. But things are not so hard now.” Since Sophie is wearing her hair down today, with only a thin maroon headband securing it, she does that hair-tossing thing she likes to do. “Besides,” she adds, “it’s not like I got her in trouble. Mama and Papa weren’t even angry.”

  “I know,” I say. “But you made her think you don’t like her.”

  “I don’t,” Sophie says calmly.

  “How can you say that?” I cry. “Especially after what we just heard?”

  “When you’re as old as I am, you’ll understand.” She tosses her hair—again.

  If getting older means being as cold and unfeeling as Sophie is right now, then I hope I stay eleven forever and ever.

  10

  THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FENCE

  Over the next months, it is clear that while my sisters and my cousin are not exactly enemies, they are not friends either. Sophie avoids Tania. It’s as if she is not there. And Trudie seems to follow Sophie’s lead. They seem to have given up on Tania. But I haven’t. And neither should they. Do they know that she is an excellent seamstress? Mama gives her some mending to help with, and her work is perfect. And when I look at her notebooks, I see the most wonderful doodles. She draws trees and houses and faces. But she mostly fills the margins of her notebook with horses, cows, rabbits, dogs, wolves, and of course cats, which seem to be her favorite. There is so much to like about Tania. I wish my sisters could see it.

  But even Sophie has to grudgingly admit that Tania has a special way with animals. Thanks to Tania, Ginger Cat has become tame enough in these last few weeks to be considered our pet. While we have not actually seen her catch a mouse, we have no more little gray visitors, either upstairs or down, so we can assume that she is doing her job. She sleeps in the kitchen, on a cushion Tania has sewn for her, and every morning and evening, Tania faithfully sets out her dish of table scraps and her bowl of fresh water. Ginger Cat, now sleek and satisfied, allows herself to be stroked and scratched by all of us, though Tania is her clear favorite.

  But if Ginger Cat is thriving, Plucky is not. From my rooftop perch, I can see that he looks even thinner and more matted. The days are short now, and the weather is cold. If Plucky is not well, he won’t make it through the winter.

  One early December day I notice something else even more troubling. There are trails of what look like white powder all along the edges of the yard on the other side of the fence, the yard where I have seen Plucky roaming. At first I think it is snow. But snow would not fall in such a neat, boxlike pattern. It has to be something else.

  I look up at the fire escape where Plucky was born. The window is shut tightly, and a curtain hides whatever is going on inside. I think of the man with the mustache and his cruel broom. Does he have something to do with the white powder?

  I don’t want to ask Papa, since he will tell me to stay away from Plucky. I would ask Tania, but even though she seems to understand a few words, I still can’t talk to her. Since I need advice now, I ask Sophie to come up to the roof with me. The wind blows our hair around our faces and seems to go right through my coat.

  “There,” I say, pointing to the white trail that snakes around the yard’s edges. “Can you see it?”

  “I can see it, but I wish I didn’t,” says Sophie grimly. “Anna, that powder is poison. If Plucky eats it, he’ll die.”

  “Poison!” I exclaim. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen it before. People sprinkle it in lines like that to kill rats. Papa told me about it.”

  “Are there rats in that yard?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” says Sophie. “Or it could be that someone is putting it down for Plucky.” Sophie doesn’t need to say who that someone is. We both know perfectly well. If I had thought the mustache man was evil before, I don’t even know what to think of him now.

  “I’m going to get Plucky and bring him here,” I say firmly.

  “Anna, you can’t!” says Sophie. “Papa said not to.”

  “When he finds out about the poison, he’ll change his mind,” I say. “Besides, we have to rescue Plucky. We have to!”

  Sophie and I go downstairs. When we get to the door of our apartment, she turns to me. “You’re brave,” she says softly.

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” I say.

  “Oh, yes you have,” she says, and then slips back inside.

  Late that night, after my sisters and Tania are asleep, I am still awake, staring up at the ceiling. The new bed is cozy and comfortable, but it’s no use—I can’t get to sleep. Finally, I get up and reach for Bernadette Louise who is seated on a shelf Papa hung over my bed. I know she can’t hear me or talk, but it still helps me to pretend that she can. “What do you think I should do, Bernadette Louise?” I whisper.

  She is wearing a flannel nightdress I made for her just this past week. I used a bit of the same blue flannel that we used to line the box for Ginger Cat, and added a snippet of lace to the hem. I want her to be warm. Just today I saw how the streets were lined with full, fragrant pines all ready to go home and take their place as Christmas trees in parlors and in sitting rooms all over the neighborhood. Mama has already brought out the brass menorah we use at Chanukah. It will be my job to polish it until it shines like gold.

  I carry Bernadette Louise over to the window and look out. Our bedroom window faces the back, and though it is dark, my eyes soon adjust. I can see the traces of powder in the yard. And then, I detect a slight movement. It is Plucky, hopping along. He moves closer to a trail of powder, and then closer still.

  Don’t! I want to call to him. Plucky, stay away! I see him sniff delicately, and my heart is ready to burst out of my chest. Please, please, please, I pray. I cup my hand around the smooth, glazed surface of Bernadette Louise’s head. I almost believe she is trying to tell me something. Suddenly, I know what it is. I put her on my pillow and draw the covers up around her. Then, trying not to make a sound, I climb down, take my shoes from their spot under the bed and tiptoe to the hall. My coat is hanging on a hook. I slip int
o it and hope that the opening and closing of the door won’t wake anyone up.

  C-R-E-A-K! The noise is so loud I am sure it will cause Papa and Mama to come running. I wait, hand frozen on the knob, to be discovered. But seconds pass and nothing happens. I close the door as quietly as I can and rush down the stairs and through the shop, where all the completed Nurse Noras lie side by side in their pale green boxes. The clock on the wall says it is 1:45. I am not sure if I have ever been up this late before.

  Outside, the night is cold and clear. I hurry to the wall and begin my climb up and over. I have never scaled a wall this high before, and it is harder than I imagined. At first, I can’t get a proper grip but I keep trying, because I know Plucky is on the other side. Finally, I hoist myself up, scraping my hands and my knees. Once I am at the top, there is no turning back. I brace myself, look down at the ground on the other side, and jump. Oooph! I land with a little thud. My ankle hurts now, too. “Pssst,” I call softly. “Plucky! Here boy!” I don’t expect him to come, but I was smart enough to grab a bit of pot roast that was in Ginger Cat’s dish. I hope Plucky will smell it and come close enough for me to catch him. For a few minutes, I stumble around on my sore ankle. I don’t see him right away but then, after a bit, I can make out a small, furred shape hunched in a corner, behind some bags of trash.

  “Plucky!” I whisper. “Are you hungry?” I extend my hand, which is a bit greasy by now. Very cautiously, Plucky rises up and begins to move toward me, his delicate head bobbing on his slim neck. He stops. He wants the food, but he is afraid. So I set it down on the ground, wipe my hand on my coat (hoping Mama won’t notice the stain later), and wait.

  He watches me with his round, golden cat’s eyes as he moves closer still. Then he bends down his head to eat. As soon as he does, I am on him in a flash. He writhes in my grasp, but I hold tight, even when his sharp little claws take a swipe at my face. I feel a slice of pain, and I am sure there is blood. But I still don’t let go. Limping to the wall, I try to scale it again, still keeping Plucky firmly under my arm.

  But once at the wall, I realize I have a big problem. It was hard enough to scale the bricks the first time. Now I am holding a squirming, scratching cat, and everything hurts—palms, ankle, knees, cheek. As if all this is not bad enough, Plucky begins to meow—loudly—in protest.

  Suddenly, a light goes on upstairs and a window is thrown open. I look up, horrified, to see the angry face of the man with the mustache. “What are doing there?’ he shouts. “You’re trespassing! I’ll have you arrested!”

  I want to run, but there is no place for me to go. I can’t scale the wall, the door into the building is locked, and there is no access to the street or the other yards unless I climb another fence or wall, both of which I am unable to do. The man with the mustache disappears from the window. I can hear his feet stomping down the stairs. Another light goes on our building, and a head emerges from a window. Papa!

  “What’s all the commotion?” he calls. “People are trying to sleep!” More lights come on in the neighboring buildings, and more people come to their windows. Plucky wails piteously, twisting under my grasp.

  “Papa!” I cry. “Papa, it’s me, Anna! Come save me, Papa! Please!”

  Just then, the door in the building leading to the yard bursts open, and there stands the man with the mustache. I am terrified.

  “Wait right there!” Papa yells back. “I’m coming!”

  “Who are you?” the man with the mustache yells, just as Plucky performs a sudden and final twist. He breaks free and leaps out of my arms onto his three legs. Hobbling as quickly as he can, he manages to disappear like an apricot-colored streak into the night.

  I hear noises coming from our side of the wall, and there is Papa, climbing over and dropping down onto the hard, packed dirt. I have never been so glad to see him in my whole life.

  11

  WHERE IS PLUCKY?

  “Hold still,” Mama says sternly. I wince when she touches me with the cotton ball. “It’s for your own good.” It is an hour later, and she is painting my cheek with gentian violet to prevent infection. She has already put it on my knees and hands. It burns. I must look silly with bright purple patches all over. But I don’t feel like laughing.

  Papa is pacing angrily back and forth as Mama cleans my wounds. “What were you thinking?” he says. “Don’t you see how dangerous that was?”

  I hang my head. But even though Papa is punishing me by taking away my allowance for a whole month, I am still glad he rescued me. As soon as he showed up, I ran straight into his arms and told him everything. The man with the mustache was still yelling.

  “Breaking and entering!” he hollered. “I’ll have the police over here in five minutes!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Papa said. “She wasn’t trying to steal from you. She was just trying to rescue the poor kitten. What kind of person puts poison out for a kitten?”

  “I don’t want that animal on my property,” said the man. “Who knows what kind of disease he could be carrying?” He shook his head in disgust. “If you want him so badly, why don’t you take him?”

  Which, of course, was just what I was trying to do. Yet once Papa had calmed the man down, and the yelling turned to grumbling, Plucky was nowhere to be found.

  Now, I am upstairs at the table, with Mama painting my hands and face, and my sisters and cousin goggle-eyed with all the excitement. There won’t be much sleep for any of us tonight.

  “Does it hurt?” Trudie asks. She sounds so concerned.

  “Not too much,” I say, wanting to reassure her.

  “I told you you were brave!” exclaims Sophie when Mama is out of earshot. “I never would have had the nerve to try to rescue him.”

  “Tried and failed,” I say. “Poor Plucky.”

  “Poor Plucky,” repeats Tania. I look at her, amazed. Trudie’s hands fly to her mouth, and even Sophie looks surprised. I have heard Tania say a few English words here and there, mostly to Mama. But these are the first words she has said directly to any of us. Never mind that what she said sounded more like “Puhr Pluck-hee.” I smile a big smile even though it makes my face hurt.

  Finally, Mama finishes cleaning my cuts and scratches. “Now you girls have to get to bed!” she says. “We all need some sleep.”

  “But what about Plucky?” I ask. “Shouldn’t we try to find him?”

  “No!” Papa says sharply. “Not now, and not tomorrow. That cat is a menace. Stay away from him.”

  “That’s not true,” I plead. “He’s not a bad cat, Papa. He was just scared. Especially when that horrible man showed up. You said it yourself, Papa. What kind of person tries to poison a kitten?”

  “He’s a terrible man,” Papa says. “But I still won’t allow the cat anywhere near you girls. If I find him, I’ll have to take him away.”

  “Away? Where is away?” I ask. Papa does not answer.

  “That’s enough talk about cats for one night,” Mama says, getting up from the table. She closes the bottle of gentian violet tightly. “To bed with all of you—now!”

  A week goes by. Still no sign of Plucky. I wonder if Ginger Cat misses him as much as I do. Do cats miss each other? Maybe not, because Ginger Cat seems happy. She purrs when she sees Tania, who speaks to her in what sounds like a mix of Yiddish and English. “Gut katz,” she says as she strokes Ginger Cat’s head.

  Ginger Cat has even taken to jumping in Papa’s lap while he reads the newspaper at night. I think he likes it, because he gives her a little scratch behind the ears while she is sitting there. As for Plucky, I try to console myself by imagining that he has been found by another girl, one who will love him, if not as much as I do, then almost as much—which would be pretty good.

  One night about a week after Plucky has disappeared, I am lying in bed just before lights out, when I start to cry. I just miss that little cat so much. Not wanting anyone to see me, I turn my face to the pillow. But that doesn’t fool Trudie, who climbs up to the top b
unk to sit next to me.

  “Why are you so sad, Anna?” she asks.

  “It’s Plucky!” I say, lifting my face from the soggy pillowcase. “I wish he would come back!”

  “Maybe he will,” Sophie says. “You never can tell.”

  Tania pokes her head out of her bed and looks up at me. She is clutching Shannon and blinking in that way she still does sometimes, though thankfully not so much. Then she gets up, kneels down, and pulls a box out from under her bed. Curious, I lean over so I can see. Inside are the dove gray envelopes that must contain the letters she gets from her mother. But there are drawings in there, too, a whole bunch of them. She selects one and hands it to me. It’s a picture of a small orange cat, curled up on a footstool. Plucky!

  “Did you do that?” Trudie says, peering over my shoulder so she can see, too.

  Shyly, Tania nods. She must have used the colored pencils Mama keeps in the shop.

  “It’s really good!” says Trudie.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, and hand the drawing back. And it is. Even more than his ears and his paws, his tail and his whiskers, she has captured something else about Plucky. Something that seems to live inside him, not just on the outside.

  Tania pushes the drawing back in my direction. She must want me to keep it. A present.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, taking the drawing once again.

  Tania smiles shyly.

  “Can I see?” Sophie asks. She has gotten out of her bed and is reaching up for the drawing. I am surprised. Since that night months ago when she tattled on Tania about the food, she has pretty much ignored our cousin. And Tania has kept her distance, too. Silently, I hand Sophie the drawing. She looks at it for a long time.

  “This is the best drawing of a cat I have ever seen,” she says finally. “It’s so good it could be in a book. Or maybe even a museum.” She hands the drawing back to me. I am not sure whether Tania understood everything that Sophie said, but her face has a gone a deep, pleasedlooking pink. Then she does something else surprising. She hands Shannon to Sophie.