It's Like This, Cat

by Emily Cheney Neville

  “O.K.” I say, and then I sort of don’t want to hang up. It’s fun talking. So I go on. “Look, just in case we miss each other at Macy’s, what’s your phone number at home, so I could call you sometime?”

  “COney 7-1218.”

  “O.K. Well, good-bye. I’ll be right over. To Macy’s, I mean.”

  I grab my coat and check to see if I’ve got money. Pop asks if I’m going to bring her home for dinner.

  “Gee, I don’t know.” I hadn’t given a thought to what we’d do. “I guess so, maybe, if her mother hasn’t come by then. I’ll call you if we do anything else.”

  “O.K.,” Pop says.

  I go out and hustle through the evening rush-hour crowds to the subway. The stores are all open evenings now, for Christmas, so the crowds are going both ways.

  I get to the right corner of Macy’s, and I see Mary right away. Everyone else is rushing about and muttering to themselves, and she’s standing there looking lost. In fact she looks so much like a waif that the first thing I say is, “Hi! Shall we go get something to eat?”

  “Yes, I’m starved. I was just going to get a doughnut when I found I’d run out of money.”

  “Let’s go home and you can have dinner with us then. But what about your mother? Won’t she be looking for you?”

  Mary shifts her feet and looks tired. “I don’t know. Probably if she came and I wasn’t here, she’d figure I’d gone home.”

  I try to think a minute, which is hard to do with all these people shoving around you. Mary starts to pick up her two enormous shopping bags, and I take them from her, still trying to think. At the subway entrance I see the phone booth.

  “That’s the thing,” I say. “Why don’t you call your house and see if your mother left a message or something?”

  “Well . . .” Mary stands by the phone looking confused and in fact about ready to cry. I suddenly decide the best thing we can do is get home and sit down where it’s quiet. Waiting fifteen minutes or so to phone can’t make much difference.

  We get home pretty fast and I introduce Mary to Mom and Pop. She sinks into the nearest chair and takes off her shoes.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “I just bought these heels, and it’s awful wearing them!”

  She wiggles her toes and begins to look better. Mom offers her a pair of slippers and Pop passes some potato chips.

  Mom says, “Poor child, did you try to do all your Christmas shopping at once?”

  “Well, actually, I was having fun just looking for a long while. I have two little cousins that I don’t really have to get much for, but I love looking at all the toys. I spent quite a while there. Then I did the rest of my shopping in a rush, and everything is so crowded, and I got mixed up on my money or the sales tax and only had a dime left, and I missed my mother or she forgot.”

  She stretches out her toes to touch Cat, who is sitting in front of her. “I couldn’t think what to do. It’s so hard to think when your feet hurt.”

  “It certainly is,” agrees Mom. She goes out to the kitchen to finish fixing dinner, and Pop suggests Mary better phone her home. She gets her father, and her mother has left a message that she was delayed and figured Mary would go home alone. Mary gives her father our address and tells him she’ll be home by nine.

  We must have hit a lucky day because we have a real good dinner: slices of good whole meat, not mushed up stuff, and potatoes cooked with cheese in them, and salad, and a lemon meringue pie from the bakery, even.

  After dinner we sit around a little while, and Pop says I better take Mary home, and he gives me money for a cab at the end of the subway. When Mary gives the driver her home address, I say it over to myself a few times so I’ll remember.

  Suddenly I wonder about something. “Say, how’d you know my phone number?”

  “I looked it up,” she says simply. “There’s about twenty-eleven Mitchells in the Manhattan phone book, but only one in the East Twenties, so I figured that must be you.”

  “Gee, that’s true. You must have had an awful time, though, standing in the phone booth with your feet hurting, going through all those Mitchells.”

  Says Mary, “Oh, no. I did it one rainy afternoon at home, weeks ago.”

  Well, what do you know.

  18

  “Here’s to Cat!”

  The two stray kittens gradually make themselves at home. Somehow or other Cat has taught them that he’s in charge here, and he just chases them for fun now and again, when he’s not busy sleeping.

  As for keeping cats in my room, that’s pretty well forgotten. For one thing, Mom really likes them. She sneaks the kittens saucers of cream and bits of real hamburger when no one’s looking, and she likes talking to them in the kitchen. She doesn’t pick them up, but just having them in the room sure doesn’t give her asthma.

  The only time we have any trouble from the cats is one evening when Pop comes home and the two kittens skid down the hall between his legs, with Cat after them. He scales his hat at the lot of them and roars down the hall to me, “Hey, Davey! When are you getting rid of these cats? I’m not fixing to start an annex to Kate’s cat home!”

  “I’m sure Davey will find homes for them,” Mom says soothingly, but getting a little short of breath, the way she does any time she’s afraid one of us is losing his temper.

  In fact, one thing this cat business seems to have established is that me and Pop fighting is the main cause of Mom’s asthma. So we both try to do a little better, and a lot of things we used to argue and fight about, like my jazz records, we just kid each other about now. But now and then we still work up to a real hassle.

  I’ve been taking a history course the first semester at school. It’s a real lemon—just a lot of preaching about government and citizenship. The second semester I switch to a music course. This is O.K. with the school—but not with Pop. Right away when I bring home my new program, he says, “How come you’re taking one less course this half?”

  I explain that I’m taking music, and also biology, algebra, English, and French.

  “Music!” he snorts. “That’s recreation, not a course. Do it on your own time!”

  “Pop, it’s a course. You think the school signs me up for an hour of home record playing?”

  “They might,” he grunts. “You’re not going to loaf your way through school if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Loaf!” I yelp. “Four major academic subjects is more than lots of the guys take.”

  Mom comes and suggests that Pop better go over to school with me and talk it over at the school office. He does, and for once I win a round—I keep music for this semester. But he makes sure that next year I’m signed up all year for five majors: English, French, math, chemistry, and European history. I’ll be lucky if I have time to breathe.

  I go down to the flower shop to grouse to Tom. It’s after Valentine’s Day, and business is slack and the boss is out.

  “Why does Pop have to come butting into my business at school? Doesn’t he even think the school knows what it’s doing?”

  “Aw, heck,” says Tom, “your father’s the one has to see you get into college or get a job. Sometimes schools do let kids take a lot of soft courses, and then they’re out on a limb later.”

  “Huh. He just likes to boss everything I do.”

  “So—he cares.”

  “Huh.” I’m not very ready to buy this, but then I remember Tom’s father, who doesn’t care. It makes me think.

  “Besides,” says Tom, “half the reason you and your father are always bickering is that you’re so much alike.”

  “Me? Like him?”

  “Sure. You’re both impatient and curious, got to poke into everything. As long as there’s a bone on the floor, the two of you worry it.”

  Mr. Palumbo comes back to the shop then, and Tom gets busy with the plants. I go home, wondering if I really am at all like Pop. I never thought of it before.

  It’s funny about fights. Pop and I can go along real s
mooth and easy for a while, and I think: Well, he really isn’t a bad guy, and I’m growing up, we can see eye to eye—all that stuff. Then, whoosh! I hardly know what starts it, but a fight boils up, and we’re both breathing fire like dragons on the loose.

  We get a holiday Washington’s birthday, which is good because there’s a TV program on Tuesday, the night before the holiday, that I hardly ever get to watch. It’s called Out Beyond, and the people in it are very real, not just good guys and bad guys. There’s always one character moving around, keeping you on the edge of your chair, and by the time it all winds up in a surprise ending, you find this character is not a real person, he’s supernatural. The program goes on till eleven o’clock, and Mom won’t let me watch it on school nights.

  I get the pillows comfortably arranged on the floor, with a big bottle of soda and a bag of popcorn within easy reach. The story starts off with some nature shots of a farm and mountains in the background and this little kid playing with his grandfather. There’s a lot of people in it, but gradually you get more and more suspicious of dear old grandpa. He’s taking the kid for a walk when a thunderstorm blows up.

  Right then, of course, we have to have the alternate sponsor. He signs off, finally, and up comes Pop.

  “Here, Davey old boy, we can do better than that tonight. The Governor and the Mayor are on a TV debate about New York City school reorganization.”

  At first I figure he’s kidding, so I just growl, “Who cares?” He switches the channel.

  I jump up, tipping over the bottle of soda on the way. “Pop, that’s not fair! I’m right in the middle of a program, and I been waiting weeks to watch it because Mom won’t let me on school nights!”

  Pop goes right on tuning his channel. “Do you good to listen to a real program for a change. There’ll be another western on tomorrow night.”

  That’s the last straw. I shout, “See? You don’t even know what you’re talking about! It’s not a western.”

  Pop looks at me prissily. “You’re getting altogether too upset about these programs. Stop it and behave yourself. Go get a sponge to mop up the soda.”

  “It’s your fault! Mop it up yourself!” I’m too mad now to care what I say. I charge down the hall to my room and slam the door.

  I hear the TV going for a few minutes, then Pop turns it off and goes in the kitchen to talk to Mom. In a little while he comes down and knocks on my door. Knocks—that’s something. Usually he just barges in.

  “Look here now, Dave, we’ve got to straighten a few things out quietly. Your mother says she told you you could watch that program, whatever it was. So O.K., go ahead, you can finish it.”

  “Yeah, it’s about over by now.” I’m still sore, and besides Pop’s still standing in my door, so I figure there’s a hitch in this somewhere.

  “But anyway, you shouldn’t get so sore about an old television program that you shout ‘Mop it up yourself’ at me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, nothing.”

  “Well, I don’t think you should turn a guy’s TV program off in the middle without even finding out about it.”

  Pop says “Hmm” this time, and we both stand and simmer down.

  I look at my watch. It’s a quarter to eleven. I say, “Well, O.K. I might as well see the end. Sorry I got sore.”

  Pop moves out of the doorway. He says, “Hereafter I will only turn off your TV programs before they start, not in the middle.”

  Just as I get the TV on and settle down, the doorbell rings.

  “Goodness, who could that be so late?” says Mom.

  Pop goes to the door. It’s Tom, and Hilda is with him. I turn off the television set—I’ve lost track of what’s happening, and it doesn’t seem to be the grandfather who’s the spook after all. It’s the first time Hilda has been to our house, and Tom introduces her around. Then there’s one of those moments of complete silence, with everyone looking embarrassed, before we all start to speak at once.

  “Hilda came to the beach with us,” I say.

  “I told Tom we shouldn’t come so late,” says Hilda.

  Pop says, “Not late at all. Come in and sit down.”

  Hilda sits on the sofa, where Cat is curled up. He looks at her, puts his head back and goes on sleeping.

  Mom brings coffee and cookies in from the kitchen, and I pour the rest of the popcorn into a bowl and pass it around. Tom stirs his coffee vigorously and takes one sip and puts the cup down.

  “Reason we came so late,” he says, “Hilda and I have been talking all evening. We want to get married.”

  Pop doesn’t look as surprised as I do. “Congratulations!” he says.

  Tom says, “Thanks” and looks at Hilda, and she blushes. Really. Tom drinks a little more coffee and then he goes on: “The trouble is, I can’t get married on this flower-shop job.”

  “Doesn’t pay enough?” Pop asks.

  “Well, it’s not just the pay. The job isn’t getting me anywhere I want to go. So that’s what we’ve been talking about all evening. Finally we went up to Times Square and talked to the guys in the Army and Navy and Air Force recruiting office. You know, I’d get drafted in a year or two, anyway. I’ve decided to enlist in the Army.”

  “Goodness, you may get sent way out West for years and years!” says Mom.

  “No, not if I enlist in the Army. That’s for three years. But I can choose what specialist school I want to go into, and there’s this Air Defense Command—it’s something to do with missiles. In that I can also choose what metropolitan area I want to be stationed in. I can choose New York, and we could get married, and I might even be able to go on taking college courses at night school, with the Army paying for most of it.”

  Pop says, “You sound like the recruiting officer himself. You sure of all this?”

  “I’ll have to check some more,” says Tom. “The recruiting officer, as a matter of fact, tried to persuade me to shoot for officers’ training and go into the Army as a career. But then I would be sent all over, and anyway, I don’t think Army life would be any good for Hilda.”

  “I can see you have put in a busy evening,” says Pop. “Well, shove back the coffee cups, and I’ll break out that bottle of champagne that’s been sitting in the icebox since Christmas.”

  I go and retrieve my spilled bottle of soda. There’s still enough left for one big glass. Pop brings out the champagne, and the cork blows and hits the ceiling. Cat jumps off the sofa and stands, half crouched and tail twitching, ready to take cover.

  Pop fills little glasses for them and raises his to Tom and Hilda. “Here’s to you—a long, happy life!”

  We drink, and then I raise my glass of soda. “Here’s to Cat! Tom wouldn’t even be standing here if it wasn’t for Cat.”

  That’s true, and we all drink to Cat. He sits down and licks his right front paw.

  About the Author

  EMILY CHENEY NEVILLE was born in Manchester, Connecticut, and graduated from Bryn Mawr College. Before she wrote her Newbery Medal–winning first novel, It’s Like This, Cat, she worked as a newspaper reporter in New York City. Her other books for children include Berries Goodman, an ALA Notable Book; The Bridge, a picture book illustrated by Ronald Himler; and The China Year.

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  Copyright

  IT’S LIKE THIS, CAT. Copyright © 1963 by Emily Neville. Copyright renewed 1991 by Emily Cheney Neville. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  www.harpercollinschildrens.com


  Cover art © 2019 by Kelly Murphy

  Cover design by Katie Fitch

  * * *

  Library of Congress Control Number: 62021292

  Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-299134-8

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-440073-2

  * * *

  19 20 21 22 23 PC/BRR 37 36 35 34 33

  Revised paperback edition, 2019

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