The Big New Yorker Book of Cats

by The New Yorker Magazine

  “Hello, Nicole,” said Douglas. “You look … really nice.”

  “You have a question mark on your head,” said Nicole.

  Douglas sneezed, twice. Nicole blessed him. A man and a woman appeared behind her.

  “My parents,” said Nicole, not looking at them.

  “Samson,” announced the man.

  “Paulette,” said the woman, smiling.

  Samson Bonner resembled a gigantic bass instrument. He was well over six feet tall, and although his torso sloped massively forward around the abdomen, it appeared to be formidably muscled. His voice was resoundingly deep, almost a shout, and his eyes were black. He was a renowned lawyer of unwavering conservative politics.

  His wife, Paulette, was as skinny and straight as a flute.

  “The teacher, the teacher,” chirped Paulette. “Come in, come in.”

  They all moved inside. Samson Bonner shut the door. Paulette whisked Douglas’s cake box off to another room.

  “Cocktails,” boomed Samson.

  Douglas looked around. The Bonner penthouse was the kind of lair that nefarious urbanites like Lex Luthor occupied in films. The huge main room had a high ceiling and a marble floor. Lining one entire wall were shelves bearing leather-bound books that, for all Douglas knew, could be traced to the same monks’ library he’d smelled in the elevator. Also in the room were two hunter-green couches, a hearth with a fire, a glass table laid for dinner, an oaken door that opened onto a study, and three tall windows. Through these, Manhattan could be seen, laid out like a map on which schemes were planned.

  (illustration credit 3.4)

  Paulette Bonner swept back into view, carrying a tray of glasses and a cocktail shaker. “Sidecars, Sidecars.” She set the tray on an end table by the couches.

  “We’re a brandy family, Douglas,” said Samson. “We have a gusto for brandy.”

  “Ho ho,” said Douglas. He’d meant it to sound chipper and hale, but it didn’t.

  The women sat on one couch, the men on the other. Samson Bonner wore a fine, bone-colored suit. His wife, who had black hair like Nicole’s, wore a gray dress. The fire crackled. Douglas sipped his drink, which tasted like limes. In his home town, Allentown, Pennsylvania, very few drinks contained limes.

  “I’m so proud of Nicole,” said Douglas. “Um, you must be, too.”

  “We are, we are,” breathed Paulette.

  “Well, hell.” Samson Bonner punched Douglas on the shoulder. “Just because Princeton has a white-boy hoop club doesn’t mean they can’t compete. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” said Douglas, whose shoulder now hurt.

  “So they’re pick-and-roll,” declared Samson. “So they’re old-school back-door. So what?”

  “We’re so pleased you’ve come,” said Paulette.

  Douglas glanced back and forth between the parents. Despite their bookshelves, he couldn’t tell yet whether they were literary, like their daughter.

  “How’s your Sidecar, Mr. Kerchek?” asked Nicole.

  “It’s brandy and Cointreau,” explained Paulette.

  “And limes!” shouted Samson.

  Douglas smiled and nodded.

  “Anyway,” said Samson, “let’s hear from the man.” He patted Douglas’s back.

  A silence ensued. Douglas grinned foolishly until it hit him.

  “What, you mean me?”

  The Bonners sat waiting, looking at Douglas.

  “Well.” Douglas scratched his recently botched head. “What would you like to hear about?”

  “Hell, we don’t know.” Samson har-hared.

  “You want to hear about me? That I’m from Pennsylvania, that kind of thing?” Douglas looked at Nicole.

  “Nah,” said Samson. “Teach us something.”

  “Yes.” Paulette’s eyes flashed.

  “Teach us something,” said Samson, “or else no gnocchi for you.”

  Douglas laughed. No one joined him.

  Nicole cleared her throat. “Father’s serious, Mr. Kerchek.” She peered at her teacher over her glass. “He gets like this. You have to teach him and my mother something or the evening can’t progress.”

  Douglas gazed at his student. He saw that she was in earnest, then he looked quickly away. Nicole’s hair was pulled back taut against her head tonight, and Douglas feared that if he stared too long at the taper of her temples her father, the marine, would notice.

  “Um. What would you like to learn?”

  “Hell, we’re easy.” Samson punched Douglas again.

  “Teach them a word,” suggested Nicole. “Something quick. I’m hungry.”

  Douglas moved to the edge of the couch, out of Samson’s range. He thought of things he knew well. He thought of books.

  “I suppose,” said Douglas. “I suppose I could tell you why I think Shakespeare named King Lear King Lear.”

  Paulette looked anxious, as if Douglas were in peril.

  “Leer is the German word for empty. And King Lear is an existential play. The title character ends up mad, out in the wilderness, living in a hovel, like Job. He’s a man stripped down, all alone with the truth of himself.” Douglas raised his eyebrows. “An empty man.”

  “Bravo!” shouted Samson. He jabbed toward Douglas’s shoulder, but Douglas stood up quickly. He poured himself a fresh Sidecar.

  “Empty, empty.” Paulette sounded delighted.

  Nicole narrowed her eyes. “You never taught us that.”

  “What?” said Douglas.

  “We read King Lear last November. You never taught us about the German. About the name.”

  Douglas shrugged. He set down the cocktail shaker. “Well, it’s just a theory I have. It’s nothing proven.”

  “Wrong.” Samson pointed at Douglas. “It’s the truth. I know the truth when I hear it.”

  “Well,” said Douglas.

  “It’s the truth and you found it.” Samson gave Douglas the thumbs-up. “The evening can progress.”

  Nicole stood. “I think it’s damn selfish, that’s what I think.” She glared at Douglas.

  “What is?” said Douglas.

  “You,” snapped Nicole. “You, keeping your precious little theory all secret from your students.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Douglas.

  “No.” Nicole crossed her arms under her breasts in a manner that Douglas could not ignore. “You’re our teacher, Mr. Kerchek. You’re supposed to lay bare your thoughts on behalf of us girls.”

  “Looks like he kept some thoughts for himself.” Samson winked at Douglas.

  “Hmph.” Nicole raised her chin, which made Douglas see her neck, the shadowy knife of her cleavage. “I am absolutely disappointed,” she said icily, “and I will not speak again tonight until after the salad course.”

  Nicole left the couch and took her place at the table.

  Samson rubbed his hands together. “Let’s eat!” he cried.

  During the shrimp cocktail, Douglas related much of his life to the Bonners. He was nervous because Nicole was moody and silent, and he ended up blurting out the stories of his postgraduate year in Japan, his bout with mononucleosis, his disastrous senior prom with Heather Angelona.

  “You’re feeling all right now, though?” said Samson.

  Douglas looked up from his salad. “Sir?”

  “You’ve recovered, I mean. From the mono.”

  “Oh. Yes, sir. I had it thirteen years ago.”

  “Bravo.” Samson wolfed a chunk of cucumber. “Look, no more of this ‘sir’ business. I’m Samson, dammit.”

  “All right.” Douglas tried to catch Nicole’s eye. She sat across from him, while Samson and Paulette sat at the long ends of the table. When Nicole stared only into her salad, Douglas switched his gaze to the book wall behind her.

  “So, Samson,” said Douglas. “Paulette. Those are some wonderfully bound books there. Have you read most of them?”

  Samson stared hard at Douglas. He let ten seconds pass.

  “Douglas,” said
Samson. “I have read each and every one of them cover to cover.”

  “Really?” Douglas scanned the shelves again. “That’s unbelievable.”

  Samson scowled. “Oh, is that what it is, Mr. Harvard? Unbelievable?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Douglas quickly.

  “You’re a contentious bastard,” declared Samson.

  Douglas’s stomach bottomed out, the way it had in high school before his boxing matches. “Samson. Mr. Bonner. I certainly meant no insult.”

  “Ha!” shouted Samson. “Got you!”

  Douglas looked at the Bonner women, who wore thin, knowing smirks.

  “What?” said Douglas.

  “I was giving you the business, Doug,” chuckled Samson. “Had to test your mettle.”

  “Oh.” Douglas took a gulp of his wine. “Ha-ha,” he said weakly.

  “I shall now rejoin the conversation,” said Nicole.

  “Hell.” Samson pointed his fork at the books. “I’ve never read a single one of those things, Doug. They’re a priceless collection.”

  “They’re heirlooms,” said Paulette.

  “Right, heirlooms.” Samson chewed and swallowed. “Nicole reads them. They belonged to my ancestor Vladimir Bonner. He was a prince from the Carpathian Mountains or some crazy bastard place.” Samson waved his hand dismissively. “The point is, he was a prince, and these were his books.”

  “The point is, Bonners are royalty,” said Nicole.

  Samson slapped the table. “The gnocchi,” he bellowed. “I made them myself.” He glared around, as if expecting dissent.

  Paulette served the main course, which Douglas had to admit was delicious. He sipped his wine, and the conversation mellowed. Samson spoke of common concerns—the mayor, the weather, the stock market. Douglas listened. He complimented Samson on the gnocchi. When Samson asked about his Allentown boyhood, Douglas mentioned the Eagle Scout he’d been, but did not mention the chipmunks he had killed with firecrackers. Paulette asked Douglas about his favorite films, and Douglas answered. Every time Douglas looked at Nicole, she looked right back at him. All in all, Douglas was enjoying himself. The Chardonnay settled lightly in his head, and he found himself wondering random things, like how the Yankees would do this season, how cold it was outside, how curvy Nicole had ever emerged from beanstalk Paulette. The gnocchi plates were cleared.

  “Well, girls,” said Samson, “let’s cut to the chase.”

  Paulette placed a snifter of brandy before each person.

  “Which chase is that?” said Douglas, smiling. He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  “We feel that you should marry Nicole,” said Samson.

  Douglas sneezed four times in a row. Everyone blessed him.

  “Pardon?” said Douglas.

  “Paulette and I would like to arrange a marriage between you and our daughter here. Our only child.”

  Douglas stared at the Bonners. They were all seated in their chairs, smiling politely. Nicole wore the look that she always wore just before she aced a test. Nobody laughed.

  “You’re kidding,” said Douglas.

  “Oh, no.” Samson Bonner sipped his brandy. “I’m not giving you the business, Doug.”

  Douglas got the boxing feeling in his stomach again. When he was young, he’d participated in the Friday Night Smokers, weekly events at the Society of Gentlemen club. The Gentlemen were hardworking Allentowners who drank whiskey and played cards on Friday nights. Every weekend, they brought in a crew of boys from area high schools. To earn themselves rib-eye steak dinners, the boys donned gloves and duked it out in a lighted canvas ring in the center of the club while the men drank and cheered. To be picked to box a Smoker was the highest honor an Allentown boy could receive, and Douglas had been chosen to fight fourteen times. He’d won twelve of those fights, one by a knockout, and he’d never had his nose broken. Some nights even now, just before he fell asleep, Douglas remembered himself in the ring, fighting Heather Angelona’s brother Carmine. Carmine had ten pounds on him, and he was beating Douglas on points till the third round, when Douglas delivered an uppercut that jacked Carmine right off the ground and dropped him unconscious. The men in the room roared like lions. The bell clanged. Douglas remembered cigar smoke in his nose, blood on his face, and, strangely, no blood on Carmine’s. Watching Mr. Angelona revive his son with smelling salts, Douglas had wanted simultaneously to vomit and to shove his tongue into Heather Angelona’s mouth.

  “I won’t lie. There have been other pussycats.” (illustration credit 3.5)

  Douglas shook his head, cleared it. He stood up. “Nicole,” he said severely. “What’s going on? Is this some joke, some bizarre family hoax?”

  “No.” Nicole rested her fingertips calmly on the table. “My parents would honestly like you to marry me. So would I.”

  “Please sit down, Douglas,” said Paulette.

  For once, her tone had no levity. Douglas sat. “This is nuts,” he said. “We’re just having dinner.”

  Samson Bonner rapped the table with his knuckles. “Hell, son, Paulette and I have been happily married for twenty-five years, and guess what? My father set the whole thing up. He and Paulette’s father were law partners.”

  “My maiden name is Depompis,” explained Paulette.

  “Right,” said Samson. “Depompis. Anyway, our fathers saw that Paulette and I would stack up together. Well, we feel that you and Nicole stack up, too.”

  Douglas’s head was swimming. “You’ve discussed this? As a family?”

  “Sure,” said Samson. “Every night for a week.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. … Excuse me, Samson, but you don’t even know me.”

  “Oh, hell.” Samson swatted the air as if it held gnats. “Nicole knows you. She says you watch a movie every night just like she reads a book every night.”

  “It’s adorable,” said Paulette.

  Douglas stared at his student. She smiled quickly.

  “Nicole,” he said. “You’re nineteen.”

  “Twenty in September,” said Nicole.

  “We held her back,” said Paulette. “In third grade.”

  “Well, twenty, then,” said Douglas.

  “She struggled with phonics,” said Paulette.

  “Excuse me.” Douglas cleared his throat loudly. The Bonners hushed themselves.

  “Listen,” said Douglas, “you’ve—I’ve—This has been a lovely meal, but—Well, aren’t you all being quite preposterous? As I was trying to point out—”

  “Young man,” said Samson, “do you not find Nicole attractive?”

  Douglas shut his mouth. He kept expecting a game-show host to spring out from behind a curtain. Nicole sat opposite him in her impossibly black dress, watching him with her relentless blue eyes. For the first time, Douglas honestly considered what it would be like if she were his. He thought of Lillian Marx, the last woman he’d dated, who’d adored jazz. He imagined holding Nicole’s hand, driving with her to Montauk in a convertible, the radio playing the punk bands he knew she liked. He blushed.

  “Religion’s not an issue,” blustered Samson. “Nicole assures me that you’re High Episcopal, same as we are. She admires your intellect, and you always give her an A. So what’s your problem, Doug?”

  “Douglas,” said Paulette. “We’re really very impressed with you. Especially now that we’ve met.”

  Douglas sat up very straight. “Yes. Well. As I was trying to say, Nicole’s eleven years younger than I am. Doesn’t that seem … problematic?”

  “No,” said Samson. “I’ve got twelve years on Paulette.”

  “Mr. Kerchek,” said Nicole. “Did you know, Mr. Kerchek, that in centuries past a girl was often married and birthing offspring by fourteen?”

  “Let’s not rush into any birthing,” chuckled Samson.

  “This isn’t the Middle Ages, Nicole.” Douglas swallowed some brandy after all. “You haven’t even been to college.”

  “Well, I’m going, aren’t I?”

 
“Of course she is.” Paulette sounded offended. “No daughter of mine will be denied an education because of her husband.”

  “Now, hold on,” said Douglas.

  “Hey,” growled Samson. “You can have my daughter’s hand, Doug, and we’ll give you some starting-out money, but Princeton’s nonnegotiable. Don’t try to weasel her out of that.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “No weaseling,” said Nicole.

  Douglas sighed heavily. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said.

  “Well, hell,” said Samson. “Who wouldn’t?”

  Paulette pointed to a hallway. “Third door on the right.”

  Douglas strode quickly out of the room. His mind was a blur. He thought of his unserved, uneaten German cake. He recalled a teaching class he’d once taken, where the instructor had told him to watch out for female students and their crushes.

  Is that what this is? thought Douglas. A crush?

  The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. Douglas was about to push it fully open when he heard a toilet flush from within.

  “Excuse me,” he said automatically. He stepped back, surprised. Moments later, the door nudged open and a black cat stepped out of the bathroom. It stopped at Douglas’s feet and looked directly up at him.

  “John Stapleton,” whispered Douglas.

  “Mrow,” said John Stapleton.

  The cat nibbled briefly at the toe of Douglas’s left shoe, then proceeded down the hall, disappearing into the shadows.

  This is insane, thought Douglas. This night, this family, this cat, all of them are certifiable. But the cat seemed like an omen, somehow, and as Douglas washed his face and hands in the bathroom sink, as he studied his goofy haircut and took deep, weight-lifting breaths to compose himself, he thought of Nicole. He thought of the simple silver-post earrings she always wore. He recalled the Melville she’d committed to memory, the respect she had for Graham Greene novels, the merciless grip she kept on her stick when she played field hockey. Her favorite film was The Philadelphia Story, a tough favorite to argue against. He’d heard her rail passionately against the death penalty once during an ethics-class debate, and he’d seen her hold a faculty member’s baby in her arms.