It's like this, cat

by Emily Neville

  Wednesday night before Thanksgiving I go down to the delicatessen to buysome coke, so I can really enjoy myself watching TV. Tom is just finishingwork at the flower shop, and I ask him if he wants to come along home.

  "Nah. Thanks. I got to be at work early tomorrow." He doesn't sound toocheery.

  "How's the job going?"

  "O.K., I guess." We walk along a little ways. "The job's not bad, but Idon't want to be a florist all my life, and I can't see this job willtrain me for anything else."

  That seems pretty true. It must be tough not getting regular holidays off,too. "You have to work all day tomorrow?" I ask.

  "I open the store up at seven and start working on orders we've alreadygot. I'll get through around three or four."

  "Hey, you want to come for dinner? We're not eating till evening."

  Tom grins. "You cooking the dinner? Maybe you better ask your mother."

  "It'll be all right with Mom. Look, I'll ask her and come let you know inthe store tomorrow, O.K.?"

  "Hmm. Well, sure. Thanks. I've got a date with Hilda later in the evening,but she's got to eat with her folks first."

  "O.K. See you tomorrow."

  "Right."

  Mom says it's all right about Tom coming, so I go down and tell him in themorning. Turns out Mom has asked Kate to have dinner with us, too, whichis quite a step. For Kate, I mean. I think she would have turned theinvitation down, except no one can bear to hurt Mom's feelings. Kate'sbeen in our house before, of course, but then she just came in to chat orhave tea or something. It wasn't like an invitation.

  She comes, and she looks like someone from another world. I've never seenher in anything but her old skirts and sneakers, so the "good clothes"she's wearing now must have been hanging in a closet twenty years. Thedress and shoes are way out of style, and she's carrying a real old blackpatent-leather pocketbook. Usually she just lugs her old cloth shoppingbag, mostly full of cat goodies. Come to think of it, that's it: Katelives in a world that is just her own and the cats'. I never saw hertrying to fit into the ordinary world before.

  Cat knows her right away, though. Clothes don't fool him. He rubs her legand curls up on the sofa beside her, still keeping a half-open eye on theoven door in the kitchen, where the turkey is roasting.

  Tom comes in, also in city clothes--a white shirt and tie and jacket--thefirst time I ever saw him in them. He sits down on the other side of Cat,who stretches one paw out toward him negligently.

  Looking at Kate and Tom sitting there on the sofa, both looking a littleill at ease, I get a funny idea. My family is starting to collect peoplethe way Kate collects homeless cats. Of course, Kate and Tom aren'thomeless. They're people-less--not part of any family. I think Mom alwayswanted more people to take care of, so she's glad to have them.

  Kidding, I ask Kate, "How many cats at your home for Thanksgiving dinner?"

  She stops stroking Cat a minute and thinks. "Hmm, Susan's got four newkittens, just got their eyes open. A beautiful little orange one and threetigers. Then there's two big kittens, strays, and one old stray tom. Makeseight, that's all. Sometimes I've had lots more than that."

  "Doesn't the landlord ever object?" Pop asks.

  Kate snorts. "Him! Huh! I pay my rent. And I have my own padlock on thedoor, so he can't come snooping around."

  We all sit down to dinner. Pop gives Cat the turkey neck to crunch up inthe kitchen. He finishes that and crouches and stares at us eating. Kategives him tidbits, which I'm not supposed to do. I don't think she reallywants to eat the turkey herself. She's pretty strictly a fruit and yogurttype.

  After dinner Tom leaves to meet Hilda, and I walk home with Kate, carryinga bag of scraps and giblets for her cats. While she's fiddling with thetwo sets of keys to open her door, the man next door sticks his head out."Messenger was here a little while ago with a telegram for you. Wouldn'tgive it to me."

  "A telegram?" Kate gapes.

  "Yeah. He'll be back." The man looks pleased, like he's been able todeliver some bad news, and pulls his head in and shuts his door.

  We go into Kate's apartment, and cats come meowing and rubbing against herlegs, and they jump up on the sink and rub and nudge the bag of scrapswhen she puts it down. Kate is muttering rapidly to herself and fidgetingwith her coat and bag and not really paying much attention to the cats,which is odd.

  "Lots of people send telegrams on holidays. It's probably just greetings,"I say.

  "Not to me, they don't!" Kate snaps, also sounding as if they betterhadn't.

  I go over to play with the little kittens. The marmalade-colored one isthe strongest of the litter, and he's learned to climb out of the box. Hechases my fingers. Kate finishes feeding the big cats, and she stridesover and scoops him back into the box. "You stay in there. You'll getstepped on." She drops Susan back in with her babies to take care of them.

  The doorbell rings, and Kate yanks open the door, practically bowling overan ancient little messenger leaning sleepily against the side of the door.

  "Take it easy, lady, take it easy. Just sign here," he says.

  She signs, hands him the pencil, and slams the door. The orange kitten hasgot out again, and Kate does come close to stepping on him as she walksacross the room tearing open the telegram. He doesn't know enough to dodgefeet yet. I scoop him back in this time.

  Kate reads the telegram and sits down. She looks quite calm now. She says,"Well, he died."

  "Huh? Who?"

  "My brother. He's the only person in the world I know who would send me atelegram. So he's dead now."

  She repeats it, and I can't figure whether to say I'm sorry or what. Ialways thought when someone heard of a death in the family, there'd be alot of crying and commotion. Kate looks perfectly calm, but strangesomehow.

  "Has he been sick?"

  Kate shakes her head. "I don't know. I haven't seen him in twenty years."

  There is silence a moment, and then Kate goes on, talking half to herselfand half to me. "Mean old coot. He never talked to anyone, except abouthis money. That's all he cared about. Once he tried to get me to give himmoney to invest. That's the last time I saw him. He has an old house wayup in the Bronx. But we never did get along, even when we were kids."

  "Did he have a wife or anything? Who sent the telegram?"

  "He's had a housekeeper. Just as mean as him. She'd buy him day-old breadand dented cans of soup because they were cheaper. She suited himfine--saved him money and never talked to him. Well, she'll get his moneynow, if he left any. That's what she's been waiting for. She sent me thewire."

  Twenty years, I think. That's a long time not to be speaking to your ownbrother, and him living just a ten-cent phone call away. I wonder. Shecouldn't just not give a hoot about him. They must have been real mad ateach other. And mad at the whole world, too. Makes you wonder what kind ofparents _they_ had, with one of them growing up loving only cats and theother only money.

  Kate is staring out the window and stroking the old stray tomcat betweenthe ears, and it hits me: there isn't a person in the world she loves oreven hates. I like cats fine, too, but if I didn't have people thatmattered, it wouldn't be so good. I say "So long" quietly and go out.

  16

  Reporters and photographers crowding in on Kate.]

  FORTUNE