There are some disadvantages to not getting a girl's phone number. Thissort of date I had with Mary for golf on Election Day fell through. In thefirst place, I was sick in bed with the flu, and Mom wouldn't have let meout for anything, and secondly, it was pouring rain. Without the phonenumber, there wasn't any way I could let her know, and I didn't even knowa street address to write to later.
By the time I got finished with the flu, we were into Thanksgiving andthen all the trouble with Kate. Time passed and I felt rottener aboutstanding her up without a word, and I couldn't get up my nerve to go outto Coney and just appear on her doorstep. I could have found the house allright, once I was out there.
The first week of Christmas vacation the phone rings late one afternoonand Pop answers it. He says, "Just one minute, please," and I know rightaway from his voice it isn't someone he knows.
"Young lady on the phone for you, Dave," he says, and he enjoys watchingme gulp.
"Hullo?" a rather tight, flat little voice asks. "Is this Dave--uh,Mitchell--uh, I mean, with Cat?"
I recognize it's Mary, all right, even if she does sound strange andscared.
"Oh, hi!" I say. "Sure, it's me! I'm awfully sorry about that day we weregoing to play golf. I was in bed with the flu, and then I didn't know yourphone number or...."
"Oh, that's all right," she says. "I wondered what happened."
There's a slight pause, and I see Pop grinning and pretending to read hispaper. I turn around so I won't see him.
"Where are you now, out in Coney?" I ask Mary.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm in Macy's." Her voice trails off a little,but then she starts in again. "As a matter of fact, that's why I called.You see, I was supposed to meet Mom here at five, and she hasn't come, andI bought all these Christmas presents, and I forgot about the tax orsomething, and this is my last dime."
She stops. I see now why she sounds scared, and I get a curdled feeling inmy stomach, too, because what if the dime runs out in the phone and she'scut off? I'll never find her in Macy's. It's too big.
"Pop!" I yelp. "There's this girl I know is in a phone booth in Macy's andher dime is going to run out and she hasn't anymore money. What'll I do?"
"Get the phone number of the booth and call her back. Here--" He gives me apencil.
What a relief. Funny I never thought of that. You just somehow don't thinkof a phone booth having a number.
Mary sounds pretty relieved, too. I get the number and call her back, andwith Pop making suggestions here and there we settle that I'll go over toMacy's and meet her on the ground floor near Thirty-fourth Street andBroadway at the counter where they're selling umbrellas for $2.89, whichMary says she can see from the phone booth.
"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 yourphone 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 goingto bring her home for dinner.
"Gee, I don't know." I hadn't given a thought to what we'd do. "I guessso, maybe, if her mother hasn't come by then. I'll call you if we doanything 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 aregoing both ways.
I get to the right corner of Macy's, and I see Mary right away. Everyoneelse is rushing about and muttering to themselves, and she's standingthere looking lost. In fact she looks so much like a waif that the firstthing 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 runout of money."
"Let's go home and you can have dinner with us then. But what about yourmother? Won't she be looking for you?"
Mary shifts her feet and looks tired. "I don't know. Probably if she cameand 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 shovingaround you. Mary starts to pick up her two enormous shopping bags, and Itake them from her, still trying to think. At the subway entrance I seethe phone booth.
"That's the thing," I say. "Why don't you call your house and see if yourmother left a message or something?"
"Well...." Mary stands by the phone looking confused and in fact aboutready to cry. I suddenly decide the best thing we can do is get home andsit down where it's quiet. Waiting fifteen minutes or so to phone can'tmake much difference.
We get home pretty fast and I introduce Mary to Mom and Pop. She sinksinto the nearest chair and takes off her shoes.
"Excuse me," she says. "I just bought these heels, and it's awful wearingthem!"
She wiggles her toes and begins to look better. Mom offers her a pair ofslippers and Pop passes some potato chips.
Mom says, "Poor child, did you try to do all your Christmas shopping atonce?"
"Well, actually, I was having fun just looking for a long while. I havetwo little cousins that I don't really have to get much for, but I lovelooking at all the toys. I spent quite a while there. Then I did the restof my shopping in a rush, and everything is so crowded, and I got mixed upon my money or the sales tax and only had a dime left, and I missed mymother 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 finishfixing dinner, and Pop suggests Mary better phone her home. She gets herfather, and her mother has left a message that she was delayed and figuredMary would go home alone. Mary gives her father our address and tells himshe'll be home by nine.
We must have hit a lucky day because we have a real good dinner: slices ofgood whole meat, not mushed up stuff, and potatoes cooked with cheese inthem, 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 Maryhome, and he gives me money for a cab at the end of the subway. When Marygives the driver her home address, I say it over to myself a few times soI'll remember.
Suddenly I wonder about something. "Say, how'd you know _my_ phonenumber?"
"I looked it up," she says simply. "There's about twenty-eleven Mitchellsin the Manhattan phone book, but only one in the East Twenties, so Ifigured that must be you."
"Gee, that's true. You must have had an awful time, though, standing inthe phone booth with your feet hurting, going through all thoseMitchells."
Says Mary, "Oh, no. I did it one rainy afternoon at home, weeks ago."
Well, what do you know.
18
Raised champagne glasses toasting Cat.]
"HERE'S TO CAT!"
The two stray kittens gradually make themselves at home. Somehow or otherCat has taught them that he's in charge here, and he just chases them forfun now and again, when he's not busy sleeping.
As for keeping cats in my room, that's pretty well forgotten. For onething, Mom really likes them. She sneaks the kittens saucers of cream andbits of real hamburger when no one's looking, and she likes talking tothem in the kitchen. She doesn't pick them up, but just having them in theroom sure doesn't give her asthma.
The only time we have any trouble from the cats is one evening when Popcomes home and the two kittens skid down the hall between his legs, withCat after them. He scales his hat at the lot of them and roars down thehall to me, "Hey, Davey! When are you getting rid of these cats? I'm notfixing to start an annex to Kate's cat home!"
"I'm sure Davey will find homes for them," Mom says soothingly, butgetting a little short of breath, the way she does any time she's afraidone of us is losing his temper.
In fact, o
ne thing this cat business seems to have established is that meand Pop fighting is the main cause of Mom's asthma. So we both try to do alittle better, and a lot of things we used to argue and fight about, likemy jazz records, we just kid each other about now. But now and then westill work up to a real hassle.
I've been taking a history course the first semester at school. It's areal lemon--just a lot of preaching about government and citizenship. Thesecond semester I switch to a music course. This is O.K. with theschool--but not with Pop. Right away when I bring home my new program, hesays, "How come you're taking one less course this half?"
I explain that I'm taking music, and also biology, algebra, English, andFrench.
"Music!" he snorts. "That's recreation, not a course. Do it on your owntime!"
"Pop, it's a course. You think the school signs me up for an hour of homerecord playing?"
"They might," he grunts. "You're not going to loaf your way through schoolif I have anything to say about it."
"Loaf!" I yelp. "Four major academic subjects is more than lots of theguys take."
Mom comes and suggests that Pop better go over to school with me and talkit over at the school office. He does, and for once I win a round--I keepmusic for this semester. But he makes sure that next year I'm signed upall year for five majors: English, French, math, chemistry, and Europeanhistory. 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 heeven think the school knows what it's doing?"
"Aw, heck," says Tom, "your father's the one has to see you get intocollege or get a job. Sometimes schools do let kids take a lot of softcourses, 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 alwaysbickering is that you're so much alike."
"Me? Like _him_?"
"Sure. You're both impatient and curious, got to poke into everything. Aslong 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 theplants. I go home, wondering if I really am at all like Pop. I neverthought of it before.
It's funny about fights. Pop and I can go along real smooth and easy for awhile, 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 whatstarts it, but a fight boils up, and we're both breathing fire likedragons on the loose.
We get a holiday Washington's Birthday, which is good because there's a TVprogram on Tuesday, the night before the holiday, that I hardly ever getto 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 movingaround, keeping you on the edge of your chair, and by the time it allwinds up in a surprise ending, you find this character is not a realperson, he's supernatural. The program goes on till eleven o'clock, andMom won't let me watch it on school nights.
I get the pillows comfortably arranged on the floor, with a big bottle ofsoda and a bag of popcorn within easy reach. The story starts off withsome nature shots of a farm and mountains in the background and thislittle 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'staking the kid for a walk when a thunderstorm blows up.
Right then, of course, we have to have the alternate sponsor. He signsoff, finally, and up comes Pop.
"Here, Davey old boy, we can do better than that tonight. The Governor andthe 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 notfair! I'm right in the middle of a program, and I been waiting weeks towatch it because Mom won't let me on school nights!"
Pop goes right on tuning his channel. "Do you good to listen to a realprogram 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'retalking about! It's not a western."
Pop looks at me prissily. "You're getting altogether too upset about theseprograms. Stop it and behave yourself. Go get a sponge to mop up thesoda."
"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 inthe kitchen to talk to Mom. In a little while he comes down and knocks onmy 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 itwas. So O.K., go ahead, you can finish it."
"Yeah, it's about over by now." I'm still sore, and besides Pop's stillstanding 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 programthat 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 middlewithout 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 mightas well see the end. Sorry I got sore."
Pop moves out of the doorway. He says, "Hereafter I will only turn offyour 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 thetelevision set--I've lost track of what's happening, and it doesn't seem tobe the grandfather who's the spook after all. It's the first time Hildahas been to our house, and Tom introduces her around. Then there's one ofthose 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 hishead back and goes on sleeping.
Mom brings coffee and cookies in from the kitchen, and I pour the rest ofthe popcorn into a bowl and pass it around. Tom stirs his coffeevigorously and takes one sip and puts the cup down.
"Reason we came so late," he says, "Hilda and I have been talking allevening. 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 drinksa little more coffee and then he goes on: "The trouble is, I can't getmarried 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 togo. So that's what we've been talking about all evening. Finally we wentup to Times Square and talked to the guys in the Army and Navy and AirForce 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 choosewhat specialist school I want to go into, and there's this Air DefenseCommand--it's something to do with missiles. In that I can also choose whatmetropolitan area I want to be stationed in. I can choose New York, and wecould get married, and I might even be able to go on taking college courseat night school, with the Army paying for most of it."
Pop says, "You sound like the recruiting officer himself. You sure of allthis?"
"I'll have to check some more," says Tom. "The recruiting officer, as amatter of fact, tried to persuade me to shoot for officers' training andgo into the Army as a career. But then I would be sent all over, andanyway, 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 backthe coffee cups, and I'll break out that bottle of champagne that's beensitting in the icebox since Christmas."
I go and retrieve my spilled bottle of soda. There's still enough left forone big glass. Pop brings out the champagne, and the cork blows and hitsthe ceiling. Cat jumps off the sofa and stands, half crouched and tailtwitching, ready to take cover.
Pop fills little glasses for them and raises his to Tom and Hilda. "Here'sto you--a long, happy life!"
We drink, and then I raise my glass of soda. "Here's to Cat! Tom wouldn'teven be standing here if it wasn't for Cat."
That's true, and we all drink to Cat. He sits down and licks his rightfront paw.
_Format by Jean Krulis__Set in Linotype Baskerville__Composed and bound by American Book-Stratford Press__Printed by The Murray Printing Co._*HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS, INCORPORATED*
It's like this, cat Page 17