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<h1><span style="font-size: 173%">10</span></h1>
<div class="tei-figure"><ANTIMG src="images/image10.png" width-obs="631" height-obs="450" alt="Illustration: Cat jumping out of car on parkway." /></div>
<p>Cat may be on Tom’s side, but whether Pop is
on Cat’s side is something else again. I worry
about this all the time we’re planning the vacation.
Suppose the motel won’t take cats? Or suppose
he runs away in the country? If he messes
up the vacation in any way, I know Pop’ll say
to get rid of him.</p>
<p>I practice putting Cat back in the wicker
hamper to see if I can keep him in that sometimes,
but he meows like crazy. That’d drive
Pop nuts in the car, and it certainly wouldn’t
hide him from any motel-keeper. So I just sit
back and hope for the best, but I got a nasty
feeling in the bottom of my stomach that something’s
going to go haywire.</p>
<p>Pop’s pretty snappish anyway. He’s working
late nearly every night, getting stuff cleared up
before vacation. He doesn’t want any extra problems,
especially not Cat problems. Mom’s been
having asthma a good deal lately, and we’re all
pretty jumpy. It’s always like this at the end of
the summer.</p>
<p>Tuesday night when he gets home, I ask Pop
what’s happened about Tom.</p>
<p>“We’ll work something out,” he says, which
isn’t what you’d call a big explanation.</p>
<p>“You think he can get back into college?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. The Youth Board is going to
work on it. They’re arranging for him to make
up the midyear exams he missed, so he can get
credit for that semester. Then he can probably
start making up the second semester at night
school if he has a job.</p>
<p>“Apparently the Youth Board knew his father
had skipped—they’ve been trying to trace him.
I don’t think it’ll do any good if they find him.
Tom had better just cross him off and figure his
own life for himself.”</p>
<p>You know, I see “bad guys” in television and
stuff, but with the people I really know I always
lump the parents on one team and the kids on
the other. Now here’s my pop calmly figuring
a kid better chalk off his father as a bad lot and
go it alone. If your father died, I suppose you
could face up to it eventually, but having him
just fade out on you, not care what you did—that’d
be worse.</p>
<p>While I’m doing all this hard thinking, Pop
has gone back to reading the paper. I notice the
column of want ads on the back, and all of a
sudden my mind clicks on Tom and jobs.</p>
<p>“Hey, Pop! You know the florist on the corner,
Palumbo, where you always get Mom the
plant on Mother’s Day? I went in there a couple
of weeks ago, because he had a sign up, ‘Helper
Wanted.’ I thought maybe it was deliveries and
stuff that I could do after school. But he said
he needed a full-time man. I’m pretty sure the
sign’s still up.”</p>
<p>“Palumbo, huhn?” Pop takes off his glasses
and scratches his head with them. He looks at
his watch and sighs. “They still open?”</p>
<p>They are, and Pop goes right down to see the
guy. He knows him fairly well anyway—there’s
Mother’s Day, and Easter, and also the shop is
the polling place for our district, so Pop’s in
there every Election Day. He always buys some
little bunch of flowers Election Day because he
figures the guy ought to get some business having
his shop all messed up for the day.</p>
<p>Dad comes back and goes over to the desk and
scratches off a fast note. He says, “Here. Address
it to Tom and go mail it right away. Palumbo
says he’ll try him out at least. Tom can come
over Thursday night and I’ll take him in.”</p>
<p>Tom comes home with Pop Thursday about
nine o’clock. They both look pretty good. Mom
has cold supper waiting, finishing off the icebox
before we go away, so we all sit down to eat.</p>
<p>“Tom’s all set, at least for a start,” Dad says.
“He’s going to start Tuesday, right after Labor
Day. Palumbo can use him on odd jobs and deliveries,
especially over the Jewish holidays, and
then if he can learn the business, he’ll keep
him on.”</p>
<p>“Never thought I’d go in for flower-arranging.”
Tom grins. “But it might be fun. I’m
pretty fair at any kind of handiwork.”</p>
<p>Remembering how quick he unlocked the
padlock to get Cat out in the cellar, I agree.</p>
<p>He starts for his room after supper, and we
all say “good luck,” “have a good time,” and
stuff. Things are really looking up.</p>
<p>I get up early the next morning and help
Mom button up around the house and get the
car loaded before Pop gets home in the afternoon.
He hoped to get off early, and I’ve been
pacing around snapping my fingers for a couple
of hours when he finally arrives about six o’clock.
It’s a hot day again.</p>
<p>I don’t say anything about Cat. I just dive in
the back seat and put him behind a suitcase and
hope he’ll behave. Pop doesn’t seem to notice
him. Anyway he doesn’t say anything.</p>
<p>It’s mighty hot, and traffic is thick, with everyone
pouring out of the city. But at least we’re
moving along, until we get out on the Hutchinson
River Parkway, where some dope has to run
out of gas.</p>
<p>All three lanes of traffic are stopped. We sit
in the sun. Pop looks around, hunting for something
to get sore about, and sees the back windows
are closed. He roars, “Crying out loud,
can’t we get some air, at least? Open those windows!”</p>
<p>I open them and try to keep my hand over
Cat, but if you try to hold him really, it makes
him restless. For the moment he’s sitting quiet,
looking disgusted.</p>
<p>We sit for about ten minutes, and Pop turns
off the motor. You can practically hear us sweating
in the silence. Engines turn on ahead of us,
and there seems to be some sign of hope. I stick
my head out the window to see if things are
moving. Something furry tickles my ear, and it
takes me a second to register.</p>
<p>Then I grab, but too late. There is Cat, out
on the parkway between the lanes of cars, trying
to figure which way to run.</p>
<p>“Pop!” I yell. “Hold it! Cat’s got out!”</p>
<p>You know what my pop does? He laughs.</p>
<p>“Hold it, my eyeball!” he says. “I’ve been
holding it for half an hour. I’d get murdered
if I tried to stop now. Besides, I don’t want to
chase that cat every day of my vacation.”</p>
<p>I don’t even stop to think. I just open the
car door and jump. The car’s only barely moving.
I can see Cat on the grass at the edge of the
parkway. The cars in the next lane blast their
horns, but I slip through and grab Cat.</p>
<p>I hear Mom scream, “Davey!”</p>
<p>Our car is twenty feet ahead, now, in the center
lane, and there’s no way Pop can turn off.
The cars are picking up speed. I holler to Mom
as loud as I can, “I’ll go back and stay with Kate!
Don’t worry!”</p>
<p>I hear Pop shout about something, but I can’t
hear what. Pretty soon the car is out of sight. I
look down at Cat and say, “There goes our
vacation.” I wonder if I’ll be able to catch a
bus out to Connecticut later. Meanwhile, there’s
the little problem of getting back into the city.
I’m standing alongside the parkway, with railroad
tracks and the Pelham golf course on the
other side of me, and a good long walk to the
subway.</p>
<p>A cat isn’t handy to walk with. He keeps trying
to get down. If you squeeze him to hang on,
he just tries harder. You have to keep juggling
him, like, gently. I sweat along back, with the
sun in my eyes, and people in cars on the parkway
pointing me out to their children as a local
curiosity.</p>
<p>One place the bulrushes and marsh grass beside
the road grow up higher than your head.
What a place for a kids’ hideout, I think. Almost
the next step, I hear kids’ voices, whispering and
shushing each other.</p>
<p>Their voices follow along beside me, but
inside the curtain of rushes, where I can’t see
them. I hear one say, “Lookit the sissy with the
pussy!” Another answers, “Let’s dump ’em in
the river!”</p>
<p>I try to walk faster, but I figure if I run they’ll
chase me for sure. I walk along, juggling Cat,
trying to pretend I don’t notice them. I see a
drawbridge up ahead, and I sure hope there’s
a cop or watchman on it.</p>
<p>The kids break out of the rushes behind
me, and there’s no use pretending anymore. I
flash a look over my shoulder. They all yell,
“Ya-n-h-h-h!” like a bunch of wild Indians, but
they’re about fifty feet back.</p>
<p>I grab Cat hard about the only place you can
grab a cat, around one upper forearm, and I
really run. The kids let out another war whoop.
It’s uphill to the bridge. Cat gets his free forepaw
into action, raking my chest and arm, with
his claws out. Then he hisses and bites, and I
nearly drop him. I’m panting so hard I can’t
hardly breathe anyway.</p>
<p>A cop saunters out on my approach to the
bridge, his billy dangling from his wrist. Whew—am
I glad! I flop on the grass and ease up on
Cat and start soothing him down. The kids fade
off into the tall grass as soon as they see the cop.
A stone arches up toward me, but it falls short.
That’s the last I see of them.</p>
<p>As I cross the bridge, the cop squints at me.
“What you doing, kid? Not supposed to be
walking here.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be right off. I’m going home,” I tell
him, and he saunters away, twirling his stick.</p>
<p>It’s dark by the time I get to the subway, and
most of another hour before I’m back in Manhattan
and reach Kate’s. I can hear the television
going, which is unusual, and I walk in.
No one is watching television. Mom and Pop are
sitting at the table with Kate.</p>
<p>Mom lets loose the tears she has apparently
been holding onto for two hours, and Pop starts
bellowing: “You fool! You might have got killed
jumping out on that parkway!”</p>
<p>Cat drops to the floor with a thud. I kiss Mom
and go to the sink for a long glass of water and
drink it all and wipe my mouth. Over my
shoulder, I answer Pop: “Yeah, but if Cat gets
killed on the parkway, that’s just a big joke,
isn’t it? You laugh your head off!”</p>
<p>Pop takes off his glasses and scratches his head
with them, like he always does when he’s thinking.
He looks me in the eye and says, “I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have laughed.”</p>
<p>Then, of all things, he picks up Cat himself.
“Come on. You’re one of the family. Let’s get
on this vacation.”</p>
<p>At last we’re off.</p>
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