Free One-Eyed Cat by Paula Fox Page B

something else.”
    â€œBoom!” yelled Billy, racing past Janet. She clenched her fist and shook it at him. He giggled as if he was being tickled. She set off down the road after him, and Billy laughed so hard Ned thought he might fall down. People liked each other in strange ways, Ned had decided.
    He turned to Evelyn, who trudged along beside him watching her own breath come and go.
    â€œI wonder how they can live, the wild cats, I mean.”
    â€œThey catch things, mice and like that,” Evelyn replied. “They’re good hunters.”
    â€œWhat if they’re sick?”
    â€œI hate writing poems!” Evelyn exclaimed. “Did Miss Jefferson give your class that assignment? To write a Thanksgiving poem?”
    â€œWhat if a cat got hit by a branch?”
    Evelyn punched him in the arm. “Stop talking about cats,” she demanded. “You’re as bad as Billy. I don’t know nothing about cats. However, I know about chickens.”
    However was a word Evelyn had taken to using lately and she threw it in whenever she could.
    â€œWas it gray? the cat you saw?”
    â€œNed Wallis!” she shouted.
    â€œAll right, all right …”
    â€œPlease give me an idea about the poem,” she said in her usual voice.
    â€œWrite about pumpkins. Write about all the babies in your family getting together and chasing a turkey through the forest.”
    â€œYou’re making fun of me however,” she said.
    â€œEvelyn, will you tell me if you see the cat again? I think I might know that cat.”
    They had reached the state road. He saw Billy and Janet already entering the yard next to the red brick school.
    â€œI might,” said Evelyn and raced ahead of him. He stood alone for a few minutes worrying about the hours ahead of him, wondering how he would be able to concentrate on his lessons. “Concentrate,” Miss Jefferson was always saying to him. What he would have liked to do was go back up the dirt road to the stone house and open a window and climb in and wander through the rooms. He sighed and began crossing the road slowly until he heard the second bell ring. Then he ran the rest of the way to school.
    â€œDo birds ever drown in the rain?” he asked Mr. Scully one day.
    â€œI don’t believe so.”
    Ned thought he didn’t sound sure. “What about raccoons? Can they drown?”
    â€œI never heard of that,” said Mr. Scully. “You have to remember you’re talking about wild creatures. They have their ways—although they live and die just like all of us do.”
    â€œWhat about the cats you told me about? In the woods?”
    â€œI don’t recall that. But if you say so, I must have told you. My memory isn’t a bit reliable. This morning, Ned, long before you were up, I was standing here just staring at my old wood stove. I simply couldn’t remember how to go about making a fire. After a long while, the memory came back—as you can see.”
    A line of red outlined the door of the stove, and the griddle plate on top of it glowed with the heat. It was a good fire, Ned knew; it had been ripening all day long. Mr. Scully would keep the parlor door closed for most of the winter to conserve heat, he’d told Ned. But he didn’t mind that, he’d said. As he got older, he liked smaller and smaller spaces.
    â€œI used to have a dog,” the old man said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve had cats, too, but I was more partial to doggies. He was called Malthus. Of course, when Doris was little, we had puppies now and then, and she liked them, but it was Malthus I loved. By then, Doris was all grown up. I learned how nice it is to watch an animal instead of pouncing on it and hugging it every minute, covering up its nature with your own. Malthus liked cats a great deal. He’d wag his tail as soon as he saw one. There was something pleasing to me about that … a great