cats but they only look short because they’re always crouched ready to spring away if you come near. They have little hollow places behind their heads and between the tops of their legs on the back when they’re hunched down like that. When a cat’s all set to spring there’s almost no way you can catch it.
But Billy O’Connell showed me how you can always catch a cat if you just keep running long enough. They’re fast but they get tired out soon. Maybe they don’t get enough to eat from eating only garbage. Sure enough, though, he’d keep running after a cat in the alley where they had no place to go and he’d run them down finally. Usually, at the end, the cat would run into an empty garage, where Billy’d shut the door and corner them.
What Billy O’Connell likes to do with cats is climb up on somebody’s porch, one of the old ones with the steps still on them, and throw the cat through the air. He throws them any which way, and they spin right around and land with their legs spread out, then run off. He tells me he threw one out his bedroom window and it was the same thing. He wants to throw one from a roof someday. O’Connell has the idea cats can practically fly. He’d like to throw one out from an airplane sometime to see what happens.
You have to be careful with these cats because they all have fleas. It’s the fleas Mom worries about more than the cats, it’s the same with frogs and warts.
Sometimes the kids’d catch two cats and tie them together by the tails. Those cats would swing around in circles yowling, pulling against each other. I never did anything like that myself but I’ve watched. There are some mean kids around our way, all right, but probably they’re the same everywhere.
One of the worst things they do is pour gasoline on a cat’s tail and then light it. A kid up on Radbourne Road was doing that and burned himself so bad he had to go to the hospital; he almost died and now he has shiny wrinkled scars on his arm so he can’t open his elbow all the way.
When you light a cat’s tail, it screams even worse than they do at night when they’re fighting and making babies, only there’s no purring or cat baby-crying mixed in, it’s all just yowling and screaming. Most times the cat dies and somebody will find it in the back corner of a garage or under a porch when it starts to stink. But I’ve seen a few live. Gradually the black burnt bones that are left fall off a piece at a time until there’s only a tiny stump of a tail left. Usually fur grows over this part so those cats look like a cross between a cat and a rabbit.
That Sunday, I go off as if I’m going to church. I’d been awake practically all night, trying to get up nerve to tell my folks I’ve been thrown off the altar boys. But I couldn’t do it. So instead I go over to Mr Harding’s garage. They’d moved all his furniture from his house and his wife drove his car away but they didn’t clean out the garage. There are boxes filled with old clothes and old blankets. Burlap bags, moldy cloths and clothes are strewn around. I don’t know why I went back. I’d only been back once since I found him; that was when Zigenfus told me the car had been taken out by Mrs Harding, and I wanted to check for sure.
When I walk into the garage, the first thing besides cargrease smell is the smell of molding rags. One of the garage windows has been broken already. Unless somebody else moves into the house soon, it won’t be long before they’ll all be broken. Kids, even some grownups, like breaking windows. There are some houses on our block with more broken windows than ones with glass in them. That’s one reason Mr Marsden let us stay in our house even when we couldn’t pay the rent; at least we keep it clean and painted; the windows aren’t all broken out.
Once I threw a stone and broke one of Mr Coughlin’s windows. He caught me and dragged me home. I was only about seven then. My dad told Mr Coughlin we’d get it fixed. He was mad but he didn’t holler or anything. But that Saturday he made me go over with a folding measure and write down the measurements of Mr Coughlin’s window. Then we walked to the hardware store, where they cut a piece of glass just that size. The glass and putty and some little nails cost thirty-two cents. Then we went over to Mr Coughlin’s house and fitted in that piece of glass. Dad didn’t say anything all this time but showed me how to do it, and after he nailed in the little nails, he made me put in all the putty. It’s really hard to do right. It took me two hours, doing it over and over again until I got it all smooth and even. When I was finished I was crying. Dad put the tools away, and took me by the hand and led me home.
‘Dickie, I just wanted you to know something. Any fool can break a window but very few people can put one back in.’
The second thing I smell is the smell of that gas Mr Harding killed himself with. That’s a smell that doesn’t go away fast. The door’s open so I let myself just inside. I’m afraid to go all the way into this garage. I don’t believe in ghosts, but Father Lanshee might be right about devils.
I’m standing there, thinking how Mr Harding looked and trying not to think about Mom and Dad looking for me on the altar, when I see something move in the back corner of the garage in the middle of a bunch of old clothes. I step sideways to get a better view and lean forward a few steps. There’s a green-eyed cat, eyes almost green as my mom’s, and shining there in that back corner.
She’s hunched the way cats get when they’re about ready to run. Her eyes stay on me without blinking and I’m looking to see if she’s hurt or anything. Lots of times cats get hit by cars then crawl into these garages to die. But she looks healthy, healthy that is for an alley cat.
I’m starting to back out the door when she dashes past me and scrambles up the inside of that garage door and out the broken window. I’d left the door open so there was no reason for her to go out that way.
She moves so fast she scares me and I push myself against the garage door that isn’t open. These garages have two doors that swing like regular doors; they don’t swing up the way they do in the movies.
I’m about ready to go out the door when I hear some sounds coming from where that cat was. I know right away what it is and I want to see them. I tiptoe back carefully and there, tucked in the cloth, are five baby kittens. They’re so small their eyes are still closed; they can’t stand up. I reach in and lift them one at a time. The mother was a striped tiger cat, standard alley-cat color, sort of greenish gray and black stripes. Two of these kittens look like that. Another is black and white, one is black, and the other is a brownish color with dim blackish stripes. This last one is strange because it doesn’t have a tail and it’s too young for anybody to have burnt it off. I’m not sure if the mother had a tail but I think she did. Maybe the father was one of those cats who got his tail burnt off and this kitten inherited it. It is dark brown as if it’s already been burnt. Maybe this one is a devil cat, come straight out from H-E-L-L.
After playing with the kittens for a while and listening to them, I decide to see if I can help them stay alive. Most of the kittens in these alleys get killed by dogs, boys or other cats. A lot of times there just isn’t enough to eat.
So, before everybody comes home, I go in, open the ice-box and take two pinches out of the hamburger in its brown paper. Mom is going to make meat loaf with it. I pat the meat back into shape so it looks the same. To make up, I’ll eat a little less myself; I don’t particularly like meat loaf much anyway. I pour milk into a cup without any handle I had in the cellar for my turtle before he disappeared. I take both these, a piece of broken broomstick, and some wire back to Mr Harding’s garage. I put the milk and the hamburger beside the kittens.
The mother cat isn’t there. I figure she’s out looking for something to eat.
I don’t have much time before everybody comes home, so I go out and push the broom handle through the latches on the door and wire it shut. This will keep other kids out, and so long as the only way to get in is through that window, no dog or anything can get at them. When I finish, I feel better; I feel almost as if I have a little family of my own. I’m ready to tell Mom and Dad about being thrown out of the altar boys.
It isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Mom gets all excited at first but then settles down. Dad asks me to explain and I tell about the eraser and Mr Harding and the taste of the crucifix and my spitting, the exercising; the whole thing. It sounds even crazier when I’m saying it than it