Rama the Gypsy Cat (3 page)

“Yeah.”

Without pause, for he knew his father’s passion for getting work done straightaway, Jimmy heaved a sack of grain to his shoulder and, staggering slightly under the weight, stepped to the bank.

Ahead, in the doorway of the cabin, his mother stood. “Is your pa all right?” she asked.

“Yes’m.”

“I’ll come help you unload.”

“Too heavy for you,” he said in a strained voice.

“Well, I reckon I can hold the lantern.”

In her nightgown, her worn coat over her shoulders, she ran down to the river, the long braid down her back swinging as she ran.

“Could you get everything?” she asked as she took the lantern from the rock where Jimmy had set it.

He nodded.

“How was Frances and the kids?”

“They was all right.” He rolled the largest of the barrels onto the bank.

“Bert, too?”

He nodded.

Jimmy returned for a second load. He took up another sack of grain and then paused abruptly. “What’s that, Pa?” His voice rose with sudden excitement. “Ma, bring the lantern closer.”

His mother stepped toward him, held the lantern high, and the light fell upon the motionless form of Rama, dark and small against the grain sack.

“It’s a cat,” Jimmy said in the silence.

His father pushed the barrel to a secure place behind a tree and came to stand beside Jimmy. He looked at Rama.

“A dead cat,” he said.

Jimmy put his sack down and knelt beside the cat. His hands touched Rama gently. With a quickening of spirits, he felt a faint warmth in the body.

“He ain’t dead, Pa. He’s alive.” He wiped his hands against his britches. “I’ll take him on up to the house where its warm.”

“You got work here,” his father reminded him.

“I’ll be back, Pa, I’ll be right back. It won’t take me more than a minute to take him up to the house.”

Making a cradle of his hands, he lifted Rama’s limp body and carried it up the path to the cabin. He dared not linger and risk his father’s displeasure but he did pause long enough to put an old shirt by the fireplace and set Rama gently on it.

“There,” he said. “You’re going to be all right, Cat. I know it.”

With a backward glance at Rama, he went out the door and joined his parents at the raft.

“I think he’s going to be all right, Ma,” he said as he picked up the sack of grain.

In the thin light of the lantern, his mother’s eyes were wide and shiny. “We’ll do what we can for him, Son, only don’t be too disappointed, hear, if the cat don’t. ...”

“He’ll be all right,” the boy said as he moved shakily toward the house under his heavy load.

His mother shook her head slowly. There had been many disappointments for the boy since they had come here and built the cabin five years ago: money saved for a rifle now gone to help buy these supplies; a beloved hound dog that had been bitten by a rabid fox; crops that didn’t grow; barns that burned; a calf carried away by the flooding river.

When the raft was unloaded, she hurried up the path to have a look at the cat herself.

She was standing with Jimmy looking down at the cat when the man came in. He crossed to the fireplace and propped one heavy mud-caked boot on the hearth.

“It’s his throat that’s hurt, Pa,” Jimmy said.

His father bent down, looked into Rama’s eyes, and said, “It’s more than his throat.”

“What is it, Pa?”

“The cat’s hurt bad.”

“But where?”

His father ran his long fingers gently over Rama. “It’s his head most likely.”

“Ain’t there nothing we can do for him?”

“Just let him be. An animal gets hurt, you let him be as much as you can.”

“All right, Pa, only I’ll stay with him for a bit. If he wakes up, he might be scared in a strange place.” He sat on the hearth and covered Rama’s body with part of the shirt.

The shirt was of linsey and had once been red from the dye of sumac berries, but now it was faded and worn. Only Rama’s face, gray and small, showed between its folds. His eyes were open wide and stared straight ahead without seeing.

F
OR THE REST OF
the night, Jimmy sat beside the cat. He stroked Rama softly between the ears to let him know he was not alone and talked to him in a low, encouraging voice.

There were not many things a boy could wish for in this remote country. The stores with their silver knives and shiny harmonicas were far away, and this made Jimmy’s want doubly painful now. The cat was the first thing he had seen to want in a long time, and he wanted him to live so much that he would not leave him even for a moment.

Although Rama lay still now, his muscles slack and powerless, the boy could imagine him springing upon a bit of yarn, chasing it across the cabin floor. He could imagine the cat rubbing against his legs, asking for attention.

“You’re going to be all right,” he said again and again. “You’re going to be all right, Cat.”

Just before dawn, his mother came to the fireplace. “Son, did you get any sleep at all?” she asked.

“Ma, guess what?” Jimmy said in a soft voice. “He’s got a golden earring.”

“What?”

“An earring. Look.”

She bent forward, disbelief written on her face. “Why, so he has!” She looked at her son in wonder, then turned to her husband. “Pa, the cat’s got a golden earring.”

“Let me see.”

Jimmy lifted Rama’s head slightly, and there it was.

“Well, I never,” said his father.

His mother looked around. “Reckon where did he get it?”

“I remember Frances saying there was gypsies out of town a ways,” Pa said slowly. “Maybe it was their cat.”

“I bet you it was,” Ma said.

All of them were impressed by the fact that the cat wore a golden earring. They were people who had only the barest necessities. There was no gay cloth or lace to brighten the woman’s life, no candy or treats for the boy, no soft boots for the man. And now here was a cat with a golden earring. The unexpected little frivolity brightened them.

“I remember my granma had some gold earrings,” the woman said. “They had little red stones in them, and I always thought they was the prettiest things.”

“But I bet you never saw no cat with an earring before,” the boy said.

She smiled, shaking her head. “I never did.”

“Well,” the father said after a moment. “There’s work to be done. We got to get that shed up, Son.”

“I know.” Jimmy rose and looked down at the cat.

His mother said, “I’ll watch him while you’re working. Maybe I can get him to take some warm milk.” She went and poured some milk into a cup and brought it to the fire.

The boy watched as she dipped a small amount of milk into a spoon and held it to Rama. Carefully she let a few drops spill over on Rama’s mouth.

But Rama did not move. The milk ran untasted onto the crumpled shirt beneath him.

Jimmy’s mother looked up at him and waved him away with one hand. “Get going, Son, get your breakfast or it won’t be fit to eat.”

He ate quickly beside his father and then went to the doorway. He stood for a moment with his knitted cap pulled over his ears, looking at the cat.

“I’ll try the milk again in a bit,” she said. Without a word, Jimmy went out the door and joined his father beside the ashes of the old barn.

All morning, while Jimmy helped haul logs from the forest, Rama lay by the fire without moving. The woman came often to touch his forehead, but he did not stir.

At noon, when Jimmy came in to dinner, he said, “He looks a little better, don’t you think, Ma?” He took his plate to the fire and watched the cat while he ate.

She looked at him and shook her head. “About the same, Son. He don’t seem to be noticing much.”

“Pa, do you think he’ll live?” Jimmy asked after a moment. His father knew much about animals.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he said.

Jimmy turned his face to the fire. “Well, he’s not going to die. He’s just
not
. That’s all.”

His mother looked at him and then came and sat by him on the hearth. She smoothed her skirt over her legs. “You know what I was thinking about this morning?” she said. “I was thinking about the goat we had when I was a girl. One day this goat got in our shed and ate up ... I reckon he ate up more than a bushel of feed. And he lay there just like your cat for three days. Never moved, never even opened his eyes. Three days he lay there and then he just upped and walked away, good as new.” She laughed. “I never will forget that old goat.”

“Animals do that sometimes,” Pa said. He rose from the table and crossed to where his son was sitting on the hearth. “Don’t let yourself care too much about the cat though, hear?”

Wiping his sleeve quickly over his eyes, Jimmy said, “I don’t care too much, Pa, I really don’t. You ready to get back to work now?”

Pa put a hand on Jimmy’s head and ruffled his hair without speaking.

Jimmy laughed shakily. “I reckon the cow’s got to have a shed by tonight or we’ll have two sick animals to tend, huh, Pa?”

“That’s about it.”

Jimmy rose, looked down at Rama, and then said, “Ma?” in a pleading voice.

“I’ll look after the cat,” she said.

Jimmy put on his jacket, an old one that no longer covered his thin wrists, and went out the door behind his father. Although he was tall for his eleven years, he had the awkward lankiness of a colt, and he looked, as he went out the door, like a very young and troubled boy. It bothered his mother that he already had to do a man’s work, and the expression she had seen on his face made her put down the dishes she was taking from the table and walk back to the fireplace.

“Cat, you gotta live,” she said. She knelt beside him, the stone of the fireplace warm beneath her knees, and reached for the tin cup of milk beside the cat. Slowly she began to stroke Rama’s forehead. “Come on, Cat,” she said. “Open your eyes, hear?”

Rama did not move.

“Oh, Cat, come on. The boy needs you.”

She took a spoonful of the warm milk and held it beneath his nose. “Here’s some milk for you. It’s good and warm.”

Rama did not move.

The woman held the milk closer and continued to stroke Rama’s forehead. And as Rama lay there in the black cloud of unconsciousness, he slowly became aware of the warmth of the fire. He felt the fingers stroking his forehead and he thought it was the gypsy woman and that he lay before the camp fire.

He stirred. Although his movement was slight, it made him feel the pain that started in his head and enveloped his whole body.

“That’s right! Come on, Cat,” he heard a voice say. It was not the gypsy woman, but there was kindness in the voice. “You’re all right here. Ain’t nobody going to hurt you.”

Rama’s eyes blinked slowly and he smelled the milk. The woman put the spoon closer and let a few drops soak into Rama’s mouth.

“Swallow it,” she said.

The milk ran out the side of his mouth. Again she gave him milk.

“Swallow.”

She waited anxiously, because she felt somehow that a crisis had been reached, that Rama’s life lay in the balance. She knew, too, that the deciding factor was the cat’s own will to live. She and the boy might do all they could to help him, but the cat had to try.

“Swallow,” she begged.

And this time, although the pain in his throat was great, Rama swallowed the drops of milk.

O
N THE SECOND DAY,
Rama was able to walk about the cabin. He had come, even in that short time, to trust the woman. Now he knew well that she was not the gypsy. Her hands were rougher, her step softer, and her voice was quiet. The gypsy woman had been demonstrative, lavish in her affection. She would pick him up as if he were a baby and croon to him, or put him on her shoulder and scratch his back, or rock him on her lap. But this woman touched him gently—if at all—and she had never picked him up.

Jimmy, too, he trusted, for the boy was taking his time and did not attempt to hold Rama or pet him against his will.

The father Rama avoided. He was not afraid of him, but the man’s brusque manner indicated that he had little time for play. Rama was quick to sense this and to move out of the way when he heard the heavy footsteps on the cabin floor.

On the third day Rama wanted to go outside. The woman hesitated, but only a moment, and then she opened the door and waited while Rama stood in the doorway, looking out into the clearing.

“Well, go on. I can’t hold the door open all day long,” she said, but she continued to stand there.

Rama took his time. He licked his paw, his bib, and then moved slowly outside into the clearing. When the woman shut the door, he moved back and crouched beside the steps. He was aware that he was not in condition to meet an enemy no matter how small, and he remained partly hidden by the steps.

The air was cold, but it felt good after the heat of the cabin, and Rama was content. He had no way of knowing the circumstances that had taken him from the gypsy woman and brought him here, but in his contentment there was a shadow of longing. He wanted the gypsy woman and he wanted the wagon he knew so well; he wanted the comfort of the soft pillows on the chest and he wanted the meats the gypsy woman gave him so generously. He did not know how to recapture these pleasures, and so he waited and watched, accepting what was offered him.

His eyes half closed as he watched the shadows of the trees on the clearing. The leaves, brown and curled, blew past him to the river. At other times, Rama had enjoyed chasing a particular leaf, pretending it was a mouse. He would catch it, jiggle it in his paws to give it movement, and then roll on the ground, pawing at the leaf until it blew away. But not today.

Suddenly Rama grew rigid. Though his body rebelled and pain shot through his shoulder and throat at the suddenness of his movement, Rama scarcely noticed. For across the yard, moving like a glorious sailing ship, came a rooster.

The rooster walked across the clearing with complete assurance. He pecked at a clump of dry grass and lifted his head as the wind blew his tail feathers in all directions. Then he moved closer to the house where a dry branch bearing red berries had blown into the clearing during the night.