Socks (5 page)

“Now don't you worry,” said Mrs. Risley, pausing to stroke the tabby head. “I'll be right back.” Socks was so relaxed that only a moment seemed to go by from the time Charles William was lifted from his playpen until he was smacking away at his bottle in his bedroom crib.

Mrs. Risley pulled a magazine from her survival kit and plumped herself down on the couch where she patted her lap.
“Now,”
she said to Socks, as if this was the moment she had been waiting for.

This was the moment Socks had been waiting for, too. He leaped lightly onto the sitter's lap, which was large, soft, and sweetly perfumed by flower-scented soap. Mrs. Risley possessed the perfect lap, a lap rarely experienced by a cat who lived in a world of people determined to stay thin.

Except for Socks's deep purr of contentment, the room was quiet. In Charles William's room the smacking stopped, but this time Socks had no interest in leftover formula. He no longer had an empty feeling in his middle. The bottle fell out of the crib with a thump, and the silence that followed meant that Charles William was asleep for the night.

Socks began to knead the perfect lap with his paws, in and out, in and out. His purr deepened, and a dreamy look came into his golden eyes. In and out, in and out. With his eyes half-closed, Socks felt as if he were with his mother and the rest of his litter that he had almost forgotten.

Socks lost all interest in washing. He lay down on the perfect lap and wriggled until he was lying on his back with his four feet in the air and his spine in the trough between Mrs. Risley's plump thighs. Gently and rhythmically she stroked the silky fur on his trusting belly. “Poor old Skeezix,” whispered Mrs. Risley, as she stroked Socks's glossy fur. “You were starved for a little love.” She turned the pages of her magazine carefully so they would not flick his whiskers and the sound would not disturb him.

Gradually the purrs petered out, and with
a final sigh Socks fell into a deep sleep, the first perfect sleep he had enjoyed since Charles William had been carried home from the hospital. Mrs. Risley loved him more than she loved his rival.

A
puzzling and, to Socks, inconvenient change took place in the behavior of his mistress. Mrs. Bricker, who usually spent the least possible time housekeeping, now upset the household by a thorough cleaning. Socks had to rewash his paws after he walked across the kitchen floor wet from the mop. The vacuum cleaner drove him from one room to another, and the smell of the ammonia that Mrs. Bricker used to wash the windows drove him out of the house. The
only good that came from all this housecleaning was the disappearance of dust from under the bed. Socks could now retreat in safety without sneezing.

Cooking came next. Mrs. Bricker dumped Socks out the back door, so he would not be underfoot. He watched from the windowsill while she made a molded salad, experimented with cake mixes, and tried meat-loaf recipes. Not long afterward, Mr. Bricker, carrying luggage, walked into the house with a thin, brisk woman whom he called Mom but referred to as Nana. Mr. Bricker's mother had arrived to spend her two weeks' vacation visiting her son and his family.

Socks could tell right away that Nana was no Mrs. Risley. He sniffed her luggage for a clue to its contents and then turned his back on all the greetings and washed himself. Exclamations of “Nana's precious is a big
boy! Yes, he is!” and “He looks just like his father when he was the same age!” bored Socks. Nana, unlike Mrs. Risley, did not understand the importance of a cat.

After Mr. Bricker's mother had admired her grandson, given the family presents, and been taken on a tour of the house, she said, “Bill, I didn't know you kept a cat.” Socks sensed all eyes were on him and looked up from his washing. He saw that Charles William was sitting on his mother's lap staring at his grandmother's shining hair, which was the color of iced tea.

“Good old Socks. He's quite a character,” said Mr. Bricker. Then to change the subject, he remarked, “What have you done to your hair? It looks different.”

“That is between me and my hairdresser.” Nana smiled and changed the subject back again. “Are you sure it's a good idea, keeping a cat when there's a baby in the house?”

Mrs. Bricker was quick to defend their pet. “Socks is a clean, healthy cat, and we love him. He's a member of the family.”

Socks delicately washed the pink pads on his right front paw.

Nana was not convinced. “Some babies are allergic to cats.”

“Not our boy,” said Mrs. Bricker. “Charles William hasn't shown any sign of allergy.” She took hold of her son's big toe, and said, “He's a big healthy boy. Yes, he is.” Charles William, who was drooling because he was teething, looked pleased.

“This little piggy went to market,” said Mrs. Bricker, wiggling one rosy toe.

“Ig-gig-gig,” said Charles William.

“But aren't you afraid the cat might scratch the baby?” persisted Nana, her glance resting on the frayed corner of the loopy chair where Socks sharpened his claws.

“Not really,” said Mrs. Bricker. “I do keep an eye on him when they're in the same room, but he's very patient with Tiffy, the little girl next door. When she picks him up around the middle, he doesn't even struggle. He goes limp until she puts him down, and then he runs away.”

“You can't be too careful around a baby.”
Nana was not persuaded that Socks should remain a member of her son's family.

Socks soon found the grandmother's visit a trial. Everything he did was wrong. When he tried to jump on her lap, his claw snagged her knit dress and he was scolded. Her nylon stockings dancing over the heat vent as they dried in the bathroom were irresistible to him, and he could not understand why she felt he had misbehaved when he pulled them down and played with them. Couldn't she understand that a cat needed to play? When Nana settled on the couch to knit a sweater for her grandson, Socks was so fascinated by the movement of her knitting needles that he had to jump up beside her to watch. She eyed him with disapproval, but when he sat very, very still, the way he sat while watching a bug crawl across the floor, she did not object. He did not take his eyes from those flashing needles until, with one
quick swipe of his paw, he reached out and hooked the head of a knitting needle in his claws. The needle slid out of the yarn and flipped to the coffee table with a clatter.

“Now see what you made me do,” said Nana crossly. “I just dropped ninety-four stitches.” Mrs. Risley would not have spoken to Socks in this tone of voice.

“Isn't it funny the way cats are always attracted to people who don't like them?” said Mrs. Bricker. Socks's feelings were hurt when she picked him up and set him down outside the front door.

As the days passed, Nana grew more critical of Socks. If he scratched, she was sure he was crawling with fleas that might bite Charles William. Every time Socks watched and waited until he could get his paws on Brown Bear, she took it away from him and brushed it off. If her grandson sneezed, she was sure he was allergic to cats. She was
constantly brushing cat hair off the couch, and one evening she plucked a cat hair out of her salad. She was polite, though, and did not call attention to it, but the Brickers noticed.

Nights were hardest of all. Because the Brickers' house was small, Nana had to sleep on the couch in the living room while Socks, who considered the couch his bed, was shut in the laundry.

Socks resented this arrangement. Every evening he complained himself hoarse, even though Mr. Bricker interrupted the conversation in the living room to shout, “Socks, be quiet!” Socks lay yowling on the hard floor and groped under the door with his paw. He sat up and threw his shoulder against the door. When nothing, absolutely nothing would free him, his last act before settling down on the sweatshirt was to plow Kitty Litter over the floor so someone
would have to sweep it up in the morning.

Socks became so discouraged that each night he yowled less and sulked more until one moonlit night when the household had settled into silence. The laundry was so light that Socks was restless. He jumped out of his box, extended his paws as if he were bowing, enjoyed a good stretch, and then threw his shoulder against the door, which this time surprised him by silently opening enough for a cat to walk through.

Socks was free! He padded through the kitchen and dining room to the living room, where Nana was asleep. The pupils of his eyes widened in the dim light, and as he was about to spring up on the blanket beside her, he noticed her suitcase lying open in the corner of the room. Nana had not understood his curiosity about her luggage and had not allowed him to look inside. Socks trotted across the carpet and after a
cautious sniff, stepped into the suitcase. A nylon slip felt smooth to his paw pads and much softer than the old sweatshirt.

Socks was about to use the suitcase for a bed when a ghostly object looming on the desk caught his attention. He stood motionless, staring up at something white gleaming in the darkness. When it did not move and he could not smell it, he sprang to the top of the desk to investigate. There he discovered an astonishing thing: Nana's hair. There in the midst of Mrs. Bricker's books and papers sat the hair on a faceless white head. He had never seen such a sight in his life. His head cocked to one side, Socks patted the soft fibers with a curious paw. He was fascinated. He patted with his other paw. Here was something to play with, and Socks was lonely for play.

With extended claws Socks hooked the hair from the Styrofoam head and batted it
over the edge of the desk to the floor. The head rolled over the edge of the desk, too, and landed beside the hair with a soft thump, which made Nana stir in her sleep. Socks sprang on the hair, caught it in his claws, tossed it into the air, and let it fall on the carpet. Then he pounced. He hugged the soft bundle of fibers with his front paws and kicked it with his strong hind feet. He
rolled over with the hair still clutched to his body. With his movements muffled by the carpet, he tussled and scuffled and wrestled. He dropped the hair, hid behind a chair, and pounced again. He pretended to ignore it before he surprised it by catching it in his claws and tossing it into the air.

Finally Socks grew bored with the game. Nana's hair would not fight back. He dropped it in a patch of moonlight and settled for the night on the nylon and lace in Nana's suitcase.

The next morning Socks was awakened by Nana groping for her bedroom slippers. The hair on her head, her second-best hair, was shorter and grayer than the hair on the carpet. Socks yawned so hard that his ears lay back and his pink tongue stretched out of his mouth. He eased his muscles by humping his back like a Halloween cat and leaped onto the carpet, where he proceeded
with his morning wash.

“Well!” said Nana in a whisper. “Just what do you think you're doing in here?”

Socks did not care for the tone of her voice. He paused long enough to give her an insolent look, as if to say, “I belong here and you do not,” before he continued licking his fur. Soon he turned his head away from Nana to reach the difficult spot behind his shoulder.

Nana, who had not rested well on the lumpy couch, was buttoning her robe when she noticed the naked Styrofoam head on the floor. She was quick to discover her best hair on the carpet. With an angry,
“Oh!”
she snatched it up and stared at it while Socks pretended to ignore her. The Brickers were awake. Water ran in the bathroom, and Mr. Bricker's electric razor buzzed.

“You—you—
cat
!” Nana whispered. “Look what you've done!”

Socks looked, but not for long. Grooming his immaculate white paws was more important. He found a bit of dried mud between his toes, which needed attention.

Nana examined the netting inside the wig, and in the desk drawer she found some Scotch tape, which she used for some hasty repairs. Then she set what had once been her best hair on the Styrofoam head and went to work with her hairbrush. She smoothed and brushed. She patted and poked. She pinched waves into place and rolled the ends over her fingers. When she was sure the bathroom was free, she picked up the hair and her clothes and stalked from the living room.

Charles William began to fuss. Socks was waiting by the refrigerator when Mrs. Bricker arrived to warm a bottle.

“Out of the way, Socks,” said Mrs.
Bricker, giving him a gentle shove with her foot so she could open the refrigerator door. Socks meowed and rubbed against her ankles while she set a bottle in a pan of water on the stove.

Mr. Bricker appeared with Charles William, still dressed in sleepers, in his arms.

“Mommy is getting her baby's breakfast just as fast as she can,” said Mrs. Bricker in the voice that Socks resented when it was not addressed to him.

Nana joined the family in the kitchen. The sight of her hair silenced her daughter-in-law and made her son stare. Odd little tufts poked out from the once-smooth curls. The silence, broken by the quivery sobs of the hungry baby, was awkward.

“Mom, what happened to your—hair?” asked her son. He did not approve of his mother's wearing a wig. The Brickers thought hair should look natural.

“Nothing,” said Nana bravely. “It was nothing really. Nothing a trip to the hairdresser won't repair.”

Mr. Bricker was not satisfied. “Something must have happened to make your hair look like a bird's ne—”

“Bill—” Mrs. Bricker's voice held a warning as Socks purred and rubbed against her legs. He was every bit as hungry as Charles
William, but he was much pleasanter.