Not really.
It's a fact. If we had time I could show you where he'd scratched some bricks like I said he could.
Honest?
Course.
Not really.
Ever watch a cat stretch? Cats know how to live.
I know it.
Cats beat us at it bad. Now Brackett Omensetter, though—
I know it. Did he stay there all the time — in the station I mean? Kick's cat?
He didn't sleep there often enough so you could say he lived there, for he was sometimes out in the worst of the weather. In the middle of the winter I'd find his tracks in strange places, and in the winter most he kept his habits secret. I'll tell you about that later.
Did Kick's cat have a name?
A name?
Yes, a name. Like Isaac, maybe, or Brineydeep.
Gracious. Brineydeep?
If I had a cat I'd name him Brineydeep or Isabel.
I thought you said you had a cat.
I just said that. If I had a cat he'd be as big as a pony and have a long tail. Did Kick's cat have a long tail? Mine would, and when he did, I'd call him Whiskers instead of Brineydeep probably.
I don't follow that.
What was Kick's cat's name? Molly's turtle's Sam, which is dying.
His name was Kick's cat.
If he didn't have a name you couldn't find him. I know a kid got his name erased and he went away forever. Nearly forever. Longer than that even. You go bango, you know, bango!
What happened to him?
He went away invisible so no one could see him.
No one at all?
Only trees. Things like that.
Who told you so?
A man. Bango! You go bango!
A monkey.
Maybe a monkey. Say. What was Kick's cat's name?
Kick's cat.
Just that?
Just that.
Why?
Because that's whose cat he was.
I bet he knew everything about trains and stations.
He knew everything about trains and stations.
I bet he knew when trains got to Chicago Illinois.
He knew when trains did anything.
I bet he was fierce as anything, like a turkey.
Turkeys aren't very fierce.
I hate turkeys. They gobble at you.
Well Kick's cat was fiercer than that.
I bet. I bet he could fly.
Of course he couldn't.
He could.
No.
At night. At night he could.
Say, who knows about this cat, boy, you or me?
Tell me how he knew about trains and stations.
You going to listen or talk?
I want it to be a long story.
It is a long story.
Put everything in it.
I always put everything in it.
Is it good and long? Good stories are long.
Well, they ought to be, anyway. So, let's see: Kick's cat knew everything about trains and stations. He could gallop up a rail like it was a walk and skip across the tracks without moving a cinder in the bed. He perched on spouts and dropped sudden on unloaded crates to claw and sniff out the city wood. When a train was in he would march through the cars, his tail fluffed up and curled over his back, rubbing against the passengers and purring the only time he purred, with a deep bass purr, like a tractor's. The passengers would give him things to eat: peanuts and crackers and candies and fruit and sometimes the centers of sandwiches. Kick's cat hated bread. I'll have to tell you about that. It came from the time some fool boys locked him in the washroom when the train was leaving. Their names were Frank and Ned and Harry and they were fool boys playing at bandits. I call that story the story of Kick's cat's fierce revenge, or sometimes I call it the story of the boys who played at bandits. It depends on which end I come at.
Boy.
Anyway, Kick's cat hated bread. He would lick it clean if it was minced ham, but afterward he'd hook the slice with a claw and toss it down the car. He ate the inside of a lot of sandwiches, come to think of it.
Cats hate fruit.
Not Kick's cat. He was no ordinary cat, haven't I been telling you that?
I hate bread.
You don't hate bread.
I do.
You don't.
Kick's cat hated milk.
He loved milk. He doted on it. He drank three gallons and a pint a day.
He didn't.
Maybe more than that. I couldn't say.
Honest?
That's a way cats have. They've got to love milk and fish and chase mice and rats and birds. Otherwise they ain't cats. It's what they call a law of nature.
I hate ice cream.
No you don't. But that reminds me of old Doc Orcutt.
Bah on doctors.
Ah but Orcutt was special. He had a beautiful beard.
Bah on beards. Was that really his name?
Orcutt? Sure was. And you can bet he heard about it. But he could tell wonderful jokes on himself. Lord. There was the time, well, it's the story I call the story of the cut-rate tonsillectomy.
I don't want to hear about it.
It's funny.
If it's tonsils it's not funny.
Ice cream put me in mind of it. Think of it that way.
My cat hates milk.
You don't have a cat and if you did he wouldn't hate milk, but if he hated milk he'd be a beaver and bite you in half like a log.
Kick's cat then.
Well. He was big and tawny. He had a face as round as a barrel and great wide circle eyes.
Cheese. I got to go. That's my ma. She'll be awful mad if she sees me.
But what about Kick's cat?
I got to go.
But I haven't come to the story. You don't know about the rat either. You see there was a particularly big gray rat, as big as a boot maybe, maybe bigger, and that rat wasn't afraid of anything.
Boy. But I got to. I got to go.
But the rat. It was the rat that bit Kick's nose. Remember? t was the challenge to the fight.
Bye.
He'd arrange a fight between Kick's cat and the boot-big rat… a chase and a fight… between cars, in the walls… whisker to whisker … it would last all night. You should have heard the way the wind passed between his paws. Arrange… So I'll arrange… Well, he seemed a nice boy, one of those our nowadays have lost. Too young for the story of May Cobb. And how would he learn his history now? Imagine growing up in a world where only generals and geniuses, empires and companies, had histories, not your own town or grandfather, house or Samantha — none of the things you'd loved. No, I didn't finish about Bob Stout. Boy — your own leaves are keeping your eyes from the trunk. I could arrange for pirates. Fire at the Hen Woods. Uncle Simon, the ancient bony sycamore, burning and breaking my heart. I could arrange that But the boy was gone, wrapped round by his mother. Yet I remember everything. Kick's cat. Droplets of cream along his jaws. Omensetter swinging his arms in a dance. Surely they should be of use. No. An odd lot. He couldn't even auction them off. Still — suppose they were sold? Could he bear to live through that sweet weather again, through that purple sky and lingering haze, the long clouds losing the sun, the twilight deepening the roads and lying in the tracks till dawn? Or so it seemed then — when his flesh was young.
The churn was sold. The cradle. He didn't see who got it. All the tools were gone. The rope. The canned goods. Even empty soda bottles dull with dust. Sam Peach had cleaned the back and swept one side. Sofas. Chairs. The row of ladies was empty. It was the heat. The sky had a vacant blue. Was that fellow the son of Parson Peach? Could that be? First Pike. Let's see. Then Meldon, Rush, and Furber. In the Redeemer's. Huffley after that, and Peach. Oh he was out of touch. Well there was no resemblance. Lamps. Satin shades and tassels. Now plates and coffee mills and cups. The crowd was with him in the front. It seemed smaller. More painted plates by Lucy Pimber. Pepper mills. Goblets of cranberry glass. Cut crystal bowls. Linen. Rugs. Sheets. Towels. Quilts. Rags that were old clothes. To perish with the owner. That was wise. Samantha. Sister. She would sell his bones. What would his bones bring?