Socks (2 page)

“Well, how about that?” said the driver of the mail truck, when he saw the kitten.

“Socks!” cried Debbie, rescuing her kitten from the letters.

“Don't you know it's a federal offense to tamper with the United States mails?” asked the driver, as he scooped mail into his sack. Debbie looked so alarmed that he said, “Relax. I'm only joking. A kitten doesn't count as mail unless he has stamps stuck on
him, and even then I'm not sure.”

The scene attracted more shoppers. A young couple pushing a cart of groceries toward the parking lot paused to watch what was going on. Debbie, trusting their appearance, held Socks up for their inspection. “This is Socks,” she said. “We named him Socks, because he looks like he's wearing white socks.”

“He's the smartest kitten in the bunch,” said George, his voice brimming with hope. If they sold one kitten, they could sell more, and he would be free to go to the library.

Unaware that his future was about to be decided, Socks struggled and mewed to be put down. Debbie would not let him go. “See,” she said to the young couple, “he likes you.”

“Look at his little paws and his little pointy tail,” cried the young woman, whose name was Marilyn Bricker. “And look at his
beautiful markings: those black stripes on his head and the black rings around his tail like the rings on a raccoon's tail and those little white socks. Oh Bill, we must take him. We need a cat to sleep in front of the fireplace this winter now that we have a house.”

“He's a very smart kitten.” George pressed for a sale. “He's housebroken, too.”

“I always wanted a kitten when I was a kid,” remarked Bill Bricker, “but my mother didn't like cats.”

“Then you should have a kitten now,” said his wife.

Debbie and George exchanged a look that wiped away their disagreements of the morning. They were about to sell a kitten.

Mr. Bricker reached into the pocket of his jeans for change. “Fifty cents is the best offer I can make,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, that's all right.” Debbie was willing to be generous. “Daddy said to give them
away if we had to.”

“Thank you,” said George, as he accepted two twenty-five-cent pieces.

Debbie felt she should say something to make the transaction official. “Satisfaction guaranteed or your money—” She thought better of what she was about to say and instead handed the kitten to Mrs. Bricker. “Bye, Socks,” she said. “Be a good kitten.”

Socks found himself cuddled, not squeezed, in the arms of the strange Mrs. Bricker while George said to his sister, “Look, if you're ever going to learn to make change, you've got to learn that fifty cents is a lot more than twenty cents.”

“Socks, did you hear what the girl said?” Mrs. Bricker stroked the tabby markings on the tiny head. “She said satisfaction guaranteed.” Socks's eyes were closing. He was worn out by all that had happened that morning.

“To us or to the kitten?” asked Mr. Bricker, as he lifted the bags of groceries over the tailgate of an old station wagon.

“To the kitten, of course.” Marilyn Bricker laughed affectionately. “I know you and your heart of Jell-O.”

T
he Brickers drove Socks to a shabby house with a weedy lawn, a fragrant lemon bush, and geraniums growing in earth comfortable for a kitten to dig in. They made a bed for Socks from a carton and an old sweatshirt and placed it in the laundry beside his dish. They did not object when he chose instead to sleep on the couch in the living room, which, except for a chair with
loopy upholstery, was furnished in what the Brickers described to their college-student friends as “contemporary cast-off.” They fed him canned and dry cat foods and bought raw meat for him. They wiped his paws on a good bath towel whenever he came in with wet feet, because they had not been married long enough to have an old bath towel, and when the winter rains came, they supplied him with a pan of Kitty Litter.

The Brickers talked to their cat. “Socks, you're getting a lot of service around here,” said Mr. Bricker, as he left his studies to get down on his hands and knees and retrieve the Ping-Pong ball Socks had batted under the chest of drawers out of reach of his paw.

“Such silky fur.” Mrs. Bricker spoke in her just-for-Socks voice as she left off typing to press her cheek against his coat and let her long hair fall over him like a curtain. Socks's throat throbbed with purrs. He was
especially happy when he could interrupt her work on the papers that she typed for students. Her typewriter was his rival for her attention, and Socks did not like rivals.

The only real unpleasantness in Socks's new life was an unhappy day spent in a veterinary's hospital, which was soon forgotten. Socks thrived. His eyes changed from blue to the color of new leaves. He grew into a sleek cat, affectionate toward his loving owners but firm about getting his own way. He was the center of the Bricker household, and he was content.

Then a strange thing happened. Mrs. Bricker's lap began to shrink. One day Socks was perfectly comfortable resting on her knees, and the next day he did not have quite enough room. Each time he napped on her lap, he had to curl himself into a tighter ball with his tail wrapped more closely around his body. Finally one
evening, when trying to find room to rest his chin, he lost his balance and fell to the floor with a thump. Both Brickers burst out laughing. Socks was insulted. He turned his back and twitched his tail back and forth across the carpet to show his displeasure.

“Poor Socks!” said Mrs. Bricker between giggles. “You lost your dignity, didn't you?”

“Come on, old boy!” coaxed Mr. Bricker. “Try my lap for size.” He moved his chair away from his desk to make room.

The tail twitched. The Brickers would have to work harder before Socks would forgive them. Owners must be disciplined. If they really wanted to be forgiven, they would have to tempt him with a snack from the refrigerator.

Instead of going to the kitchen, Mrs. Bricker suddenly said in an urgent voice, “Bill! It's time to go.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Bricker's voice registered excitement, worry, and joy all at once.

Socks waited. These people had to learn.

“I'm positive,” said Mrs. Bricker in a small, scared voice. “This is it.”

With great dignity Socks stalked to the one piece of furniture forbidden him: the chair with the loopy upholstery. He placed his forepaws on the chair, arched his back, and pulled.
Rip
,
rip, rip.
There.

The Brickers gave Socks attention, but not in the way that he expected. He found himself snatched up, carried down the hall, and tossed into the dark laundry beside his pan of Kitty Litter. The door shut after him. “Sorry, old boy,” said Mr. Bricker, as he gave the door an extra push to make sure it was latched.

After a moment of shocked silence, Socks let out a yowl of rage and waited for release. He could hear the Brickers talking in quick, anxious voices. He could hear the
whir-whir-whir
of the telephone dial, but he did not hear anyone coming down the hall to let him out.

Socks meowed his loudest, crossest meow. Footsteps hurried, the front door slammed, out on the driveway the old station wagon started, died, started again and drove away. The house was silent. So was
Socks. After months of catnip and kidney, of service and attention, to be treated like this!

 

In the days that followed, Mr. Bricker dumped food into Socks's dish early in the morning before he left the house and again at night after he returned, but in between Socks was alone. He waited on the windowsill, he slept, he honed his claws on the forbidden chair, although the sport was gone. The ringing of the telephone made him anxious when no one was home to answer. The buzzing of the doorbell frightened him, so that he hid under the bed, but he need not have bothered now. No one came to open the door. Socks lost interest in food. His Ping-Pong ball no longer amused him. Without love he was bewildered and dejected.

Then late one morning Socks was roused from a doze by the slam of the station-wagon door on the driveway and the sound
of the voices of both his owners. With glad meows he sprang from the couch. As soon as the door opened, Socks was outside, his forepaws against Mrs. Bricker's thigh, stretching up to be petted. A light breeze ruffled his fur, and spring sunshine drew the fragrance from the lemon blossoms. Life was good again.

“Did you miss me, Socks?” Mrs. Bricker stooped to rub the hollow behind his ears where his fur grew short and fine. “Were you lonesome without me?” she asked.

Socks's throat pulsated with purrs. He rubbed against her legs, back and forth, round and round, as she entered the house. He could not get enough petting to satisfy his pent-up loneliness.

“I missed you, too,” said Mrs. Bricker in such an understanding voice that Socks felt he must take advantage of her. With a hopeful meow, he started toward the kitchen,
paused, and looked back to encourage her to follow him to the refrigerator. Until that moment he had been so happy to see his family that he had not noticed the bundle in Mr. Bricker's arms.

Socks hesitated. Which was more important, a tidbit from the refrigerator or his right to investigate everything that came into the house? Curiosity won, and he turned back.

“See what we've brought,” said Mr. Bricker.

A smacking noise came from inside the bundle. Instantly Socks was alert. There was something alive in there. His spine prickled, and he paused to sniff cautiously.

Mrs. Bricker folded back the blanket, and Mr. Bricker leaned over so Socks could see. He saw a creature with a small, wrinkled, furless face, a sight that made his hair stand on end. His eyes grew large and he backed
away. Whatever the thing was, he did not trust it.

As Socks stared at the strange creature in the bundle and listened to it smack and snuffle, he began to understand. His owners, his faithful, loving owners, had brought home a new pet to threaten his position in the household. Socks turned his back and lashed his swollen tail. He was filled with jealousy and anger and a terrible anxiety. The Brickers might love the new pet more than they loved him.

“Poor Socks.” Mrs. Bricker stooped to smooth his fur, but Socks moved away from her hand.

An unhappy wail came from the bundle.

“Oh, dear! He can't be hungry already.” The worry in Mrs. Bricker's voice was a new sound to Socks.

“He sure can,” said Mr. Bricker, as he sat down on the couch with the wailing bundle on the lap that had always belonged to Socks. “Listen to him! You can tell he has a fine pair of lungs.”

Socks turned his back and began washing to pass the time until he made up his mind how to regain the lap from the new pet.

On her way to the kitchen, Mrs. Bricker spoke in her special voice, higher than her normal voice, that she always had used for her cat. “I'm hurrying,” she said. “I'll have your bottle in a minute.”

Socks paused in his washing with one paw behind his ear until he understood that this time she was not speaking to him, a slight that hurt him almost as much as the loss of the lap. He scrubbed his paw back and forth across his nose until he could contain his longing for reassurance no longer.

Alert and ready to run at the first sign of danger, Socks crept cautiously toward Mr. Bricker, who reached for the bottle his wife had brought from the kitchen and said, “Let me feed him. You sit down and rest.”

Mrs. Bricker sat down, but she did not rest. “Are you sure you know how to feed him?” she asked. Both parents spoke of the baby as “he,” as if he were a stranger whose
name they had not caught.

“Nothing to it.” Mr. Bricker offered the bottle to his son. Greedy smacks came from the bundle. “Hey, look at him go!” said the proud new father.

Socks took a chance. He leaped to the center of the couch, cautiously set one paw on Mr. Bricker's knee, leaned forward, and sniffed a sweet, milky fragrance.

“Careful, Socks,” warned Mr. Bricker. “You can look but don't come too close.”

Socks stared at the tiny wrinkled face with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and jealousy. He saw the baby open his eyes and raise one nightgown-covered fist as if he did not know it belonged to him. He saw the baby's head wobble and his eyes cross. Socks began to understand that the creature was not a pet but a new kind of person, a person so small that he left room on the lap for a cat. Very well. They would share the lap, but
this concession did not mean he liked the new person. Socks felt that half a lap was better than none.

Socks put a second paw on Mr. Bricker's knee, and with his eyes half-closed he began to knead and to purr.

“Ouch.” Both of Mr. Bricker's hands were occupied. “Take your claws out of my leg.”

Socks found himself lifted by Mrs. Bricker and set on the floor without so much as a kind word. He resumed his washing to show his owners that he had business of his own to take care of. Let them attend to theirs; he would attend to his. He groomed his tail with long, hard rasps of his pink tongue. The baby's smacking changed to fussing, another sound new to Socks. He hoisted his hind leg and went to work on his toes while he observed all that was going on. Beyond his hoisted leg he could see Mrs.
Bricker leaning anxiously over her baby.

“Maybe he needs to be burped,” she said.

Mr. Bricker held up the bottle. “You're right. He's taken two ounces.” He set the bottle on the table at the end of the couch, raised the baby to his shoulder, and began to pat its back. Still the baby fussed. Mr. Bricker patted harder.

Socks lowered his leg. There was plenty of room on the lap. No, better not risk reclaiming it so soon. He went on with his grooming, but he began to grow uneasy. He wanted the fretting to stop, the same way he always wanted the ringing of the telephone or the buzzing of the doorbell to be silenced.

“Try rubbing instead of patting,” suggested the anxious mother. The father rubbed. The fussing became a wail. Mr. Bricker rubbed the tiny back, and Mrs. Bricker patted. Socks became so anxious to have the crying stop that he no longer could
pay attention to his washing.

“Maybe we don't pat the right way,” said the mother.

“How else can you pat?” The father was beginning to see that there was more to feeding a baby than he had realized.