Socks (3 page)

Socks took a chance and leaped up to fill the lap, which was going to waste.

Mrs. Bricker promptly returned him to the floor. Socks was deeply hurt. Filled with sorrow and longing, he lay down on the carpet with his chin on his white forepaw and stared into the black and empty fireplace. He yearned to be held and stroked and reassured. He longed to have his master hold him and play with his tail, and Socks was most particular about allowing people to play with his tail. With a deep sigh, Socks closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. His ears, moving like tiny radar screens, picked up every sound.

“What are we going to do?” Mrs. Bricker sounded almost tearful. “If we don't get the air bubble up, his stomach will go on hurting, and he's too little to hurt.”

“Feeding a baby can't be this hard.” The father no longer sounded confident. “The world is full of dumbbells who feed babies.
How else do babies survive?”

“Try putting him face down across your knees,” suggested Mrs. Bricker. “I saw somebody do that once.”

The radar ears caught the soft sounds of the baby being moved, followed by gentle patting. “Try rubbing,” suggested the hovering mother again.

Suddenly the baby belched. Startled, Socks raised his head and stared. The whole family was relieved: the baby, the mother, and the father, who were beaming at the miraculous thing their baby had done. Socks was relieved, too, because at last the crying had stopped.

“Charles William!” Mrs. Bricker spoke to her accomplished son by name. “Ooh, such a big noise from such a little fellow!”

“Attaboy!” Mr. Bricker congratulated his son. “That's the old fight!”

The atmosphere of the room had changed
from one of anxiety to one of joy, which Socks felt was his to share. This time he stood at Mr. Bricker's feet and looked up uncertainly as if to say, “I'm part of the family, too.” The Brickers were too busy to notice.

“Why, Charles William is asleep already,” whispered Mrs. Bricker, as she bent over her son. “Here, let me take him. I'll put him down in his crib.”

Now,
thought Socks. Now with the new person out of the room, he would regain the lap. Before he could jump, however, Mr. Bricker picked up the bottle, which still held several ounces of the baby's formula, and started toward the kitchen. Socks got there first and sat down beside the refrigerator. See how patiently I am waiting beside our refrigerator, his attitude seemed to say.

Mr. Bricker unscrewed the top from the bottle. “Socks, it isn't time for you to eat,” he said, and was about to dump the formula
into the sink when Socks uttered such a wistful meow that he changed his mind. Mr. Bricker found a bowl, poured the formula into it, and carried it into the laundry where his feet crunched through the Kitty Litter that Socks had scattered the night before. He set the bowl on the newspaper beside Socks's dish. Socks crouched and began to lap the sweet-smelling milk with his quick pink tongue.

“Did you think we had forgotten you?” asked Mr. Bricker.

Although Socks did not care to be interrupted while eating, this time he made an exception and gave his master a long stare that said, “How could you bring that new person into our house? Now you have spoiled everything.”

Sad and confused, Socks went back to lapping up the formula in the bowl. The warmth and sweetness of the milk comforted him. He lapped every drop and then licked the empty dish so hard that he moved it across the newspaper until it bumped the wall. Socks needed every drop of consolation he could get. His owners loved the baby more than they loved him.

T
he arrival of Charles William upset the order of Socks's life. Meals were no longer served on time. Laps were always occupied. Lights were turned on in the night. The washing machine swished and the dryer hummed at odd hours. The house was filled with lint from new diapers, which tickled his nose. The Brickers' friends, who once had admired Socks, now came to admire the baby. Tiffy, the little girl next
door who loved babies and who also liked to pick up cats, usually around the middle, came to watch Charles William's bath almost every morning. Socks spent a lot of time sneezing among the fluffs of dust under the bed in the front bedroom, where Tiffy could not get at him.

The one comfort in Socks's life was leftover formula, sometimes a few drops and sometimes an ounce or two, which was poured into his bowl after the baby was fed. Socks began to wait for the sound of Charles William smacking at his bottle.

That baby! His cries grew louder and his smacks greedier. His neck became strong enough to support his head. His eyes stopped crossing. He made the exciting discovery that his hands belonged to him, and he waved them happily. He kicked his feet and said, “Ug-gug-gug.”

“He's a big boy. Yes, he is!” cried Mrs.
Bricker in the voice that used to belong to her cat.

Socks, on the other hand, grew lazy. Instead of chasing his Ping-Pong ball across the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom, where Mr. Bricker would have to reach for it, he now patted it with a curved paw and let it roll off by itself. When the mailman brought Charles William another present, Socks examined the wrapping paper, but he no longer bothered to hide under it or to play with the ribbon.

One Sunday afternoon Socks, comfortably full of warm formula, was dozing in a patch of sunshine on the living room carpet when another set of visitors arrived to see the baby. They were Charles William's Uncle Walter, Aunt Cassie, and eight-year-old cousin Mike, who was carrying a package wrapped in paper printed with blue rabbits. Socks remembered these people. Aunt
Cassie's lap was narrow and hard. Uncle Walter enjoyed rumpling a cat's fur so that the cat had to lick and lick and lick to get himself in order. Mike teased. This afternoon, however, Socks felt too comfortable and drowsy to flee.

The first thing Uncle Walter did upon entering the house was to take off his hat, which he wore to cover his bald head, and shy it across the room so that it landed on Socks. “Hi ya, Socks, old boy,” said Uncle Walter. Then he added to Mr. Bricker, his brother-in-law, “I see you're still keeping that cat.”

Socks glared from under the brim of the hat, but he did not budge.

Mrs. Bricker proudly carried Charles William into the living room to show him to her brother's family. She had dressed him in one of the many little knit suits that the mailman had brought, and his rosy feet were bare.

Charles William took one look at Uncle
Walter and screamed. Socks came out from under the hat with a start and retreated under a chair. He recognized fear when he heard it and accepted the scream as a warning of danger. If Charles William was in danger, so was he. Maybe Charles William was of some use after all.

Mrs. Bricker also recognized the cry of
fear. She sat down on the couch and held Charles William close. “Did something frighten the baby?” she asked tenderly. “It's all right. Nothing's going to hurt the baby.”

Charles William hid his face in his mother's neck and sobbed.

“Maybe a pin is sticking him,” suggested Uncle Walter.

Charles William, braver when his mother held him close, stole a look at the visitors, shrieked again, and shivering with sobs, hid his face. Socks peered from under the chair. Everyone was seated, and although the Brickers were concerned, no one appeared frightened.

“Oh, it's just Walter's bald head,” said Aunt Cassie matter-of-factly. “All babies are frightened the first time they see a bald head.”

“What am I supposed to do?” asked Uncle Walter. “Take off my head and carry it under my arm?”

Aunt Cassie, not a woman for baby talk, took hold of Charles William's hand. “Charles William, you are a fine healthy boy,” she said, and turned to her son. “Mike, say hello to your new cousin.”

“Hi, Chuckie,” said Mike, who plainly thought babies boring. Visiting relatives was boring, too, and a waste of a good afternoon. He set the package on the couch as if he were glad to be rid of it and flopped back into a chair.

Charles William took his face out of his mother's neck, looked at Uncle Walter, and howled again.

“For goodness' sake, Walter, put on your hat,” said Aunt Cassie. “Nobody cares if you wear it in the house, and you can't expect a baby to understand the whole world all at once.”

Uncle Walter picked up his hat from the carpet and did as he was told. Charles
William's sobs ceased.

With the danger, whatever it was, out of the way, Socks turned a wary eye on Mike, who was slumped in a chair staring at the ceiling. The boy looked harmless enough, but Socks did not trust him for a minute. As he watched, his ears picked up the faint threatening wail of another cat, the sort of wail that leads to fighting with fangs and claws. The wail grew louder. Where could the cat be? Socks looked anxiously around the room, half expecting to see the old black cat that sometimes prowled across the backyard. The sound was all the more frightening because Socks could not find the creature who was making it.

“Mike, stop that noise,” said Aunt Cassie. “You'll frighten Charles William. And stop slouching.”

The cat wail stopped, but Socks continued to keep an eye out for the enemy. He
also watched Mike, who remained slumped in the chair, bored with the opening of the gift, bored with all the exclamations over the brown corduroy bear that his mother had bought at a church bazaar.

The small bear caught Socks's attention, and he did not find it boring at all. The bear was going to make a good sparring partner, and Socks could not wait to get at it.

“All babies love soft bears, and I knew you had enough clothes by now,” said Aunt Cassie, who was holding Charles William on her lap. “Have you started him on egg yolk yet?”

Socks looked longingly at the bear, which Mrs. Bricker was holding on her lap as if she needed something to take the place of Charles William.

“Say, Bill,” said Uncle Walter to Mr. Bricker, “have you thought about buying the kid an encyclopedia? Now's a good time. The price goes up the first of the year.”

Mr. Bricker tried to swallow a yawn. He had given Charles William his bottle at two o'clock that morning, and getting the air bubble out of him had taken longer than usual.

Mike was bored with the egg-yolk discussion. He was bored with his father, sitting there under his hat, trying to sell a set of encyclopedia. He stared thoughtfully at Socks, who was still watching the bear from under the chair. Then, looking innocently in another direction, Mike parted his lips and began to pant in short, quick pants like a dog.

The pupils of Socks's golden-green eyes grew large and black. A dog in the house? Where?

The enemy cat returned with a threatening wail. The dog panted. Socks was terrified. He was surrounded by invisible enemies. Wild-eyed, he darted from under the chair to the center of the rug.

Panting harder, the invisible dog seemed to be coming closer.

“Say, hasn't that cat put on a lot of weight?” asked Uncle Walter, who had been forced to admit that Charles William would not be ready to read for a few years, and by then the encyclopedia might be out of date.

“You know,” said Aunt Cassie, who was letting Charles William clutch her finger, “overweight animals are subject to heart trouble the same as overweight people.” Her voice then shifted to a higher note. “Does the baby see the kitty? Look at the fat kitty.”

“You're right. He
is
gaining weight.” Mrs. Bricker sounded surprised, as if she had not taken time to look at her cat lately.

Charles William, turning his head in the direction of the cat-fight sound, looked worried. Socks decided to risk the run to the safety of the bedroom, but Uncle Walter reached out and caught him as he tried to go by. Socks struggled. Uncle Walter would not let him go.

“Mike, I told you to stop that!” said Aunt Cassie, and continued with her discussion of Socks's weight problem. “That cat should be put on a diet before it's too late. Our poor old Lassie is much healthier now that we
have her on a salt-free, low-cholesterol diet.”

“The dog gets chicken breasts; we get hamburgers,” said Uncle Walter, amusing himself by rumpling the cat's fur.

“I buy chicken breasts on sale and freeze them.” Aunt Cassie had an answer for everything.

Socks endured the rumpling the best he could, but the minute the big hands released him, he crouched close to the floor and glared in pure hatred at Uncle Walter. Then, looking anxiously from right to left and back again, he fled from the living room to his hideaway under the bed. There he remained among the dust fluffs, sneezing occasionally and trying to put his fur in order in a space so low that he could not sit up. Everything was wrong. He hated Uncle Walter and distrusted Mike. Aunt Cassie did not admire him. Worn out by the events of the afternoon and with his fur in disarray,
Socks fell asleep. Things were sure to be better at suppertime.

Even though Socks slept, his radar ears told him what was going on. The visitors departed. Charles William took his bottle. When the ears relayed the second burp to Socks's brain, he came out from under the bed and, trailing dust from his whiskers, ran down the hall to the kitchen in time to meet Mr. Bricker with the formula bottle.

“Sorry, Socks,” said Mr. Bricker, unscrewing the cap. “Cassie is right. You're too fat.”

Socks looked up and meowed to tell his master how hungry he was and how much in need of comfort after a terrible afternoon.

“Beat it.” Mr. Bricker's words were rude, but his voice was kindly. “We can't have any fat cats around this house. We keep fit around here.”

Mrs. Bricker entered the kitchen to prepare supper. “I'm going to watch my diet,
too,” she said, as her husband dumped Socks's share of the warm milk down the drain. “And I'm going to start exercising. I still can't zip all my slacks.” She raised her arms and bent to touch her toes.

Socks was outraged. What was the matter with these people? He was supposed to have formula now. He always had formula after Charles William. These people could not treat him this way. He placed his front paws on Mr. Bricker's leg and meowed to let his feelings be known.

“Sorry.” Mr. Bricker had made up his mind to start Socks on a program of physical fitness.

“One, two, one, two.” Mrs. Bricker continued to touch her toes.

Socks unsheathed his claws the least bit and let them prick Mr. Bricker's leg.

“Ouch. Cut that out.” Mr. Bricker unhooked the claws and walked out of the
kitchen, leaving Socks to sulk beside the refrigerator while Mrs. Bricker, out of breath from her exercise, prepared the evening meal.

“All right, Socks,” she finally said, after she had tripped over him twice and stepped on his tail, “I'll feed you now and get you out of the way.” She laid four pieces of kidney instead of eight on the dish in the laundry room. Socks gulped them down and looked up as if to say, “Where's the rest of my meal?” Four pieces of meat would not get him out of the way when he was used to eight.

“Silly cat,” said Mrs. Bricker with affection. “You and I are going to lose weight.” Socks sat down beside the refrigerator and gave his whiskers a quick swipe with his paw while he thought the problem over.

When Charles William fussed in the back bedroom, and Mrs. Bricker hurried off to attend to him, Socks saw his chance. He sprang to the counter where he was disappointed to discover that the Brickers were
having wieners for supper. Too hungry to be choosy, he sank his teeth into a link and thumped to the floor.