Cat may be on Tom’s side, but whether Pop is on Cat’s side is something
else again. I worry about this all the time we’re planning the vacation.
Suppose the motel won’t take cats? Or suppose he runs away in the country?
If he messes up the vacation in any way, I know Pop’ll say to get rid of
him.
I practice putting Cat back in the wicker hamper to see if I can keep him
in that sometimes, but he meows like crazy. That’d drive Pop nuts in the
car, and it certainly wouldn’t hide him from any motel-keeper. So I just
sit back and hope for the best, but I got a nasty feeling in the bottom of
my stomach that something’s going to go haywire.
Pop’s pretty snappish anyway. He’s working late nearly every night,
getting stuff cleared up before vacation. He doesn’t want any extra
problems, especially not Cat problems. Mom’s been having asthma a good
deal lately, and we’re all pretty jumpy. It’s always like this at the end
of the summer.
Tuesday night when he gets home, I ask Pop what’s happened about Tom.
“We’ll work something out,” he says, which isn’t what you’d call a big
explanation.
“You think he can get back into college?”
“I don’t know. The Youth Board is going to work on it. They’re arranging
for him to make up the midyear exams he missed, so he can get credit for
that semester. Then he can probably start making up the second semester at
night school if he has a job.
“Apparently the Youth Board knew his father had skipped—they’ve been
trying to trace him. I don’t think it’ll do any good if they find him. Tom
had better just cross him off and figure his own life for himself.”
You know, I see “bad guys” in television and stuff, but with the people I
really know I always lump the parents on one team and the kids on the
other. Now here’s my pop calmly figuring a kid better chalk off his father
as a bad lot and go it alone. If your father died, I suppose you could
face up to it eventually, but having him just fade out on you, not care
what you did—that’d be worse.
While I’m doing all this hard thinking, Pop has gone back to reading the
paper. I notice the column of want ads on the back, and all of a sudden my
mind clicks on Tom and jobs.
“Hey, Pop! You know the florist on the corner, Palumbo, where you always
get Mom the plant on Mother’s Day? I went in there a couple of weeks ago,
because he had a sign up, ‘Helper Wanted.’ I thought maybe it was
deliveries and stuff that I could do after school. But he said he needed a
full-time man. I’m pretty sure the sign’s still up.”
“Palumbo, huhn?” Pop takes off his glasses and scratches his head with
them. He looks at his watch and sighs. “They still open?”
They are, and Pop goes right down to see the guy. He knows him fairly well
anyway—there’s Mother’s Day, and Easter, and also the shop is the polling
place for our district, so Pop’s in there every Election Day. He always
buys some little bunch of flowers Election Day because he figures the guy
ought to get some business having his shop all messed up for the day.
Dad comes back and goes over to the desk and scratches off a fast note. He
says, “Here. Address it to Tom and go mail it right away. Palumbo says
he’ll try him out at least. Tom can come over Thursday night and I’ll take
him in.”
Tom comes home with Pop Thursday about nine o’clock. They both look pretty
good. Mom has cold supper waiting, finishing off the icebox before we go
away, so we all sit down to eat.
“Tom’s all set, at least for a start,” Dad says. “He’s going to start
Tuesday, right after Labor Day. Palumbo can use him on odd jobs and
deliveries, especially over the Jewish holidays, and then if he can learn
the business, he’ll keep him on.”
“Never thought I’d go in for flower-arranging.” Tom grins. “But it might
be fun. I’m pretty fair at any kind of handiwork.”
Remembering how quick he unlocked the padlock to get Cat out in the
cellar, I agree.
He starts for his room after supper, and we all say “good luck,” “have a
good time,” and stuff. Things are really looking up.
I get up early the next morning and help Mom button up around the house
and get the car loaded before Pop gets home in the afternoon. He hoped to
get off early, and I’ve been pacing around snapping my fingers for a
couple of hours when he finally arrives about six o’clock. It’s a hot day
again.
I don’t say anything about Cat. I just dive in the back seat and put him
behind a suitcase and hope he’ll behave. Pop doesn’t seem to notice him.
Anyway he doesn’t say anything.
It’s mighty hot, and traffic is thick, with everyone pouring out of the
city. But at least we’re moving along, until we get out on the Hutchinson
River Parkway, where some dope has to run out of gas.
All three lanes of traffic are stopped. We sit in the sun. Pop looks
around, hunting for something to get sore about, and sees the back windows
are closed. He roars, “Crying out loud, can’t we get some air, at least?
Open those windows!”
I open them and try to keep my hand over Cat, but if you try to hold him
really, it makes him restless. For the moment he’s sitting quiet, looking
disgusted.
We sit for about ten minutes, and Pop turns off the motor. You can
practically hear us sweating in the silence. Engines turn on ahead of us,
and there seems to be some sign of hope. I stick my head out the window to
see if things are moving. Something furry tickles my ear, and it takes me
a second to register.
Then I grab, but too late. There is Cat, out on the parkway between the
lanes of cars, trying to figure which way to run.
“Pop!” I yell. “Hold it! Cat’s got out!”
You know what my pop does? He laughs.
“Hold it, my eyeball!” he says. “I’ve been holding it for half an hour.
I’d get murdered if I tried to stop now. Besides, I don’t want to chase
that cat every day of my vacation.”
I don’t even stop to think. I just open the car door and jump. The car’s
only barely moving. I can see Cat on the grass at the edge of the parkway.
The cars in the next lane blast their horns, but I slip through and grab
Cat.