The Cat at the Wall (4 page)

Eight

—

I hissed
right into the boy’s face to try to get him to shut up.

He kept on going. He didn’t miss a word.

I jumped onto the top of his head and balanced there.

I could feel him wince from the pain but he didn’t stop. In fact, he started reciting louder.

“… everywhere life is full of heroism …”

And then he made it worse by starting to rock back and forth. I clung to the top of his head and howled.

“That’s one crazy cat,” Simcha said.

“It’s hurting the kid,” said Aaron. “Get it off him.”

“
You
get it off him.”

The boy’s hair was long, curly and matted down with sweat and dust. As Aaron grabbed hold of me to lift me off, my claws became tangled in the boy’s hair. Aaron held me up and Simcha had to put down his rifle to free my legs one at a time.

It was not very dignified, and I was not happy about it. I swatted out at them once they put me on the floor, but by then they had backed away. I pawed at the air like a fool and they laughed at me. I hate being laughed at. I scampered off to a corner to groom myself into feeling better.

“Is he bleeding? Are you bleeding, kid?” Aaron looked at the boy’s head. “I don’t think he’s bleeding.”

The kid rocked and recited.

“What’s he saying?” asked Simcha. “Is he saying prayers? It sounds like the prayers they say, you know, before they blow themselves up.”

“He’s not going to blow himself up. He doesn’t have a bomb on him. We searched him, remember?”

The two men stood over the boy while he rocked and whispered.

“My Arabic’s not great,” Aaron said. “I think he said Many fears come from being tired and lonely.”

“Why would he say that?”

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” Aaron said. “Look at the way he’s rocking. There’s a kid in my little brother’s class who does the same thing.”

Aaron knelt down and took off the boy’s blindfold.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” said Simcha.

“We’re supposed to treat the family well,” Aaron said. “This house isn’t under suspicion. We’re just borrowing it to watch the house that is.” He balled up the strip of cloth that had covered the boy’s eyes and tossed it on the floor.

“Hey, kid,” Aaron said gently. “Did the cat hurt you?”

The kid kept reciting the poem.

“Look how his eyes are unfocussed,” Aaron said.

“It’s a trick,” Simcha said.

“I don’t think so,” said Aaron. “The kid in my brother’s class was just like this.”

He stood up and took a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. He went around to the boy’s back and cut through the plastic handcuffs.

“If this goes bad, I’m not sticking up for you,” Simcha told him. He sat back down at the telescope. Aaron sat down with his rifle.

The boy scurried like a scorpion over to the ruins of the City of Dreams. He looked it over almost like he was a cat, peering at every piece, going from a bare spot that used to hold a cardboard building to the spot on the floor where the building had been tossed. It looked like he was drawing a map in his head of what needed doing and deciding how to bring it all together.

Then he scurried around the room, again like a scorpion that was dashing from one shady spot to the next. He gathered up all the parts of his trash city, then concentrated on putting everything back where it belonged.

When everything was placed in just the right spot, he started to make his repairs. One by one, he picked each little building up, straightened something here, refolded something there.

The City of Dreams had a lot of these tiny structures. Going through it would keep him busy for a while.

He seemed a lot happier. Well, who wouldn’t be, to have their blindfold and handcuffs taken off? All I cared about was that I didn’t have to hear that poem anymore.

“See anything sinister?” Aaron asked.

Simcha looked through the telescope. “I see an old woman in a rocking chair.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Rocking,” Simcha said. “And knitting.”

“Knitting?”

“Yeah. I never thought of them knitting. My mother knits. My grandmother, too.”

“My father knits,” Aaron said.

“Your father?”

“He was with ZAKA, the group that cleans up after a bombing. When I was a kid, before the wall got built, it seemed like every day there was a bomb going off somewhere. Dad went out at all hours to go pick up body parts off the street. After a while he couldn’t eat his soup without his hands shaking. My mom started him knitting to calm him down.”

“Did it work?”

“Yeah. He makes beautiful things.”

The two of them yakked on and on about knitting and favorite sweaters and a scarf one’s girlfriend knitted him when he went off to training camp in the Golan Heights. On and on it went, and I could not shut it out of my brain.

If I didn’t understand Hebrew, their conversation could have just been background noise that would have allowed me to slide into a lovely sleep. But instead, they got me thinking about the sweaters I used to have, the ones I liked and the ones I didn’t like, and how I had to learn to knit in Brownies but couldn’t do it. I made my mom do it for me so I could get the badge.

That got me thinking about piecing together quilts out of old clothes with my grandmother to give to the homeless people who slept on the floor of the church basement. That led me to thinking about the crafts table at the Christmas bazaar and how one lady always made these dolls with crocheted dresses and big skirts that draped over the spare roll of toilet paper in the bathroom.

And then I realized that I needed to go to the bathroom.

One of the perks of being a stray cat is that I can usually take care of that business anywhere I want. I generally look for a place that’s kind of sheltered but has a good vantage point so I can keep watch around me.

But now I was inside this little house.

I suppose I could have gone in a corner. I didn’t want to do something so personal in front of the soldiers. I knew they would just see me as a cat, but still.

I could have scratched at the door until they let me out. But I didn’t think they would let me back inside again.

And I wanted to hang around for a while.

Partly because sooner or later, someone would bring out more food.

Partly because I liked being inside again, surrounded by walls, safe and cozy. Outside, the morning was quiet so far, but the riots would probably start up again that afternoon. I was tired of trying to figure out which way they would go so that I could go the opposite way. Riots have a nasty habit of changing course, and tear gas gets carried on any old breeze.

But mostly it was because I was beginning to feel like the four of us were a family — a strange family, but not much stranger than a lot of other families out there.

And I missed being with a family.

So I didn’t want to leave the house.

That left the bathroom.

The door to the tiny bathroom was not latched. I gave it a push and it opened.

I was lucky that the toilet had no seat cover. I hopped right up on the seat, found my balance and got down to it.

“Well, will you look at this! Commander, come and see this cat!”

The two soldiers stood in the doorway and gaped at me.

“Who taught you to do that, Miss Kitty?” Aaron crooned.

Simcha complained about not having his cellphone to take a video.

And me?

I was caught in the middle of a very private moment, with nowhere to go and no way to hide.

I was caught by the soldiers the same way my sister Polly was caught by me and my crew after school one day. My parents weren’t home yet. We waited until she went into the john, then we pushed open the door and stood there and laughed at her.

I went back under the sofa as soon as I could.

I didn’t want anybody to see me.

Nine

—

I went
to the back of the sofa, against the wall, so I didn’t have to look at any of them. I could still hear them, though. The boy moved around the room, putting his cardboard city back together. The soldiers sat in their chairs by the window and talked about stupid pet tricks they’d seen on television.

The day moved slowly.

Every now and then I heard the footsteps of people going by. Once I heard a donkey. No one stopped outside the little house. No one knocked at the door.

“What’s this kid doing here all by himself?” Simcha asked. “Where are his parents? What’s wrong with these people?”

“His parents must have thought they’d be back soon,” Aaron said. “Maybe something went wrong.”

“Are you on their side, then?” Simcha asked. “I thought you were the one whose father cleaned up bodies after bombings.”

“Yeah, well, this kid didn’t do any bombings.”

“Not yet,” said Simcha.

“Do you think he’s hungry?” Aaron asked. “Kids are always hungry.”

At the mention of food, I moved to where I could watch Aaron search the little kitchen. He rattled the chickpeas and touched the sprouted onion. Then he went to his duffel bag and pulled out a pack of field rations.

“You’re going to feed him?” Simcha asked. “Take it out of your stash. Don’t expect me to share mine.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Aaron said, “but I’m giving yours to the cat.” And then he actually did snatch one of Simcha’s ready meals. He opened it up and put it on the floor.

I pushed my face right into the chicken stew before Simcha had a chance to leave the telescope and grab it away from me.

Aaron heated up a meal for the boy with the automatic heater in the pack, then did one for himself. The boy dived into his dinner like a fish returning to water.

Aaron put Simcha’s meal on the table. Before Simcha could get to it, I left mine and started eating his. I knew he wouldn’t want it after I’d been in it. That way I’d get two meals.

It worked. Simcha tried to pick me up to get me off the table but I made my body go like a rock. Simcha was stronger and bigger, but I relied on the condition that affects most humans — they don’t want to be cruel to animals.

“Stupid cat,” he said, and left me alone to stuff myself.

“Simcha,” said Aaron. “Your name means joy in Hebrew. Is that your real name or did you call yourself something else in California?

“It’s my real name.”

“Your parents are religious, then, to give you a Hebrew name.”

“My parents are hippies,” Simcha said. “I have a sister named Sunshine.”

“Are they in Israel, too?”

“They’re back in California. They run a surfing school for underprivileged kids. That’s why I came here, to open a surfing school of my own. There’s good surfing here. I’ll do my compulsory military service, then spend the rest of my life on the beach. You?”

“Fifth-generation Sabra,” Aaron said. “My ancestors escaped pogroms and planted orange groves in the desert.”

“Cool,” Simcha said.

“Yes, cool.”

Cool, I thought, wishing they’d shut up. A sister named Sunshine. I wondered if Simcha ever made fun of her when they were growing up. Probably.

My sister and I were named after saints. I was named after St. Clare, who started up some nuns way back in the dark ages. Clare’s not a bad name. Polly wasn’t so lucky. She was named after a guy named Polycarp who hung out with the apostle John. As soon as I heard that, I started calling her Fishface.

My parents weren’t religious but my mother’s mother was hardcore Catholic. She even moved to a Catholic Worker House after my grandfather died. I used to help her out in the soup kitchen there every weekend. Grandma was fun to be with, even though she gave away all her money and spent all her time with homeless people who didn’t dress very well.

“Serve with a joyful heart and the joy will come back to you, Clare-bear,” she was always saying to me.

She was joyful to all the people who came to eat there.

Right up until one of the druggies killed her for the five dollars she had in her pocket.

Being kind doesn’t lead to anything good.

The boy finished with his meal. He licked his tray clean. He took it over to the City of Dreams, got some scissors and tape off a shelf and started turning it into a new house for his city.

Aaron collected the rest of the trays, rinsed them off in the sink and gave them to the boy.

The boy reached into one of the turrets on the castle and brought out a bag of candies. He offered one to each soldier. Aaron took one. Simcha didn’t.

I butted my head against the boy’s leg. He handed Simcha’s candy to me. I took it in my teeth and stored it away under the sofa.

Another Thing that was Mine.

“What are we going to do with him?” Simcha asked. “What if his parents don’t show up and we have to leave? Do we take him with us?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron said. “I haven’t run into this before. When we’ve taken over a house with a family, we put everyone in the back room. The parents look after the kids. I guess we’d have to take him with us and turn him over to the unit commander. Make the kid
his
problem.”

“You look as though you don’t like that plan.”

“I don’t,” said Aaron. “I’ve seen full-blown riots form out of the blue on a calm sunny day. These people get some tiny bit of half-baked information and blow it all out of proportion without even bothering to find out if it’s true or not. Next thing you know, someone’s shouting, stones are flying, some idiot starts tossing Molotov cocktails, and people are getting hurt.”

Aaron thought for a moment, then picked up the radio.

“I’m going to call it in,” he said. “It’s one of those little things that could turn into a big thing. Let someone higher up make the decision about what to do with the boy.”

He turned the radio on. All he got was a bit of static. Then even that went quiet.

“Battery’s dead,” he said. “Get the spares, will you?”

Simcha looked around for the spare batteries. Then Aaron looked. They couldn’t find them because they were under the sofa where I had hidden them.

“I’m sure I packed them,” said Simcha. “Can we use the recorder batteries?”

“Wrong size,” Aaron said. He looked out the window. “It’s quiet out there now. Maybe we should just go.”

I could have handed the batteries over to them, but I didn’t want to. There were more ready-to-eat meals in the duffel bags. I wasn’t going to let the soldiers get away until I had another chance at a good meal.

I went to the door and plopped down in front of it, blocking their way out.

Nobody was going anywhere.