Mr. and Mrs. Otto Bentwood drew out their chairs simultaneously. As he sat down, Otto regarded the straw basket which held slices of French bread, an earthenware casserole filled with sautéed chicken livers, peeled and sliced tomatoes on an oval willowware platter Sophie had found in a Brooklyn Heights antique shop, and risotto Milanese in a green ceramic bowl. A strong light, somewhat softened by the stained glass of a Tiffany shade, fell upon this repast. A few feet away from the dining room table, an oblong of white, the reflection from a fluorescent tube over a stainless-steel sink, lay upon the floor in front of the entrance to the kitchen. The old sliding doors that had once separated the two first-floor rooms had long since been removed, so that by turning slightly the Bentwoods could glance down the length of their living room where, at this hour, a standing lamp with a shade like half a white sphere was always lit, and they could, if they chose, view the old cedar planks of the floor, a bookcase which held, among other volumes, the complete works of Goethe and two shelves of French poets, and the highly polished corner of a Victorian secretary.
Otto unfolded a large linen napkin with deliberation.
“The cat is back,” said Sophie.
“Are you surprised?” Otto asked. “What did you expect?”
Sophie looked beyond Otto’s shoulder at the glass door that opened onto a small wooden stoop, suspended above the back yard like a crow’s nest. The cat was rubbing its scruffy, half-starved body against the base of the door with soft insistence. Its gray fur, the gray of tree fungus, was faintly striped. Its head was massive, a pumpkin, jowled and unprincipled and grotesque.
“Stop watching it,” Otto said. “You shouldn’t have fed it in the first place.”
“I suppose.”
“We’ll have to call the A.S.P.C.A.”
“Poor thing.”
“It does very well for itself. All those cats do well.”
“Perhaps their survival depends on people like me.”
“These livers are good,” he said. “I don’t see that it matters whether they survive or not.”
The cat flung itself against the door.
“Ignore it,” Otto said. “Do you want all the wild cats in Brooklyn holding a food vigil on our porch? Think what they do to the garden! I saw one catch a bird the other day. They’re not pussycats, you know. They’re thugs.”
“Look how late the light stays now!”
“The days are getting longer. I hope the locals don’t start up with their goddamn bongos. Perhaps it will rain the way it did last spring.”
“Will you want coffee?”
“Tea. The rain locks them in.”
“The rain’s not on your side, Otto!”
He smiled. “Yes, it is.”
She did not smile at him. When she went to the kitchen, Otto quickly turned toward the door. The cat, at that instant, rammed its head against the glass. “Ugly bastard!” Otto muttered. The cat looked at him, then its eyes flicked away. The house felt powerfully solid to him; the sense of that solidity was like a hand placed firmly in the small of his back. Across the yard, past the cat’s agitated movements, he saw the rear windows of the houses on the slum street. Some windows had rags tacked across them, others, sheets of transparent plastic. From the sill of one, a blue blanket dangled. There was a long tear in the middle of it through which he could see the faded pink brick of the wall. The tattered end of the blanket just touched the top frame of a door which, as Otto was about to turn away, opened. A fat elderly woman in a bathrobe shouldered her way out into the yard and emptied a large paper sack over the ground. She stared down at the garbage for a moment, then shuffled back inside. Sophie returned with cups and saucers.
“I met Bullin on the street,” Otto said. “He told me two more houses have been sold over there.” He gestured toward the rear windows with his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cat leap as though he had offered it something.
“What happens to the people in them when the houses are bought? Where do they go? I always wonder about that.”
“I don’t know. Too many people everywhere.”
“Who bought the houses?”
“A brave pioneer from Wall Street. And the other, I think, a painter who got evicted from his loft on Lower Broadway.”
“It doesn’t take courage. It takes cash.”
“The rice is wonderful, Sophie.”
“Look! He’s curled up on that little ledge. How can he fit himself into such a small space?”
“They’re like snakes.”
“Otto, I’ll just give him a little milk. I know I shouldn’t have fed him in the first place. But he’s here now. We’ll be going out to Flynders in June. By the time we come home, he’ll have found someone else.”
“Why do you persist? It’s self-indulgence. Look! You don’t mind at all as long as you don’t have to see the cat looking starved. That goddamn woman just dumped her evening load of garbage over there. Why doesn’t the cat go there to eat?”
“I don’t care why I’m doing it,” Sophie said. “The point is that I can see it starving.”
“What time are we due at the Holsteins?”
“Nine-ish,” she said, on her way to the door with a saucer of milk. She reached up and inserted a small key in the lock, which had been placed on a crosspiece above the frame. Then she turned the brass handle.
At once the cat cried out, and began to lap up the milk. From other houses came the faint rattle of plates and pots, the mumble of television sets and radios—but the sheer multiplicity of noises made it difficult to identify individual ones.
The cat’s huge head hung over the little Meissen saucer. Sophie stooped and drew her hand along its back, which quivered beneath her fingers.
“Come back in and shut the door!” Otto complained. “It’s getting cold in here.”
A dog’s anguished yelp broke suddenly through the surface of the evening hum.
“My God!” exclaimed Otto. “What are they doing to that animal!”
“Catholics believe that animals have no souls,” Sophie said.
“Those people aren’t Catholics. What are you talking about! They all go to that Pentecostal iglesia up the street.”
The cat had begun to clean its whiskers. Sophie caressed its back again, drawing her fingers along until they met the sharp furry crook where the tail turned up. The cat’s back rose convulsively to press against her hand. She smiled, wondering how often, if ever before, the cat had felt a friendly human touch, and she was still smiling as the cat reared up on its hind legs, even as it struck at her with extended claws, smiling right up to that second when it sank its teeth into the back of her left hand and hung from her flesh so that she nearly fell forward, stunned and horrified, yet conscious enough of Otto’s presence to smother the cry that arose in her throat as she jerked her hand back from that circle of barbed wire. She pushed out with her other hand, and as the sweat broke out on her forehead, as her flesh crawled and tightened, she said, “No, no, stop that!” to the cat, as though it had done nothing more than beg for food, and in the midst of her pain and dismay she was astonished to hear how cool her voice was. Then, all at once, the claws released her and flew back as though to deliver another blow, but then the cat turned—it seemed in mid-air—and sprang from the porch, disappearing into the shadowed yard below.
“Sophie? What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m going to get the tea now.” She pushed the door closed and walked quickly to the kitchen, keeping her back turned to Otto. Her heart pounded. She tried to breathe deeply to subdue that noisy thud and she wondered fleetingly at the shame she felt—as though she’d been caught in some despicable act.
Standing at the kitchen sink, clenching her hands, she told herself it was nothing. A long scratch at the base of her thumb bled slowly, but blood gushed from the bite. She turned on the water. Her hands looked drained; the small frecklelike blotches which had begun to appear during the winter were livid. She leaned forward against the sink, wondering if she were going to faint. Then she washed her hands with yellow kitchen soap. She licked her skin, tasting soap and blood, then covered the bite with a scrap of paper toweling.
When she returned with the tea, Otto was looking through some legal papers bound in blue covers. He glanced up at her, and she looked back at him with apparent calm, then placed his tea in front of him with her right hand, keeping the other out of sight at her side. Still, he seemed faintly puzzled, as though he’d heard a sound he couldn’t identify. She forestalled any questions by asking him at once if he’d like some fruit. He said no, and the moment passed.
“You left the door open. You have to lock it, Sophie, or it just swings back.”
She closed the door again, securing it with the key. Through the glass, she saw the saucer. Already there were a few spots of soot in it. She’d given up cigarettes in the fall, but it didn’t seem much use. I can’t unlock the door again, she said to herself.
“It’s done,” Otto said. He sighed. “Done, at last.”
“What’s done?”
“Deaf Sophie. You really don’t listen to me any more. Charlie moved out today, to his new office. He didn’t even tell me until this morning that he’d actually found a place. He said he wanted the whole thing to be a clean break. ‘If I need the files, can I get in touch with you?’ That’s what he asked me. Even in such a question, he implies that I’m likely to be unreasonable.”
She sat down, keeping her left hand on her lap.
“You’ve never said much about any of it to me,” she said.
“There wasn’t much to say. In this last year we haven’t agreed on anything, not anything. If I said it was going to rain, Charlie would pull at his lower lip and say, no, it wasn’t going to rain. After reading the weather reports carefully, he judged it was going to be a fine clear day. I should have learned a long time ago that character doesn’t change. I made all the superficial adjustments I could.”
“You’ve been together such a long time. Why have you come to this now?”
“I don’t care for the new people he’s taken up with, the clients. I know what’s always gone on in the office. I’ve done the tiresome work while Charlie’s put on his funny hats and knocked everybody dead with personal charm. His whole act has consisted in denying the law is anything but an ironic joke, and that goes far with a lot of people.”
“It will be hard to see them. Don’t you think it will? Ruth and I’ve never been close friends, but we managed. How do you just stop seeing people? What about the boat?”
“You just stop, that’s how. The winter has been so bad. You can’t imagine the people in the waiting room, a beggar’s army. He told me today that some of his clients were intimidated by the grandeur of our office, that they’ll be more comfortable in his new place. Then he said I’d dry up and disappear if I didn’t, in his words, tune in on the world. God! You should hear him talk, as though he’d been sanctified! One of his clients accused the receptionist of being racist because she asked him to use an ashtray instead of grinding his cigarette butt out in the rug. And today, two men like comic-strip spies helped him pack his goddamn cartons. No, we won’t be seeing them and he can have the boat. I’ve never cared that much about it. Really, it’s just been a burden.”
Sophie winced as she felt a thrust of sharp pain. He frowned at her and she saw that he thought she hadn’t liked what he had said. She’d tell him now, might as well. The incident with the cat was silly. At a distance of half an hour, she wondered at the terror she’d felt, and the shame.
“The cat scratched me,” she said. He got up at once and walked around the table to her.
“Let me see.”
She held up her hand. It was hurting. He touched it delicately, and his face showed solicitude. It flashed through her mind that he was sympathetic because the cat had justified his warning against it.
“Did you wash it? Did you put something on it?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently, watching the blood seep through the paper, thinking to herself that if the bleeding would stop, that would be an end to it.
“Well, I’m sorry, darling. But it wasn’t a good idea to feed it.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Does it hurt?”
“A little. Like an insect bite.”
“Just take it easy for a while. Read the paper.”
He cleared the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher, scraped the remaining livers into a bowl and set the casserole to soak. As he went about his work, he caught glimpses of Sophie, sitting up very straight, the newspaper on her lap. He was curiously touched by her uncharacteristic immobility. She appeared to be listening for something, waiting.
Sophie sat in the living room and stared at the front page of the newspaper. Her hand had begun to throb. It was only her hand, she told herself, yet the rest of her body seemed involved in a way she couldn’t understand. It was as though she’d been vitally wounded.
Otto walked into the living room. “What are you going to wear?” he asked her cheerfully.
“That Pucci dress,” she said, “although I think I’ve put on too much weight for it.” She got up. “Otto, why did it bite me? I was petting it.”
“I thought you said it just scratched you.”
“Whatever it did…but why did it attack me so?” They walked to the staircase. The mahogany banister glowed in the soft buttery light of a Victorian bubble-glass globe which hung from the ceiling. She and Otto had worked for a week taking off the old black paint from the banister. It was the first thing they had done together after they had bought the house.
“Because it’s savage,” he said. “Because all it wanted from you was food.” He put his foot on the first step and said, as if to himself, “I’ll be better off by myself.”
“You’ve always had your own clients,” she said irritably, clenching and unclenching her hurt hand. “I don’t see why you couldn’t keep on together.”
“All that melodrama…I can’t live with that. And he couldn’t leave it alone. If I wasn’t with him, I was against him. I don’t mean to say there isn’t cause. I don’t mean to say there’s any kind of justice in the world. But I know Charlie. He’s using those people and their causes. He just doesn’t want to be left out. And I want to be left out. Oh…it was time it all ended. We’ve used each other up. The truth is, I don’t like him any more.”
“I wonder how he feels?”
“Like Paul Muni, defending the unlovely and unloved. There never were such lawyers. Do you remember? All those movies in the thirties? The young doctors and lawyers going to the sticks and edifying all the rubes?”
“Paul Muni! Charlie’s right,” she said. “You’re barely in the right century.”
“That’s true.”
“But Charlie is not bad!” she exclaimed.
“I didn’t say he was bad. He’s irresponsible and vain and hysterical. Bad hasn’t anything to do with it.”
“Irresponsible! What do you mean, irresponsible!”
“Shut up!” said Otto. He put his arms around her.
“Look out!” she said. “I’ll get blood on you!”