Authors: Laurie Halse Anderson
Homeless (2 page)
“We have to do something!” I cry.
“What?” asks David.
“I’ll get the hose!” Maggie says as she runs for the side of the house. “Water always stops a cat fight.”
The tuxedo cat bolts out of the bushes, with Socrates hot on her heels. She stops at the corner of the building and turns her claws on him. He pounces. They go at it again. Someone is going to get hurt!
“Hurry, Maggie!” Zoe calls.
I take a step toward the fighting cats.
“No, Sunita!” Brenna shouts as she grabs my shirt and pulls me back. “Don’t touch them. You’ll get hurt. He’s furious—if you try to stop him, he might bite or scratch you.”
She’s right. I’ve never seen Socrates like this before.
The two cats separate and try to stare each other down. I gasp at the sight of blood dripping from a bite on Socrates’ cheek. There’s a gash on his hind leg, too. The tuxedo cat won’t put her front right paw on the ground, and I can see where Socrates bit her shoulder. She turns sideways and Socrates prepares to pounce again.
“Stand back!” Maggie calls as she returns, dragging the hose behind her.
She presses the handle of the nozzle and sprays the angry cats. Both of them take off down the street like they were shot out of a cannon.
“Socrates!” I shout. “Come back!”
Socrates and the tuxedo cat disappear around the corner.
“We’ve got to follow them,” I say urgently. “They’re both bleeding.”
“I’ll come with you,” Maggie says, dropping the hose on the ground.
“Me too!” Brenna and David say together.
“I’ll stay and tell Gran what happened,” Zoe says. “Hurry, you guys!”
We run after the cats—first down the block, then around the corner and through a long alley. Maggie sprints ahead of the rest of us.
“I can see them,” she shouts. “This way.”
We race down another alley, then come out by the gas station at the intersection of Roosevelt Avenue and Dorset Street. Two cars are getting gassed up at the station, but there is no sign of any cats.
“Are you sure they came this way?” Brenna asks, scanning the block.
“Positive,” Maggie answers.
“Maybe they turned somewhere,” David suggests.
“You kids looking for something?” asks a man pumping gas.
“A cat,” Brenna answers. “Actually, two of them, one orange and one black. Have you seen them?”
“Just a minute ago,” the man says. “They ran across the street.”
I look at the others. “Let’s go.”
Directly across from the gas station is an old button factory, abandoned and locked up tight.
“Socrates couldn’t get inside,” Maggie points out as she scans the front of the building. “I bet he turned around and went home another way.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think he’s here.”
“Why?” David asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer, looking up and down the street for a sign of Socrates. “A hunch maybe, a feeling. Maybe he chased her back here. Let’s check around the back of the building.”
Behind the factory is a loading area totally overgrown with trees, bushes, and weeds. I bet this would look like heaven to a cat on the run.
“You guys, come look!” I shout.
They jog over.
“You could hide a hundred cats back here,” I say. “Socrates is in there, I’m sure of it. We need to look for him.”
“How are we supposed to get through all the bushes?” Brenna asks.
“I don’t know, Sunita,” Maggie says. “Even if he is in there, we’ll never find him.”
“Let’s see how far we can go,” I say, stepping into the weeds and pushing some branches out of my way. “Socrates! Here, kitty, kitty!”
“Hey, Soc! Here, Soc,” Maggie calls.
It’s slow going. We have to stay bent over because of the heavy vines and branches that pull at our hair and clothes. There better not be poison ivy in here.
“This place is a maze. We should leave a trail of gingerbread crumbs like Hansel and Gretel,” Brenna grumbles. “Remember, you guys are coming to my house for dinner tonight. My parents will flip out if we’re late.”
I almost trip over something on the ground. It looks like a piece of rusted machinery.
“Watch your step,” I warn. “Here, Socrates!”
“This is so cool!” David exclaims behind me. “It’s like a jungle back here. Makes me want to do my Tarzan yell.”
“Don’t!” we all say at the same time.
“OK, OK,” he says. “You guys are no fun. Wait—did you see that?”
A slim black tail slips through the wall of green a few steps ahead of us.
“It’s the tuxedo cat!” I cry. “Socrates must be close by. Follow that cat!”
We push through the undergrowth faster.
“Where did she go?” Brenna asks.
“I don’t know,” David answers. “She disappeared again. Wait a minute . . . what’s that?”
Up ahead, I see a broken-down, weathered red boxcar on rusted wheels.
“C’mon, the cats could be inside it,” I say.
We edge around the high bushes surrounding the boxcar. I stop. Ten feet of broken concrete stretches from the boxcar to the railroad tracks, and the clearing is covered with cats!
“Oh, my gosh!” Brenna whispers.
“Awesome,” Maggie declares.
“I don’t believe it,” David says quietly.
Neither do I. We crouch down in the weeds at the edge of the clearing. There must be thirty of them, chasing one another, sharpening their claws on the tree trunks, sunbathing, sleeping in overturned rusty barrels, scratching at fleas, and tiptoeing around broken glass. A few look sleek and powerful, but most are thin, flea-bitten, and in need of a good brushing.
A black-and-white kitten is batting at a beetle. A dirty white cat with blue eyes is trying to clean its tail. A gray cat with a crooked tail hops out of the open door of the boxcar, then pauses to lick its shoulder. There is no sign of Socrates or the black cat he was chasing.
“What is this place?” Brenna asks.
“Cat Land!” David says dramatically, gesturing with his arm toward the boxcar.
He’s right. Someone has written CAT LAND on the boxcar door.
“I don’t know who wrote that,” Maggie says, “but if you ask me, we’re looking at a colony of stray cats.”
As I slowly step out of the weeds, the cats turn their heads to look at me. A few of them at the edges of the clearing vanish into the underbrush. The rest of them ignore me and go back to what they were doing, except for two cats with black-and-white patches who bound toward me.
“Meeeroww!” they call loudly.
“Sounds like they’re hungry,” Maggie says.
“I wish I had some treats to give them,” I say, crouching down to pet the friendly cats. They tilt their heads back as I scratch under their chins. “You sure are sweet,” I murmur. “How did you get here? Where are your owners?”
“I don’t think they have any,” Brenna says.
I look at my friends. This is no place for cats to live. Cats need a warm house, with people who have warm laps. They need food, clean water, a litter box, and a scratching post they can shred to bits. A windowsill so they can watch the world passing outside. Most of all, cats need friendly owners who will pet them and groom them and make a fuss.
The cats here have nothing. I wish I could take them all home.
“We have to do something,” I say. “Tell Dr. Mac, or Captain Thompson at the shelter. We have to find Socrates, too.”
Suddenly, a loud horn sounds, startling us and sending the rest of the cats dashing into the tall weeds. The train to Philadelphia roars down the tracks toward us.
It’s so loud I can barely hear myself think. Brenna is trying to say something, but I can’t hear her. She stands there moving her mouth and gesturing with her hands while the train rushes by, sending dry leaves and dust swirling through the air.
“What?” I shout.
The last train car whooshes by, and it’s quiet again.
“Someone is coming,” Brenna repeats, pointing.
On the other side of the tracks is a block of small houses, each with a tiny yard surrounded by a low fence. A boy wearing a green backpack cautiously walks across one of the yards toward us. He’s followed by a little girl carefully carrying a plastic bowl that has water sloshing over the side. The boy looks like a third-grader. The girl is younger, first grade maybe, or kindergarten.
They unlatch the fence gate, walk through the opening, and latch it behind them. The boy pauses and carefully checks the track in both directions, then nods to the girl. They cross.
As they step into the clearing, the cats reappear like magic, pouring out of the weeds, the trees, and the boxcar to greet them, meowing loudly. Some even walk up boldly to the newcomers and rub against their ankles. These kids are regulars.
“Hi,” I say as I walk toward them. “Looks like your friends are happy to see you.”
The little girl’s eyes grow wide. The boy glares at me. I must have startled them.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demands.
Chapter Three
W
e’re looking for a lost cat named Socrates,” I say. “He’s big, kind of an orange color, and he has a little cut on his face and a big one on his leg. He was in a fight. Last time we saw him, he was chasing a black female with white paws and a big belly—a tuxedo cat. We really need to find him. He’s hurt.”
e’re looking for a lost cat named Socrates,” I say. “He’s big, kind of an orange color, and he has a little cut on his face and a big one on his leg. He was in a fight. Last time we saw him, he was chasing a black female with white paws and a big belly—a tuxedo cat. We really need to find him. He’s hurt.”
I stop as my stomach tightens. I’m afraid for Socrates. What if we can’t find him?
“He’s from the vet clinic,” David explains. “You know—Dr. Mac’s Place? We all work there.”
“You aren’t going to take the cats away?” the boy asks, his voice a little calmer now.
“No,” Brenna says. “We just want to find Socrates and go home.”
The boy walks over to the boxcar, keeping his eyes on us. He reaches in the open doorway and pulls two chipped ceramic bowls to the edge. Still watching us, he takes a small bag of cat food out of his backpack and empties it into the bowls. At the sound of food hitting the bowls, the cats run and leap into the boxcar to eat their meal.
The boy strokes the gray cat with the crooked tail. It looks like he is trying to make up his mind about something. He starts to speak, then stops. The little girl sets the water bowl on the ground and pets the cats that collect around it for a drink.
“The cats really like you,” I say.
He nods.
“My name’s Sunita,” I say. “If you like cats, then you understand why we’re worried. Socrates needs the veterinarian to look at his wounds. Can you help us find him?”
The boy hesitates for a moment. Then he looks me in the eye.
“All right. I’ll look for him. But if he’s back there”—he gestures toward the thick bushes that surround the clearing—“you’ll never find him, trust me. My name’s Jamie. Jamie Frazier.” He pauses to slap a flea on his arm. “Do you know how to take care of a cat that’s hurt?”
“Yes,” I say. “A little. Do you have a hurt cat?”
Jamie looks at the girl, as if he’s asking her permission for something. She nods her head slowly.
“Follow me,” he says. “I got to show you something.”
He leads us to an injured cat lying on a doll’s blanket behind one of the rusted barrels. The cat’s hind leg is swollen, and there’s blood on the fur.
“I saw him get hit by a car yesterday,” Jamie explains.
He pauses for a minute, like he’s seeing the accident again. It must have been awful.
“He won’t eat or drink anything. Don’t get too close!” he warns as I stretch out my hand to feel for the cat’s pulse. “He’s one of the wild cats. You can’t touch them, ever. They bite and scratch. The car knocked him out. I couldn’t have touched him if he was awake.”
“We have to get him to the clinic,” I say.
“I’ll call Gran,” Maggie says, getting to her feet. “My grandmother is the vet. She needs to come and get him. We can’t carry him back to the clinic, not in that shape.”
“You can use the phone in our house. Katie will take you.”
Katie takes Maggie’s hand.
“Back in a second,” Maggie calls as she and Katie cross the tracks and head for the Fraziers’ house.
“I don’t get it,” Brenna says. “Are these all your cats? What’s going on here?”
Jamie stands up and pulls his shoulders back with pride. “They aren’t really ours, but we take care of them,” he says.
“You feed them?” I ask.
Jamie nods. “We use our allowance money. Our parents won’t let us take them into the house, so we play with them out here. The tame ones, that is. The wild cats bite.”
“Look, Sunita,” Brenna interrupts. “We have to keep looking for Socrates. David and I will start knocking on doors to see if any of the neighbors have seen him. We’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes.”
“Good idea,” I reply.
As they leave, Jamie asks me to describe the tuxedo cat again.
“I’ve seen her. She’s around here all the time,” he says. “We call her Mittens.”
Before I can ask any more questions about Mittens, Maggie and Katie return, led by a short, angry woman wearing a smiley face T-shirt. The cats in the clearing scatter again, as they did when the train came through.
“Jamie Frazier, I told you to stay away from these cats,” the woman scolds. “And to keep your sister away from them, too. You know how dangerous they are.”
As she gets closer, I can see that she’s not angry, she’s afraid. She stops in front of us and stares at the injured cat as if it were a snake about to bite her. The look on her face kind of reminds me of my mother.
“Is Dr. Mac coming, Maggie?” I ask.
“Gran said she’d be here soon.” Maggie pauses, then speaks slowly and opens her eyes wide, like she’s trying to send me a message. “This is Mrs. Frazier, Jamie and Katie’s mother. Mrs. Frazier, this is my friend Sunita.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Frazier,” I say politely. “You have nice kids. They really care about animals.”
Other books
Guarding His Heart by Carolyn Spear
Sophie's Throughway by Jules Smith
Winter's Passage by Julie Kagawa
Dead Beautiful by Yvonne Woon
Beowulf by Rosemary Sutcliff
Move to Strike by Perri O'Shaughnessy
Wild Craving by Marisa Chenery
Kara by Scott J. Kramer
The Good People by Hannah Kent