The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Read online

  What did Gus think about Tipsy?

  He thumped the milk carton and says to Porky: “Whatcha got in the kennebecker?”

  “New invention for killin’ rats,” Porky says.

  Gus peeked in the box, and Tipsy sneezed right in his face. The old fella howled like a bridegroom. “She’s a dinger, ain’t she?” he says.

  He put her on the bar, and Tipsy staggered down the pine slab—the whole length. Weavin’ between the shot glasses and beer mugs, with that boozy black patch tippin’ over one eye, she sure was a funny sight!

  I says to Gus: “Want me to cut off her drinks, Boss?”

  Well, boy, Tipsy got to be the hit of the whole blame waterfront. She put on a reg’lar comic act in the bar. Give her a cigarette butt and she’d stalk it, grab it, throw it in the air, bat it a couple times, and then sit on it and play dumb, like she didn’t know where it was. I poured a lotta shots and pulled a lotta beer when Tipsy was around.

  Gus lived upstairs, and he let her sleep on his pillow nights. “The li’l dinger curls round my head like a coonskin cap,” he says in a boastin’ way, “and if she wants to go out, she bites my nose.”

  Tipsy went out, all right. She started gettin’ fat and lazy, and we all knowed it was kittens. Ding-swizzled if Gus didn’t start buyin’ her hamburger and providin’ a sandbox so she wouldn’t have to go out in the dirty alley.

  Did business fall off when Tipsy stopped putting on her act?

  Not on your life! Everybody was bettin’ how many kittens she’d have and what color. She got big as a barrel, and when she tried to walk you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Gus was gettin’ nervous. He had a box ready for the kittens to be born in, and he wouldn’t allow no jokes about how Tipsy looked.

  Then one day who should walk into the bar but the health inspector. He sees Tipsy and does a double take. Then he makes his speech about the ten-dollar fine.

  After he left I says to Gus: “What’ll you do?”

  “Hell, I’ll just pay the fine,” he says. “The li’l dinger is worth it.”

  Ten smackers! That was more’n a week’s wages if you was lucky enough to land a job.

  Next night, a rowdy bunch of sailors come into the bar from a cement carrier docked on Front Street. They was makin’ dirty remarks about Tipsy, and Gus was gettin’ mad. Finally one of them idiots tried to give her a snort of whiskey in an ashtray.

  Gus jumped over the bar like a wild man and grabbed the sailor. “You hell-pup!” he yells. “Get outa here before I knock you galley-west!”

  The other sailors started swingin’ and the reg’lar customers piled in. It was some shindy! Fists flyin’, heads crackin’, tables knocked over! Somebody musta swung a chair because fifty feet of stovepipe come tumblin’ down. Smoke and soot all over the place!

  Where was Tipsy during the fight?

  That’s what I’m gettin’ to. The bar cleared out in a hurry, and Gus and me stayed up all night, moppin’ up. When we finished, it was daylight, and Tipsy was gone!

  Gus was fit to be tied. We hunted in the cellar, the iceboxes, the garbage cans, most every place. I tramped around to all the stores, and Gus prowled around the waterfront. Couldn’t find hide or hair.

  “She’s gone,” Gus says, and he blows his nose hard. “The cement boat sailed last night. Them sailors musta stole her. Maybe drowned her.” You never seen a man so broke up.

  Things was pretty gloomy in the bar that night. The bets, they was all called off, and the place emptied out by ten o’clock. Next night, same thing. Customers bought one beer, maybe, and then vamoosed. Gus had no heart for anythin’.

  We was there alone in the bar, just him and me, not even talkin’, when we heard a little noise. Golly if it wasn’t a meow. Gus jumps up and yells: “It’s Tipsy! Where is she? She’s trapped someplace!”

  We listened hard. Yep, another meow. It come from the black hole in the wall where the stove pipe used to go, and you could see a kind of shadow movin’ in the hole. Then a black cat come out with a mouthful of somethin’ black, size of a mouse.

  “That ain’t Tipsy,” I says, but when she jumped down and staggered across the floor, it was Tipsy, all right.

  How did Gus react?

  He went crazy, boy. Yellin’ and jiggin’ and carryin’ on! Word got round the waterfront, and that night the cash register was ringin’ like nobody’s business.

  Tipsy got the kittens all cleaned up—two tigers and four black-and-white—and the whole family was squirmin’ around in a box on the bar when . . . guess who walks in!

  The health inspector.

  Nobody but! Gus took the violation ticket and grinned, sort of. He says: “What’ll this cost me, Inspector? Ten plunks?”

  “Seventy dollars,” the man says. “Ten for each animal on the premises. Payable at City Hall. You can expect a follow-up inspection within a few weeks.”

  “Seventy holy smackers!” I says to Gus, after. “Y’better drown ’em.”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” says Gus. “We’ll raffle ’em off and pick up enough plunks to pay the fine.”

  Well, the raffle tickets sold like hotcakes, but Gus wouldn’t let the kittens leave their mother yet. Too young. So the whole caboodle was crawlin’ in and out of spittoons when that doggone inspector showed up again.

  He counted tails and wrote up another seventy-dollar ticket.

  “Whaddaya drink, Inspector?” Gus says, with a wink at me. “I’ll buy one.”

  “Sorry. Regulations,” the inspector says. He kept shakin’ his foot. One of the tigers was tryin’ to crawl up his leg.

  Well, the little ones got to be seven weeks old—time to pull the winners out of a hat. It was Saturday night, and the place was crowded. Gus was kinda quiet. Looked like he was sorry to see Tipsy lose her brood.

  After the raffle he drops a bombshell. He says: “Drinks on the house, folks, till the booze runs out. The city’s gonna padlock the joint at midnight.”

  The customers, they raised a holy row. Nobody believed it.

  Gus says: “Funny thing, folks. Durin’ Prohibition I ran a speakeasy, and once up north I came close to killin’ a fella with a peavey, and nobody give a hoot-n-holler. Now I get me a little cat, and they’re liftin’ my license.”

  Porky was there, and he says: “Don’t be a dumfool, Gus. It ain’t worth it. Get rid of the cat.”

  “Nope,” Gus says. “Tipsy and me’ll get a shack up in the north woods, and we’ll get along jim-dandy. She’ll have a reg’lar hoodang in North Kennebeck. No alleys. No garbage cans. No scummy rats.”

  And that’s the last we ever seen of Gus and Tipsy.

  Did you ever hear about them after that?

  Can’t say we did. But a few years back, me and some buddies went fishin’ up north. Drove up in a big RV. Stopped in North Kennebeck to get grub for our camp. No shacks there anymore. No dirt roads. All condominiums and curbstones. Musta been a lotta cats in town because the store had about fifty kinds of catfood in them little cans. I asked around, if anybody every heard of an old fella called Gus. Nobody remembered him. Course, that was maybe forty years before. Time flies, don’t it?

  We ate some five-dollar sandwiches in a restaurant in North Kennebeck. Made me think back to the Depression—sandwiches for ten cents—big bowl o’ soup for a nickel. It was a nice restaurant, though—sort of a log cabin. Folks said it was there a long time. Changed hands once in a while but always kept the same name. It was called Tipsy’s Tavern.

  A Cat Named Conscience

  (The following interview with Miss A.J.T. was taped at the Gattville Senior Care Facility in October 1985, for the Oral History Project of Gattville Community College.)

  Don’t shout at me! I’m not deaf. I can’t see a blessed thing, but I can hear. You want to know how old I am? The newspaper said I’m a hundred, but I don’t know about that. The last birthday I remember, I was twenty-nine. Twenty-nine red roses came to the house in a long box. Expensive ones! Most likely a dollar a dozen. They came from
Chicago on the train, and the depot boy delivered them on his bicycle. Roses in December! Imagine that! . . . A whole boxcar of flowers came for Mister Freddie’s funeral, but that was in April.

  Push my wheelchair to the window, so I can feel the sun . . . . There! That’s better. You sound like a very young man. Are you from the newspaper?

  No, ma’am. I’m from the college.

  What? The college? What college? The newspaper took my picture. Are you going to take my picture? . . . Speak up! Everybody mumbles.

  No pictures, ma’am. We just want to record your recollections of Gattville in the early days—for the Oral History Project.

  Oral what? I don’t know anything about that. Are you going to write down what I say? I can tell you a heap of stories. I was a little girl when the granary exploded and burned down half the town. And one summer the circus came to town, and the lion got loose.

  What’s that noise? I hear something humming.

  Just the tape recorder, ma’am.

  What? I don’t know anything about that . . . . Do you know about the grasshoppers? When they came to Gattville, we could hear them humming before we could see them. A black cloud, they were, over the whole county. Chewed up the crops, trees, everything—even the washing on the line.

  Another time, the president came to Gattville. He made a speech from the back of the train . . . . Are you still there?

  Yes, ma’am. This is very interesting.

  The whole town, almost, went down to the depot and shouted, “Teddy! Teddy!” Biggest crowd I ever saw in Gattville, except for Mister Freddie’s funeral. Aunt Ulah went to the depot with a sign on a stick. GIVE WOMEN THE VOTE! On the other side of it said: CLOSE THE SALOONS! Aunt Ulah was a caution, she was.

  Where’s my cat? I want my cat. Look on the bed . . . . Look on the table. It’s not a real cat. They won’t let me have a real one, but I like a little furry critter on my lap. I talk to him and stroke him. He’s only got one eye, but I don’t care. They’re only buttons. Could you send me a shoe button? Then somebody could fix his eye.

  There were twelve gray pearl buttons on my gray kid shoes. My, they were pretty! I wore them to the funeral and ruined them—walking behind the coffin. It’s muddy in April. A cat went to the funeral, too. We had a heap of cats in Gattville. The general store had three. The granary always had seven or eight. Cousin Willie called our town Catville. Aunt Ulah said that wasn’t nice, but Uncle Bill laughed like anything.

  The bank had a cat, too. They kept boxes of old bank records in the cellar, and one winter the mice got in and messed them up. So they got a cat. Her name was Constance. Black with white feet and green eyes. Oh my! Those eyes! They made folks uncomfortable. Seemed like Constance knew what you were thinking, and she’d look at you reproachful-like. Uncle Bill called her Conscience. He said: “If a burglar tried to rob the bank, Conscience would give him that look, and he’d run like the dickens.” So then everybody called her Conscience.

  Listen! Do you hear blue jays? Reminds me of the funeral. Is there a tree out there? They like oak trees . . . .

  Excuse me, ma’am. What was the funeral you mentioned?

  Don’t shout at me! I’m not deaf . . . . The funeral? Why, it was Mister Freddie’s funeral. Don’t you know what happened to him? It was on the front page of the County Gazette. Everybody worshipped Mister Freddie. He was handsome as all get-out. Little moustache—wavy hair—blue eyes. He was just Freddie when he was growing up in Gattville. Then he got to be manager of the bank—with a private office and a clerk and a stenographer and all. So then folks started to call him Mister Freddie. Out of respect, you see. He wasn’t old. He was only forty when he died . . . . Are you still there?

  Yes, ma’am. You’re a good storyteller.

  The farmers would come into town to ask for a loan to buy seed, and Mister Freddie would make them feel real good, like they were doing the bank a big favor. The women were always taking him a batch of cookies or a jar of homemade jelly. He liked gooseberry. The young girls would go to the bank and get change for a nickel, just so Mister Freddie would smile at them.

  He was married, but he wasn’t happy. When he was away at college he married a widow. She was older. Folks in Gattville didn’t see much of her except on Sundays. She was sickly.

  Mister Freddie didn’t go to church, but everybody said he was a blessing from heaven. After the granary explosion he organized the volunteer fire brigade. And he got the town to get rid of the wooden sidewalks and put in brick ones. And he got them to put indoor plumbing in the school. When they tore down the old Cousin Johns in the schoolyard, Uncle Bill said they should call the new ones Cousin Freddies. Uncle Bill was a regular cutup.

  Listen to that old lady across the hall! She’s always hollering. Why do old folks make so much fuss? . . . What was I talking about?

  The funeral, ma’am.

  The funeral? . . . Oh, yes. Mister Freddie. He was a hard worker—worked six or seven days a week except when he went to Chicago. He had to work late every night because folks pestered him during banking hours. They’d walk into his private office and unload all their troubles. Gattville didn’t have a lawyer, but Mister Freddie knew about things like that, and he’d give them advice. Or maybe they were having trouble at home. Or maybe they couldn’t sleep nights. Mister Freddie would listen—so sympathetic, he was—and they’d walk out of the bank feeling a heap better. Folks said Mister Freddie did more good than the preacher and the doctor rolled into one. Nobody could understand it when he hanged himself.

  Listen! The nurse is coming. I can hear her shoes. They go squinch-squinch-squinch on the floor. My shoes never did that.

  Time for your pill, you sweet old thing! Hold out your hand . . . . Now pop it in your mouth. Here’s a glass of water . . . . I’ll be back when it’s time for your nap. Be a good girl. Don’t flirt with this nice young man.

  Hmmph! Did you hear what she called me? I’m not sweet and I’m not old. The silly madame! Squinch-squinch-squinch! I always had nice shoes. I had a pair of white kid with eighteen buttons and embroidery all the way up the side. They were for summer.

  Excuse me, ma’am. Did you say Mister Freddie took his own life?

  What? Yes, Matt was the one that found him. Matt was the clerk. Mister Freddie always got to the bank early and opened up, but when Matt got there on Saturday morning, the door was locked. That was odd, because it was going to be a busy day—payday at the mills. So Matt went around to the barn in back, to see if Mister Freddie’s horse and buggy had come in. And that’s when he found him—hanging there! It was terrible!

  Matt ran down the middle of Main Street hollering, “Help! Murder!” He ran right to the blacksmith’s shop. The smith was the constable, you see. They telegraphed the county courthouse, and the coroner came galloping into town on horseback. He had one of those new automobiles, but he said he didn’t trust it. The silly thing was always breaking down.

  The telephone operator rang up all the subscribers—there were nineteen telephones in Gattville—and everybody rushed out into the street. Folks couldn’t believe Mister Freddie would do such a thing. Nobody did a lick of work all day, seemed like. Except the saloon-keeper. Uncle Bill said the saloon was jam-packed.

  Old Joshua stayed up all night making a coffin; he was the carpenter. And Miss Tillie—she was the dressmaker—lined it with velvet. Poor Mister Freddie! They laid him out in the bank lobby. They couldn’t lay him out at home because of the circumstances.

  What were the circumstances?

  What? . . . Why, his wife went clean out of her head when they told her what happened. She was always sickly . . . . I want a drink of water. There’s a jug on the table . . . . What was I saying?

  About the funeral . . .

  The stationmaster took orders for flowers and telegraphed Chicago. You never saw so many flowers! The whole town went to the funeral. Except Mister Freddie’s wife, of course, and the nurse that had to sit with her. The stationmaster couldn’t go because of the tele
graph and the trains, but everybody else was there—even the men who hung around the saloon and the fat girl from the shack near the railroad tracks. All the women cried. The men got out their handkerchiefs, and there was so much nose blowing, nobody could hear the preacher. Miss Tillie fainted dead away.

  Then the men carried the coffin up the hill to the cemetery. I had to walk through deep mud in my new shoes and hold up my skirts all the way. The blue jays were squawking in a big oak tree, scolding something down on the ground. That’s when I saw Conscience, the bank cat, walking along with the procession. She was picking her way through the weeds on the side of the road, trying to keep her white feet clean, I guess.

  Where are my cough drops? Look on the table. My mouth gets dry when I talk. I talk to my cat mostly. Nobody comes to see me. My mother used to come and bring me chocolates, but she doesn’t come anymore.

  Did they find out why Mister Freddie committed suicide?

  What? Speak up! Don’t mumble! . . . The day after the funeral the bank opened again. Matt was dandied up in his Sunday best, looking like a high-muckety-muck. He thought he was going to be manager. I never liked Matt. He wore his hair flat on top. He thought he was such a swell!

  They sent a new manager from the main bank. He wore those pinch-nose eyeglasses like the president’s, and he had a painful look on his face as if they were hurting him all the time. The customers knew the bank would never be the same. No smiles! No joshing! A black cloud settled over the town, seemed like. Worse than the grasshoppers. And then old Pinch-nose started finding out things.

  I’m getting old. Where’s my shawl? Is it winter? I used to like winter, but it’s different now. I never hear sleigh bells anymore.

  Excuse me, ma’am. You were talking about the new bank manager. What did he discover?

  What? . . . Oh, there was a big hullabaloo! Some of the customers complained they were being charged for services. Mister Freddie had never charged them. Pinch-nose told them only big accounts get free services. Well! That started an awful row! They were the biggest accounts in town—the hotel, sawmills, granary, and all like that. Uncle Bill said he knew something was bunco. He did the bookkeeping for the hotel, and they had a big sum on deposit. Pinch-nose said the balance was only half that amount!