"What for?"
"So I can draw your picture with my pigtail brushes, silly. I want to practice on your dimple."
Marcus smirked and said, "How about if I tape together two sheets of notebook paper?"
Kelly pouted, but only for a moment, then said, "Okay!"
That was last year, second grade, and Marcus still had the picture she'd made. He also had--he was certain of this--faint red marks on his bottom from his mother's bare hands. Mrs. McFarland had called that night, while Marcus was working on a model rocket that he was sure could transport a cockroach to the top floor of the bank where Mr. Grather worked. All the kids wanted to do something to get back at Mr. Grather, ever since he'd had the playground torn down and turned into an old people's walking park with tennis courts and a garden. Grather Grassy Knoll, it was named. Marcus had asked his mother what a knoll was, and she'd said, "Look it up," as usual, but Marcus loved the game. He found out a knoll was a small, rounded hill. It could also be called a hilloc, which he thought was a funny word and made sure to use it every day for the next week. "Mom, I want to have a picnic on that hilloc," or "Hey, everybody, let's go play on Punk Wizard's hilloc after school!"
Punk Wizard was two years older than Marcus, but still called him The Great as long as Marcus got all the kids to call him Punk Wizard. Some kids didn't even know that Punk's real name was Randal Matthias Rosenlieber. Punk had the permanent high score at the bowling alley's Cowboy Shoot game. That's the one where you're a cowboy and you point a huge plastic gun at targets that pop up and when you pull the trigger you either hit or miss. To reload, you have to pump your gun down then up once. The reason Punk's high score was permanent was because, for one thing, it was very high and probably unbeatable. Also, almost no one played Cowboy Shoot anymore. And, finally, Punk had taken apart the back of the machine and somehow fixed it so that all the remaining games' target values would be one-third what his was. Wild Bill Hickock couldn't have beat him.
It was Punk who mentioned the cat to Marcus.
"It ain't gonna make it, Marc old boy," said Punk. Punk was the only person on the planet who could get away with calling Marcus "Marc". This was not--as most grown ups assumed--because Punk, besides owning the permanent Cowboy Shoot high score, could bloody any kid's nose in the current and surrounding neighborhoods, even the older kids. No, it was because one day he and Marc and Joanie Slawson were playing Kick the Bear (the only fun game that can be played with just three people, and also requires a girl) when Punk's mother hollered at them to be more quiet, please, she was watching The Thin Man. Punk immediately stopped being the bear, walked to his closet, pulled out a top hat and walking stick, put them on and said, "Ms. Slawson, it is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. Marc old boy, where have you been hiding this gem?"
Marcus and Joanie stared, then laughed, then tried not to laugh because they didn't want Mrs. Rosenlieber to come in and make them leave before she fed them butterscotch cookies. Punk twirled the cane once, satisfied at his accomplishment of startling them with his high acting ability, then put cap and cane back into the closet, went to all fours and emitted a humble, "Grrr. Hungry bear." Joanie and Marcus raced forward with their requisite scarves with which they tried to "kick" the bear.
"What do you mean," asked Marcus. "They feed it, right?"
"Sure, sure. Milk and honey and lamb meat every day, if you believe Mr. Hudson, but Judy Miller says it's just dry cat food. Feedin' ain't the problem, Marc. The cat's got magical powers, and nobody but me has any notion of that fact."
"Uh huh. Magical powers. Punk, I'm the only magician in this town and don't you forget it. Who got Filipia Carlson to give you a kiss under the basketball hoop last winter? Hmm?"
"You did."
"And, who organized the biggest boycot of cornbread with jalapeño peppers this nation has ever seen, leading to the serving of only regular or honey cornbread in all school cafeterias throughout the county?"
"You did."
"May I query, Mr. Wizard, who kept a certain incident pertaining to a white dress shirt with French cuffs colliding with a bottle of grape juice from becoming family knowledge...."
"Okay, okay," said Punk, a little nervously. Marcus had never told him what became of the shirt. Part of "The Great's" powers came from his holding items such as this in reserve until an occasion demanded their resurrection.
"Good. So. What magic do you imagine this flea-bitten kitten to possess?"
Punk looked at Marcus steadily. "Say what you want. Tie my tongue with barbed wire. But I've seen it with my own eyes. The cat can walk through its cage."
"You mean it can walk inside its cage?"
"No! A worm could do that, if it had legs. I mean it can walk through the bars."
Marcus took a deep breath. "You mean it can slip through--"
"Marcus, my lad, you are a few seconds from making a great mistake in your Great career."
Marcus was quiet. He'd seen what happened to noses whose owners felt they could continue bantering Punk Wizard.
"I have seen this cat step at a leisurely pace up to bars that a boneless bat couldn't squish between and, without breaking stride, continue past. Invariably, the cat is interested in food that it could not otherwise reach. On Thursday, it was a cricket."
"I see," said Marcus. "Of course, I'd like to witness this phantom act, but as you have seen it yourself, I don't get your main point. Why won't the cat make it?"
"Markdown's coming."
"Ah."
They were both quiet a few seconds.
"It's happening next Saturday. All animals that've been there more than three months."
Marcus pulled a die out of his pocket and rolled it on the wood floor. He did this when he needed to think. One time, in March, he'd rolled the number 3 seventeen times in a row.
"Why won't someone buy it??
"It's scrawny, Marc. Like someone tied it up with shoelaces and never untied it. It's got a gold eye, and a green one. That right there made Olanda say 'Ew' and refuse to pet it."
Olanda was Punk's sister, a year older than Marcus. She loved every animal except praying mantises and could never explain why except to say, "I just swear it's...looking at me...with those beady green eyes...ew, gross!" For Olanda to show disgust at this cat meant one thing.
"It's a goner. Why tell me? It'll get out. A magic cat doesn't seem to be in much danger."
"I've seen what happens, Marc. The cat'll never know what's coming. They feed the markdown cats and dogs the best wet food a dollar will buy, and put powder in the food. They take the sleeping animals to the vet. Marc, boyo, those pups don't awake."
Marcus pocketed the die and said, "Got any chips?"
"Yeah," said Punk, "and milk."
A grim expression crossed Marcus The Great's face as they headed for the kitchen. "There'd better be more than one glass full. This problem demands my full faculties."
* * *
Joanie Slawson was Marcus's best friend after Punk. She was the youngest of five, and her other siblings were all boys, and every Friday afternoon at lunch for as long as Marcus could remember, Joanie would drink an entire can of orange soda in a single long pull, smash the can between her knees, pound it like a gavel on the cafeteria table's Formica top, and shout "I...hate...brothers!!!"
This seemed to have the desired result. The rest of the time, Joanie got along with her brothers and just about everyone else, except Pattie Nett, with whom she'd had a feud since kindergarten over the stealing of a boyfriend. No one could find out who was the supposed amour, and Marcus privately expressed doubts that Joanie or Pattie knew, either (in fact, he thought there might not have ever been a boyfriend, and that they just plain hated each other), but the two avoided contact like snails and salt.
Joanie liked acting like Marcus's older sister and bossed him around whenever she could. Marcus figured that being a year older than Marcus, yet being the youngest in her family, she needed the outlet. He liked Joanie because she could always be depended upon to support any of his ideas that she liked, and to not interfere with the ones she didn't. This tacit contract had only been broken once, just before a planned event involving chocolate cream pies, mouse traps, and the city police department's mobile crime unit. Marcus, in a rare show of humility, admitted later that it wasn't such a great idea, after all, and thanked her for telling his mom.
They sat in Marcus's back yard, by the stone bunnies that his mom loved. Marcus detailed his plan for rescuing the cat. He was very thorough, especially the section involving thirteen smoke bombs and, if necessary, a fire extinguisher and a jar of salad oil.
"Well," she said, "it's like this, Marcus. Your plan would definitely work, and sounds like fun, but..."
Marcus pre-bristled. "But what?"
"Well. Why not just buy the cat?"
"Because...because...."
And that was as far as he got. Marcus's Uncle Max always said, "Sonny, let me tell ya, there's no need of replacing the engine when spark plugs are four for five dollars."
Marcus waited until Mr. Hudson posted the markdown sign. According to Judy Miller, who was the only baby sitter in town that Marcus trusted, the animals on markdown only stayed that way for a week. He spoke with his mother that evening after dinner.
"Marcus Mallory Jeremiah Lincoln, you will neither buy a cat nor bring one into this house. You will not do so because you are too young to care for it. You will not do so because I am too busy to care for it. Finally, you will not do it because I finally own furniture that is capable of surviving a nine-year-old boy, but not a cat of any age. I am in high hopes that my preceding sentences have been clear."
"But mom! It's only sixty-nine cents!"
"While that certainly is a bargain for, let us say, a loaf of good bread or a night at the Plymouth Lake Operetta And Fish Fry, it is not--and you should note the emphasis--a factor in my decision."
"But--"
"Son."
Marcus stopped. The barrier beyond which he could not cross had been reached. When his mother said "son" in that tone, indeed when his mother uttered such a short admonition, he knew the only possible result from further argument would be three nights of lightly steamed cauliflower for dessert. Magic cat or not, some penalties were not to be incurred. He went to his room to think.
The problem facing Marcus is one that faces us all, at one time or another. At least, if we aspire to live good lives and face ourselves in our mirrors each morning, the problem should occur. It is this: sometimes you must do something that is right without disappointing those you love, and yet you know they will disapprove. Many a spanking has been inflicted on little boys who didn't properly resolve this dilemma. Marcus had been spanked exactly three and a half times, and wasn't going for four.
So, he sat in his room like a miniature Quixote, and brooded, and brooded, and brooded. And after all this brooding, and a slice of green apple pie, he had the solution.
* * *
The solution was somewhat simple, if indirect, and involved what he'd heard his teacher Mrs. Philips call "suspension of disbelief". Marcus wasn't sure why you'd make yourself not believe something, but he figured if there was ever a chance to try it, now was that chance.
He must speak to the cat.
Now, you might think this would be an easy thing for a boy who had once commanded that fifteen ants be put to death for their insidious assault on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (The fact that he'd left the sandwich for an hour to play basketball was conveniently ignored as evidence of cause and effect.) But it is one thing to say, "Vile insects!" It is another to stand before a small cage and quietly explain the facts of upcoming life and death to a stray.
"Just what is it you're doing, Young Mr. Lincoln?"
Marcus hated it when Mr. Hudson called him that. Mr. Hudson was under the misimpression that he was clever with children. It wasn't the phrase that rankled Marcus. If, for instance, Mr. Tholany called him that, it would be fine. Mr. Tholany was teaching Marcus to play chess. They'd sit in the park while mom was walking the retrievers and Mr. Tholany would explain the right moves, the classic openings, the basic strategies of "control the center, develop rapidly, protect your king", and tell stories about how the town was when he was a boy. It was during these conversations that Marcus often did his best thinking, and had begun to get an inkling that there had been boys before him--and possibly boys to follow--who had been (or would be) greater than he. Mr. Tholany had probably been one of those boys, but instead of being jealous, Marcus was merely envious and enjoyed a warm sensation of knowledge that genius didn't end when each king was tipped over, but instead returned for another game.
"Just talking to the cat, sir. My mom says I can't have one."
"Well, that's just fine, young man. Can't always have what we want, can we? But I'm sure that nice cat will find a good home. You wait and see. In a week or so, that cat won't be here and you won't have to worry about him anymore."
"Her, Mr. Hudson."
"Eh?"
Only people like Mr. Hudson said, "eh".
"The sign says it's a girl cat, Mr. Hudson."
"Ah, so it does. And spayed, too, that's the way we do things here, no sense in having even more cats that nobody...er...well, that is, it's just better for everyone...tell you what, Young Mr. Lincoln. You stop at the counter and I'll give you a nickel for a free monster gumball. Since you're treating that cat so kindly."
He walked away. Marcus would take the nickel and gumball, but only to penalize Mr. Hudson. If he couldn't get the cat to understand, then it wouldn't be here in a week, all right.
"Mew," said Marcus, hoping to get the cat's attention by speaking in its native tongue. "Mew."
As Punk had said, the cat was scrawny. Its chalkboard black fur had resisted Judy's attempts, and was clumped like, funnily, a pussy willow's buds on its head and back. The combination of green and gold eyes was distracting, to say the least. When the cat looked at Marcus, he had an eerie feeling that it knew his name.
"Cat, it's like this," began Marcus, and spoke to that cat as he would to his best pal about why throwing rocks at stop signs is fun, but throwing them at pigeons only seems fun, because a stop sign doesn't know the difference, and a pigeon's just trying to eat something.
"...and so, I know you're getting fed in here, and I know you've been hoping for a good home, and I don't want to hurt your feelings, but the only people who know you're a magic cat are Punk and me. You know how grown ups are, they won't believe you can walk through your cage. They'd want to know why you don't just get out. They wouldn't stop to think about where you've probably been and where you want to be and where you'd have to go. Punk can't take you home, either, because they've got three dogs, two mongoose and four sheep. I don't know why a cat would make a difference, but Punk's mom said she'd rather have a flying iguana than a cat, so I guess she just doesn't like cats. Punk's holding out hope for an iguana, now, but I think it's not going to happen. So, anyway, I'll come back every day and keep telling you this but you gotta leave before Sunday because the store's closed on Sunday. But...the vet's open."
Today was Monday. Marcus repeated his visit Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. The most the cat did was edge up to the cage and rub its nose against his finger tip.
"Mr. Hudson?" said Marcus on the way out.
"Yes, lad?"
Marcus put a handful of change on the counter. "Here's sixty-nine cents. I can't take the cat home, but will you please keep it here? Please?"
Marcus the Great could command children from other countries, if necessary, to do his bidding. He had once required a fine Spanish boy to send a few of his home country's stamps to complete a school art project. The boy, after a couple of exchanged letters (Marcus was not allowed to use the computer for email), sent the stamps with a cheery, "Anything for mi hombre, Marcus." Marcus could make fifth grade football players read poetry aloud at birthday parties. He could join bitter enemies Rhonda Burke and Floyd Hendricks together for one evening so that Rhonda could teach Floyd how the times tables worked, and how to figure out all twenty other math questions and not have to repeat fourth grade. He sometimes felt he could move stars, if they were young enough. But with grown ups, he was just a boy.
Mr. Hudson pushed the change back toward Marcus and said, "I'm sorry, son. I can't take care of every stray. I wish I could. Once a month, I want to quit this job, and that's the way it's been for thirty-two years."
Marcus took back his money. For the first and last time, he understood and felt sorry for Mr. Hudson.
On Monday, Marcus visited the pet store, and found the cat's cage occupied by a white, fluffy thing that was being petted by four girls. He turned and left, but just outside the entrance Mr. Hudson stopped him.
"Young man. Did you have anything to do with that cat getting out? I came in on Sunday and that cat you've been going on about wasn't in its cage. No sign of it. Tell the truth, now, or I'm calling your mother."
Marcus had learned a new phrase lately, and did his best to emulate it. He “turned a baleful eye” on Mr. Hudson.
"I don't lie. I didn't help the cat escape."
Mr. Hudson didn't seem satisfied, but just said, "Well. Okay then. I'd better not find out any differently."
"How did it get out?"
"Eh?"
"How did it get out of its cage?"
Mr. Hudson sometimes forgot his manners. He turned to go back inside, saying "Hell if I know. Damned cage was still locked."
That night, Marcus sat on his back porch drinking a lemonade and reading the "T-V" book from the encyclopedia. It was an old encyclopedia, but Marcus figured the most important stuff probably hadn't changed much, and he liked the way the book smelled. He'd told Punk and Joanie about the cat escaping. Punk just said, "Told ya," and Joanie asked, "What? What did he tell you?", but Marcus wouldn't say. There are some secrets to be shared only among men.
Out of the shade, from Mrs. Wilkin's yard, walked an animal. Marcus noticed it, figured it was a possum, then realized it was too small. He lowered his book and watched. The animal moved slowly yet steadily. It was like watching your shadow appear and disappear on a cloudy day while you stand at the bus stop. Like a ghost, almost. The dark form made its way across the lawn and paused at the pine fence that separated Marcus's back yard from the Kincaid's. It turned its head, and the porch light gleamed off its eyes. Green and gold. Marcus held his breath. He held it as long as he could, which was forty-seven seconds. When he let it out in a whispered whistle, the cat turned away and strolled through the painted wood.