One-Eyed Cat by Paula Fox Page A

they sorted through boxes of buttons which had belonged to Mr. Scully’s mother. “Just think how old these are,” he remarked, some of the animation with which he’d spoken about the cat still in his voice, like the afterglow of a sunset. “How strange it is that the hands which formed them are long gone from the earth. How pretty they are! Look, this one is pearl—here’s a bone button—this one is silver. It’s a shame to throw them away, so much human thought went into them. What I’ll do is take them to the Kimballs. With all those children, Mrs. Kimball can make good use of them. They don’t have nearly enough buttons, I’m sure.”
    He poked Ned’s arm and let out a cackle of laughter. “Now they’ll have more buttons than clothes,” he said. “Of course, Mr. Kimball is an independent sort of fellow, never wanted to work for anyone, so they struggle along. She used to be a practical nurse, I think. Imagine having so many children …”
    â€œEvelyn is pretty nice,” Ned said.
    â€œI can’t tell them apart,” Mr. Scully said, looking cranky. “My wife never much cared for them. She was very particular.”
    â€œWhat does it mean—if you’re particular?” Ned asked.
    â€œIt means you don’t like much,” Mr. Scully said gruffly.
    It was time to go, Ned thought. The newspaper was folded on a chair, the floor swept, the wood piled up near the stove, handy for Mr. Scully. The two of them had emptied out a big box today. There weren’t many boxes left to go through. But there would always be more to do. There always was when you lived in an old house, Mr. Scully had told Ned.
    â€œI’ll be going,” he said.
    â€œThank you, Ned,” Mr. Scully said, looking at him with a kindly expression. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a certain softness around his eyes as he gazed at him.
    â€œWhen the snow comes, where will the cat go?” Ned asked him.
    â€œMaybe you can shove that icebox a little further into the shed,” replied Mr. Scully. “That’ll keep the wind and snow off of him. Makes a kind of winter nest.” He looked out the window. “If I’m still here …” he muttered.
    â€œWhere are you going?” asked Ned. His voice trembled a little.
    â€œI’m not planning on going anywhere,” said Mr. Scully sharply. “But it isn’t up to me anymore. See this?” He held out his thin, bony hand. “Now watch …” He very slowly tried to ball up the hand into a fist, but he couldn’t. “I don’t know how much longer I can manage, Ned,” he said.
    His words alarmed Ned but there was nothing he could think of to say to them. He muttered that he’d go out and push the icebox further under the roof of the shed. Mr. Scully nodded absently at him.
    Later, as he walked home up the hill, Ned thought of Mr. Scully’s hand which wouldn’t clench and of his mother’s hands, so often twisted and balled up. He stooped and picked up handfuls of stones and flung them into the meadows on either side of the driveway, hoping Papa wasn’t looking out of a window and seeing what he was doing. It was bad enough, thinking about hands that weren’t strong and straight like his, but added to that was the worry about his report card in his back pocket. It said Ned hadn’t been paying attention in class. His grades were lukewarm, not failing. Papa would be serious; he’d speak in that cemetery voice and remind Ned that school was his job and he must try to do it well.
    The late afternoon was cold and hard like slate. It would be cold in church on Sunday. The Sunday school classes would be held close to the door of the furnace room. After their Bible stories, the little children would cut turkeys out of orange paper with blunt scissors and nibble on the corn candies left over from Halloween. Holidays