Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Page B

didn’t like it. Oddly, Tom had to admit that those who didn’t were usually not invited back.
    Tom got up for a minute to fix himself a roast beef sandwich and get a bottle of Clausen’s out of the icebox. He emptied the water tray from under the block of ice, which was getting small, he noticed. Then he settled back into the big red chair by the window, and Grant sauntered over, a little slower this time, probably annoyed at being upset so quickly. Tom patted his thigh.
    â€œCome on up, fella.” Grant jumped up, almost upsetting Tom’s stout. “Get yourself settled, you old bastard. Spill one drop o’ my stout and I’ll skin your hide.”
    Grant slowly worked his claws on Tom’s thigh in a shameless play for a neck rub, but the sandwich took two hands. Grant looked up with reproach. Once Tom had reduced the sandwich to one-hand size, he gave in and stroked Grant’s neck. The cat closed his eyes, arched his head, and vibrated in contentment. Tom opened his book again and started over. He sipped his stout, which was none too cold. Mostly the pubs and saloons served it warm, but since Tom could afford an icebox and the daily deliveries of ice that went with it, he had been acquiring a taste for his Clausen’s chilled.
    He gazed out the front window. Dusk was falling, and he’d have to light a lamp soon, but for now he just enjoyed the gathering gloom. A line of carriages had filled the curb for half the block in front of the library.
    â€œBig doings across the way, there, Grant. What do you make of it, old soldier? Some sort of trustee meeting, I suppose.” Grant didn’t answer. “Bunch of old farts plannin’ a temperance meeting or some damned thing. Well, they’ll never get my Clausen’s, laddie. I’m defendin’ the ramparts of drunkenness to my dyin’ breath. ‘Tis a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done …” Tom
intoned, grinning at Grant. “Are ye with me? Sound off there, ye worthless flea bag. Are you goin’ to let them top hats take our beer away?” Grant snoozed. “A little support here would be nice. It’s a man’s right to drink himself into oblivion if he so desires, and as long as he’s not pissin’ on their shoes, it’s none o’ their business.” Tom chuckled as Grant half opened one eye. “A fine effort, old man. I knew I could count on you.”
    Night flowed softly through the tall window, painting the red chair black. After a while, when the words were blurring on the page, Tom got up, dumping Grant off his lap. He searched for a match and lit the oil lamp that hung from the ceiling. The room swam in yellows and reds. Tom sat thinking of potatoes and dirty, shoeless feet. Somehow, the image of Mike Bucklin, his beaming face smudged with dirt, stuck in his head … that and Mrs. Bucklin’s plea. She had asked nothing for herself or her dying husband. She had asked for hope for her grandson. Hope was a rare commodity in her life. She was drowning in a black-water sea of troubles, but she held up the boy with the last of her strength. Tom had made a promise to her, a promise he half hoped he wouldn’t have to keep. But he had given his word, so he thought idly of potatoes and a little boy’s mischievous smile.
    Tom roused himself from his reverie after a few minutes. Usually he didn’t like to eat before he exercised, but he had been hungry. The beer and sandwich sat heavy, and he felt slow and unmotivated, but it was his ritual and he tried to keep to it. For about five minutes he stretched, back, shoulders, legs, and arms, until he felt warm and loose. Then came another five of calisthenics with a couple of quirts. By the time he was done, he had worked up a little sweat. The cats watched with lazy eyes. He envied them their ability to lie around all day, then burst into action at a moment’s notice. For the next half hour, he