The Collected Stories of William Humphrey by William Humphrey

clean kitchen where the clock on the wall ticked contentedly, Mrs. Hansen sat at the table sucking her teeth. Before her was spread her tabloid. Her eyes were wide and her lips indignant as she read; she held her breath while fumbling for the page in the back section where her story was continued. When she finished it she had to sit back, breathing heavily, and pat her chest to soothe the outrage in her heart. She saw herself coming home from working late to support her three fatherless children on a cold night down a dark deserted street. Suddenly, out of the shadows a figure loomed, reeling drunkenly. It made a guttural sound. It was …
    Queenie—prowling in from the sunroom.
    Mrs. Hansen yelped. Little did those three children Mr. Hansen left her with appreciate all that she went through for their sakes.
    Sister, coming down the hall, heard Mrs. Hansen’s gasp, and having some idea what might have caused it, turned and stole off to the library. She curled up on the sofa and found her place in a book. But the windows were open; there was a breeze in the maple tree and the steady rasping of Leonard raking the gravel walks. Soon she was asleep.
    â€œSister,” said Martha, “bring me a pincushion.”
    Evaline’s party dress was almost finished. She stood with one arm raised for Martha to let out a seam.
    â€œCan’t you find one, Sister?” Martha called.
    â€œHere’s one, Aunt Martha,” said Enid.
    â€œThank you, dear. Never mind, Sister.”
    â€œShe isn’t here, anyway,” said Enid. “She went downstairs long ago.”
    Martha smiled. “Worried over her cats, I suppose.”
    â€œNineteen,” said Nancy Taylor.
    Martha gave the dress a final tug, and settled back in her chair. The studio had been filling with gentle, late-afternoon light, and Martha was moved to think of her own gentleness, her patience. She let Sister keep nineteen disgusting cats, with never a thought for her lovely home.
    â€œIt is a lot, isn’t it,” she said. She was filled with wonder at herself. “But you wouldn’t want me to make her give them up?” She sighed. “I suppose it’s what any other woman would do.”
    â€œBut, Aunt Martha,” said Evaline, “don’t they make you—” She broke off with a shudder.
    Martha said, “Yes—I forget, don’t I, that they are disgusting to many people. That’s selfish of me, isn’t it? I mean, to allow my child to offend others.” She sighed and said, “Perhaps, my dear, you will understand better when you are a mother yourself. You know what they say about a mother’s love.”
    â€œThere is more than one kind of blindness,” said Nancy, her voice grown suddenly hard.
    Martha did not like her tone. She found herself getting excited. She said, “Well, I’d like to know of another woman with a house as fine as mine who let nineteen cats simply ruin it to please a child.”
    â€œOr to please her conscience,” said Nancy. But she had not been able to say it as loud as she had meant to. The whine of a cat, beginning low and growing to a howl, had hushed them all. Nancy gave a shudder. Enid came to her and sat on the arm of her chair. Nancy hugged her reassuringly. Evaline came, too, a little jealous perhaps.
    â€œWhy,” said Martha with a little laugh, “it’s hard to imagine Sister without her cats.”
    They all sat trying to do it.
    Dusk was turning to darkness. In the garden, under the balconies, among the plants in the rocks, cats were waking, yawning, and stretching. They prowled in from the woods, from the drive, from the stables. One cat licked the table in the grape arbor, growling at all comers, while another searched beneath the table, sniffing for scraps.
    They gathered in the courtyard. They perched themselves on benches, on tables, in the dirt of potted plants. One old cat found a vase in his way, knocked