God!” exclaimed Otto. “What are they doing to that animal!”
“Catholics believe that animals have no souls,” Sophie said.
“Those people aren’t Catholics. What are you talking about! They all go to that Pentecostal iglesia up the street.”
The cat had begun to clean its whiskers. Sophie caressed its back again, drawing her fingers along until they met the sharp furry crook where the tail turned up. The cat’s back rose convulsively to press against her hand. She smiled, wondering how often, if ever before, the cat had felt a friendly human touch, and she was still smiling as the cat reared up on its hind legs, even as it struck at her with extended claws, smiling right up to that second when it sank its teeth into the back of her left hand and hung from her flesh so that she nearly fell forward, stunned and horrified, yet conscious enough of Otto’s presence to smother the cry that arose in her throat as she jerked her hand back from that circle of barbed wire. She pushed out with her other hand, and as the sweat broke out on her forehead, as her flesh crawled and tightened, she said, “No, no, stop that!” to the cat, as though it had done nothing more than beg for food, and in the midst of her pain and dismay she was astonished to hear how cool her voice was. Then, all at once, the claws released her and flew back as though to deliver another blow, but then the cat turned—it seemed in mid-air—and sprang from the porch, disappearing into the shadowed yard below.
“Sophie? What happened?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m going to get the tea now.” She pushed the door closed and walked quickly to the kitchen, keeping her back turned to Otto. Her heart pounded. She tried to breathe deeply to subdue that noisy thud and she wondered fleetingly at the shame she felt—as though she’d been caught in some despicable act.
Standing at the kitchen sink, clenching her hands, she told herself it was nothing. A long scratch at the base of her thumb bled slowly, but blood gushed from the bite. She turned on the water. Her hands looked drained; the small frecklelike blotches which had begun to appear during the winter were livid. She leaned forward against the sink, wondering if she were going to faint. Then she washed her hands with yellow kitchen soap. She licked her skin, tasting soap and blood, then covered the bite with a scrap of paper toweling.
When she returned with the tea, Otto was looking through some legal papers bound in blue covers. He glanced up at her, and she looked back at him with apparent calm, then placed his tea in front of him with her right hand, keeping the other out of sight at her side. Still, he seemed faintly puzzled, as though he’d heard a sound he couldn’t identify. She forestalled any questions by asking him at once if he’d like some fruit. He said no, and the moment passed.
“You left the door open. You have to lock it, Sophie, or it just swings back.”
She closed the door again, securing it with the key. Through the glass, she saw the saucer. Already there were a few spots of soot in it. She’d given up cigarettes in the fall, but it didn’t seem much use. I can’t unlock the door again, she said to herself.
“It’s done,” Otto said. He sighed. “Done, at last.”
“What’s done?”
“Deaf Sophie. You really don’t listen to me any more. Charlie moved out today, to his new office. He didn’t even tell me until this morning that he’d actually found a place. He said he wanted the whole thing to be a clean break. ‘If I need the files, can I get in touch with you?’ That’s what he asked me. Even in such a question, he implies that I’m likely to be unreasonable.”
She sat down, keeping her left hand on her lap.
“You’ve never said much about any of it to me,” she said.
“There wasn’t much to say. In this last year we haven’t agreed on anything, not anything. If I said it was going to rain, Charlie would pull at his lower lip and say, no, it wasn’t going to rain. After reading the weather reports carefully, he judged it was going to be a fine clear day. I should have learned a long time ago that character doesn’t change. I made all the superficial adjustments I could.”
“You’ve been together such a long time. Why have you come to this now?”
“I don’t care for the new people he’s taken up with, the clients. I know what’s always gone on in the office. I’ve done the tiresome work while Charlie’s put on his funny hats and knocked everybody dead with personal charm. His whole act has consisted in denying the law is anything but an ironic joke, and that goes far with a lot of people.”
“It will be hard to see them. Don’t you think it will? Ruth and I’ve never been close friends, but we managed. How do you just stop seeing people? What about the boat?”
“You just stop, that’s how. The winter has been so bad. You can’t imagine the people in the waiting room, a beggar’s army. He told me today that some of his clients were intimidated by the grandeur of our office, that they’ll be more comfortable in his new place. Then he said I’d dry up and disappear if I didn’t, in his words, tune in on the world. God! You should hear him talk, as though he’d been sanctified! One of his clients accused the receptionist of being racist because she asked him to use an ashtray instead of grinding his cigarette butt out in the rug. And today, two men like comic-strip spies helped him pack his goddamn cartons. No, we won’t be seeing them and he can have the boat. I’ve never cared that much about it. Really, it’s just been a burden.”
Sophie winced as she felt a thrust of sharp pain. He frowned at her and she saw that he thought she hadn’t liked what he had said. She’d tell him now, might as well. The incident with the cat was silly. At a distance of half an hour, she wondered at the terror she’d felt, and the shame.
“The cat scratched me,” she said. He got up at once and walked around the table to her.
“Let me see.”
She held up her hand. It was hurting. He touched it delicately, and his face showed solicitude. It flashed through her mind that he was sympathetic because the cat had justified his warning against it.
“Did you wash it? Did you put something on it?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently, watching the blood seep through the paper, thinking to herself that if the bleeding would stop, that would be an end to it.
“Well, I’m sorry, darling. But it wasn’t a good idea to feed it.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Does it hurt?”
“A little. Like an insect bite.”
“Just take it easy for a while. Read the paper.”
He cleared the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher, scraped the remaining livers into a bowl and set the casserole to soak. As he went about his work, he caught glimpses of Sophie, sitting up very straight, the newspaper on her lap. He was curiously touched by her uncharacteristic immobility. She appeared to be listening for something, waiting.
Sophie sat in the living room and stared at the front page of the newspaper. Her hand had begun to throb. It was only her hand, she told herself, yet the rest of her body seemed involved in a way she couldn’t understand. It was as though she’d been vitally wounded.
Otto walked into the living room. “What are you going to wear?”
