CHAPTER SIX—TESTING THE NINE LIVES THEORY

    

Posing in front of our house at 253 Sprout Brook Road, left to right: Robert, Eugene (age 13), Mother Eustelle, Eustelle.

     For the first year or two in Continental Village my brother John did not have any friends his age, so I was recruited to share his adventures and hobbies. On occasion he recruited me to help him glue and frame colorful model airplanes and gliders on a table in the basement of our new house.That was his principal hobby. We also scouted the woods and fields as far north as the Beaver Pond and the Aqueduct and as far south as Annsville.

     Sometimes John would surprise me with something altogether different. When my mother's white tomcat Prince became the focus of his attention, the cat was the subject of testing the theory of nine lives. John gained the cat's confidence by holding and petting it, while walking in front of the house on the lawn. When he was sure that no adult was watching, he grabbed the cat by the tail and quickly threw it over the roof of the house into the backyard.

     I was recruited to witness the flying cat as it landed in the backyard. Prince survived uninjured. This fascinated John as he considered the aerodynamics of the cat's flight over the roof. One day he asked me to stand in the backyard and observe the cat’s trajectory and landing mode. "Tell me if it lands on all fours," he said. "I read in a book that cats always land on all four feet."

     So I stood in the backyard looking at the sky and roof of the house. The cat literally flew over the roof, legs extended, body perfectly upright, then dropping down to the ground and landing on all four legs. Amazing! When the cat saw me, it ran away. No surprise. My brother rushed to the backyard, and asked me what I saw. I told him. He smiled.

     "Cats always land on all four feet," he repeated. "Fantastic!"

     On another whim I was recruited to help John wash the cat. Cats usually lick themselves clean, but I did not ask John why it was necessary to "wash the cat." We entered the cellar while my mother was upstairs in the kitchen. John was holding and petting our beautiful white tomcat and speaking to it as he approached the front-loading washing machine. He asked me to open the window door of the washing machine, and I did. There was a sense of excitement and anticipation as John quickly tossed the cat in the washing machine and closed the door. I was too awed to protest.

     John fiddled with the controls and turned the washing machine on. As the soak cycle began and water entered the machine, the cat scrambled frantically behind the glass window door. The water level rose, and the cat tried to brace itself on the tub fins so as not to slip or float. This bracing made the cat spin with the tub, upside down for part of the travel. Finally the cat let go, and it floated as the water rose. The face of the cat through the viewing window indicated fear and panic.

     "Something’s missing," my brother announced.

     I watched as he got Rinso Blue soap powder and poured it into the top funnel. Immediately the tub water turned into soap and bubbles, and the cat was difficult to see. The water level continued to rise.

     We both heard the cellar door open from the hallway, and my mother's voice.

     "What are you doing down there?"

     We froze in position by the washing machine.

     Not waiting for us to reply, she rushed down the cellar stairs and turned to see us huddled by the washing machine. We ran behind the oil furnace. She immediately noticed the cat's face pressed against the window door of the washing machine.

     "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" she screamed. "They’re killing the cat!"

     She ran toward us, giving us a look of damnation. She opened the door of the washing machine, which shut down automatically. A wet and soapy cat leaped to the floor, skidded momentarily, then ran across the basement floor and rushed upstairs. I noticed that the cat did not take time to shake or dry as a wet dog would. I have no idea why I remember that.

     "Brats!" she screamed. "Is this what I deserve? God have mercy on you!"

     My mother tried to catch John, but John quickly ran past her and followed the cat upstairs. I remained trapped behind the oil furnace. When she moved to the left, I moved right, but she gained a step on me each time, and soon flushed me out. I tried to reach the stairs, but she quickly grabbed a wooden hanger from a clothesline and hit me on the head with it. I started to bleed, and I fell to the floor crying.

     "God have mercy on you!" she said, getting ready to hit me again.

     As soon as she saw the blood, her temperament changed. The look of anger disappeared, and a caring instinct took over. She pulled a clean towel from the basement clothesline and pressed it to my head and escorted me upstairs to the bathroom. John and the cat had already vanished. My mother washed the cut on my head and repeatedly dabbed at it with cotton gauze. The bleeding stopped in less than one minute. My mother noticed this but she also noticed that I had stopped crying. Suddenly her temperament changed again.

     "You mischievous brat!" she screamed. Her anger came back in full force. "You and John almost killed Prince." As she spoke, she held me with one hand, and hit me with the other.

      I held my arms up in self-defense, and wiggled out of her grasp. I ran out the front door and saw John on the front lawn holding the wet cat and petting it as if nothing had happened.

     My mother opened the front door and shouted angrily: "Wait 'till I get my hands on you!" She already caught me, so I guessed she meant my brother.

     John and I retreated to the road.

     "No supper tonight!" she added.

     We were lucky my step-father wasn't at home.