In one sudden movement he reached into the wall and grabbed the cat by the scruff of her neck, pulled her out, and dropped her into the bag. She flailed wildly and got off one good scratch, slicing the skin on the inside of Raymond’s wrist with a single back claw. Raymond could not ignore the pain of it, nor the fact that the wound bled profusely. But he didn’t stop moving.
He placed the bagged cat under his shirt, tucked the shirt in, then zipped his jacket over the bulge.
He moved to the window, dripping blood. Wondering how to get out without hurting the cat. Normally he would jump up and rest his weight on his belly against the window sash, as that boy in the letter jacket had done. But he had to find another way, and he had to find it fast.
Meanwhile the cat seemed calmed by the closeness and the dark. She held still. Or maybe she was frozen in her fear.
He ran to the open window and jumped up, grabbing the window frame. Then he used the soles of his athletic shoes to climb up the concrete basement wall. A moment later he was in a nearly untenable position. His hands and feet were almost at the same level, and he had no idea how to propel himself upward.
Raymond moved one hand out onto the concrete of the alley. But there was nothing there to hold. He took a deep breath. Stepped down some with his feet. With every muscle in his body straining at once, he thrust himself up and out through the window, allowing his low belly to fall onto the window sash. He was careful to land on a spot lower than the cat, even though he had to pull a series of muscles to do it.
He lay there a moment, processing the pain. Watching blood drip off his scratched arm onto the filthy concrete of the alley.
“Ow,” he said. Belatedly.
Then he scrambled the rest of the way out and to his feet.
He made a left at the street. Because he had told that boy to make a right. But that was the long way home. Still, there was nothing Raymond could do about that.
He broke into a sprint.
Half a block later he was seized with a sudden fear. Could the cat breathe inside that pillowcase? Probably. It was fabric, not plastic. Still, she was also covered by a shirt and a jacket.
He stopped. Stepped into the entryway of a building for privacy. Faced away from the street. Pulled the pillowcase out from under his shirt, smearing blood on his only good jacket. The cat thrashed in fear.
“Shhh,” he told her. “Hush. Just hold still. You’ll be fine.”
He opened the top of the pillowcase just an inch or two. Not enough to let her out. He blew his own breath into the bag. Flapped the opening slightly to push air in. Then he zipped her back into his jacket with the case open at the top, and used his hands to hold her to his chest.
That calmed her.
Raymond ran again.
As he ran, he pulled a piece of the pillowcase out of his jacket and pressed it against his bleeding wrist. Held it there to try to stanch the flow.
Then he was seized with another wave of unease. It was not a clean pillowcase. It was not from his house. It was from a box of junk in the basement of that abandoned building. Raymond’s imagination took off, running all the way to an infection so serious he would lose his hand.
He shook the images away again.
He was almost home.
He stood in the hallway in front of her door, still using the pillowcase to hold back the bleeding. Because he might as well. It was too late now.
He knocked.
“It’s me,” he said. “Raymond.”
A pause. Then he heard her tentative footsteps. The undoing of the many locks. But not as fast as she would have unlocked them if she’d thought it might be Luis.
The door swung wide.
She was wearing a gray cardigan sweater over her red housedress. And a pleasant smile. The smile gave way to a curious look, then dropped away entirely.
“There is some sort of animal with you, Raymond?”
“How do you do that?”
“I can smell it. What kind of animal do you have?”
“It’s just a little cat.”
The old woman looked relieved. Raymond could see and hear her pull in a big breath, then sigh it out again.
“Oh. Good. Cats are very nice animals. I like them. I used to have cats.”
Raymond could feel his heart lift up in relief and hope. He opened his mouth to ask his huge favor. But, before he could, she said more.
“Now I can’t have them, of course, because it would be too much of a danger. They tend to get underfoot. So tell me about this cat, Raymond. Is it your cat?”
“That’s kind of a complicated question,” he said.
“Is it really? I didn’t think it would be.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Raymond’s heart was falling again. He felt it sink. He would have to sneak the cat into his room. But she would be discovered. It was only a matter of time. He might have to take her to a shelter. Maybe they could find a home for her. But if not . . .
“You and your cat may come in,” she said, knocking him out of his thoughts. “Just don’t let the cat go until I’m sitting down on the couch.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He stepped inside. He tentatively drew his wrist away from the cloth of the pillowcase to see how the wound was doing. The deep scratch was still bleeding. So he pressed the fabric against it again. He didn’t want to bleed on the old woman’s furniture or rug. Even though she would never know. It was the principle of the thing. He would know he had spoiled her nice things. Nice enough, anyway. Well, he thought, nice or not, these things were all she had.
Mildred Gutermann closed and locked the door behind them. Raymond stood very still and watched her cross to the couch. She lowered herself gently, as if every bone and muscle hurt. Or maybe, he thought, just as if she was very old.
“All right,” she said. “Now let’s have a look at this cat. So to speak.”
Raymond sat on the opposite end of the couch from her, perched on its very edge, and opened the pillowcase. The cat’s head shot out. She looked around, eyes wide with fear. Then she launched out of the sack and skittered away.
“Oops,” Raymond said. “She took off. I better go see where she went.”