strained some more.
This time she anchored her claws to Billy’s shirt and screeched. She arched her back. The bundle that came out was wrapped tighter than the others. It smelled sour. The little bundle twisted once before it caught the color of dust and was quiet. Conga let it be.
One final time, she heaved. A last wobbly bit of jelly hit the folds of the bathrobe. Conga gave it some quick licks. As soon as it whimpered, she lay back. Her body cramped, but there was nothing left worth pushing for. She was finished.
And she had three live bundles to show for all the hard work.
After a while her body settled down. She scooped her babies close and offered her teats. Moments later she felt the tugs. The soft sounds of sucking competed with her ragged pant.
At nine o’clock in the morning, Billy rushed through the loft door.
Conga regarded him contentedly.
Well,
her eyes said.
It’s about time.
She lay back to let the boy admire her babies stuck to their milk straws.
“Conga,” Billy breathed. He ran out of words. The wonder of it put a cork in his throat. He hurried to set out fresh food and water. He scooped up the dead kitten andtook it to rest in the quiet of a hollow under the old stable. Then he went back to watch the kittens. They sprawled over each other in a heap, nuzzled close to their mother. One of them had fallen asleep with a high five in the air.
Billy let them be. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, too, propped up on his elbow. The light streaming through the Main Street window painted a rainbow over his face.
Conga got up and had a drink of water. Hungrily, she downed the can of food. On the way back to her bed, she rubbed her cheek along Billy’s hair.
Then she crawled in the nest and cradled her kittens.
SEVENTEEN
B illy never tired of watching the kittens. One was black, one was gray, and one was just like Conga. For the first few days they rolled around blindly. But one day when he walked through the loft door, the little ones looked back at Billy with their eyes wide open.
They were blue eyes.
Billy sat down and put out his hands. “Welcome to the world,” he said.
Salome came to the chapel most nights. Most times she left behind a new sketch. One night she even wrote a note.
That gray kitten will soon be roaming.
Put a board across the stairs.
Billy told Luke about the kittens. The first time Luke climbed to the loft, he stared at the drawings.
“Salome Davies drew those pictures,” said Billy. “You know her. She works at Joxie’s pet store. She’s the girl who ducks behind the fish tanks whenever you walk through the door.”
Luke turned red when Billy said that.
“I could introduce you,” Billy offered.
“I’ve got no time for girlfriends,” Luke grunted. But he couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice when he said, “She’s got a way with a stick of charcoal.”
When Billy had to be home, and Salome was at the store, Luke offered his help. He checked Conga’s water dish and changed her litter. “Never counted on being a nursemaid,” he grumbled. But Billy knew he didn’t mind the extra work.
By now Billy was a regular at Corky’s. His bottle trade was making him money. All of it went to cat food and litter. Joxie shook her head. “Between you and Luke, I’ll be able to retire early.”
“Conga’s eating for four,” Billy told her. He was proud of his cat. Conga never lost patience with her brood — not that her kittens appreciated it. Even when she wanted to have a stretch, they hung on for dear life. They sucked and sucked as if any minute the well would run dry. Sometimes they flopped sideways trying to latch on to a teat. Or theystuck their noses into each other instead of their mom. It seemed as if they could never get enough. Conga let them wriggle and squirm and mewl. She licked off the sweet milk that soaked their bibs and filled their noses. And if they rolled away, she fetched them back.
“She’s a good mom,” Billy told
This time she anchored her claws to Billy’s shirt and screeched. She arched her back. The bundle that came out was wrapped tighter than the others. It smelled sour. The little bundle twisted once before it caught the color of dust and was quiet. Conga let it be.
One final time, she heaved. A last wobbly bit of jelly hit the folds of the bathrobe. Conga gave it some quick licks. As soon as it whimpered, she lay back. Her body cramped, but there was nothing left worth pushing for. She was finished.
And she had three live bundles to show for all the hard work.
After a while her body settled down. She scooped her babies close and offered her teats. Moments later she felt the tugs. The soft sounds of sucking competed with her ragged pant.
At nine o’clock in the morning, Billy rushed through the loft door.
Conga regarded him contentedly.
Well,
her eyes said.
It’s about time.
She lay back to let the boy admire her babies stuck to their milk straws.
“Conga,” Billy breathed. He ran out of words. The wonder of it put a cork in his throat. He hurried to set out fresh food and water. He scooped up the dead kitten andtook it to rest in the quiet of a hollow under the old stable. Then he went back to watch the kittens. They sprawled over each other in a heap, nuzzled close to their mother. One of them had fallen asleep with a high five in the air.
Billy let them be. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, too, propped up on his elbow. The light streaming through the Main Street window painted a rainbow over his face.
Conga got up and had a drink of water. Hungrily, she downed the can of food. On the way back to her bed, she rubbed her cheek along Billy’s hair.
Then she crawled in the nest and cradled her kittens.
SEVENTEEN
B illy never tired of watching the kittens. One was black, one was gray, and one was just like Conga. For the first few days they rolled around blindly. But one day when he walked through the loft door, the little ones looked back at Billy with their eyes wide open.
They were blue eyes.
Billy sat down and put out his hands. “Welcome to the world,” he said.
Salome came to the chapel most nights. Most times she left behind a new sketch. One night she even wrote a note.
That gray kitten will soon be roaming.
Put a board across the stairs.
Billy told Luke about the kittens. The first time Luke climbed to the loft, he stared at the drawings.
“Salome Davies drew those pictures,” said Billy. “You know her. She works at Joxie’s pet store. She’s the girl who ducks behind the fish tanks whenever you walk through the door.”
Luke turned red when Billy said that.
“I could introduce you,” Billy offered.
“I’ve got no time for girlfriends,” Luke grunted. But he couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice when he said, “She’s got a way with a stick of charcoal.”
When Billy had to be home, and Salome was at the store, Luke offered his help. He checked Conga’s water dish and changed her litter. “Never counted on being a nursemaid,” he grumbled. But Billy knew he didn’t mind the extra work.
By now Billy was a regular at Corky’s. His bottle trade was making him money. All of it went to cat food and litter. Joxie shook her head. “Between you and Luke, I’ll be able to retire early.”
“Conga’s eating for four,” Billy told her. He was proud of his cat. Conga never lost patience with her brood — not that her kittens appreciated it. Even when she wanted to have a stretch, they hung on for dear life. They sucked and sucked as if any minute the well would run dry. Sometimes they flopped sideways trying to latch on to a teat. Or theystuck their noses into each other instead of their mom. It seemed as if they could never get enough. Conga let them wriggle and squirm and mewl. She licked off the sweet milk that soaked their bibs and filled their noses. And if they rolled away, she fetched them back.
“She’s a good mom,” Billy told
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