Hiding in Plain Sight (2 page)

That's when I remembered Ernie.

Mr. Stanley didn't live all alone after all — he had a cat. I pictured how the little thing had been curled in a ball on the floor while his owner and I chatted, and I got to worrying about who was going to take care of him while Mr. Stanley was in the hospital.

Probably his daughter would do it. But who knew for sure?

The next morning, still bothered by the thought of both the old guy and his cat, I decided it wouldn't hurt to pop over to the hospital to see him. That way, I could make sure he was okay and that someone was taking care of Ernie.

And I
wasn't
just being nosy. Honest!

A
bored-looking lady at the reception desk typed Mr. Stanley's name into her computer and then told me his room number. Her voice was flat and she kind of looked past me while she gave me the information. I felt as though I'd inconvenienced her horribly somehow.

I thanked her anyway, or, I should say, I thanked the top of her head, since she was already bent forward again, looking at some papers spread out on the desk.

Mr. Stanley's room was on the second floor. When I emerged from the elevator, signs with arrows and numbers told me to go left. I followed the directions to his room, hesitating outside the door.

I'd met him only once before — he was sure to think it odd that I'd come to see him. He probably wouldn't even remember me. I nearly turned back, but
I just had to find out for sure that his cat, Ernie, was okay. I couldn't stand the thought of the poor little thing left alone, maybe starving.

The first thing that struck me when I walked into his room was how pale and shrunken he looked compared to the other time I'd seen him. I hoped my face didn't show the shock of seeing him like that. I guess if you're old and in the hospital, you'd just as soon not see people looking at you all horrified.

“Hello, Mr. Stanley?” I felt stupid at how that came out as a question. I
knew
who he was all right. There was no need to sound like I wasn't sure.

“Yes.” He squinted a bit, like he was trying to get me in focus. “Well, this is a surprise. You're that girl, the one who came looking for her friend not long ago.”

“That's
right
!” I said. I could hardly believe that he remembered and recognized me.

“No need to sound so amazed,” he kind of chuckled. “I broke my hip, not my head.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. Then I realized how that sounded, like I was sorry he hadn't broken his head. I stammered something out, trying to explain, but he was laughing.

“I guess you're not in a lot of pain or anything,” I observed.

“Not now,” he said, still grinning. “I was yesterday, all right. It hurt something fierce. Once the surgeon
had righted things, though, it was okay. ‘Course, they have me on some painkillers, too.”

“Well, I'm glad it wasn't anything more serious than a broken bone,” I said. “I happened to be walking by your place yesterday when the ambulance came. That's how I knew you were here.”

“It was real kind of you to come,” he said, his face growing serious. “Time seems to drag along awful slow when you're in the hospital.”

“Will your daughter come to see you very often?” I asked.

“Well, she will when she can. She has her job, though, and her kids. Makes it hard for her.”

“And what about your cat, Ernie?” I asked. “Is someone taking care of him?”

“Not yet.” Worry crept into his eyes. “I was trying to get in touch with Eldred, an old friend of mine, to ask him to look in on the little guy, but I haven't been able to reach him yet.”

“I'd be glad to help out, if there's anything I can do,” I said.

“Thing about Ernie,” Mr. Stanley sighed, “is that he's not used to being alone. I might have mentioned before that he's a bit on the nervous side. I'm sure I can find someone to put food out for him, but what he really needs is to be around people.”

“What if I took him to my place until you get
home?” I asked. It occurred to me that it might have been a good idea to check with my folks about that first, but the way Mr. Stanley's face lit up at my words, I decided to worry about that later.

“That'd be ideal!” he said. “He liked you, you know, when you met him at the apartment a little while back. I could tell.”

“I liked him, too.” I smiled, thinking it seemed a bit preposterous that Mr. Stanley thought he could actually tell whether or not his cat had liked me, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

“Well, that's just grand,” he proclaimed. “Takes a load off my mind, I can tell you.”

Then he got me to look in the little locker beside his bed. I rummaged through his stuff, which smelled faintly of some kind of aftershave, located his keys in his pants pocket, and stuck them in my own pocket. It was kind of weird to think he was just handing me the keys to his place without knowing anything about me, really.

“He has tins of food in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Should be a dozen or so there, lots to keep him going until I'm back up and about. There's dry food, too. I leave some out for him most of the time, and he'll eat it, but he prefers the tins.”

“Do you have a pet carrier for him?” I thought to ask.

“Yep. In the hall closet, just inside the door. I put him in it when he goes to the V.E.T.” He paused and
laughed. “I guess I don't need to spell that now, since he's not here. He knows the word, though. I've gotten in the habit of spelling it out so he won't suspect anything when he has to take a trip there.”

Right. I suppose when you get on in years, you can start getting a bit shaky in the reality department. I smiled and nodded as though it was normal to think a cat could figure out what you were talking about. No sense hurting the old guy's feelings.

I stayed for a bit longer, but it was clear to me that Mr. Stanley was actually getting anxious for me to leave. I think it was because he was eager to have Ernie taken care of. I gave him a pat on the hand as I was going and told him not to worry about the cat, that I'd take good care of it.

It's funny how our chance encounter earlier in the summer had brought this unexpected cat-sitting job about. You just never know what kind of turns events will take and what they'll end up meaning in your life.

I was thinking about this as I made my way back to the apartment building. I was also thinking that it wouldn't hurt if Mom happened to be in a really good mood when I showed up with a cat.

We haven't had a pet since our dog, Brownie, got hit by a car and died two years ago. I brought the subject up a couple of times, but Mom just said we'd talk about it another time — only we never did. She's not
much of a cat person, either. Keeping Ernie at our place isn't going to be an easy sell.

The only thing that might save me is that Mom is kind-natured and won't want to think of it suffering. I'll need to try, without
actually
lying, to make it sound like there were no other options.

When I reached Mr. Stanley's apartment and let myself in, Ernie came along right away, though his movements were cautious and wary. By the way he approached me I could see he was nervous but determined. I guess the little guy had been lonely. It was a relief to see that there was still a bit of dry food in his bowl, though it was pretty low. It looked like I'd gotten there just in time.

I patted him and talked soothingly to reassure him that I wasn't going to harm him. Then I went to fetch the carrier, so I could get him to my house before my mom got home.

I had this vision in my head of getting there and having her standing at the doorway with her arms crossed, shaking her head side to side and telling me there was
no way
that cat was coming inside. I figured that if he was already in, my chances of persuading her to let us babysit him for a while were a lot better.

I found the carrier in the closet, just where Mr. Stanley had said it would be. Getting Ernie into it was another story altogether, let me tell you. The second he
saw it, he let out some weird cat screech and took off, hiding behind a big armchair in the living room. I managed to shoo him out of there, but then he took off down the hall and parked himself under the bed, right in the middle where I couldn't reach him.

Reluctantly, I went and got the broom from the kitchen and kind of half swept and half nudged him with it until he got fed up and dashed out of the bedroom. I followed him, remembering to shut the door behind me so he couldn't go back in there.

I won't add to my embarrassment by describing how Ernie tricked me repeatedly and avoided capture over the next forty minutes. Suffice it to say that I
finally
got him into the carrier, tossed some of his things into a bag, and headed home.

After that experience, I figured handling Mom's objections would be a piece of cake.

“W
hat
on earth is that noise?”

Mom's question wasn't the best possible start to a discussion about my having brought Ernie home. I'd kind of imagined I'd introduce the whole subject over dinner. You know, like I'd start by bringing up poor old Mr. Stanley and then finish up with his cat's plight. I figured it might even prompt Mom to come right out and offer for us to cat-sit the little guy.

So, it was unfortunate that Ernie was setting up a bit of a howl. I guess that was my own fault. The plan had been to leave him in the carrier, in my room, until after I'd had a chance to clear the whole thing with my folks.

Well, it seems that Ernie wasn't all that fond of being left by himself in the miniature prison — not if
the unearthly sounds emanating from my bedroom were any indication.

The first one wasn't too loud, but once he got warmed up, look out. It was enough to make your hair stand on end.

“Uh, actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I stammered.

Mom was giving me one of her penetrating looks, the kind that sees past anything other than the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. One of her eyebrows lifted. She stood there with her hands on her hips. The look on her face wasn't exactly the kind that invites long, open conversations.

“It's a cat,” I said. “I know I shouldn't have brought it here without asking first, but I can explain.”

“Mmhmm. Well, I'm waiting.”

I did my best to fill her in on what had happened in a way that would play on her sympathies. This was not easy with Ernie's yowls and wails reverberating through the place, making it sound like a haunted house.

“So,” I wrapped up, “I just didn't know what else to do. I couldn't leave him there to
starve
to death, could I?”

I turned imploring eyes to Dad, who'd remained silent through the whole story. He gave a bit of a shrug and looked at the floor.

“I don't suppose he'll starve to death if you go over and feed him once a day,” Mom pointed out. “And
that's exactly what you're going to do.”

“But…”

“No buts about it. We're
not
having a cat here.”

“Do I have to take him back today?” I asked. Tears were forming, but they were more from anger than anything else. “Couldn't he just have one night here?”

“Making that racket?” Mom didn't exactly look impressed at the idea.

“He's only doing that because he's in a carrier,” I said. “If I let him out…”

“If you let him out, he'll shed all over the house. That's the worst thing about cats. Hair everywhere. And they're so sneaky.”

I thought of Ernie's cunning escapes when I was trying to get him into the carrier at Mr. Stanley's apartment and couldn't argue with her.

“Well, go get the carrier,” Dad spoke at last, “and I'll give you a drive.”

I went to my room with a heavy heart. My head was racing, desperately trying to come up with a new, more convincing argument, but I couldn't think of a thing. I trudged slowly back to the living room and sat the carrier on the floor.

“All black,” Dad observed. “Cute little fellow anyway.”

Mom sniffed the air and very pointedly did
not
look in Ernie's direction.

I sniffed too, wondering if Mom's heart would soften if I burst out crying. She's not that easily fooled, though, and chances were good that would only backfire.

“Now, Shelby,” Dad said. “Don't feel bad. You'll get to see the cat, uh, what's its name?”

“Ernie.”

“Ernie, huh? Interesting name. Anyway, you'll get to see Ernie every day when you go to feed him. You can always spend a bit of time with him then.”

“But he'll be all alone the rest of the time,” I lamented.

“Ah, cats don't mind that. They sleep most of the time anyway. No, he'll be the very best. Well, as long as nothing…”

I felt alarm rise in me as his voice trailed off. I demanded to know what he'd been about to say.

“Oh, it's just silly,” Dad said. “Nothing really to worry about at all.”

“Of course there isn't,” my mother added sternly. She still hadn't glanced at Ernie. Not once.

“Well, unless there was, you know, a fire or something. But, as I said, that's not likely at all. Really, what are the odds?”

“A fire!” I gasped. “What if there
was
one! What if Ernie couldn't get out?”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Mom said, giving her head a shake. For the first time, she took a quick peek at the cat.

“It
could
happen,” I cried. “How would I ever tell Mr. Stanley? He
trusted
me to take care of Ernie.”

“This Mr. Stanley,” Mom frowned, as if the poor old guy had deliberately fallen and hurt himself just to cause her this trouble, “how long is he supposed to be in the hospital?”