Cages Page 7

For her seventh birthday, Kit had asked for a puppy. Dorothy explained that they couldn’t have a dog because no one was home all day and the puppy would be lonely. Kit was disappointed, but she had accepted the decision.

  After Dorothy married Wayne and quit her job, Kit asked again. Although Dorothy’s excuse that time was that Kit was too young to be responsible for a dog, Kit overheard Wayne say dogs were expensive and she sensed that no matter how responsible she was, the answer would be the same. She had never asked again.

  Now Kit stroked Lady’s fur thoughtfully. Dorothy no longer had a secretarial job; she was home all day. Certainly Kit was old enough to take full responsibility for a pet. She could even pay for Lady’s food, with the money she earned baby-sitting. She already had enough saved to pay The Humane Society’s adoption fee.

  A tingle of excitement prickled the back of Kit’s neck. She couldn’t think of a single valid reason for Dorothy and Wayne to say no.

  She stood. “Good-bye, Lady,” she said. “Maybe you’ll see me again tomorrow, with good news. Keep your paws crossed.”

  As she gave Lady one final pat, the incessant barking stopped. Kit listened, surprised to hear music in the kennel. Someone was playing “April Showers” on a harmonica.

  Curious, she slipped out of Lady’s cage and looked to see where the music was coming from.

  A chubby man sat on a folding campstool, just inside the kennel door. With his gray hair, bushy beard, and abundant belly, he looked exactly like Santa Claus, except that he wore bib overalls, a green plaid shirt, and a baseball cap. He also wore a volunteer nametag.

  He leaned toward the nearest cage as he played, serenading the dogs. When he saw Kit, his eyes crinkled but he kept playing. She listened until the song ended, watching the dogs.

  “They like it,” Kit said.

  “Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,” he said.

  “It hasn’t been this quiet in here since I arrived.”

  “That’s why I come, girl. Best audience in town. They love every tune I play and they never request anything I don’t know.” He put out his hand. “I’m Randall Morrison,” he said.

  “Kit Hathaway.”

  They shook hands and then Mr. Morrison put the harmonica to his mouth and began to play, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”

  As the peppy music filled the air, Kit could have sworn that some of the dogs were wagging their tails in 4/4 time.

  She wondered if Mr. Morrison was a volunteer by choice or if, like she, he was doing community service to atone for some trouble with the law. She couldn’t imagine such a jolly-looking person getting arrested.

  All the way home on the bus, she rehearsed how she would tell Dorothy and Wayne her plan to adopt Lady. By the time she reached her bus stop, she knew exactly what she wanted to say.

  It took willpower not to blurt out her speech the minute she got home, but she knew Wayne was always more agreeable after he ate.

  She sniffed. Good. Pot roast. Wayne’s favorite meal.

  She waited until they were almost finished eating. Then she couldn’t stand it any longer. Trying to sound casual, she said, “One of the dogs at the Humane Society is really special.”

  “It beats me,” Wayne said, “why you want to hang around with a bunch of stray mutts. Next thing we know you’ll have fleas.”

  “I like dogs,” Kit said. “And Lynnette says sometimes the mixed breeds are smarter than the purebreds.”

  “Dogs,” said Wayne, “are nothing but trouble. All they do is chew the furniture and wet on the carpets.”

  “Not when they’re trained,” Kit said. “This one . . .”

  “Forget it,” Wayne said. “We aren’t getting a puppy.”

  “The one I’m talking about is two years old,” Kit said. “Her puppy days are over. And she’s smart. I know she’d be easy to house train. She might even be trained already.”

  “The last thing your mother needs is a dog to worry about.”

  Kit looked at Dorothy, hoping Dorothy would speak up in favor of Lady. Dorothy said nothing.

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about it,” Kit said. “I’d feed Lady and take her out for walks every day before school and again when I get home. She could sleep in my room and stay there when I’m not home.”

  “Well . . .” Dorothy said.

  “No,” Wayne said.

  “Wouldn’t you at least think about it? She’s really a nice dog and . . .”

  “I said NO,” Wayne said, “and that’s the end of it.”

  “But . . .”

  “You heard your father,” Dorothy said.

  Kit glared at Wayne. “He isn’t,” she said, “my father.” She stood up and walked out of the room.

  Why did they treat her like she was seven years old?

  If Wayne wasn’t so set against it, Dorothy would have agreed to give Lady a chance. Why was Dorothy’s spine made of melted Jell-O?

  She sat on her bed, pounding her fist rhythmically into her pillow. They wouldn’t even let her tell them about Lady. It made no difference to them that Lady had been at The Humane Society a long time and if nobody adopted her soon, she would be euthanized. Lady was a gentle, calm dog. She wouldn’t cause any trouble. If they would only give Lady a chance, Kit was sure they’d change their minds about her.

  Kit put her head down on her knees. Sometimes she felt just as trapped as the unwanted dogs.

  WE’LL begin with Act Two,” Miss Fenton said. “Berenice and John Henry: on stage, please. Frankie, be ready for your entrance. Everyone else, QUIET.”

  There was a brief flurry as everyone moved into place.

  Kit watched from the back of the auditorium. It was the first rehearsal she had attended, although Tracy had urged her repeatedly to come. Kit said she was volunteering at The Humane Society or baby-sitting every afternoon. She came now because Justin, the school photographer, was going to take pictures for the posters. She couldn’t very well supervise the pictures without being there.

  “Curtain!” called Miss Fenton, even though they weren’t really using the curtain for rehearsals.

  As Kit watched and listened, she was quickly caught up in the characters and their words. Marcia no longer sounded like Marcia. Her voice was higher, with a slight Southern accent. She no longer looked like Marcia, either. It wasn’t just because she had exchanged her jeans and top for a short, shapeless cotton dress; it was the way she stood and moved. She seemed thinner, younger, more vulnerable. She was a forlorn, mixed-up twelve-year-old girl, who truly believed that her brother and his fiancée would want her to go along on their honeymoon.

  Everyone knew their lines and knew when and where they were supposed to move.

  “Pace,” yelled Miss Fenton. “It’s dragging. Pick up the pace!”

  The actors spoke faster. Marcia’s good, Kit thought. She’s really good. So were the others. It was going to be a fabulous play.

  When Act Two ended, Miss Fenton said, “We’ll take a break now for some publicity photos. Please stay seated in the front rows while Kit explains what shots she wants, and then pose quickly. We still have to do all of Act Three today.”

  Kit had made a list of the scenes she wanted Justin to shoot. “First is the scene from Act One,” she said, “with Frankie, Helen, and Doris.”

  Tracy and the girl who played Helen joined Marcia on stage and Kit told them where to stand. She put Marcia’s back to the camera, so that Tracy’s face showed.

  “Thanks,” Tracy whispered, after Justin took the picture. “You’ll make me a star yet.”

  Kit continued down her list of pictures, including one of Miss Fenton holding her clipboard and talking with several cast members. All of the pictures Kit had planned were group shots, with at least three actors in each. Everyone cooperated. Nobody goofed off. Even Marcia kept quiet. There was a unity of spirit; the entire cast was willing to do whatever was necessary to make the publicity photos as good as possible.

  Impulsively, Kit added one more shot t
o her list. “Last, I want one of Frankie by herself,” she said.

  Marcia stood alone on the stage.

  “Give her a line, someone,” Miss Fenton suggested. “Lead her into a scene.”

  From the front row, the others began saying their lines. When John Henry said, “You want me to get the weekend bag?” Marcia began to speak.

  FRANKIE Don’t bother me, John Henry. I’m thinking.

  JOHN HENRY What you thinking about?

  FRANKIE About the wedding. About my brother and the bride. Everything’s been so sudden today. I never believed before about the fact that the earth turns at the rate of about a thousand miles a day. I didn’t understand why it was that if you jumped up in the air you wouldn’t land in Selma or Fairview or somewhere else instead of the same backyard. But now it seems to me I feel the world going around very fast.

  Marcia stretched out her arms and turned slowly in a circle. When she stopped, she looked at Justin and Kit as if she didn’t see them. Her head tilted back; her eyes glittered in her pinched face. I feel it turning and it makes me dizzy.

  Click. Justin’s camera recorded the moment with a flash of light. Marcia blinked and dropped her arms.

  “Thank you,” Kit said. “You are a fantastic Frankie.”

  Justin left but Kit stayed to watch the rest of rehearsal. Tracy sat with her, since she only appeared in Act One.

  When it was over, Miss Fenton gave comments on lines that she wanted the actors to do differently. Then she said, “There are a few props that the props committee hasn’t been able to find. We still need a palmetto fan and we need a tape recording of a piano being tuned. Can any of you help?”

  “I’ll get them,” Kit said. She had no idea where she would come up with either of the desired items but she suddenly wanted to volunteer, to have more of a part in making the play a success.

  From then on, Kit went to play practice on the days when she didn’t go to The Humane Society. She borrowed an old fan from an antique shop. She looked up Piano Tuners in the Yellow Pages, called the first name on the list, and explained what she needed. The tuner graciously agreed to help.

  It was fun tracking down the needed props and when she brought them to rehearsal, Miss Fenton got as excited as if they were valuable works of art.

  Tracy became Harriet Headline. “PROP GIRL FIRST FEMALE TO BE KNIGHTED BY QUEEN,” she said. “ARMOR ORDERED.”

  Sharon Shocker responded, “PRODUCER IN AUDIENCE SMITTEN WITH ‘DORIS.’ ACTRESS OFFERED BROADWAY CONTRACT.”

  “Oh, sure,” Tracy said. “He’ll be smitten by all four of my lines.”

  As Kit joked with Tracy, she felt the tension between them dissolve. Her secret problem wasn’t going to cost her Tracy’s friendship, after all.

  The next day in speech class, someone gave a talk on astrology, which led to a discussion of birth dates. When Miss Fenton said her birthday was the following Thursday, Kit decided to organize a surprise party. She talked to all of the cast and crew and everyone chipped in money for pizza, to be delivered immediately after rehearsal.

  The two boys who were running lights volunteered to bring soft drinks and Kit decided to bake a chocolate birthday cake. Tracy spent the night with her, to help decorate it. With yellow frosting, they drew klieg lights and stars. Then they wrote, “Happy Birthday, Miss Fenton. Break a Leg!!”

  “Fit for a king,” Tracy declared, as they admired their masterpiece.

  “TEENS OPEN BAKERY,” Kit said. “BUCKINGHAM PALACE PLACES DAILY DESSERT ORDER.”

  On party day, rehearsal seemed to drag. Backstage, Kit and Tracy set out birthday napkins and paper cups.

  “What if she’s in a hurry to leave?” Tracy said. “Maybe she’s going out to dinner with her boyfriend.”

  The stage manager looked startled. “She has a boyfriend?” he said. From his tone, Tracy might have suggested that Miss Fenton was dining with a giraffe.

  “I don’t know if she has a boyfriend or not,” Tracy said, “but she probably does have plans for her birthday. Maybe her parents are having a family dinner.”

  “We should have fixed up a fake appointment with one of the other teachers,” Kit said, “to be sure she can stay for the party.” Why did she always realize what she should have done after it was too late?

  The rest of the kids thought the cake was wonderful. Still, Kit got more and more nervous. By the time the pizza arrived, she was sure that Miss Fenton would not have time to eat it and would rush off without ever laying eyes on the masterpiece cake.

  As soon as Act Three ended, everyone crowded into the green room, whispering excitedly. When Miss Fenton came to see what they were doing, they all shouted, “Surprise! Surprise!”

  They sang, “Happy birthday to you,” and Kit could tell that Miss Fenton was genuinely touched. When the song ended, Miss Fenton said, “Thank you, all of you.”

  “It was Kit’s idea,” Tracy said.

  Kit quickly said, “Everyone helped.” Then she added, “We hope you don’t already have plans for dinner.”

  “None. And I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than eat pizza with my favorite students.”

  Later, as they ate, Miss Fenton told Kit, “It takes time and effort to organize a party. I’m grateful.”

  “It was fun,” Kit said. It had been fun but it was true that it took a lot of time.

  Kit thought of all the birthday parties she had when she was small. Never anything unusual, like Tracy’s parties, but Kit and her friends used to play drop-the-clothespin-in-the-bottle and musical chairs. Once a year, Dorothy even put aside her feelings about sweets and served birthday cake and ice cream.

  Kit felt a rush of gratitude. Despite the gifts of hand lotion and underwear, Dorothy had always made Kit’s birthdays special.

  KIT stared at the chart. She hadn’t noticed it on her other visits but this time she saw it right away, hanging on the wall, just inside The Humane Society entrance. It listed each month of the current year and told how many dogs were taken in, how many were adopted and how many were euthanized. Then it gave the same statistics for cats.

  It did not take a mental giant to figure out that in most months, only about half of the animals found homes. Some months, less than 50 percent of the dogs that were brought to The Humane Society were ever adopted, and the cats fared even worse.

  She felt sick to her stomach.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” a voice behind her said.

  Turning, Kit saw Mr. Morrison.

  “It isn’t right,” she said. “Most of those animals are young and healthy. It isn’t right to kill them.”

  “Heavens, girl, of course it isn’t right. But what choice is there? They’re kept here as long as there’s room; eventually, they have to give up their space to incoming animals.”

  Kit looked again at the chart. March: 78 dogs euthanized. April: 61 dogs euthanized. In her mind, she saw a large furry heap of dead bodies. She shuddered.

  She felt Mr. Morrison’s hand on her shoulder. “When they die here, it is a peaceful and painless death,” he said. “It’s better than being hit by a car. It’s better than starving or freezing. And it’s better than being ravaged by wild animals or abused by humans. The animals here are treated kindly and their lives end with love, not fear.”

  Kit did not trust herself to speak.

  Mr. Morrison handed her a leash. “I didn’t come here to stand about and lecture,” he said. “Come, girl. Let’s take a couple of cage-mates out for some exercise. We can’t control their future but we can make them happy today.”

  A few minutes later, they sat together on the picnic bench in the exercise yard while two dogs chased each other around.

  “How long have you been a volunteer?” Kit asked.

  “I’ve come twice a week for fifteen years. It’s as good a place as any to practice the harmonica.”

  “Have you ever wanted to adopt one of the animals?”

  “Heavens, girl, do you think I have no heart? Of course I want to ado
pt them. Right now, I wish I could take Sammy, the little gray schnauzer. Last month, it was a white and brown pointer named Maxine.”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I can’t. My wife’s allergic to all animal fur. When I get home from here, I have to wash my clothes and take a shower right away.”

  “I wish I could adopt Lady,” Kit said.

  “The little terrier in the last cage?”

  Kit nodded. “But my parents won’t let me have a dog.” Bitterness put a harsh edge on her voice.

  “Then you’re wise to help here. It’s the next best thing.” He glanced sideways at Kit. “And it beats sitting home feeling sorry for yourself. If you can’t save the forest, plant a tree.” He took the harmonica out of his pocket and began to play, “Summertime.”

  Kit threw two tennis balls and the dogs galloped after them. She didn’t tell Mr. Morrison that she wasn’t wise at all. She was at The Humane Society because she had to be.

  When he finished his song he said, “Some day you’ll be on your own, girl. You can have a dog then. You can have as many dogs as you want.” He grinned at her. “Just don’t marry someone who’s allergic.”

  That day, she and Mr. Morrison worked together, exercising all the dogs that shared a cage. Once, after Kit coaxed a frightened poodle to play, Mr. Morrison said, “You have a way with animals, Kit. A gentleness that they respond to.”

  She smiled, pleased at the praise.

  “They can tell, you know,” he said. “Animals can tell whether a person is kind or not. They know if you like them or if you’re pretending. They sense the truth about us humans, no matter how we might try to hide it.”

  “I do like the animals,” Kit said. “They’re so . . . straightforward.”

  He laughed. “A good description,” he said. “I’ve yet to meet a deceitful dog. The truth is, I like most animals better than I like most people. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She had never met anyone like Mr. Morrison. He looked at least seventy, yet he treated Kit like an equal, as if the difference in their ages didn’t matter to him.