Mr. and Mrs. Otto Bentwood drew out their chairs simultaneously.
As he sat down, Otto regarded the straw basket which held sliced of French
bread, an earthenware casserole filled with sauteed chicken livers, peeled and
sliced tomatoes on an oval willowware platter Sophie had found in a
Brooklyn Heights antique shop, and risotto Milanese in a green
ceramic bowl. A strong light, somewhat softened by the stained glass of a
Tiffany shade, fell upons this repast. A few feet away from the dining foom
table, an oblong of white, the reflection from a fluorescent tube over a
stainless-steel sink, lay upon the floor in front of the entrance to the kitchen.
The old sliding doors that had once separated the two first-floor rooms had
long since been removed, so that by turning slightly the Bentwoods could
glance down the length of their living room where, at this hour, a standing
lamp with a shade like half a white sphere was always lit, and they could, if
they chose, view the old cedar planks of the floor, a bookcase which held,
among other volumes, the complete works of Goethe and two shelves of
French poets, and the highly polished corner of a Victorian secretary.
Otto unfolded a large linen napkin with deliberation.
"The cat is back," said Sophie.
"Are you surprised?" Otto asked. "What did you expect?"
Sophie looked beyond Otto's shoulder at the glass door that opened onto a small wooden stoop, suspended above the back yard like a crow's nest. The cat was rubbing its scruffy, half-starved body against the base of the door with soft insistence. Its gray fur, the gray of tree fungus, was faintly striped. Its head was massive, a pumpkin, jowled and unprincipled and grotesque.
"Stop watching it," Otto said. "You shouldn't have fed it in the first place."
"I suppose."
"We'll have to call the A.S.P.C.A."
"Poor thing."
"It does very well for itself. All those cats do well."
"Perhaps their survival depends on people like me."
"These livers are good," he said. "I don't see that it matters whether they survive or not."
The cat flung itself against the door.
"Ignore it," Otto said. "Do you want all the wild cats in Brooklyn holding a food vigil on our porch? Think what they do to the garden! I saw one catch a bird the other day. They're not pussycats, you know. They're thugs."
"Look how late the light stays now!"
"The days are getting longer. I hope the locals don't start up with their goddamn bongos. Perhaps it will rain the way it did last spring."
"Will you want coffee?"
"Tea. The rain locks them in."
"The rain's not on your side, Otto!"
He smiled. "Yes, it is."
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