January 20
Edward Tedward Boovington the Third chose the purple damask pillow because it was warmer than the satin. He curled up beneath the polished oak table where August Wrightley was reading the Wall Street Journal. Boo recalled that this morning’s Carrier had been mostly storm news, though there had been mention of some cat named Old Gus who apparently had not yet died.
Wrightley, a nondescript white pumpkin of a man, impatiently snapped a newsprinted page. Booie gave his tail a bored twitch and thought about Shenango’s plebeian problems: life, death—why ponder such uncontrollable basics when action could be
put toward things like food and comfy cushions—and why was it so mouse-riddenly cold in the dining room this morning?
“Abigail!” The Journal smacked down and Wrightley stood up, not much taller than when he’d been sitting. “Abigail! Turn up the bloody heat!”
As usual, Mrs. Wrightley was nowhere around.
“Blast this freezing house and this freezing town and this whole freezing state!” Even when enraged, Wrightley made a vague personal impression. His bullish hostility was infamous and feared but the man himself seemed a blank, as if he had traded for his wealth any distinguishing character.
Boo regarded Wrightley with a shrewd glance. The cat knew what was gnawing on the angry financier. The new factory site lay dormant, first beleaguered by botched permits, and now by this ridiculous snowstorm. What kind of insane weather did they have in Pennsylvania, anyhow?
Mrs. Gosnell, the imperturbable housekeeper, entered from the hallway. “Mr. Wrightley, the house temperature is eighty degrees but I’ll raise the thermostat if you wish it.”
Wrightley pumped his stubby arms up and down. “Of course I wish it! What’s eighty bloody degrees when the place is packed in by six-foot snowdrifts?”
“Yes, sir. Also, the grocer couldn’t deliver this morning, so there won’t be the usual clam bisque with dinner.”
Even Boo was alarmed by Wrightley’s screech. “What do you mean he didn’t deliver? We have that damned soup every Thursday, and today is Thursday! The damned grocer’s slacking because of a little snow (Boo considered how the six-foot drifts had suddenly receded). Get on the phone and demand some service!”
Unmoved as one of Wrightley’s bulldozers on Long View Road, Mrs. Gosnell replied, “Sir, no one can get through the snow. Our kitchen is well stocked and dinner tonight will be pork crown roast, corn chowder, asparagus hollandaise with new red potatoes, followed by pineapple rice pudding.” She turned, then added stiffly, “Many Shenango townspeople may be short of food tonight.”
“Oh, they can eat crackers or something,” Wrightley dismissed both Mrs. Gosnell and the townspeople with one curt wave.
Boo tried hard to focus his mind on hungry Shenangotowners and not on pork crown roast. The cat wasn’t surprised by the elder Wrightley’s total disinterest in his fellows; it was truly a wonder that Jefferson, even now facing the elements with some crazy new friends, was always disposed toward helping others.
Boo’s thoughts succumbed to a vision of meat and gravy, and the fat, pampered cat had to admit that in his hungry imagination, there were absolutely no crackers.
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