THE CAT'S MAW

CHAPTER XIV (Part 2)

Over the next five days, Billy's mother held to her word.

He was confined to his room except for bathroom breaks. His father came in the first morning, collected the tray with the empty bowl and stale crusts of bread, and then promptly packed all of his toys and comics into cardboard boxes. His father left the walkie-talkie, but told him to only use it for emergencies.

This was ironic, considering that his appointment loomed in six days. Billy could think of no greater 'emergency' than his leg, his fear of losing it, and his need to do something about it. Yet each time he tried to speak with them and explain, he was met with shaking heads and frustrated sighs.

By the second day, the boy's fears grew. With no TV to watch and nothing to read, it was getting harder to find distractions. His sleep had grown elusive, fitful, and blank.

If only the cat were here, he thought. He'd listen to me. He'd help me dream. 

Billy stood by the bedroom window the next two nights, hoping for a sighting. He worried that the cat wasn't getting enough food. Or had gotten lost. Or, maybe, that he'd grown weary of all the human drama. Maybe the cat was just like the boy, preferring friendship of the four-footed kind.

By the fourth night, Billy grew desperate and buzzed on the walkie-talkie. He asked to speak with his father before bed. Heavy footsteps tromped up the stairs an hour later, followed by a knock on his bedroom door.

Billy asked him to sit down on the bed, and began to tell him the story – the real story. He told his father about the dreams, and the nightmares, and the curse. He told him how Lucy the cat helped to find the old book. He told him that he had found a way to fix himself. Billy was about to explain how, when his father held up a hand to stop him.

"Billy, please," Stanley sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"But Dad, I need to go to the fair," Billy pleaded, pointing to his pack hanging on the bedpost. "I have to take something there, and then he'll fix–"

"Listen, son," his father patted him on the cast, "I know this is hard. I know that you're worried. We all are. But we'll deal with it. Whatever happens, we'll work it out. But the real problem here is the stories. When you make up stuff to get out of trouble, or to get something that you want? You know how we feel about that."

"I'm not," Billy protested. "It's not a story. It's real."

 Stanley brushed his son's hair from his eyes and plumped the pillows behind his head. "Do you really want me to tell your mother all of this? Really? You should know better than that. Either she'll think that you're fibbing – which means you might never be allowed to leave this room – or she'll think that you actually believe what you're saying. And then she'll get scared."

His father's warning was a hammer, hanging in the room and threatening to swing. Billy's hands clenched beneath the covers, and he felt one of the cuts on his palm open. He clamped his eyes shut to keep from crying, and had the sudden vision of a teddy bear, waving goodbye from the window of a long grey sedan.