Don't Tell Anyone

1

Megan discovered the cats by accident. She was roller-skating on the sidewalk beside the field when one of her wheels came off. As it sailed into the tall weeds, a black-and-white cat flew out, streaked across the sidewalk, and disappeared into a large drainpipe.

Megan landed on her hands and knees. Unhurt, she crawled into the weeds and found the wheel. The nut that had come loose still lay on the sidewalk, so Megan reattached the wheel, tightening the nut with her fingers. She hoped it would hold until she got home and could use a wrench.

She knelt by the drainpipe and peered inside. Two amber eyes stared back.

Hello, kitty, Megan said.

Hiss!

Nice pussycat, Megan said. I won’t hurt you.

The cat hissed again and backed farther into the drainpipe.

Here, kitty, kitty. Nice, kitty. Megan wondered if the cat was a lost pet. Maybe the cat had a collar with an identification tag. If so, Megan would call the owner and say she’d found the cat.

Slowly Megan put her hand inside the drainpipe.

Slash! The cat’s claws ripped across the top of Megan’s hand. She jerked her arm back and put her hand to her mouth.

I knew better than to stick my hand in there, she thought, as she pressed her hand to her jeans to stop the bleeding.

She sat on the sidewalk to wait. If she was quiet, the cat would think she had left, and it might come out. Then she could see if there was a collar or not. If the cat wouldn’t let her touch it, she would get a good description so she could look in the lost-and-found ads to see if anyone was missing a cat like this one.

While she waited, Megan watched cars go up the freeway on-ramp. She also saw movement in the grassy field. Soon a large orange cat leaped forward, pouncing on something in the weeds. When he raised his head a moment later, a field mouse dangled from his teeth.

Megan wondered how many cats lived in this field. She sat quietly, watching both the weeds and the drainpipe.

The cat never emerged from the drainpipe, but in the hour that Megan waited she glimpsed two more cats in the field. Both of them fled when she called, Here, kitty, kitty.

She wondered how the cats had gotten there. Had someone dumped a box of unwanted kittens and they had managed to survive?

Megan went home to get her shoes and money, then went to the mini-mart to buy a bag of cat food. Back home again, she took a pie plate from the kitchen cupboard, filled it with cat food, and carried it the four blocks from her house to the field.

She saw no cats. Kneeling, she peered into the drainpipe. It was empty.

A lone maple tree grew in the center of the field. Megan put the plate of food in the grass at the base of the tree. Then she climbed the tree and sat on a limb to wait.

About fifteen minutes later, a scrawny black-and-white cat approached the pie plate. Megan wondered if this was the cat that had scratched her.

The cat slunk forward cautiously, his belly only an inch above the ground. He ate a few bites, stopped and looked around, then ate some more. Soon he was joined by an orange cat that had a nick out of one ear. Megan thought that it was the cat she had seen catch a mouse. Next a scruffy gray cat arrived.

Megan expected the cats to fight over the food, with the first ones keeping the late arrivals away, but that didn’t happen. Instead, as each cat approached, the others looked up briefly and then continued to eat. Soon the pie plate looked like the center of a wheel, with multicolored cats angling out like spokes all the way around it.

Hidden by maple leaves, Megan sat still and watched. She decided to name each of the cats. The black-and-white one was Claws, because of the scratch on Megan’s hand. The orange one was Pumpkin, and the gray one became Twitchy Tail.

One of the cats, a brown-and-tan striped tabby, was much plumper than the rest. Suspecting that the cat was pregnant, Megan named her Mommacat.

When the food was gone, the cats scattered–all except Mommacat, who licked the bottom of the empty dish and then sat washing her whiskers. She’s still hungry, Megan thought. I need to bring more food next time.

She decided to bring cat food to the field every day. When Mommacat’s kittens were born, Megan would make sure they were all right. Maybe when they were old enough, she could take one home and keep it. Megan and Kylie, her little sister, had begged for years to get a pet, but Mom said animals took too much time.

We’ll get one when you’re older, Mom always said, and more responsible. We’ll talk about it when you’re older. Megan had turned twelve last month; maybe she was finally old enough.

Megan shifted position; Mommacat looked up in alarm, then bolted away. Megan climbed down, picked up the pie plate, and headed for home.

The next day she brought more food, plus an old soup bowl and a peanut-butter jar full of water. She poured the water into the bowl and put it beside the food. When the cats came, they lapped the water eagerly. Megan realized mice were probably plentiful in the field, but water might be scarce. After that, she brought food and fresh water every day.

When she returned home on the third day of feeding the cats, Megan’s mother was in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee.

Chelsea called, Mrs. Perk said. She wants you to call her.

Megan’s best friend, Chelsea, lived just two blocks away. The girls often played together after school. This week, however, Chelsea had chicken pox.

Megan washed the pie plate.

Don’t try to pet those cats when you feed them, Mrs. Perk warned. Feral cats are wild things. They’ll scratch and bite. Probably none of them has been vaccinated for rabies. A scratch from a wild cat can be serious.

Megan looked down at the slash on the back of her hand. It was puffed and angry looking, much redder than it had been the day it happened.

Mrs. Perk’s eyes followed Megan’s glance. What’s that? Have you already been scratched?

Megan nodded.

Let me see your hand, Mom said.

Reluctantly, Megan extended her hand toward her mother.

Did you put antiseptic on it?

No. It looked okay until today.

It doesn’t look okay now. I’ll get the first-aid kit.

After swabbing the wound with antiseptic, Mrs. Perk said, You had better stay away from that field. We’ll be lucky if you don’t end up with an infection.

But the cats need me, Megan said. You should see how glad they are to get fresh water, and they eat every crumb of food.

They got along before you found them.

One of them is pregnant. She looks as if her kittens will arrive at any second.

They aren’t your cats, Mrs. Perk said.

But what if the mother cat needs help? What if there’s a problem when the kittens are born?

Wild animals know how to take care of themselves, and those cats are definitely wild animals.

I’ll be careful, Megan promised. Since that first day, all I do is set the food and water down, and then I climb a tree and watch the cats eat. I don’t try to touch them.

The phone in Mrs. Perk’s office rang. She hurried to answer it. Megan’s mother worked for a stock brokerage firm. She had her home computer networked to the office and did much of her work from home.

Her reason for working this way was that, as a divorced mother, she wanted to be at home to supervise her daughters. In truth, however, even though Mrs. Perk was there physically, she rarely had time during the week to pay close attention to what Megan or Kylie were doing. Megan often wished she and Mom could finish a conversation without being interrupted by one of Mom’s clients.

Because of the time difference between the West Coast, where the Perks lived, and New York, where the Stock Exchange is located, Mrs. Perk was on the telephone by six-thirty every morning. Megan usually fixed breakfast for herself and Kylie, made sure Kylie got on the kindergarten bus, and then rode her bike to school.

After school Mrs. Perk took calls from clients, worked on their portfolios, and researched companies to determine if their stock was likely to go up in value. She