LESSING
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And now it was an easy pleasant evening. He did not seem to mind
what he saw. Sometimes she switched to another channel, thinking he
was bored. He did like wildlife programs, but there wasn't one tonight.
This was a good thing, really, because he sometimes got too excited: she
knew wild instincts had been aroused. She had understood from the
start that he was controlling instincts she could only guess at. Poor
Ben-she knew he was that, but not how, or why.
At bedtime she unrolled on to the floor the futon he slept on, and put
blankets beside it in case: he usually did not use coverings. The cat, see–
ing that this enemy was on the floor, leaped up on to the bed and lay
close against the old woman's side. From there she could not watch Ben,
but it was all right, she felt safe. When the lights were off the room was
not really dark, because there was a moon that night.
The old woman listened for Ben's breathing to change into what she
called his night breathing. It was, she thought, like listening to a story,
events or adventures that possibly the cat would understand.
In
his sleep
Ben ran from enemies, hunted, fought. She knew he was not human:
"not one of us" as she put it. Perhaps he was a kind of yeti. When she
had seen him first, in a supermarket, he was prowling-there was only
that word for it-as he reached out to grab up loaves of bread. She had
had a glimpse of him then, the wild man, and she had never forgotten
it. He was a controlled explosion of furious needs, hungers, and frus–
trations, and she knew that even as she said to the attendant, "It's all
right, he is with me." She handed him a pie she had just bought for her
lunch, and he was eating it as she led him out of the place. She took him
home, and fed him. She washed him, though he had protested that first
time. She saw how he reacted to some cold meat-quite alarming it was;
but she bought extra meat for him. It was just here where he was most
different; meat, he could not get enough. And she was an old woman,
eating a little bit of this here, a snack there-an apple, cheese, cake, a
sandwich. The stew that day had been just luck: she ate that kind of
meal so seldom.
One night, when the three of them had gone to bed, and to sleep, she
had woken because of a pressure along her legs. Ben had crept up and
laid himself down, his head near her feet, his legs bent. It was the eat's
distress that had woken her. But Ben was asleep. It was how a dog lays
itself down, close, for company, and her heart ached, knowing his lone–
liness.
In
the morning he woke embarrassed. He seemed to think he had
done wrong, but she said, "It's all right, Ben. There's plenty of room."
It was a big bed, the one she had had when she was married.
