The Sea is My Brother Read Free Page B

nose against the little mouth until the kitty playfully bit it.
    â€œHa ha! A little tiger!” he smiled.
    The proprietor of the fruit stand stood in front rearranging his display.
    â€œThis is your cat?” inquired the young man, walking over with the kitten.
    The fruit man turned a swarthy face.
    â€œYes, that is my wife’s cat.”

    â€œHe was on the sidewalk,” said the young stranger. “The street’s no place for a kitty, he’ll get run over.”
    The fruit man smiled: “You are right; he must have wandered away from the house.” The man glanced up above the fruit store and shouted: “Bella!”
    A woman presently came to the window and thrust her head out: “Hah?”
    â€œHere’s your cat. He almost got lost,” shouted the man.
    â€œPoom-poom!” cooed the woman, espying the kitten in the young man’s hands. “Bring it up Charley; he’ll get hurt in the street.”
    The man smiled and took the cat from the stranger’s hands; its weak little claws were reluctant to change hands.
    â€œThank you!” sang the woman from above.
    The young man waved his hand.
    â€œYou know women,” confided the fruitseller, “they love little cats . . . they always love the helpless things. But when it comes to men, you know, they’ll want them cruel.”
    The young stranger smiled thinly.
    â€œAm I right?” laughed the man, slapping the youth on the back and reentering his store with the kitten, chuckling to himself.

    â€œMaybe so,” mumbled the youth to himself. “How the hell should I know?”
    He walked five more blocks uptown, more or less aimlessly, until he reached a combination bar and cafeteria, just off the Columbia University campus. He walked in through the revolving doors and occupied an empty stool at the bar.
    The room was crowded with drinkers, its murky atmosphere feverish with smoke, music, voices, and general restlessness known to frequenters of bars on summer nights. The young man almost decided to leave, until he caught sight of a cold glass of beer the bartender was just then setting before another patron. So he ordered himself a glass. The youth exchanges stares with a girl named Polly, who sits in a booth with her own friends.
    They stared at each other for several seconds in the manner just described; then, with a casual familiarity, the young man spoke to Polly: “Where you going?”
    â€œWhere am I going?” laughed Polly, “I’m not going anywhere!”
    But while she laughed at the stranger’s unusual query, she could not help but wonder at his instant possessiveness: for a second, he seemed to be an old friend she had forgotten many years ago, and who had now chanced upon her and resumed his intimacy with her as though
time were no factor in his mind. But she was certain she had never met him. Thus, she stared at him with some astonishment and waited for his next move.
    He did nothing; he merely turned back to his beer and drank a meditative draught. Polly, bewildered by this illogical behavior, sat for a few minutes watching him. He apparently was satisfied with just one thing, asking her where she was going. Who did he think he was? . . . it was certainly none of his business. And yet, why had he treated her as though he had always known her, and as though he had always possessed her?
    With an annoyed frown, Polly left the booth and went to the young stranger’s side. She did not reply to the inquiries shouted after her by her friends; instead, she spoke to the young man with the curiosity of a child.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked.
    â€œWesley.”
    â€œWesley what?”
    â€œWesley Martin.”
    â€œDid I ever know you?”
    â€œNot that I know of,” he answered calmly.
    â€œThen,” began Polly, “why did you? . . . why? . . . how do you . . . ?”
    â€œHow do I do what?” smiled Wesley Martin, raising a