Page 33 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

lesson earlier, so I didn’t dare open the trunk. The old man was no longer a
threat, but the atmosphere in the house remained tense. It was even scarier in the
silence. Had Woody’s disappearance made his parents numb? I wanted to go out

and look for Woody—help them out a little. But out of self-respect, I didn’t want
to go out in the daytime. My appearance wasn’t very elegant—it was sort of like
either a rat or a rabbit, but not quite. (I remembered what these two animals
looked like.) I would surely attract attention. I didn’t want to be surrounded and
stared at by people. I opened the door twice during the night. Each time, I saw
the same person squatting under the streetlight killing cats. Once, it was a black
cat, once a calico one. The cats’ screeching almost made me faint. The husband
and wife were no longer hiding under the quilt. They didn’t even undress but just
dozed on the edge of the bed against the wall. I slowly came out from under their
bed. I heard a series of sighs from the trunk. The old man must have been badly
hurt. This couple had been absolutely obedient to him in the past, so I couldn’t
understand why they didn’t show even minimal filial piety. They just ignored
him after stuffing him into the old trunk. They were still clothed as they sat on

the bed: Were they waiting for something to happen? They didn’t seem to notice
the sighs in the room, because they were snoring lightly. I quietly slipped over to
the trunk and placed my ear on it. I heard glass exploding inside. I was really
scared. Suddenly, the man spoke up: “Where’s the new frame? Don’t forget to
hang it tomorrow.” His wife giggled abruptly.
I missed Woody. It was lonely without a child at home. He had no bed in the
house but just slept anywhere. I used to think this was strange, but later I got
used to it and felt he didn’t need a bed. He didn’t sleep much. He was always
rushing about. He went out five or six times a night. I had no idea what he
busied himself with. I only knew that the couple were very proud of this naughty
boy. They frequently lay in bed and talked about their son’s future; they seemed
to think he could save them from poverty. But they also feared this change. They
said they’d leave if things changed. Woody frequently took items from the house
and sold them. Once I saw him carrying on a transaction at the front door. When
his mother was cooking and couldn’t find the scoop, Woody said that I had
carried it off and lost it. “He just cares about having fun,” he told his mother.

She stared at me, as if intending to hit me. But she didn’t. For the time being, she
substituted a wooden club for the scoop. Although Woody had been mean to me,
he was an interesting boy. I was crazy about him. Probably his parents felt much
the same as I. This kid was adorable. I liked him. One moment, he’d be sitting at
home, and the next moment he’d be on the neighbor’s roof. God knows how he
got there.
Could the old man with the white beard have died? I wasn’t sure. All I knew
was that the master and mistress no longer cared about him. I didn’t know why,