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Henry stood on his tiptoes. “He’s just a little too far out of reach.” He made a perplexed face and then moved toward the center of the tree. He put one hand on a branch and then began positioning his feet on another section of the trunk.
“What are you doing?” Eleanor asked.
Henry did not drop his hold on the tree, but he nodded upward. “I’m going after your cat.”
“You can’t. This tree isn’t stable. Look at that branch over there… the one you were about to put your hand on. It’s too flimsy. It will never hold your body weight.”
Henry looked carefully at the tree branch and then he put both feet back on the ground. “You’re right. I’d never be able to climb this tree. I guess we’re going to have to think of another way to get Sir Whiskers to come down.”
Eleanor didn’t hesitate. She began to sing. There were no words to the tune, but it was one she had always hummed to her cats before. She extended her hand toward Sir Whiskers, and she kept singing sweetly. She knew that the cat understood what she wanted, as he stood up on the branch and held out his paw cautiously. Henry came up behind Eleanor and knelt on the ground.
“Let me give you a boost,” Henry said, cupping his hands together.
Eleanor put one foot into his hands and then he lifted her just about an inch or two. She placed her other foot cautiously into his hands and held her breath as he lifted her upward. That made all the difference. She was able to wrap her hand around Sir Whiskers’ mid-section. She lifted him from the tree branch. “I’ve got him,” she said to Henry, and he began lowering her back down to the ground. Just as the toe of Eleanor’s boot touched the soft earth, she stumbled. Henry caught her, making sure she didn’t fall into the tree, but the movement startled Sir Whiskers. He leaped from her arms once more, leaving a deep scratch on her forearm.
Eleanor winced in pain. She had been scratched by her cats many times, but none had ever hurt this much before. No scratch had ever been this deep either. The area turned an angry red color at once, and a small trickle of blood rose to the surface. “Henry, I seem to have lost the handkerchief you gave me before. Do you have another?” Eleanor turned to look at Henry then and she was surprised.
All color had drained from his face, and he stood very erect. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were dilated. “The cat scratched you,” he whispered.
“It’s just a scratch,” Eleanor said, patting her arm to wipe away the blood. “It happens all the time.” She glanced around the area and noted that Lady Lovely Paws and Sir Whiskers were both curled up in the shade of the birch tree. Sir Whiskers clearly had recovered from his own scare and was ready for a nap.
Eleanor looked back at Henry, and he still appeared very shaken. He stepped forward quickly and began inspecting her arm. He produced a second handkerchief and started winding it around the injured area.
“Henry, whatever are you doing?” Eleanor asked, looking up at him.
A thin layer of sweat was on his upper lip and his eyes were focused on the knot he was trying to make with the handkerchief.
“Henry,” Eleanor said and when he didn’t respond, she repeated his name louder, “Henry.”
His eyes looked almost feverish and bright.
“Cat scratches are very dangerous,” he replied.
All at once, Eleanor recalled the way Wallace had died.
Henry must be remembering his brother. He must think that all cat scratches are fatal.
Eleanor knew that wasn’t true, but she recognized at the moment that was something Henry didn’t know. She put a steadying hand on top of his and spoke in a soothing tone. “Henry, it’s just a scratch. I promise you; I will be just fine.”
