The Ice Cradle by Mary Ann Winkowski, Maureen Foley Page A

fish. Enthusiastically.
    Now he was a guy who was lying on his stomach on the floor in front of a crackling woodstove, feeding tidbits of bass to one of the most corpulent cats I had ever seen, a languid orange tabby named Frances. Frances was eighteen and not above entertaining herself by taking a gratuitous swipe at your ankle as you walked by—assuming that this didn’t require her to move her unwieldy body.
    She spent most of her time on a pillow near the woodstove. All that was missing was a crown. But like any good queen, Frances was gracious to subjects who bowed and scraped and offered her the fruits of their labors. As Henry was presently playing that role, Frances was at her imperial best.
    And then she appeared, the little ghost girl. She sat down cross-legged on the floor beside Henry, and I noticed Frances pull her plump self to attention. Many animals are aware of ghosts, and Frances appeared to be among them. She began to sweep her tail back and forth across the floor, and for a moment, I feared she might be gearing up to release her anxiety by taking a swipe at my son’s cheek.
    “Don’t get your face too close,” I warned him.
    But Frances wasn’t interested in Henry. She had even lost interest in the fish, which, given the looks of her, had to have been a first. She arose, daintily for her size. She fluffed up her fur and hackles and padded cautiously over to where the ghost girl was sitting, grinning gaily. The cat pulled her ears back and produced the most alarming sound, like that of a partially blocked faucet being turned on at full force.
    Henry sat back on his heels and glanced at me, eyes wide, gleefully anticipating drama.
    “Frances!” said Lauren. “What’s gotten into you?”
    Mark stood up and began to clear the plates.
    Frances hissed again, lifted her paw, and swiped right through the little ghost girl, which sent both kids into a cascade of giggling. The girl made a face and swiped back. Frances emitted a guttural growl that sounded like something right out of
Night of the Living Dead
. Forget ghosts. You want scary sounds? Just make a large feline murderously angry.
    I felt sorry for the poor cat, but it was nice to see the little ghost girl smiling and laughing and behaving like a normal child. I just hoped that Henry wouldn’t start talking to her. The ghost lunged toward Frances, and the cat pulled away, then shocked us all by attempting to rise up onto her hind paws, growling and hissing and scratching the air.
    “What the heck?” asked Mark, glancing over from the sink. “All right, that’s enough.” Mark swooped down, caught the stunned Frances over his forearm, opened the back door, and tossed the baffled feline out onto the porch. “You,” he said, “are sleeping in the barn.”
    “She’s getting a little dotty,” he explained, sitting back down.
    “She’s psychotic, is what she is. I think she needs some—” Lauren broke off, glancing at Henry. “Kitty medicine.”
    “No,” said Henry, “she just—”
    “How about the Stooges?” I said quickly, cutting him off. Henry popped his mouth open in an expression of exaggerated surprise, because he’s not allowed to watch TV during the school week.
    “It’s vacation,” I said.
    “Yay!” said Henry, hopping to his feet.
    The little ghost floated up to his side.
    “Tea? Decaf?” Lauren asked.
    “Whatever you’re having.”
    Henry and the girl followed me into the den, where I fired up the DVD player and read the back of the case. Good! There were three episodes left:
Cuckoo Cavaliers, Squareheads of the Round Table
, and
Disorder in the Court
. At twenty-five minutes each, they’d take us right up to bath time. Henry clambered onto the couch, belatedly removing his shoes. The little ghost sat down at the other end, more interested in Henry than in the television. He ignored her, but that was normal. In a contest between the Three Stooges and a girl about his age, the girl didn’t have a prayer.
    It