As to Frank and Mrs. Penn, Willow seemed almost invisible. They both tried to become her friend, bending down to pet her head, attempting to touch the secretive underside of her chin, but Willow was a phantom-like twist who slipped away mid-pet. Most of the time she hid and watched from underneath a table or chair, in a dark corner, or hidden beneath a stray blanket left to warm a sitting body on the couch.
Nor could she be enticed by a piece of bacon or other delicious tidbit, if Frank or Mrs. Penn offered it. She only ate what I gave her, abstaining from the food a cat should eat — the meats and the fish of the feline diet. She liked scrambled eggs and would occasionally nibble at a pancake, if one of the boys offered it to her, But the source of her nutrition was almost always the remnants from my plate, which she patiently waited for, perched on the floor with one jade- green eye only partly opened and the other appearing closed in sleep.
Of course, if anyone moved, both of Willow’s eyes shot open as her attention focused on the movement. Mrs. Penn was the one to notice that Willow’s eyes seemed to change color at that point, going from the normal slightly bluish green of restful relaxation to a startling mint green — or as Mrs. Penn liked to put it, the exact hue of a Granny Smith apple. Frank, always one to calm such things down, would add, “It’s only the light’s reflection. Nothing more.”
Meanwhile, the days had formed a flow of normalness. Frank and the boys had gone on that fishing trip they’d discussed, which Carlo didn’t much enjoy but Frances raved over. (It seemed that Carlo thought worms on fish hooks and seasickness-inducing row boats were not as exciting as they’d once sounded.) I surmised that on the next fishing time only Frances would wish to accompany Frank, something I thought which would be good for the older boy.
I still worried about the sadness in his eyes and continued to believe that giving him the chance to chat one-on-one with Frank might brighten his gloom. Even if that didn’t help him leave the past behind, at least talking about it might corral it into a more manageable memory.
It seemed that even a six-year-old — or almost seven-year-old, as Frances kept claiming to be — could hold onto guilt as skillfully as an adult. Frances believed, although we’d told him numerous times that there was nothing he could have done, that it was somehow his fault for not saving their mother from their father’s violence.