Wheelan turned from the glare that the city's lights made against the faintly overcast sky. "Ever since I was a kid I've hated cats. They make me feel crawly all over. Like persimmons do."
"Persimmons don't do any such thing," Karen said, tossing her cigarette at the foam below.
"So I come back to my old home town. Unpack my bags and walk into my aunt's homey kitchen, and she springs it on me."
"What?"
"She's one of them now, too. It's not bad enough a bunch of retired dentists from Omaha go along with Balderstone. My aunt now! I'll have a hell of a time forcing down second helpings. I get this crawly feeling."
"You're as touchy as Pavlov's dog. Everything makes you crawly."
"Well, look, Karen. You've been up at Cal most of the year. Doesn't the place seem odder to you?" Wheelan stepped next to a driftwood log. "Doesn't it bother you?"
Karen sat down on the log and put her elbows on her knees. "I told you, Glenn. San Miguel looks newer and cleaner. Why, even the slums look better. I think they've painted them."
"The only time we ever had a cat, when I was eleven, it made me sneeze. My aunt made me give it away. I wanted to drown it in a gunny sack but she talked me out of it."