Chapter 18

The Gun

The afternoons grow longer as spring emerges, bright and insistent. I find windows cracked open in odd rooms. The world smells fresh and salty. The silence of winter has given forth to chirping birds and clanging wind chimes from the neighbors’ porch. Mom serves the children dinner later in the day. The schedule loosens, and my heart expands with the increasing light and warmth of each day.

One afternoon, Mom is in the back room with Vincent and Mark. They are laughing about something. Vincent is telling a story, with much animation and waving of his arms. It is as if Mark has infused him with a shot of energy, because Vincent seems more talkative than usual. I sit on the cool of the kitchen tiles, eyes closed but listening to the drone of their voices. My stomach is very full because Charlie gave me not one, not two, but three cat treats today.

I am spoiled. I do not deny it.

Charlie and Kevin are upstairs, and Victoria is not home. So no one hears the front door open.

Gretel, who lies beside me, immediately jumps to attention. My ears twitch.

From the heavy sound of the footsteps, I know it is Dad. He comes down the hallway uninvited, which is unusual. Gretel stands tall on all four legs, but does not run to Dad, which is also strange.

She senses something I cannot.

When Dad rounds the corner, he stops and stares at Gretel with eyes that are red and seem devoid of comprehension. “C’mere, girl,” he says softly, perhaps out of habit. She goes right to him, and I sense how worried she is as she sniffs his hands and legs.

Just then, Mom laughs again, and Dad freezes. He slowly turns his head and sees the people in the back room.

And then there is silence. I check, and sure enough, they have all turned toward Dad, having seen someone moving in the kitchen. A frown settles on Mom’s face. Her expression goes from glowing to dark immediately, like a light being switched off.

Dad stumbles into the room toward Mom and her visitors. “Hi,” he says cautiously. “Still working on this project, huh?”

“Yes,” Mom says, gesturing at the bookshelves. “It’s coming along really well. I didn’t know you were coming over, Jeremy. Do you need something?”

Dad tips his head and pauses, as if trying to translate what she is saying. It takes him a moment. “Yes.”

I wait.

We all wait.

While Mark and Vincent wear short-sleeved shirts because it is a warm day, Dad has on a long-sleeve button-down flannel shirt and a down vest. He seems to be dressed too warm for a lovely spring day. Yet he does not look sweaty or hot. If anything, he looks ashen and cold, like he needs to lie down. He has not shaved, so a dark shadow covers his face.

Mark crosses his arms and stares Dad down. This must be his first time meeting Dad. Vincent adjusts his glasses, looking sheepish, as if he’s been caught doing something wrong.

Dad puts his hands on his hips, and everyone’s eyes flicker, as do mine: When he pushes his vest aside, we see the shiny metal at his waist. The gun.

Dad licks his lips. “Kate. Is there a reason there seem to be people here all the time? People not in our family? Every time I turn around Aidan is jumping out of a corner, scaring the hell out of me. And Vincent—that’s you, correct? The guy who leaves his shit everywhere? He’s always here. And now, this other guy, whose truck is parked in my spot in the driveway—he has to be here all the time too?” Dad makes a gesture toward the men. “I’m confused who lives here now. Why are there always people here, Kate?”

Vincent backs up a step or two. “Sorry, Jeremy. We just—”

“Do I know you? Why are you talking to me like we know each other?”

Vincent swallows, and puts a hand up. “We’ve met. I live down the street.”

“Jeremy, you’ve met Vincent,” Mom interrupts. “More than once. MORE THAN ONCE.”

“Jeremy, I’m a friend of—” Vincent stops himself, and shakes his head. “We go to the same church. Anyway. We’re just building the bookcase. It’s taken a little longer than we expected—”

“NO KIDDING.” Dad’s face is starting to flush red, his hands clenched in fists. He turns to Mom. “I hope they’re not charging you by the hour, for Chrissake. You’ve got to be careful or people will take advantage of you. I mean, if you don’t care about your own money, that’s one thing. But keep in mind it’s the kids’ college fund. That you’re throwing away.”

“Throwing away?” Mom bristles. “Are you serious? We’ve been planning this project for years. You promised we’d get this done ten years ago. Who’s the one who throws away money on a regular basis every time you go down to the liquor store to—”

“Kate,” Vincent interjects. “We should go.”

Mom’s face falls. “Go?” She seems stunned.

“We’ll let you guys talk. We shouldn’t be here now. For this.” He turns to Mark. “Come on,” he says quietly.

Vincent walks away, head hanging down. Mark pauses, and tries to catch Mom’s eye, but she is glaring at Dad. Mark finally follows Vincent, who is waiting by the open door that leads to the kitchen. I listen to their footsteps as they cut through the laundry room to the garage, and shut the door. I hear a truck outside start up and drive away.

Gretel walks them to the door, but then comes back to sit at Dad’s feet. Ears alert. Eyes wet and concerned.

Dad sticks a hand out toward the garage. “Is that why, Kate?”

“What?”

“Is that why? Is it Vincent?”

Mom scoffs. “Are you crazy? No. No, Jeremy. That is not why.” She gestures toward Dad with both arms. “THIS IS WHY.”

Gretel starts a low whine. She doesn’t like conflict. It gets her agitated.

“I have asked you to choose,” Mom continues. “Over and over. And you’ve made your choice. You obviously are not capable of choosing anything else. And I don’t appreciate you storming in here and scaring people. With your gun.”

Dad scowls at her. “My gun? Jesus. I didn’t take out my gun. What are you talking about?”

“You’re wearing your gun. Don’t you even know that? You don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t even realize what you’re doing. You—”

Mom freezes and looks over at the doorway. She squints, and it takes her a moment to register who it is, the dark shadow that has appeared. Perhaps she thought it might be one of the children.

“Vincent had to go,” Mark says. “I’m going to clean up our stuff.” He enters the room and breezes right past Mom and Dad as if they haven’t just been arguing. There are tools on a drop cloth, and he gets down on the floor and starts putting them into a pile.

Mom clears her throat. “Okay. So.” She crosses her arms over her chest and turns back to Dad. “Did you come by because you need something?”

Dad breathes out heavily, a long sigh, the fight drained out of him. “Yes. There is something I need. But damn-it-all if I can’t remember what the hell it was.”

When his eyes finally find Mom’s, he notices she is tearing up. And that affects Dad tremendously, I can see, because his mouth sets in a hard line and he steps toward her. Gretel stands and moves closer to Dad, perhaps not wanting him to forget about her. If I were her, I’d move closer too, to get in on any hugging or cuddling that might take place.

But Dad doesn’t hug Mom. He knows he should not. Even I can see that is not what she wants from the way her arms are wrapped tightly around herself.

“I’m sorry,” he says very softly, as if Mark is not in the room. “I’m really, really sorry, Kate. You know that, right? I never wanted it to be like this. Why would I? I wish it were different.” He reaches over and strokes her shoulder, and she allows it. Finally, she nods to show she has heard him.

“I’m sorry too, Jeremy.” She looks him in the eye, and he instinctively lowers his head. “Believe me. I don’t want this. I am so, so, so sorry.”

The grandfather clock in the hall chimes. As she looks Dad over, Mom’s face softens, and perhaps her heart does also. She reaches out and rubs his elbow.

I feel bad about this. I know they love each other. So why can’t Dad move back in? If he is really still sick or in pain, why can’t Mom nurse him back to health, like she did when Mark was stung by the bees? Why can’t Dad just go back to the hospital to get better like Vincent’s wife? And why isn’t his special medicine working? I have many questions with no answers.

Dad walks out, never glancing back at Mark. I think he has forgotten all about the visitors, at least temporarily.

Once we hear Dad shut the front door, Mom moves to sit on the couch. One tear falls from her eye and runs down her pale cheek. It makes a trail down her face that glistens, and she makes no move to wipe it away.

Mark stands several feet away. He stares at Mom, but she does not look at him.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t go anywhere.” His voice is hard and angry. But I know he is not mad at her. Energy vibrates from his body, dispersing into the room. “I’m sorry Vincent left, Katie. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mom doesn’t move. I’m not even sure she hears him.

I jump when Mark moves forward, taking a few steps to kneel—right on the floor—at her feet. There is a small blue rug in front of the couch, and this is where he positions himself. And then he does the most curious thing.

He takes her hand, and places it on his shoulder. He holds it there. Mom doesn’t pull her hand away.

Rather, Mom’s mouth opens, just a bit, and she watches him. Amazed.

I think she was so distracted by Dad that she forgot about Mark for a moment. But he is determined to reclaim her attention.

His chest presses into her knees as he leans forward. “I don’t think you should allow him to come in here and scare you like that.”

Was Dad acting scary? Mom doesn’t scare easily. But maybe, just maybe, Mom has felt scared, and I wasn’t completely aware of it. It’s puzzling.

Mark now lifts her hand, the one he put on his shoulder, and places it on the side of his head. Mom startles, confused.

But then, sure enough, she slowly starts to stroke the black, silky waves of Mark’s hair, just above his ear. Mom runs her fingers through his hair with great care and tenderness, although his hair is a mess as always. She licks her dry lips, and takes in a deep breath. This action, caressing his hair, seems to soothe her.

Perhaps Mark knew it would.

She is a mom, after all. It is natural for her to show affection. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Mom stares at him, her breathing continuing to slow. I can see she is fascinated by Mark, and the strange things he does.

“Mark,” she whispers. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Jeremy might . . . I don’t know what he was planning to do, honestly, but he just doesn’t like other people being here. So you should go.”

“I don’t think so.”

Honestly, I’m not sure Mom is listening very carefully to what Mark is saying, and the tone of his voice. I’ve never heard anyone so sure of anything in my life. Mark is certainly not going to leave.

“We’re still married,” she says, all in a rush, “And Jeremy doesn’t understand why all these people are in the house. You heard him. He’s going through a rough time. And he . . .”

“He had a gun.” Mark states this as simply as possible, as if it might have somehow escaped Mom that Dad had a gun. But in my experience, when Dad reveals his gun, it is all anyone can think about or remember.

Mom searches for the words. “I know. And he’s not feeling well. That’s all. He would never—But I don’t know about . . .” It is so, so hard for Mom to say these words. She nearly chokes with the effort. “I think you should go. I mean, you saw how fast Vincent ran out of here, didn’t you?” Mom’s voice sounds strained all of a sudden. Upset. “And he’s been friends with me a long time. A very, very long time.” She swallows back her words, but another tear comes. She rips her hand away, so she can gesture toward the door, and Mark lets go of her wrist. “Vincent has been a very good friend to me. And he RAN out of here. Don’t you understand? HE RAN.”

Mark blinks, staring at her. He leans forward, so his abdomen presses tighter against her knees. “I’m not going anywhere.” He tips his head, as if not sure if he should go on, but then plunges ahead: “Jeremy was so drunk I’m surprised he could stand up in front of you without falling over.”

So drunk? My ears twitch.

I’m not exactly sure what this means. Dad sometimes drinks so much medicine that it makes him sleepy and cranky. So I guess this is what Mark means.

“Shhhhhh,” Mom waves her hands frantically, with a glance toward the doorway.

Mark’s face crumples in a frown. “What, the kids? Don’t they know? You don’t think they already know? Katie . . . seriously?”

“They don’t. At least—not the extent of it.” She whispers now, face flushed pink. A trembling hand wipes a tear from her cheek. “I didn’t understand at first. He hides it well. I mean, he’s been a big drinker for years, but he’s not a . . . He doesn’t drink in front of the kids. It’s just that—things changed a year ago. Something terrible happened to him. And everything got worse.”

I blink. I remember when Dad came home from the hospital.

A year ago. It was a dark time. But I didn’t understand that it would affect us for so long. I didn’t realize it would change things forever.

Mark’s shoulders slump. He finally relaxes a bit. I can see he understands something that he didn’t know before, from the way his gaze drops away from Mom and he stares down at her knees. But whatever it is that he is processing at the moment, I have to admit I don’t share his understanding.

They are in agreement that something is wrong with Dad. I can see it too. But I still don’t know exactly what it is that needs fixing.

“I’m starting to get the picture. You don’t talk about anything around here.”

Mom just shrugs.

“I’m going to stay here tonight,” Mark says quietly. “Just—on the couch. In case he comes back.”

“No. Mark, the kids will—”

“We’ll tell them my truck broke down. Or I’m having some rooms painted in my apartment, so I can’t sleep there. Or something.” He reaches for her hand again, wrapping his palm around her delicate fingers and gripping them tightly. I imagine he is warming her up.

It is Mom who finally unwinds now, nodding and letting her head fall ever so slightly. “Okay.”

I think there is something about a human who has his mind made up that makes other humans simply give in sometimes. When someone is certain he is right, beyond all reasoning, why argue?

These are things humans do that cats never do: Talk in circles. Quarrel. Reason. Insist that they know best.

It’s exhausting to listen to. But I’m glad Mom is giving in to Mark and his persistent heart. Maybe this is just what Mom needs: someone to give her his full attention.

Perhaps . . . perhaps it is true, that Mom needs a new mate. Maybe Dad does scare Mom sometimes. He certainly upsets her. It would hurt my heart to learn that Dad really isn’t coming back. But I do want Mom to be happy. I don’t know if it is good timing for this sort of thing, but Mark is here now. Right now. And I like him very much.

Later, when Mom explains to the children that Mark is staying overnight because his sister is visiting from out of town and she needs his bed, they are surprised. Kevin grumbles about it, suspicious. But Mom orders in food, more than they can possibly eat, and they seem to come to terms with it.

Mom and Mark have the study to themselves for a while. They talk, and eat, and listen to music. Kevin takes his plate of food and disappears upstairs to his bedroom. Charlie and Victoria sit in the living room at the front of the house, eating in front of the TV. Gretel paces, hungry and waiting for leftovers.

When Charlie finishes eating and puts his tray of food on the coffee table, I snuggle down on his lap. “Hi, baby doll,” he coos at me, tickling my ears.

Hello, sweet boy.

Charlie and Victoria watch a show that interests them greatly. They frequently comment on and shout at the screen. Yet sometimes Mark’s laughter and Mom’s voice can be heard, even over the noise of the TV. It is a small house, and noises travel.

“Oh my God,” Charlie groans, turning to his sister to speak to her in a hushed tone. I lift my head as he leans over me. “What is going on back there? What could possibly be so funny?”

Victoria gives him a look. “I think it’s good,” she decides aloud. “It’s good for Mom. To have a friend. An admirer. She deserves to be happy. Right?”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I guess so. I mean, yeah, of course she should be happy. It’s still a little weird. No, it’s a lot weird. But yeah, I guess it’s okay.” He looks skeptical, but nods. I know Charlie respects his older sister’s opinion. “What’s Mark’s deal, though? Isn’t he younger than Mom? And he’s a lawyer, but he’s here all the time building bookshelves.”

“I don’t know.” Victoria shrugs. “Does it matter? I mean, if Mom’s happy, maybe those things aren’t important.” She pulls at one of the small braids she has woven into her long dark hair. “You talked to him, right? And you said you liked him.” She reaches under her thigh to scratch the back of her knee. “What’s going on with that, by the way? Have you given Mark some information he can act on? Like, the name of the kid who’s bullying you?”

Charlie sighs, and turns away. “No. No, I don’t want to do that.”

Victoria’s nostrils flare. “Are you kidding me?” She reaches out to shove his leg. “How is Mark supposed to help you when you won’t tell him anything?”

Charlie moves to lean back on the other end of the couch when he sees his sister start to get frustrated. He pulls me up onto his chest with two hands. His shirt is soft under my paws.

“Vic, leave me alone. I’ll talk to him when I’m ready. You think this is front page news? Oooh, someone grabbed me. Big deal. You think no one has ever given me a hard time before? You think I don’t know how much worse everything will get when I tell someone? Jesus. Just watch the goddamn show.”

Victoria frowns and shifts in her seat. I’m sure she doesn’t like to hear this from Charlie any more than I do.

She bites her lip for a moment, and then her face relaxes. “Charlie,” she says in a teasing voice, “Don’t curse. You’re only fourteen. Do you think it makes you sound cool, or something?”

Charlie responds with a bunch of phrases I’ve never heard him say before. I won’t try to repeat them. There are several bad words mixed in there.

I feel my eyes widening and ears flattening. Charlie! I’m surprised. As I’ve mentioned, Mom doesn’t like cursing. But it’s nothing worse than what I’ve heard Dad say.

Victoria gasps in mock surprise, and Charlie laughs. He grabs a handful of popcorn from a big bowl at his feet and throws it at her. She ducks her head, but several kernels land in her hair. He shelters me when she throws some back at him.

Our heads all turn as Kevin comes down the stairs with his dinner plate to bring it to the kitchen. He’s a good boy, always completing his chores. He comes over to talk to us.

“Don’t talk to that guy,” he warns Charlie in a low voice. “I don’t trust him. Dad wouldn’t like him.”

“Kevin, knock it off.” Victoria clucks her tongue. “Mark’s okay.”

Kevin continues to stand there, and Charlie shifts in his seat. His whole body tenses up. “Leave me alone,” Charlie says, but in a quiet voice. “I’ll talk to whoever I want to.”

“Don’t talk to him. Dad would agree with me. Are you listening to me?”

“Kevin.” Victoria gasps in exasperation. “Get out of here. We’re watching our show.”

I can hear Charlie’s heart beating hard from my seat on his lap. Even after Kevin has gone to the kitchen, Charlie’s hands shake as he strokes my back.

Kevin’s not making this any easier. I scowl in frustration.

* * *

Later, after the children say good night to Mom, she loads the dishwasher and turns out most of the lights. She goes upstairs for a few minutes to put her pajamas on. Then she comes back down and sits next to Mark on the couch.

It looks cozy! I jump up to sit with her.

While they watch TV, Mom slumps down with her head very close to Mark’s shoulder. He takes a sideways glance at her, but otherwise sits very still. He reminds me of myself, when I’m watching Gretel out of the corner of my eye, wondering what her next move will be.

I glance up at Mom. She is wearing a thin gray sweater wrapped tight around her body, even though it’s a nice spring evening. Usually, she cinches the belt in a double knot so it stays closed. But tonight the belt is tied in a bow that could be undone with a quick pull.

I wonder if Mark has noticed that. Of course, he hasn’t seen her wear the sweater before, so he doesn’t know the difference.

But I find it a little amusing. To me, it is a clue that she likes him. As if she is ready to be unwrapped. But I am the only creature on earth who is in a position to notice this particular evidence.

Mark is very alert. I can sense, for the first time, the strong pheromones he is giving off in the darkness of the quiet room. The scent I sense rising from his skin makes my whiskers tingle. In contrast, Mom gets sleepier, her eyes starting to close, and she contently rests the weight of her entire body back into the couch.

“I’m sorry,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the TV. “I didn’t mean for all this to happen.”

“It’s fine.” His arm is thrown up across the back of the couch behind her, but he glances down as if he’s trying to figure out how to get his arm over her shoulder and can’t quite figure out how to do it. “I’ve been trying to get you to invite me to stay for dinner for a while now, but you’ve never taken the bait before.”

“Hmmmm.” Mom makes that sound she’s made before, where it sounds a little like she’s purring. She runs her tongue over her upper lip. “You’re the chef, not me. But you’ve never offered to cook.”

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t cook. I just bake. You know, cake and bread and stuff like that. But I’m pretty good at picking out meat and cheese and crackers from the store, if you ever want that for dinner. And I’m pretty good at making breakfast.” His face starts to flush, as if he realizes that he has said something embarrassing.

Mom smiles. She nods and closes her eyes briefly, as if imagining the dinner he might bring, or the breakfast he might make. Her eyes snap open again, and she glances around the study. She sighs. “Sometimes I wonder how my life ended up this way. How I got here.”

Mark makes a sound of agreement. “You and me both.” He pauses. “But you have a nice life, a cute house. Great kids.”

“I know.” Mom sounds weary. “That’s all true. I’m lucky.” Her voice fades. “Very lucky.”

Mom lays her free hand on her thigh, open and palm-side up. I think this is an invitation to hold her hand, but a subtle one. She has made a move where if Mark doesn’t respond, it will be okay for everyone. No one’s feelings will be bruised. After all, Mark is her friend, and he has declared his intention to stay over, so that part of it is already settled. But Mark immediately notices and reaches over to take her hand with his free hand, closing his fingers around hers.

Mom’s eyes flick up toward Mark, and then back to the TV. She suddenly looks more awake.

I see a change in Mark’s face, the way his eyes brighten. “I’m sorry, Katie. Everyone will take care of you,” he says in a softer voice.

“Thank you.”

I am surprised at Mom. She has never needed anyone to “take care” of her. But she does not protest.

They keep watching the TV for several more minutes, but I can see neither one is actually paying much attention. Mom’s cheeks are turning pink. Mark fidgets a little bit, as if he has an itch somewhere but is afraid to scratch it.

Mark suddenly straightens up, and Mom turns to face him. The glow from the television in the dark room flickers bright and then dim. When Mom gives him a sleepy smile, he doesn’t smile back, for once. Instead he nods, as if to acknowledge that he understands why she’s happy. But he looks very serious about it.

Hmm. I think that if anything is going to happen between them, it must take place now. I don’t believe this can wait any longer.

He hesitates for a moment, and then leans forward to kiss her on the mouth. He moves slowly, as if he doesn’t want to startle her. As if he might bruise her if he presses too hard.

Ah! I knew it. I’m so smart.

Pulling back, he searches Mom’s face to check her reaction. I think this kiss is a question, as much as it is a statement.

That was a good move. Mom is entranced, her eyes locked on his. She is so focused on Mark that if the paintings were to fall off the walls around her right now, I don’t think she would notice.

I anticipate Mom will say yes. There are many reasons she might say no. But I believe she truly wants to say yes.

She reaches up with one hand and sinks her fingers into Mark’s hair—right where he put her hand earlier, just above his ear—and pulls him back to her with fierce intensity. Her body almost comes up out of her seat as she throws herself into a new kiss. He rocks backward with the force of her assault.

Well!

If he is surprised, it only takes him a moment to recover. If he wasn’t exactly sure how Mom felt before, there can be no doubt about it now. He redoubles his effort, pushing back against her.

This much is true: Mark doesn’t need to treat Mom as if she’s made of eggshell. She’s made of flesh and blood.

Mark holds her with one hand on her waist and puts his other hand on her back, pulling her into him. Mom reaches for his shoulder. She grabs the material of his shirt in her fist and pulls hard, as if she might tear it right off him.

This is a little surprising! Mom is not usually impulsive. But I have to assume she knows what she’s doing.

Mom unties the belt of her sweater in one move and shrugs it off of her shoulders. Mark helps her peel it from her arms and throws it on the floor.

Mom’s nice soft sweater. On the floor! Is that what we do with clothes around here? No, it is not.

It is shocking that Mom permits him to toss her sweater on the dirty floor. But Mom does not get angry. She resumes kissing him, with energy. It is as if he just told her he must leave immediately for some faraway land and she cannot bear to let him go.

And—goodness. Under her sweater, Mom does not have on her usual pajama shirt. No, she is wearing a new top. It is small. And lacy. And black.

Black? That’s not a color Mom wears. Not ever.

Victoria? Yes, she wears black. Mom? No. Never.

Mark grabs one of the stringy straps that holds up her top and pulls it right down off her shoulder. He bows his head to kiss her bare collarbone.

Okay, this is not what I expected at all. Have they had a conversation that I was not aware of? When was all this decided? Is this completely normal human behavior?

It is only when Mom’s hands move to his belt that Mark stops, glassy-eyed, and stills her hand. “Sweetheart, I don’t think—”

Mom’s eyes widen. She doesn’t let go of his belt.

His face is just a few inches from hers. “Katie,” he whispers. “We should wait.”

“Wait? What?” She purses her lips, thinking. Slowly, her shoulders relax. “Oh.” She swallows.

“I don’t mean for a long time. Just a few days. Until we have the house to ourselves.”

“Are you afraid Jeremy will come back and find us together?” Mom sounds like she is struggling to keep her voice light. But I know she is concerned.

“No. No. Definitely no. It’s not that at all.” Mark pulls his hair off his forehead, but it just falls back where it was. “I mean . . . yeah, maybe it’s that, too.” He nods. “But mostly I was thinking that one of your kids could come down here anytime, for a drink of water or something. We’d both be distracted, worrying about being interrupted.”

Mom lets go of his belt and puts her hands on his arms. When I glance at her face, I can see her desperation. “I don’t think they’ll come down here. They’re all in bed.”

“Katie. Listen.” He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. He has very expressive eyes, and they watch her carefully, making sure she understands. “Let’s wait. Because when we really do this, I’m going to want your complete and undivided attention.” He relaxes, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. “I think about you all the time. All the time, every day. It’s making me crazy. This is the first thing I’ve wanted in a long time. So I want it to be good. I don’t want it to be quick. And I don’t want it to be quiet. I want to have all night with you.”

Well! Okay, then. I turn to see Mom’s reaction. When he pulls away to look at her, I can still see her expression.

What I think I see in her face is: disappointment. Maybe: a flash of anger. But mostly: desire. Whether by design or just from his sheer honesty, he has whipped Mom up into a frenzy. She doesn’t want to wait. She wants to pounce on him.

Mom struggles to compose herself. “Should I go, then?” She squeezes his arm, waiting for his answer. It’s clear to me that leaving is the last thing she wants to do.

“You don’t have to go just yet,” he offers, stroking her hair. “Stay a while.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

Humans exhaust me with their strange behavior. Sometimes they are quite fragile and vulnerable. And then other times, they are unexpectedly strong. And, often, unpredictable. I can’t always figure it out.

I decide it’s a good time to go for my evening walk around the perimeter of the house, checking each room for spiders. I’ve had enough of this. I’ll let them talk in private.

Later I hear Mom walking around, and I go to see what she’s up to. Mom has tiptoed upstairs to fetch blankets and a pillow, and is now on her way back down. She looks flushed and happy. So I suppose that even though she didn’t want to “wait,” Mark has said the right things to hold her over in the meantime.

When we reach the back room, he is standing by the couch. Mom hands him what he needs, and even has an extra toothbrush at the ready, which makes him laugh.

“Thank you,” she says, standing in front of him and handing him the pile of blankets. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. The whole family is a mess. I’m sorry you feel like you need to stay.”

“Oh, no,” he quickly interjects. “I want to. My empty apartment won’t miss me one bit, trust me. It’s fine.”

I’m not sure Mark feels that way at all. What I mean is: I don’t think he believes everything is “fine.” But humans will do that: At times, they say one thing when I am convinced they believe something else entirely.

The clock in the hall chimes many times. Mom floats up to bed.

It is so strange to me that Mark is afraid of Dad and his gun. I wish Mark knew Dad a little better. If he knew the Dad that I know, he would understand that we have nothing to fear.

I remember the man who kicked me when I was a kitten. That was a cruel man. He cared nothing for how others felt.

Dad is not a cruel man. He has been sick. He has been distracted, and in pain, and at times he has needed his medicine more than anything else in the world. But he is also loving, and he has taken good care of this family for a long time. He’s a hero, for goodness sake! Mark has him all wrong.

* * *

There is something very personal about the act of sleeping. For instance, Gretel will not cuddle and nap with me, because it puts us physically too close, and she does not feel that way about me. She protects the humans, and I am her friend who just happens to inhabit the same house.

Gretel loves me, but she does not want that level of intimacy with me. I understand.

But tonight, I decide to sleep awhile with Mark. Once Mom is gone, I jump up to the couch and curl into a ball by his chest. He puts his arm protectively over me.

“Hello, baby,” he whispers to me. “Aren’t you pretty? So soft too.” I settle into a purr.

I imagine that Mark and I are on a raft together in the middle of the river, adrift from the rest of the world. Our souls are safe here. I am glad Mark insisted on staying. And it’s not because I am afraid of Dad, or what he might do.

I just rather like Mark. He has been a welcome presence here. I enjoy his company. I think everyone does.

Everyone except Kevin, of course.

Eventually I hear Mark breathing slow and steady, and I know he is almost asleep. I sit up for a moment. I am almost ready to go see Charlie. Charlie will worry if he wakes up and I am not there by his feet. Mark’s eyes click open, however, and he studies the ceiling. Looking at him, I see him turn his head back and forth, as if frustrated and looking for an answer.

“There’s no rush,” he whispers, so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. Maybe he is talking to me. He is also reassuring himself.

No rush? No rush to do what? To finish the bookcases?

And then I think—

And it occurs to me that—

Oh ! Well, of course.

When he sees me looking at him, Mark raises an eyebrow. He pets my head, running his knuckles over my ears.

“Sweetheart, you’re spying on me,” he says. “Do you spy on everyone around here?”

Why yes, I do.

I want Mark to stop thinking about Mom for a minute and help us with Charlie. I notice Charlie’s blue headphones on the side table next to the couch—he has, once again, forgotten to put them away. I walk over and bat at the wire with my paw.

Forget about Mom for a minute. What are you going to do to help Charlie?

When my claw gets stuck on the wire, Mark is forced to sit up and help me get loose. “What are you doing?”

Charlie. Remember Charlie?

“You’re all tangled up.”

No—let’s think about Charlie.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl, I can’t play with you now. It’s too late.”

Ugh! I give up.

Mark lies back down and moves his arm to scoop me in closer. “You’re a good baby,” he tells me, nestling me to his chest. “Such a pretty baby. You’re a sweet, soft baby.” He turns onto his side, and pulls me in tight. It is very warm with his arm around me, nestled between his body and the back of the couch. And then, quietly: “I miss my baby. She was nice and warm. She was a good baby, just like you.”

Ohhhhhh. Now I see.

I come to realize how lonely Mark really is. How much he wants someone in his life who will accept his love. I can sense it because I have felt it many times with Charlie.

Charlie has friends and family, but he is still lonely sometimes. He has often whispered to me that I am his best friend. He has nothing to fear from me. I never disappoint my humans.

Humans have a very strong need to love someone. I understand why they love me. I never hurt humans with my words. I am loyal and my needs are simple. I enjoy the feel of a hand on my head and the warmth of a body against my soft fur.

Grief is a funny thing. I believe Mark’s heartache is driving him into Mom’s arms, because he needs someone, desperately. He clings to me and I start to purr.

Soon Mark is breathing heavily. He has fallen asleep.

At times like this, I wish I could talk to Gretel. I think she would be able to give me more insight into Dad and his words and actions. And she might have ideas on how to help and protect Charlie. The next thing I know, I fall asleep too.