He never told her this. Thought to, then thought how she would have taken it. She would have got very angry. Screamed terrible things at him. Or maybe not. Not like her, the screaming, though there were times. She would have said “Who gave you the right to do that? And for what? Some stupid sex?” That is, if he had also told her why he did it. Since she would have asked, he probably would have. He would have said “I didn’t want him in the room while we were making love, or scratching at our bedroom door to be let in. Plain and simple, I didn’t want to be interrupted.” She would have said “After what you just told me, I don’t know if I can ever trust what you say again. What a despicable thing to do. And look what it cost us. Between the two vets and medications, more than a thousand. If you had done the right thing — let him in when he wanted to — all of that would have been avoided. You knew there were foxes out there at night. We’ve seen them a few times during the day. But it’s night, under cover, when they’re mostly hunting, and squirrels and mice and cats are what they like to attack and eat the most. Poor Sleek. What he went through. He lay around the house for two days, not eating or drinking or doing anything but crawling to the litter box and usually missing, till you took him to the vet here. I wanted you to take him right away, not that it would have helped him with that vet, but you said that cats have a way of healing themselves. Since when had you become the expert? The first set of antibiotics weren’t working. The vet had no doubt given him the wrong one. But you said to give them time, and I like a fool agreed. It was only after he continued to get worse, or just didn’t improve, that you did the right thing: before we left for Maine you made an appointment with the Blue Hill vet for the afternoon we arrived. They saved his life. And now you tell me you’ve this confession to make, something you never told me and wanted to get off your chest — that Sleek didn’t get attacked the morning you let him out, but the evening before, when he wanted to come in. From now on, when I say, as I probably did that night, ‘Is Sleek in?’ don’t lie to me that he is. I’m so upset. Part of me wishes you hadn’t told me. Some things are better left a lie. But tell me, did you learn from your mistake? Have you kept him out some nights since then? If you have”—he had, once, and after they’d made love he’d planned to let him in but fell asleep and didn’t wake up till around four in the morning, when he whispered to her he was getting a glass of water and went to the kitchen to open the door for Sleek—“You’ll probably lie to me that you haven’t, so what’s the sense of asking the question?” “I haven’t,” he would have said. “Not even for an hour. I realized my mistake and was glad we were able to save Sleek, and I regret what I put him through and also the distress I caused you. I’ll never do anything like that again. You have my word, for whatever you think it’s worth. If, some nights, I don’t want him in our room or scratching at the door to be let in, I’ll put him on the porch, leave some water for him there and maybe his litter box, though he’s good at holding it in, and shut the porch door. That is, if it’s all right with you. And then let him out when I get up or if he starts whining or crying before, or if you want me to. But I really don’t mind him sleeping on our bed when we’re just sleeping. I actually like it, except when he tries to squeeze his way in between us or gets under the covers. But don’t I get some credit for finally telling the truth? It wasn’t easy, you know. I had a good idea how you’d react and what you’d say.” “No, no credit,” she would have said. “It’s not going to go away as easily as that.” So he never told her. What use would it have been? Getting it off his chest? He never put much stock in that, and the consequences from it all would have been too great.
Just about every time they were at her parents’ apartment after one or two in the afternoon or at night, but not when they only came to say goodbye before they drove to Baltimore, her father would say “Like me to make you a Bloody Mary, Martin?” If it was five or six or later, he almost always said “Sure, I’d love one; thanks. But please not too strong.” If it was earlier, he’d say “Much as I like your Bloody Marys, it’s a bit early for me to drink, but thanks.” “I make it with V8 juice,” her father would often say. “And no Tabasco pepper sauce in it for you. I know you don’t like hot foods, and I won’t make it too strong.” “Still too early for me. You have one,” and her father would usually say something like “I’ll wait till later, when I have my one drink for the night. But you, you’re a young man, and can take one now and one later.” Gwen would sometimes say “A little drink won’t hurt you,” and he’d say “Sweetheart, you know I don’t like anything alcoholic to drink till around six or seven. Not even a glass of wine if we’re having lunch at a restaurant. Though I will make an exception for one of your father’s Bloody Marys after five.” “Be a good husband and listen to your wife,” her father would say. “She knows I make a good drink.” “Grisha,” her mother said a couple of times, “if he doesn’t want one, don’t force him. He knows what he’s doing.” “Who’s forcing him? I know what I’m doing too. Stay out of it,” and she said something like “Grisha, please don’t talk that way. You’re with the children. It doesn’t sound nice.” “Okay,” he’d say, “but a short one. And half the vodka you put in your evening Bloody Marys.” “Not half; that’s not a drink,” and he’d say “Half,” and her father would smile impishly and say “Good, I’ve got a customer. One Bloody Mary coming up. Gwendolyn, can I get you anything?” and she’d say “Nothing, Poppa.” “I can open an excellent bottle of red wine a client gave me. He’s a wine expert. Said it was top-notch. I don’t drink it and your mother never touches a drop.” “It’ll go to waste if you only open it for me,” and her father would say “It won’t go to waste. Maybe you’ll have two glasses. And then you’ll take whatever’s left home with you. I’ll recork it real tight.” “All right, then, but like Martin’s, a small one. I’ll open the bottle for you,” and her father would say “Let me do it all myself. It’s a great pleasure for your mother and me to see you here and you both so happy,” and if the kids were with them, “and my darling grandchildren so pretty and healthy.” Because of a problem her father had with both ankles for years, he’d shuffle instead of walk, his feet, in orthopedic boots he only wore at home, barely lifting off the floor. Still, he insisted on getting the drinks himself. “Sit; sit; it’s good exercise for me. I haven’t been on my feet all day.” Smiling, he’d shuffle to the kitchen, and a few minutes later, shuffle back to the living room holding a small tray in both hands with the Bloody Mary on it. “No; again, it’s good exercise for me. Let me get the wine too.” Then he’d sit and say “So how is it, Martin? The wine I know is very good.” “A little strong, but a terrific drink. As I said, you make a great Blood Mary. And I’m not just saying that. You know I was a bartender before I met Gwen, and yours is vastly superior to the ones I used to make, and I had the best ingredients to work with.” “It’s the V8 juice. Much better than regular tomato. And no Tabasco sauce. A few drops would have made it even better, but you didn’t want. And I know you don’t like salt — with my ankles, I shouldn’t either — but I sprinkled a little in out of habit. Gwen, your wine? What I gave you couldn’t have been enough,” and she’d say “It was plenty. Your client certainly knows his wine.” “Seeing you kids enjoy your drinks so much,” he said a few times, “I think I’ll have a Bloody Mary myself. I was going to wait, but what for? It’ll still be my only drink of the day.” He’d get up—“Let me, Poppa,” Gwen would say. He’d say “No. Yours would never be as good as mine.” “Grisha,” her mother would say, and he’d say “Well, you’re always telling me to be honest, so I’m being honest. I know how to make a Bloody Mary that I like to drink. If I’m only going to have one, why not the best? Gwendolyn doesn’t mind.” He’d shuffle to the kitchen. Few minutes later, he’d shuffle back carrying his Bloody Mary on a tray. He’d sit and push the ice down with a finger and drink. At least once he said “Oh, I forgot. L’chayim,” and they raised their glasses and her mother said “I wish I had a glass of water.” Gwen said “I’ll get it, Momma,” and she said “It’s all right, darling I was only saying that to have something to toast. Drink,” and she held up her hand as if she had a glass in it and said “L’chayim, everyone,” and the others said L’chayim,” and drank. One of those times after they left, he said to Gwen “How come the only time you encourage me to drink is at your folks’ apartment?” She said “You know how much it means to my father to do something for you. He wants to buy you a raincoat, he wants to go downtown with you to buy you a suit. He wants to take you out for lunch, just the two of you, and you always refuse. It’s as if you don’t want anything from anybody, and he might think it’s especially to him, so it’s good I push you. And you like to drink, and you had two when you could have stopped at one, so why are you complaining?” “I’m not complaining. And I already have a raincoat and suit. But if my drinking his Bloody Marys makes him happy, and making him happy makes you happy, then I’m happy. If only we could make your mother happy, and I’m not saying that has anything to do with getting her to drink.” “That’s sweet of you. But just our being there and also acting as a buffer between my dad and her, makes her happy. They really love you.” “Me? It’s you, the kids, they love seeing.” “You see? You always refuse. Boy, I married a character,” and he said “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”