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.
