Dammit. Wills was supposed to be here to do this with me. I picked up the kitten and spent the rest of the day cradling her and playing with her.
Two days later, I drove to the vet’s to pick her up. I set her Sherpa bag on the counter and pulled out a credit card. “How is she?”
The receptionist smiled at me. “She’s fine, Mr. Bascopolis. The same as she was all the times you called.” She took the card, swiped it through the machine, and waited for the transaction to be approved.
“Well, it was the first time she was away from home. Was she a good girl? Did she behave herself?”
“She was good as gold. And she missed you very much.”
“She did?”
“Yes.” She pressed a button under the desk, and a young woman dressed in green scrubs came from the back. “Mr. Bascopolis is here for the American Bobtail.”
“Ah. Tiramisu is a real sweetheart, Mr. Bascopolis.”
I liked hearing that.
“Now, let Betty take Tiramisu’s bag, and she’ll bring her right out. Meanwhile, here’s all the information you’ll need. Keep her on a light diet for today. If you see any redness, swelling, or bleeding, or if she looks like she’s in pain, bring her back in, even if it’s over the weekend; we always have someone here. Otherwise, her stitches will dissolve in a week or so, and we won’t need to see her again until next year, when she’ll be due for her yearly shots.”
Betty brought out the Sherpa bag. I opened it and looked at my kitten.
“Poppa’s here, Miss Su.”
“Mrrow?”
“I know, I’m sorry, puss, but we’re going home now, okay?”
“Mrrow.”
I kissed the top of her head, and after closing the bag, I signed the credit card slip, put my wallet away, and the two of us went home.
The first thing I did, even before letting her out of her bag and making sure she had fresh water, was check to see if I had any messages. The light was flashing, and my heart rolled over in relief.
“You have one new message.”
“Thank you, God.” That was all I wanted. I pressed the button.
“Hey, Sweets, it’s Tim. We haven’t spoken in a while, so I just thought I’d touch base. Let’s see. The Pub is doing pretty well. We were in the black again last month. Thanks for going over the books for me; that helped a lot. Cris had me really scared. He had a nasty bout of food poisoning a few weeks back, but he’s better now. He sends his best, by the way. How are things going with your guy? He’d better be treating you well. I hear that Paul’s boy might be up for a part in a movie. Do you think that’s for real? Well, I’ve got to get back downstairs. I’m expecting a delivery. Give me a call and let me know how things are going, okay? Bye, babe.”
I sighed and decided against calling him just then. While I was glad to hear things were going well with the Pub and with Cris, I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
Miss Su meowed, reminding me she was still in her bag, and I let her out and filled her bowl with fresh water. She disappeared into the laundry room, no doubt to use the litter pan.
I couldn’t call Wills’s family, to ask if they’d heard from him. Why cause them what was probably needless worry?
Calling Vincent was the best idea I could come up with. He never worried, and he always knew how to get in touch with Wills. The problem was each time I called, all I got was his machine, and I could see how something like, “Vince, it’s Theo. I seem to have misplaced my lover. Help!” would go over with him.
The message I finally did leave was simply, “I need to talk to you. Call me when you can, please?”
Miss Su came to me and butted her head against my leg. I stooped and picked her up, but I gripped her too tightly, and she meowed in protest. “Sorry, puss,” I murmured in her ear.
Her sandpaper tongue swiped across my chin. Apparently there were no hard feelings.
* * * *
The one good thing about tax season was that for the next few weeks it kept me too busy to worry during the day over the fact that Wills hadn’t called. The nights, though, were another story. I’d grown used to sharing my bed with him, to rolling over and being able to snuggle against him and hold him in my arms, and to go back to sleeping alone was harder than I’d anticipated. The only way I could fall asleep was if I was holding his pillow.
And as the days passed and all my calls to him continued to be shunted to voicemail, my worries escalated.
Wills could have had a car accident and could be languishing in some hospital room. I thought of the accident that, according to his father, had nearly killed him.
His plane could have crashed, and he could be lying in some morgue, unclaimed, or maybe worse, claimed, waked, and buried, his family not thinking our relationship important enough to tell me.
He could have been mugged, and I pictured his body decomposing in some alley.
It affected my sleep. I began having nightmares with all of those scenarios, and another one that was even worse: Wills looking at me as if I were scum, his lip curled, his eyes cold. “We’re through, Bascopolis,” he said in that one. “I want nothing more to do with you.”