Educating Simon (5 page)

We're leaving in a week. And I have only four days left with Tink.

I'm not sure you can understand how much I love my cat. Part of it is that my dad gave her to me, and part of it is that she's so wonderful, and we have an incredible relationship. You've probably heard the expression that goes, “Dogs think you're God. Cats know they are.” But an attitude like this from a cat happens when the human isn't treating the cat like a cat. I guess you don't actually have to be stupid to anthropomorphise an animal, but it probably helps.

A cat is a cat and should not be treated like a human or have human characteristics projected onto it. We're supposed to be smarter than cats. If that's true, we should know better than to think the cat should learn how to be like us. On the contrary; the best relationship a human can have with a cat is one in which the human understands the kind of relationship the
cat
needs, and then provides it. A cat lives by rules it makes for itself, and the smarter human's job is to figure out how to influence that process so that the rules work for the human as well as for the cat; otherwise you could end up with a demanding, obstreperous cat. And it wouldn't be the cat's fault.

Twice I went to visit Margaret, the little girl Tink is going to. I gave her lessons in how to establish her place as Top Cat gently, so Tink will be peaceful and content and won't think she has to make rules for the humans as well as for herself. I wanted to make sure Margaret's house is ready for Tink, and that Margaret and her parents know how to take care of her. I've made it abundantly clear that the less change they subject her to, the more quickly she'll adjust, so she needs all the same possessions she's had here. I've told them where her scratching posts and her carpeted perch need to go. I've made sure they know where the litter box belongs and what brand of litter to use. I've told them where her dishes need to be placed in the kitchen and what kinds of food to buy. I've made doubly sure they understand that she is never, ever,
ever,
under any circumstances to go outside unless they use her harness and leash. I even gave Margaret a lesson, though I had to do it without the cat, about how to trim her claws—how she should do it when Tink is sleepy, or at least very relaxed; how Margaret must be calm and gentle but still firm; and how she must always give Tink treats immediately afterwards.

At least it seemed like Margaret took this all very seriously. She's only ten, but she's smart and seems to really want a cat. I've told her she's getting the best possible cat, one who already understands her place in life and is delighted with it. And I've told her it's her responsibility to make sure this doesn't change. It's Margaret's job to make sure Tink never knows how lucky she is.

But all the packing and moving around of things at home, in Tink's environment, has put a huge amount of stress on her. She began hiding a lot, under things, in boxes, burrowed into piles of clothes or blankets. And yesterday, she stopped eating. This told me it was time.

So this morning I rang Margaret's mum and asked if I could bring Tink to them this afternoon, instead of waiting three more days. I barely got through the conversation without bursting into tears, and as soon as I rang off the deluge began. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed. My heart was being ripped out of my chest.

I sat with Tink for half an hour before we left, mourning this horrible, horrible loss. No more soft bundle of love to hold on my shoulder. No more rubbing of her face against the side of my neck. No more of that sweet, singing purr in my ear. I don't know how I'm going to stand this.

I cleaned out her litter box in the bathroom whilst Mum packed her bowls and the food we'd already bought. When I came out with Tink's clean litter box, Mum was on the couch, crying. It surprised me, but I was glad. I want her to hurt.

Tink was hiding under my bed. I brought her carrying case in, shut the door, and coaxed her out with chicken-flavoured treats and cooing sounds that kept being interrupted by sobs. Finally she came to me. Such a betrayal.

I can't even write about what it felt like to leave Tink at Margaret's. Driving back without her, my arms already aching—aching!—to hold my cat again, I tried to console myself with the knowledge that Mum could have done much worse for Tink's new family. But—she's not my cat any longer. I won't be able to have a cat at all, at least until I'm on my own. Not with Persie around, itching to pull tails and yank ears and generally mistreat an animal.

I will miss Tink
so much
. And I don't want her to miss me at all.

At home, I glared at Mum through my tears. As I turned to head towards my room I told her, “I hate you.”

 

There's no way to describe what it felt like to part with Graeme. There were kisses and hugs and tears and screaming about what's happening and promises we don't know how we'll keep. We talked about how we'll both see the same sun, the same moon and stars, how we'll text and write and try to arrange visits. None of it helped.

We're here. And I wish there were something good to report.

Actually, the house itself is pretty nice. It's a large townhouse on Marlborough Street, with more bedrooms and (though I hate to admit it) more bathrooms—and nicer ones—than we had in our detached house on Hermitage Lane, which was pretty nice itself. BM never exactly bragged about how much money he has, or makes, unless you count that comment about how he can afford to give Persie all the care she needs, but a house like this in London would have cost many millions of pounds.

BM wanted to give us the grand tour right away, mumbling something about how it would be easier for Persie this way, so he could go to her sooner and stay with her until dinner, despite the fact that Mum and I were both nearly falling over with exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon Boston time, but of course that's much later London time, and we'd been working ourselves to the bone to get ready. Yes, that included me; I've decided that my only realistic option is to go along with things until I can make the changes I want (read: Get back to England).

Mum convinced BM that we needed to collapse someplace comfortable and have some refreshments before trying to take everything in. I was just glad that the place was air-conditioned; the wave of moist heat that hit me getting into the car at Logan Airport was like nothing I remember experiencing at home. So much for the Northeast US having cool weather. I gather it sometimes snows quite a bit here in winter, but you'd never know it in August.

As we passed through the various rooms on our way to the kitchen, I did take note of some things, and I have to say that whoever decorated the place has good taste. Hand-knotted Pakistani rugs everywhere, which I recognised because I helped Mum shop for a few replacement rugs at home last year. The muted pastel wall colours don't interfere with the furniture upholstery, and there are beautifully restored ornate ceilings in the formal rooms. BM turned conspicuously to me as we passed the music room, where there's a baby grand Steinway along with shelves and shelves of CDs.

In the kitchen, which is large and very modern, BM had us sit at the table for six at the far end of the room, in front of a large window that overlooks a small bricked patio at the back of the house. He served us himself, though it was all laid out—no doubt by someone else—and Mum and I could have served ourselves: chilled San Pellegrino with lime in stemmed wine glasses, pâté, cheese, carrot sticks, light crackers, and olives.

Mum and I were both pretty quiet, though not for all the same reasons. She was hot, exhausted, and overwhelmed; I was hot, exhausted, and bitter. As I said, I'm going along, for now, but I don't have to like it.

BM took us upstairs next. The master suite is here, running front to back of the house and taking up rather a lot of space. With its own sitting room and the sliding glass doors in the back onto its own large balcony with a weatherproof table and two chairs, it's really its own flat; all it lacks is a kitchen. Someone had already brought Mum's baggage up.

“Oh, thank God! Brian, I'm going to have a bath immediately and then maybe a nap.”

“You don't want to see Simon's room first?”

She hesitated, like she'd already started drawing her bathwater. “You're right, of course.” But I could tell she'd much rather not.

Persie's rooms—bedroom, bath, and playroom, BM told us—are on this floor, too, I guess where BM can keep an eye on her. He pointed towards the closed door that leads to them but didn't approach it. His voice low, he told us, “Persie is in there now with Anna Tourneau, her live-in tutor.”

I couldn't resist. “Her tutor
lives
here? Isn't that a little pre-Victorian ?”

“During the week, she stays here. As I mentioned before, it takes a lot to care for Persie. Anna has her own apartment elsewhere, and usually she has weekends off. She's here this weekend to help Persie adjust to your arrival.”

From behind the door I could hear what must have been Persie having some kind of tantrum that Anna was apparently unable to control. She was screaming “Nevermore!” rather like Poe's raven. Shrieking it, actually. Over and over. Mum turned to BM, her face white and strained. “Is that my fault because of insisting we wait for the tour? Oh, Brian, I'm so sorry!”

BM didn't quite say it was or it wasn't. “She knows I'm home, and the rule—her rule—is that I go to her immediately and spend some time with her. We've upset the rule. I'll be able to calm her down soon.”

My eyes flew to BM's face. He'd just told me, essentially, that Persie is a cat, and he's let her decide for herself what all the rules are. So she's a misbehaving cat, a cat that's been given too free a hand. Suddenly I was more interested in Persie than before. But I must say I didn't especially want to meet her right then.

The stairway to the top floor is behind a locked door, which BM unlocked with a key before handing it to me.

“Your room is on the third floor. I don't want Persie wandering up there, so please keep this door locked. If there's an emergency, there's a fire escape at the back of the house.”

I wondered how Mum would take it that I'd just been told that I
must
lock a door. Not looking at her, but intending this comment for her, I asked, “Is Persie's door locked?”

It was an odd question, but BM didn't miss a beat. “Never. Just this one. The house cleaners and Anna are the only others who have keys to the third floor.”

As I took the small silver key, I said, “And you.”

“Pardon?”

“You have your own key as well, yes?”

“Oh. Yes, I do. But I don't recall the last time I used it.”

“Why does Anna need a key?”

“Her room is up there, directly over Persie's bedroom. She has her own bathroom, so you won't cross paths very often. There is a third room, a guest room, and if anyone used it they'd share your hall bathroom. But we don't have overnight visitors. It upsets Persie. I send anyone who comes from out of town to a hotel, usually the Taj or the Four Seasons.”

“And will I get other keys to the house?”

“Yes, of course. I'll give you and your mother keys to the external doors later.”

“I don't really need you to come up with me. Let Mum have her bath. Maybe I'll do the same. And you can go be with Persie.” I wasn't really being kind, here, or considerate. Persie was just a good excuse; I didn't
want
him coming up with me.

Mum gave me a half-smile like she hoped this would help things work out better, and BM stared at me like he was going through a cost-benefit analysis:
How much do I lose if I let Simon have his way, and what do I gain if I insist?
Finally he said, “Your room is at the top of the stairs in the back, immediately to your left. To the right is Anna's room. I'll be with Persie for a while, so you probably won't be able to reach me. There's an intercom near the dumbwaiter upstairs, to the left of the door that goes to the roof garden. It connects to the kitchen, so if no one answers it's because no one is in the kitchen.”

Without another word, I walked through the door, and as I pulled it shut I heard BM add, “I hope you like your room. I find it delightful.”

Initially my impression of the top floor was that it's kind of gloomy. The landing at the top of the stairs faces the back of the house, and directly ahead is the only source of light: the window in the door to a roof garden that must extend over the master suite and part of Persie's space. Both bedroom doors, Anna's and mine, were closed. I couldn't hear Persie's screams from here, though probably from inside Anna's room I could have.

Alone in the room I'm to call mine whilst I'm here, I stood and looked around, seeing nothing, really. I felt light-headed and almost like I could have fainted, if I were the fainting type. My throat and chest felt tight, constricted, almost painful. I reached out to steady myself against the tallboy to the right of the door, closed my eyes, and willed myself to be calm.

When my breathing settled, I opened my eyes and moved slowly from place to place, first trying out the chair at the desk along the left wall, where there was already a colour printer and a laptop computer, user ID and password written on a piece of paper beside it. Then I tried the overstuffed reading chair in the far left corner, floor lamp and small table beside it. Sitting there, facing the bay window in the back wall of the room, which has a window seat, I could see the roof garden. I had to admit it's a big, luxurious room, and with the locked door, and with Anna mostly spending time with Persie, I could almost have had a cat up here. But I won't be here long enough.

There are light blue papered walls, and a thick navy and cream Chinese rug on the cream carpeting. But the best feature is the skylight. I'll be able to lie on the bed and gaze up at the sky whilst Graeme is doing the same thing.

Graeme!

A wave of tears washed over my eyes, fight them though I tried. I held my breath to keep from sobbing, and then I picked up one of the pillows on the bed and screamed into it a few times. That helped take the edge off this empty, gaping loneliness. I hugged the pillow and heard my own voice say, “Oh, Tinker Bell!” and then I couldn't keep the tears back any longer. I fell sideways onto the bed.

After my cry, my abdomen hurt; the sobs had been that wrenching. I sat up, massaging my middle, and noticed that my baggage was already here. But I wasn't quite ready to start unpacking, so I wandered out onto the roof. It's a large, open space with raked gravel underfoot, two separate round metal tables with three chairs each, and several potted evergreens. With that dumbwaiter, I could have whatever meals I wanted to eat alone up here. There's nothing to shield from the rain, though, and as I said it gets cold enough to snow here, so there are limits. The view isn't much; the building isn't tall enough to see over some of its bigger neighbours. But it'll be like having my own private patio, unless Anna uses it, too. I'll have to see about discouraging that.

Back inside, I passed by my door and headed down the hall that leads to the front of the house. On my right I noticed the door to the bathroom, standing open, and ahead was the guest bedroom BM had mentioned. Vaguely curious, I decided to see whether he had given me the better of these two rooms.

The front bedroom is huge—a little larger than mine—but instead of the refreshing blue, this one is in heavy, deep maroons and browns. There's a skylight here, too, and the room needs it. And there's a bay window overlooking the street. It's a quiet street, but I expect my room will be quieter than this one. Plus I like the light feel of the blue. I considered leaving BM with the impression that I thought he had given me the lesser room, but I don't want him to call my bluff; I'd rather have the blue one.

Rather than a bath, which Mum was probably having right now, I decided I did need a shower. But I had to unpack enough to find my robe, slippers, and a change of clothes first, and rather than just unearth a few things, I decided to get the unpacking over with.

It felt so odd, placing familiar clothes and personal things into drawers that smelled like they belong to someone else. They weren't bad smells. Actually, the drawers had been scented with something rather nice. But they weren't mine. This is only a hotel room. This stay is temporary.

There's a love seat at the end of the queen-size bed, upholstered in a flocked fabric that matches the walls. With my phone in hand, I curled into one end of it. Just as I was about to text Graeme, he texted me.

 

Hey SS.

GG! I want to come home.

Then come!

If only.

Is it bad?

Could be worse. Big room, roof garden just for me.

Sounds nice. What's next 4 u there?

Walk tomorrow, sights. Monday a test at St Bony to see which classes I take.

Bony! LOL! Met sis yet?

No. Locked away in her rooms with tutor Anna.

I miss you so much.

I miss YOU so much. Wait for me?

Always and forever.

XXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

I don't know whether I felt better or worse after this exchange, but I decided not to dwell on it. I headed for the bathroom, which turned out to be rather impressive. It's a huge room, for starters, with a glass-walled, marble shower big enough for Graeme and me together, a separate claw-foot tub, a vanity table and chair, an armoire, and, of course, a skylight, which is good because there are no windows. I played with a few of the switches, and a faint whirring startled me until I realised it was the skylight opening up above a screen protecting the room from bugs or whatever. I left it open, started the water, stripped, and indulged in a long, hot shower.

I'd rinsed my shampooed hair and was just soaping my chest when suddenly Graeme was with me. He opened the glass door to the shower, naked and incredibly beautiful, already erect. Before I could say a word, I was pinned against the marble tiles, his tongue deep inside my mouth, his hands everywhere at once. Then he was on his knees, my dick in that sweet mouth, and he worked me until I came. He stood and kissed me, sharing everything.

 

I was asleep on the bed, dressed in only my underwear, when I heard a knock and then, “Simon?” It was Mum. My body jerked. “Are you awake, dear? We're about to have supper. It has to be now because of Persie's schedule. We can't upset it again.”

“Hang on.” I stumbled to the door and opened it. “I'm not hungry.”

“Sweetie, you've been asleep. You can't tell yet whether you're hungry. I'll wait whilst you throw something on.” She stepped into the room. “Oh, this
is
a lovely room, isn't it?”